🤎

The last lick of Sammie’s guitar echoed like a ghost in the rafters. The crowd erupted. Cheers and hoots and drunken applause filled the cabaret thick. Someone let out a sharp whistle. Another slapped the top of the upright piano hollering, “That’s the blues, boy! That’s the blues!” 

Delta Slim hollered behind Sammie, laughing so hard he almost fell off the bench. Sammie lowered his guitar, his chest rising fast with adrenaline and sweat. And joy. Real joy. To be seen, heard, and appreciated. His fingers tingled from the strings. 

And then…he saw her. 

Evangeline. 

Not far from the bar, standing between two other girls who clapped and hollered with the rest of the room. She wasn’t hiding now. Her chin was up, dress pressed just right against the lines of her body, dark curls pinned back with a silver clip. 

She waved. Shy-like. 

It hit Sammie like a second solo. 

He stepped off the stage and cut through the crowd toward her. Voices called at him as he passed—praises, back slaps, someone offering him a smoke and another a glass of rye, but Sammie barely heard them. 

“You came,” he said, voice still a little breathless. 

Evangeline folded her arms, pretending not to be impressed. “I did,” she said, slow and honeyed. “You gon’ get me and my girls a drink, Preacher Boy?” 

Sammie grinned. “‘Course.” 

Evangeline smiled back, pleased, then turned and ushered her girls toward the bar like royalty leading her court. 

They made their way through bodies pressed close, past a man in suspenders slow-dancing with a girl in nothing but beads and a feather boa, past women draped across velvet chairs with slits up their thighs and men watching from the shadows. 

“Pippy,” Sammie called once they reached the bar, “make them what you made me earlier.” 

Pippy—brown-skinned and quick-handed with a gold tooth in her grin—saluted him with a muddler already in motion. “Comin’ up, sugar.” 

The drinks slid across the bar, cold and fizzy with dark liquor and citrus. The girls giggled and sipped, their eyes wide at the debauchery happening all around them. 

“Lord,” one whisperered, “that man got his whole hand up her skirt.”

The other covered her mouth and said, “This place ain’t no juke joint. It’s a damn brothel!” 

Evangeline didn’t say a word. She sipped her drink, eyes fixed on Sammie’s profile. 

“You ain’t from around here,” she spoke eventually, her voice low enough for his ears only. “How you know the Smokestack Twins?” 

Sammie leaned on the bar, close. “They my cousins. Blood.” 

That caught her attention. Her gaze sharpened. 

“Oh,” she said, tilting her head. “You must be bad just like them, huh?” 

Sammie laughed. “Nah, I’m a college boy, not a gangster.” 

“That’s alright.” Her lips curled slow. “I like ‘em smart. Means you can talk to me while you in it.” 

Sammie blinked. Froze. Didn’t breathe. 

The sentence struck him dead-center.

Evangeline giggled, bold and pretty. Then, before he could recover, she reached for his wrist. 

“Put that guitar down, Preacher Boy,” she said, tugging gently. “Come dance with me.” 

Sammie set the guitar behind the bar and let her pull him through the crowd. The music was faster. Dirty and grinding. Bodies were pressed like sweat and sugar. Evangeline didn’t care that everyone was watching. She turned to face him, arms draped over his shoulders, hips moving in time with the bass. Sammie swallowed hard and let his hands rest at her waist. She smelled like night jasmine and pink peppermint. 

“I been watchin’ you since you stepped on stage,” she whispered, lips just at his ear. “Thought you was shy. But now?” Evangeline rolled her hips into his. “I think you just needed somebody to make you move.” 

The bass was thick as syrup, the snare drum snapping like a belt in the dark. A woman moaned on the record, low and drawn out. Evangeline’s hips circled in slow figure-eights, dragging Sammie into her gravity. She turned around without warning, her back pressing to his front like it had always belonged there. And then, she rolled her ass against him. 

Sammie’s hands froze mid-air, unsure where to stand. She didn’t give him time to figure it out. Evangeline dipped lower, grinding back with a smooth, steady push, the curves of her body dragging over the front of his slacks. She kept one hand lifted in the air, the other sliding down the slope of her own hip, guiding the movement like music was pouring through her fingers. 

Sammie inhaled hard through his nose. His eye were wide, palms sweating, heat galloping. He gripped her waist before he even knew he’d done it. 

That made her smile. 

Evangeline leaned her head back against his shoulder. Her voice was honeyed, the words teasing the shell of his ear. 

“Mmm,” she hummed, “you still sure you ain’t bad?” 

Sammie swallowed. “Not like them.”

“Then you might wanna let go of my hips,” she whispered, rotating even deeper against him, “cause you holdin’ me like you tryna get me pregnant.” 

Sammie damn near stopped breathing. 

Behind him, the crowd blurred into heat and howling. Somewhere to the left, a woman cackled as she poured moonshine down her chest for a man to lick. Over by the piano, Delta Slim was laid back with his mouth open, watching them with a lazy grin and one lifted brow like well damn. 

Evangeline kept winding. Kept moving slow, dragging her ass over Sammie’s growing hard-on like she meant to mold him right there on the floor. 

Sammie leaned in, lips barely brushing the curve of her neck. “You tryna get me in trouble?”

She smiled without looking back. “You already in it, Preacher Boy.” 

Then, she backed it up again but harder this time. Sammie groaned under his breath, low and shaken. 

“Damn.” 

Evangeline laughed, swaying her hips. “You cussin’ now?” 

“I’m thinkin’ ‘bout worse.” 

“That so?” She turned her head enough to meet his eyes. “Like what?” 

 Sammie answered with his hands gripping her tighter. The look in his eyes told him everything. Evangeline—sweet little thing in a Sunday-best silhouette and soul made of trouble—just kept on grinding. 

The blues got nasty. 

A woman’s voice crawled through the speakers, half growl, half sigh. 

🎶 He left me achin’, legs still wide…put his name where I used to cry…ooh, I ain’t never touched the floor since then… 🎶 

The crowd whooped. A man slapped the table and hollered. Someone popped a garter off a thigh and twirled it like a lasso. But Sammie Moore wasn’t paying attention to none of that. His world had narrowed to Evangeline. To the rhythm of her body. To the scent of her skin like shea butter and girlhood wrapped into one big naught bow. To the way she ground slow and deep, like every roll of her hips was a scripture only he was allowed to read. 

Sammie was hard now. There wasn’t no denying it. 

And Evangeline felt it. 

Pressed flush against her backside. And she didn’t shy from it or stiffen or pull away. She simply pushed back into it. Danced deeper. Dipped lower. Her ass dragged slow over the length of him like she was tracing her name into his lap. Her fingers reached behind to brush his thigh, soft and slick, like she wanted to feel how hard she was making him. Sammie clenched his jaw, sweat beaded at his temple. 

“You feelin’ okay back there, college boy?” She teased, voice coy.

“You gon’ kill me,” Sammie breathed.

Evangeline tilted her head just enough to look up at him, lips parted, lashes heavy, “then die real slow.” 

Her girl friends at the bar were too caught up to notice. One was perched on a man’s lap, laughing with her mouth open and a whiskey shot in her hand. The other was tucked into a booth corner, letting a smooth-talking Kat reed her peach slices from the peach cobbler Aunt Pearl and Minnie cooked up. Nobody was paying Evangeline any mind. 

And that was just how she liked it. 

Sammie’s hands started to roam a little. His palms slid from her waist to her hips, then back again. His fingers flexed against the curve of her lower belly like he wanted to hold the heat she was working into him. 

🎶 Told him baby slow down, let it burn…now I beg just to take my turn… 🎶 

“You ever been dry-humprd in front a crowd before?” 

Sammie choked a laugh. “No ma’am.” 

“Well…” she rolled again, this time extra slow, her ass fitting into his lap like a final puzzle piece. “You bein’ real polite about it.” 

Sammie growled. Actually growled. 

His hands gripped tighter. More bold. More needy. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder, just breathing, trying to hold himself together. Trying not to rut against her like every man in the room wasn’t watching. But Evangeline? She ended him right on the fucking edge. Teeterin’. Drenched in sweat. She liked the way his fingers twitched every time she bent deeper. The way his voice got stuck in his throat. The way he kept whispering her name. 

“Evangeline…”

She turned around. Face to face with him now. Arms loose around his neck. Sammie’s lips were parted and his eyes were dark with desire. 

“You alright?” She asked, syrup-sweet.

Sammie nodded once. Then again. “Yeah. I just…”

He trailed off, breath catching as her hips gave one last grind, barely there, slow as molasses sliding down a glass. 

She smiled. “You thinkin’ ‘bout what I said earlier?” 

Sammie blinked. “W-What?”

“That you could talk me through.” Evangeline said, voice soft and teasing. 

Sammie’s throat bobbed. 

“I been listenin’,” she whispered, pulling him a fraction closer by the lapels of his jacket. “ her fingers brushed his. “I bet you could make me cry out without even fuckin’ me.” 

Sammie sucked in a breath so sharp it made his shoulders rise. 

Evangeline just smiled like the devil knew her name. 

Sammie’s heart was beatin’ like a snare drum. Fast. Irregular. Hot behind his ribs. Evangeline’s lips were so close to his he could count each lash hair. 

“You okay, Preacher Boy?” she whispered, tilting her chin up so her lips brushed his cheek.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

She hummed. “You don’t look fine.”

He didn’t. His jaw was tight. His hands had started trembling just a little. And his dick? Still stiff and pressed against her hip beggin’ for relief. Evangeline dragged one perfectly manicured finger down the middle of his chest, slow like a match being struck.

“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” she said, like she was asking him what time it was. Like it wasn’t laced with temptation. “Just to cool off. Ain’t tryna get you in trouble.”

“Cool off,” he repeated.

She nodded. Innocent smile. But her eyes? They were anything but.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

Sammie hesitated. Swallowed hard. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

She turned, grabbed his hand, and started walking past the laughing girls at the bar, past Stack’s piano man and the clapping crowd, past the booth with folks too deep in their own pleasures to notice. And Sammie followed like a lamb led not to slaughter but to something just as dangerous. They moved through the hallway behind the bar, where the walls were painted burgundy and the air smelled like cedarwood and spilled liquor. One of the girls working the floor raised a brow as they passed and smirked, turning back to her client.

When they reached the back stairs, Evangeline paused, looking at him over her shoulder. “You sure you can behave, college boy?”

Sammie looked at her.

At those eyes.

At those lips.

At the slight shake of her shoulders as she laughed softly and took another step up.

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”

And that made her smile even wider.

“Good.”

She opened the doo and slipped inside.

The room she led him to wasn’t much, just a tucked-away dressing suite with soft lighting, a velvet chaise, and not enough ventilation. The window was cracked, letting in the humidity of the Delta night and the scent of magnolia from the trees outside. There was a mirror on one wall and a half-empty wine glass on the vanity, left behind by someone who wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

Evangeline clicked the door shut behind them.

Sammie stood still. Back straight. Breath tight. Hands in fists like he didn’t trust ‘em. Like if he so much as blinked wrong, he’d ruin it all.

“C’mere,” she said.

He did.

She stepped close, right into his space. Slipped one hand up his chest. Took her time smoothing his collar down with her fingers, like she was just straightening him up. But it wasn’t that. She looked at him the whole time and when she reached the middle of his chest, she pressed her palm flat and said, “You nervous.”

“I ain’t,” he lied again, voice low.

She tilted her head, smiling like she didn’t believe a word.

“You been watchin’ me since I walked in.”

“Maybe.”

“You hard as a rock down there, preacher boy.”

He exhaled sharp through his nose, lips parting. Sammie didn’t deny it.

Evangeline leaned up slow and kissed him. Full on the lips like heat curling from a matchbook, low and steady. Sammie didn’t move at first, too stunned by the feel of her lips—warm, plush, with a hint of cherry gloss and something wilder underneath. But then his hands found her waist. And she moaned just a little into his mouth, and that cracked him wide open. Sammie kissed back with everything he’d been holding in since the moment he first saw her. Their mouths worked slow but deep, open-mouthed, breath mingling between them. He gripped her tighter at the waist, pulled her in flush and she melted, curling her fingers around his neck, her thigh slipping between his legs. Evangeline smiled when she felt him twitch before she broke the kiss and looked at him, her eyes half-lidded, lips wet, voice like honey over a flame.

“You gon’ let me touch you?”

Sammie nodded, throat thick.

“Words, preacher boy.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes…you can touch me.”

She kissed him again, but this time her hands roamed—curious, unhurried, exploring his chest through his shirt, then slipping lower, fingertips brushing the waistband of his trousers.

“You ever been touched by a girl like me?” she whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He swallowed. “No.”

Her hand moved over the bulge pressing desperate and heavy beneath his slacks. “You ever cum from just a hand?”

“Not like this.”

She grinned. “Then hush.”

And her hand dipped slow—no rush, no shame—just a girl and a boy in the dark, heat blooming between them, her fingers wrapping gentle around the part of him that throbbed with every pulse. She stroked him through the fabric.

Up. Down. Slow.

His eyes fluttered shut.

Evangeline leaned into his ear. “Breathe.”

And he did. Heavy. Wanting.

All for her.

Her hand moved slow, fingers easing over the outline of him like she was memorizing the shape and weight of it. Not stroking hard. Just…learning.

Sammie’s eyes fluttered open at her question.

“If you ain’t been touched like this…” Her voice was low, almost teasing. “That must mean you a virgin?”

His breath caught.

She didn’t say it loud. Didn’t laugh or pull back. Just let it hang there between them, soft and smoky. Sammie hesitated. His jaw tensed like he might lie again. But then her thumb brushed just beneath the head, right through the fabric, and he exhaled hard. Honest.

“Yeah.”

Evangeline blinked once, gaze searching his face. Then she smiled. Slow and pretty.

“Mm. That why you act so shy with me?”

“I ain’t shy wit’ you girl.” 

“No?”

“I just—” He paused, swallowed. “I just ain’t done this before.”

She leaned in, mouth brushing his. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

She kissed him again, more mouth than tongue. It was the kind of kiss that could teach a lesson without saying a word. His hands slid to her hips. Gripped like he didn’t want her to float away.

“You want me to stop?” she asked against his lips.

He shook his head. “Hell no.”

“Tell me what you want then.”

He opened his eyes—dark, wide, and vulnerable in a way that tugged at something low in her belly.

“I don’t know. Everything, baby.”

Evangeline grinned. “That’s alright. I do.”

She took his hand and slid it up under the hem of her dress. No panties. Warm skin. The swell of her thigh, the dip between.

His breath hitched.

“You wanna learn?” she whispered.

His voice was a rasp. “Yeah.”

She guided his fingers between her folds, helped him find that soft, wet place he’d only dreamed of. 

“That’s me,” she whispered. “That’s what you do to me.”

His fingers twitched.

“You feel how warm I am?” she asked.

He nodded, entranced.

Her hips rolled slow into his hand, showing him how she liked it, how to follow her rhythm.

“Don’t rush. Just feel me.”

And so he did.

Evangeline moaned low, soft and breathy, her forehead pressing to his. They stayed like that for a long while, hands exploring, lips brushing, breath mingling. Her hips moving gentle over his fingers, and his dick straining in his pants like it could feel everything she felt.

She nuzzled his jaw, whispering, “Preacher boy got his hands baptized tonight.”

And he let out a broken little laugh. Aroused. In awe.

“Say it,” she murmured, teasing his earlobe with her teeth. “Tell me this feel good.”

“It feel…real good. Better than my mama’s black eyed peas.” he breathed.

Evangeline smiled, then kissed his throat. “Good. ‘Cause I ain’t done with you.”

Evangeline pulled away from him suddenly. She backed up a step, then turned and climbed onto the low table beside them, perching there like she knew exactly what she was doing. The hem of her dress slid higher as she settled, knees parting just enough to make Sammie’s breath stutter.

“You think they gon’ find us in here?” she asked, tone lazy, almost bored.

He swallowed. “No.”

She smiled at that.

Her hands went to her thighs, thumbs hooking the fabric, lifting it just enough to show him what she wanted him to imagine—dark curls and wet pussy. 

Sammie froze.

He’d never seen a woman offer herself like that. Not with confidence. Not with curiosity instead of fear.

Her legs opened wider. “Look,” she said softly.

His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile. She placed both feet up into the low table, causing her knees to spread wider. There was enough light shining in that room to see what she was offering up to him. A deep plum-colored pussy with lips that resembled a wishbone and a little button. Tight coils matted with her essence. 

“Here it is. All open for you. Look at it...it’s gettin’ wet just ‘cause you lookin’. I can feel myself achin’ for you. You see how it’s twitchin’? That’s ‘cause I want you inside me so bad I can hardly breathe. Come on, baby, touch it. See how soft it is…”

“Evangeline…”

She tilted her head. “You gon’ show me just what Preacher Boy been wantin’ since he saw me?”

He nodded, honest. “Fuck Yes.”

That pleased her.

She leaned back on her palms, unbothered, completely aware of the effect she was having.

“Good,” she said. “Means you still listenin’.”

His eyes dragged back up to her face, like he was afraid if he kept looking he’d lose himself completely. He saw the way she was offering herself to him. She looked confident and sultry and the sight of her pussy—pink, plump, and glistening with a dew that smelled like wild honey and musk—made his blood roar in his ears.

Without a word, he sank to his knees. The movement was like a man approaching an altar. Sammie wanted her to feel every second of the anticipation, to feel the heat radiating off his body as he settled between her legs. He gripped her thighs, his fingers calloused from strumming his guitar digging into her soft skin, anchoring her in place.

Then, he leaned in and pressed his face directly into her.

Evangeline let out a soft moan, her hips jerking upward. She hadn’t expected the suddenness of it. Sammie didn’t start with a kiss, he started with a long, slow lap of his tongue, starting from the very bottom of her opening and dragging it all the way up to her clit.

“Oh! Oh, shit!” she damn near cried, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "What you doin’? What you...oh, Preacher Boy!” 

Sammie was too busy tasting her. She tasted like the earth after a summer rain—sweet, salty, and intoxicating. He groaned deep in his throat, a primal sound that vibrated against her flesh, and then he dove back in. 

He began to eat her with a hunger that shocked her. He wasn't just licking, he was devouring that sweet pussy. He used his tongue like a muscle, swirling it in tight, heavy circles around her clit, pressing hard enough to make her vision blur. Then, he flicked his tongue rapidly, a rhythmic, drumming sensation that sent electric shocks straight to her belly.

The sounds filled the secluded space with a wet, sloppy noise of his tongue sliding over her drenched folds, the rhythmic slurp-slurp of him drinking her in, and the desperate, broken moans escaping her throat.

“You...you ain’t never...how you do that?” she sobbed, her head tossing from side to side. “It feel too good! Stop...no, don’t stop! Please, baby, don’t you dare stop!”

He responded by burying his face deeper, his nose pressing into her soft mound while his tongue pushed deep inside her, mimicking the motion of a dick. He sucked her clit right into his mouth, pulling on it with a firm, steady suction that made her back arch. 

“Lord have mercy!” she moaned, her voice cracking. “Y-You eatin’ me up! You eatin’ m-me right out my skin, baby! I can’t…I can’t take it! It's too much!”

Sammie came up for air enough to look her dead in the eyes with her pussy juice all over his face.

“You came here askin’ fa’ me to tear ya’ ass up now you can’t take it?” 

She stared down at him with a perplexed expression. Pussy pulsing in his face.

“Thought you was stronger than that Evangeline. This tongue too much, darlin’?” 

Evangeline released a shuttering breath “I—”

“Don’t talk. Just keep your legs open and get this pussy ate.” 

Sammie buried his face again, pushing Evangeline’s legs up by the backs of her thighs. She gasped and with nowhere to run she could only sit there with her legs spread open like the fast tail gal she is. 

Sammie could feel her pulsing against his lips, her pussy twitching and clamping down on his tongue in waves whenever he stuck his tongue in her. He didn’tlet up. He increased the pace, his tongue working with a disciplined, brutal precision, swirling and flicking, sucking and licking until she was nothing but a shaking mess of nerves. 

“Sammie, FUCK,” Evangeline melted against his mouth, staring down at the top of his head with blurry eyes. “W-Why you ain’t t-tell me you eat pussy l-like this?” 

He shoved her legs back in response. So far back her knees touched her shoulders. Evangeline whimpered, watching Sammie eat her pussy like he’d been out of a meal for days. He puckered his lips and kissed her lips, sealing his lips around her clit and giving it a nice wet kiss that forced her to beg. 

“Sammie, PLEASE—”

Sammie could taste the climax building in her, the flavor of her juices changing, becoming sharper and sweeter. He let out a muffled growl against her skin and gave one final, powerful suction on her clit, holding it there until she finally broke.

Evangeline let out a long, guttural moan, her thighs attempting to lock around his head and squeeze him tight as her orgasm ripped through her. She sobbed his name, her body shuddering in violent peaks, while he stayed right there, refusing to move, licking every last drop of her sweetness from her skin until she finally slumped back, breathless and ruined. It was as if the noise of The Blackline returned. Evangeline had to blink to focus. Remember where she was. 

Sammie lingered for a moment, his face still glistening with the sweetness of her, before he looked up at Evangeline. His eyes were dark, heavy with a hunger that hadn’t been fully sated just because she’d come. He leaned in, his mouth crashing against hers in a kiss that was greedy and desperate, tasting himself on her lips. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claim, his tongue pushing deep into her mouth, swirling against hers as if he wanted to swallow her whole.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless, Sammie rested his forehead against hers. His voice was a low, rough rumble thick with lust.

“Tell me the truth, Eva,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. “Did I eat that pussy good? I mean...I was the only man to ever do it right for you, wasn’t I?”

Evangeline let out a soft, airy giggle, her chest heaving as she looked up at him with eyes that were wide and glazed. “Yes, Sammie...oh, yes you did.” She reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with a trembling finger. “I swear, the minute my pussy came out, you turned into a different man. I ain’t know you had that kind of devilry in you.” She shifted beneath him, her legs still draped loosely over his shoulders, a playful, daring glint entering her eyes. “Maybe next time...your cousin could join in.”

Sammie froze, his expression shifting to one of pure perplexity. He pulled back just an inch, frowning. “My what?”

“Stack,” she whispered, the name sounding like a sin on her tongue. “I bet he’s the one who taught you how to eat pussy that good. He look like the type of man who knows exactly where to put his tongue.”

Sammie stiffened, the thought of sharing her—of having Stack’s eyes, lips, tongue on her wet, open folds—sent a jolt of possessiveness through him. He ain’t like the idea. Not one bit. He shifted his weight, his voice turning gruff.

“Stack?” Sammie scoffed, shaking his head. “Baby, Stack got a whole house full of women. He got more pussy than he know what to do with. Why you can’t just have me and be satisfied?”

Evangeline didn’t shrink back. Instead, she arched her back, pressing her chest toward him, her voice growing firm, laced with a newfound rebellion. 

“‘Cause I’m tired, Sammie,” she said, her voice ringing with a sudden clarity. “I’m a sheltered church girl. I done had folks tellin’ me how to sit, how to speak, and what I should and shouldn’t  be doin’ with my own body. I’m done with it.” She looked him dead in the eye, her gaze hungry and defiant. “If I wanna get my pussy ate by two men at once, I can. If I wanna get fucked blind by two men in some smoky back room after a dice game, I can. If I wanna get down to the nastiest, filthiest blues there is...then that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

Sammie stared at her for a long beat. The distant sound of a harmonica drifting through the walls. Slowly, a smirk spread across his face, and he let out a low, knowing chuckle.

“I hear you, Eva,” he said, his eyes softening with a shared understanding. “Lord knows I can relate. Bein’ the son of a preacher...I been pretendin’ I ain’t got a taste for the sin.”

Sammie’s expression hardened, a flash of that raw, possessive instinct crossing his face. He pinned Evangeline more firmly against the surface beneath her, his voice dropping an octave into a warning growl. 

“But you ain’t gettin’ your pussy ate by Stack. No,” Sammie stated firmly, the finality in his tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t care how much of a rebel you feelin’ like. That part of you is off-limits to him.” 

Evangeline let out a melodic, teasing giggle, her chest heaving against his. She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with mischief as she felt the heat of his body pressing into her. “My, my…my. You only known me a day and already you claiming this pussy?” 

Sammie didn’t blink. Eyes intense and blazing with desire. He leaned down, lips brushing against hers, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. 

“You tellin’ me it ain’t mine? ‘Cause the way you was shakin’ while I was down there…felt like you belonged to me.” 

The tension snapped like the string on a guitar and they crashed together again this kiss was different—less about hunger and more about ownership. It was deep, wet, and demanding, their tongues tangling in a fierce battle for dominance. Sammie’s hand slid down, gripping her hip with. Force that would surely leave a mark, pulling her flush against his hardness. 

Just as Sammie began to move his hand back toward her wet pussy, the heavy wooden door swung open with a loud thud against the wall. A man and a woman stumbled in, practically falling over one another. They were locked in a desperate embrace, the man’s hands shoved deep up the woman’s dress, her head thrown back with a loud, needy moan of pure ecstasy. They were so blinded by their own lust that they didn’t even notice Evangeline and Sammie in the room for the first few seconds, their breathing heavy and synchronized. 

Sammie broke the kiss, blinking and letting out a sharp exhale. He looked at the newcomers, then back at Evangeline, who was breathless and flushed. A small, amused smile played on Sammie’s lips. He started to pull his clothes back together, helping Evangeline to stand and smooth out her dress. They both started to laugh—a low, shared chuckle at the absurdity of the timing. 

“Seem like the spirit of the blues is movin’ through folks tonight.” Sammie whispered in her ear, giving her backside a firm, possessive smack as he guided her toward the exit. 

Evangeline giggled, leaning into him as they slipped out the door, leaving the other couple to their own private sanctuary of sin. 

The music hit harder than before, drum and bass slick with sweat. The blues curled around bodies too caught in the night to care who watched. The Blackline had grown louder, hotter. No longer as immersing but boiling over. 

Sammie reached for Evangeline’s hand again as they walked along the shadowed hall and back into the chaos of the main floor. Sammie was still warm from their moment tucked away. Evangeline couldn’t help but grin just thinkin’ about it. 

“C’mon,” she whispered, leaning toward him. “Introduce me to them cousins of yours. The infamous gangsters.” 

Sammie laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really wanna meet them?” 

Evangeline raised a single brow. “‘Course I do. Maybe they can share some wild stories about Preacher Boy.” 

Sammie shook his head. “This the wildest thing I done did, Eva. Less you wanna hear about how Stack teased me growin’ up. And Smoke keepin’ an eye on me like he my daddy instead of my cousin.” 

Sammie started to guide her across the floor, weaving past hips and heels and slick backs, past the perfume of lust and liquor. Just as they approached the far side of the room, Evangeline caught sight of something that made her steps slow. Her body went still mid-stride and her eyes narrowed. 

There, in the corner booth veiled by beaded strings and red lamplight, sat Sister Marigold Baptiste. First Lady of the church. Preacher’s Wife. Purity Teacher. Her Mentor. 

She didn’t just sit—she perched. Relaxed and glowing in a satin-black dress that clung to every curve like it had been poured on her. She was angled on Stack Moore’s lap, his hand stroking the bare skin of her thigh like it belonged to him. His mouth brushed her neck slow and greedy. Marigold tipped her head to the side, sipping from the glass he’d offered, her lips painted the color of garnet wine. 

She looked…decadent. Drunk on something far deeper than bourbon. 

Evangeline was frozen. She stared with a shocked gaze 

And then, so did Marigold. 

Their eyes locked across the room like a shot fired. 

In an instant, Marigold froze mid-sip. Her lashes fluttered, lips parted in surprise and guilt as the glass hovered just beneath her mouth. The booth around her blurred. She was no longer in The Blackline, not in her lover’s lap or on his tongue. She was standing back in that purity classroom, bam in the rows of wide-eyed girls, speaking of obedience, respectability,  restraint. 

Evangeline’s gaze sliced through her. 

Sammie leaned in, confused. “You okay?” 

Evangeline didn’t respond. Her smile had vanished. The flirt gone out of her hips. The phantom sensation of Sammie’s tongue vanished. 

Sammie followed her gaze. 

“Oh, that’s Marigold. Stack says she’s a Preacher’s wife. You know her?” 

“Excuse me,” Evangeline said, already moving. 

She slipped away before he could follow, cutting through the crowded room with a sharp elegance that only made the sting worse. As if an invisible camera followed her every move, she brushed past patrons with hurried movements until she disappeared down another hall that led to more rooms. 

From the booth, Marigold slid stiffly off of Stack’s lap. Her heat raced. 

“Where you goin’, Goldie?” Stack asked, voice slick with curiosity, the imprint of her body still on his leg. 

“Bathroom,” she said without looking back. 

Her heels clicked quick on the wooden floor, fast enough to betray the panic under her ribs. The red lights pulsed overhead like they knew her name, like they saw everything. Marigold eased toward the guest hall, the narrow corridor just past the end of the bar. Her eyes scanned every corner, every face. Evangeline was nowhere in sight. 

That was, until she felt a pull. It wasn’t physical but unmistakable. A sensation of being watched. Not by strangers but by truth itself. 

She turned a corner and there it was. 

A hand reached out from the shadows, caught her wrist, and dragged her inside a narrow passage near the bathroom door.

Beneath the noise were the sounds of the trade. A muffled scream of pleasure echoed from a doorway they passed, followed by the wet, slapping sound of skin hitting skin. A woman’s voice, strained and needy, called out a man's name, her voice breaking into a high-pitched keen that signaled a climax. The scent of musk and sex clung to the wallpaper, a constant reminder that in this house, every shadow held a secret and every room was a playground for the flesh.

And Sister Marigold Baptiste was standing in it. Standing in the one place she’d sworn was Satan’s playground. 

Evangeline let go of her wrist with a shove that was more insult than force.

For several long seconds neither of them spoke.

Marigold stared at the young woman she’d known since she was a child. She remembered scraped knees after church picnics. Braiding her hair before Christmas pageants. Holding her tiny hands during altar prayer.

Now those same hands rested on hips full of defiance.

Evangeline looked at her as though she’d never seen her before.

“No.”

The word came out as a laugh.

A bitter one.

“No…no, I don’t believe this.”

Marigold swallowed.

“Evangeline—”

“No.” Another laugh. “You don’t get to start with my name.”

Marigold searched her face. “I know what this looks like.”

“What it looks like?” Evangeline’s eyebrows lifted. “It looks exactly like what it is.”

Her eyes traveled slowly over Marigold. The satin-black dress. The glossy finger waves. The wine-dark lipstick. The diamonds catching every sliver of light.

“You look beautiful.” The compliment wasn’t kind. It was sharpened into a blade. “So beautiful I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Marigold instinctively folded an arm across herself. Because suddenly, it felt as though it exposed everything.

“Evangeline…”

“You told us.” Her voice cracked. “You stood in front of all us girls every Wednesday and told us women who came here sold pieces of themselves.”

Marigold closed her eyes.

“You told us this place was the Devil’s playground!!!” Another step. “You told us if we respected ourselves, we’d never walk through these doors!!!” Another. “You looked me in my face and said purity wasn’t just what we did. It was who we were!!!”

Each sentence struck harder than the last.

Marigold felt every one.

“I believed you.”

That hurt most. Because it was true.

Marigold’s lips trembled. “I…I did believe it.”

Evangeline laughed again. “Oh, I know you did.” She gestured back toward the crowded room. “Then I see you sittin’ on Stack’s lap.”

Marigold flinched.

“I see him holdin’ you like you belong there.” Another step. “I see you drinkin’ from his glass.” Another. “And the way he was lookin’ at you…” She shook her head. “He wasn’t lookin’ at the First Lady.” The words hung between them. “He was lookin’ at his woman.”

Marigold’s throat tightened. “I never meant—”

“You never meant what?”

“For this to happen.”

Evangeline barked a laugh. “Hell already done broke loose in the both of us.”

Marigold stared at her.

“You just too scared to admit yours.”

Marigold reached for her gently. “Evangeline…listen to me.”

“NO!!”

“I need you to.” Marigold’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. 

“No.” Her eyes watered. “You don’t get to tell me what I need anymore.”

Marigold’s hand slowly fell back to her side. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Says you? Really? Who the fuck are you to tell me where I ain’t outta be?!” Evangeline scowled. “Wait until they hear about this. Their precious First Lady committing adulterous acts and drinking the devil’s juice and sittin’ on a pimp’s lap.” 

Marigold shook her head. “Evangeline please don’t say anything! Promise me you won’t—I—I can explain—”

“That you been feeding us lies to make up for your own sins? Tellin’ us about how we shouldn’t fall into temptation and defile the Lord so you feel less guilty?”

Marigold looked toward the doorway. “This place. It changes people.”

Evangeline followed her gaze before looking back. “It changed you.”

The sentence landed like a slap.

Marigold couldn’t deny it.

She couldn’t.

Not after everything. Not after Stack. Not after discovering desire inside herself. Not after choosing to return.

Evangeline’s eyes softened for only a heartbeat. Then they hardened again.

“You know what hurts?”

Marigold looked up.

“I wasn’t shocked you were here.” She paused. “I was shocked you looked…happy.”

Marigold’s breath caught.

“I ain’t never seen you smile like that.” A long silence followed. Evangeline’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Now I know.”

Marigold felt tears prick her eyes. “Evangeline…”

“No.” She shook her head once. “I don’t know whether to hate you…” Her voice broke. “…or feel sorry for you.” Evangeline leaned in closer, her breath warm against Marigold's cheek. “So tell me, Sister...when Stack burying his dick deep inside you...which part of the scripture you reciting then? Or do you just save the prayers for the mornings after?”

Marigold flinched, her composure finally fracturing. Her hand flew up to push Evangeline away, but it wasn’t a strong push, it was a desperate, trembling gesture. “Stop it! You don’t understand the pressures I face. The things I have to do to keep that place runnin’, to keep the girls safe—”

“DON’T LIE TO ME!!” Evangeline shouted, the sudden volume echoing in the small space. “Don’t you dare wrap your lust in a cloak of sacrifice. You ain’t doing this for the girls. You doin’ it because you love the taste of the sin you tell everyone else to fear. You a fraud, Marigold. A beautiful, polished, lying fraud. And I hope Naomi stay far away from you. She told me about what happened.” 

Marigold shut her eyes. “Eva, let me explain—”

“YOU LET HIM PUT HIS HANDS ON HER! You let him hurt your niece! How could you?!—”

“I DIDN’T KNOW! Okay?” Marigold cried. “I didn’t know Obadiah struck her! I didn’t know ‘till it was too late—”

“Oh please, shut the fuck up. Save your tears, Sister. You and that husband of yours wanna preach about who’s worthy of making it to heaven? Look at ya! First your sister, then Naomi—”

“She told you about Esther?” 

“How the church got her institutionalized? How she lost custody of Naomi? ‘Course she did. I’m more family to her than you ever was.” 

As if a switch flicked in Marigold’s brain, her eyes turned cold. Resentful. 

“You don’t get to stand there and talk about my family. You don’t know the first thing about family, Eva.”

“Just like you don’t get to stand in a classroom and tell me what I should do wit’ my body when you in here every night getting torn a new hole by Stack Moore? Really? Least my family fight for me. Can’t say the same for you. Daddy ain’t love you, momma had no backbone. Niece hate you. Sister too strung out on whatever meds they feedin’ her up in Pline Buff. Husband won’t touch you.” 

“Shut up—”

“I rather be a whore who knows she a whore than a saint who just a liar in a fancy dress,” Evangeline countered, her voice dropping back to that lethal, quiet hiss.

The slap that came from Marigold’s hand was a sharp, wet crack that cut right through the muffled roar of the band playing in the main room. Evangeline’s head snapped to the side, her cheek instantly blooming into a hot, stinging bruise. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the ringing in her ears and the heavy, ragged breath coming from Marigold.

Marigold’s hand was trembling, her fingers splayed as if she could still feel the impact of Evangeline’s skin. The “First Lady” looked fractured. The wine-dark lipstick that usually defined her poised, authoritative mouth was slightly smudged, and her eyes—those wide, soulful eyes that had once looked at Evangeline with such sisterly warmth—were now swimming in a mixture of rage and absolute devastation.

Evangeline stayed frozen, her face turned away, a slow, jagged smile spreading across her lips. She could taste a copper tang of blood where her tooth had nicked the inside of her cheek. The pain was a grounding wire, pulling her deeper into the spite that had been festering in her gut for years.

Slowly, Evangeline turned her head back. She didn’t recoil. Instead, she leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss that barely carried over the sound of a trumpet.

“There she is,” Evangeline whispered, her eyes scanning Marigold’s satin-black dress, the way it clung to hips that had spent too many Sundays hidden beneath layers. "There’s the woman the church built. The one who knows exactly how to handle something she can’t control. A firm hand, right?” 

Marigold flinched as if she’d been struck. She stepped back, her heels clicking sharply on the hardwood floor, her chest heaving under the black fabric. “I–Eva I’m so sorry—please forgive me.” Marigold closes her first. “I thought I…I thought if I taught you to follow the path—”

"The path to where, Marigold?! To a pew in a church where you can preach purity while your pussy drip for a man who sell girls by the hour?!” Evangeline stepped forward, invading Marigold’s space, her presence aggressive and suffocating. “Go ‘head! HIT ME AGAIN!” 

“Stop it!” Marigold cried, the sound breaking into a sob. She reached out, perhaps to push Evangeline away or perhaps to grab her, but her grip was weak, her fingers clutching at the air. “You don’t know the weight I carry. You don’t know what it’s like to hold a whole community together while you falling apart inside!!” 

“I know what it’s like to be lied to,” Evangeline countered, her voice hardening. She reached up, slowly wiping the blood from her lip with her thumb, then looked at the red stain with a cold curiosity. “I know what it’s like to watch you tell us girls—sweet, naive sisters—that our bodies were temples, while you were treatin’ yours like a public house. And Naomi...god, Marigold. You let that girl run because she saw the rot in you. She saw the hypocrisy before any of us did. She warned me to get out.”

Marigold’s face went slack. The fire vanished, replaced by a hollow, haunting grief. She looked small, the glossy finger waves and the expensive dress feeling like a costume that no longer fit. She opened her mouth to speak, to defend herself or perhaps to beg, but no sound came out.

Evangeline saw the break. She felt the victory, but it tasted like ash. She leaned closer, her breath warm against Marigold’s ear, her tone shifting from rage to a cruel, intimate tenderness.

“You can slap me until my face is blue, Marigold. But every time you close your eyes, and every time you feel Stack hands on you, you gon’ see me. You gon’ remember that I know exactly who you are.”

Evangeline pulled back, giving Marigold one last, assessing look from the polished toes of her shoes to the trembling line of her jaw. Without another word, Evangeline turned her back on the First Lady and walked toward the noise of the party, leaving Marigold standing alone, shaking in her black satin, the silence of the corridor heavier than any scream.

For the first time in years, Marigold Baptiste realized something she had never allowed herself to imagine. The girls had been watching her every bit as closely as she’d been watching them. The First Lady had fallen from the pedestal she’d spent half her life standing on.

Marigold allowed her tears to fall freely. She placed both palms against the porcelain basin to steady herself. Finally staring at her reflection, she barely recognized the woman staring back. Her finger waves were still immaculate, each glossy curve resting exactly where Cordelia had pinned it. Garnet lips framed a mouth that had spent the evening smiling in ways she never thought possible. Diamonds winked beneath the light every time her breathing hitched.

She looked beautiful. But she had never felt uglier.

Her chest rose sharply as she reached for the towel hanging beside the washstand and dabbed beneath her eyes before any more tears could ruin the careful work Peaches had done.

“You weren’t teachin’ purity…”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“You were teachin’ us how to become you.”

The words refused to leave.

She leaned forward, lowering her forehead until it nearly touched the mirror.

What had she become?

The question frightened her because she no longer knew whether it came from God…or from Obadiah.

A careful knock sounded against the door. Marigold straightened immediately, swallowing every ounce of grief she could force back down.

“I’m alright,” she called, though no one had asked.

The latch turned.

Stack eased inside, closing the door behind him quietly. He took one look at her, and that was all it took. His easy grin had disappeared. He stood within the doorway, not moving to rush or crowd her. The bourbon he’d been drinking was long forgotten. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his pressed trousers as he studied the woman before him. 

Marigold busied herself smoothing wrinkles that weren’t there.

“I’ll be out in just a minute.”

Stack remained silent, his eyes studying her. She reached up to fix one of the clips in her hair, though she didn’t need to because they were perfectly placed. Anything to keep her hands occupied. To keep from looking at him. 

“You ain’t gotta hide from me.” His voice was soft and gentle. 

That nearly undid her. 

She finally looked over.

“I’m not hiding.”

“No?” A small smile touched one corner of his mouth. “It must be somebody else standin’ in front of me then.”

Despite herself, the faintest breath of a laugh escaped her. It disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

“I’m fine.”

Stack held her gaze.

He knew. She could see it. He knew she wasn’t.

He crossed the room until only a step separated them.

“You cryin’?”

“No.”

“You mad?”

“No.”

“You scared?”

Her answer caught. “…No.”

He nodded once. “Alright.”

That surprised her. He didn’t argue or press or tease. It was just…alright. 

Marigold blinked. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

“I already did.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“You didn’t.”

Stack looked at her the way he always did, not searching for perfection, not measuring her against a standard she could never reach.

Only seeing her.

“I ain’t gon’ make you talk before you ready, baby.” 

Her shoulders sagged. Marigold expected interrogation. Correction. To defend herself. Instead…she’s been given room. That almost felt foreign to her. 

“I failed somebody tonight.”

The confession slipped free before she could stop it.

Stack’s expression softened. “You think so.”

“I know so.”

He let those words rest where they landed. He didn’t chastise her. Tell her she was wrong. Tell her she was right. He stepped closer and reached up, gently straightening one diamond earring that had shifted during the evening, his fingertips barely brushed her skin.

“You still wearin’ the whole world on your shoulders.”

She looked down. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“I know.” His thumb lingered beneath her chin just long enough to lift her eyes back to his. “But you don’t gotta carry it by yourself.”

The tears threatened again. She blinked them back with stubborn determination.

“If I tell you…”

“You don’t have to.”

“What if it changes the way you look at me?”

A quiet chuckle escaped him. “Goldie.” He smiled then. Small. Certain. “I been lookin’ at you the same way since the first time you and them church biddies stood outside my do’ tellin’ me to repent.”

She smiled faint. Her lips quivered. She wanted to believe him. More than that…she wanted to believe herself worthy of it. Instead, she reached up and rested her hand over his just  for a second. Long enough to steady herself.

“I need another minute.”

“You got ten.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “I’ll keep ‘em from botherin’ you.” He turned toward the door. Before opening it, he glanced back once more. “You come back when you ready.”

Then, he was gone, the latch clicking softly behind his retreating frame. 

Marigold released the breath she’d been holding and closed her eyes once again. 

She never noticed the other pair of eyes watching from farther down the corridor. Hidden where the hallway bent into darkness, 

Mirabel remained perfectly still. Eavesdropping. 

She had seen Evangeline shove the First Lady against the wall.

Seen the slap.

Heard raised voices sharpened by hurt until they became impossible to untangle.

Now, she had watched Stack Moore walk into that bathroom after her. Watched him leave with tenderness written plainly across his face.

She stood there, hands folded neatly before her, committing every look, every silence, every secret to memory.

Some truths were far more useful…when nobody knew you were the one carrying them.

Evangeline stumbled a step, her senses reeling from the wreckage of her blow up with Marigold. As she stood there, the world she was born into. The one she was made to conform to. A world of starched collars, hushed prayers, and the suffocating expectation of purity. It all felt like a thin veil that had finally been ripped away. 

Around her, The Blackline was a riot of brown skin and perspiration. The blues weren’t just playing, they were vibrating through flesh and bone, a dirty, low-down moan of a saxophone that sounded like it was having an orgasm. Folks weren’t just dancin’. They was grindin’, hips locked, bodies sliding against one another with hungry friction. Evangeline saw a man with a wide grin and a gold tooth pull a woman’s skirt up to her waist, his large hand disappearing under the fabric to squeeze a heavy, rounded cheek with a possessive grip that made the woman throw her head back and howl with laughter. 

To her left, a card game was erupting. A man slammed his palm against the wooden table with a sound that cracked like a gunshot over the music, sending dice and coins scattering. The men around him weren’t fighting with hate but with a raw, boisterous energy, voices deep as they shouted insults and jokes that would have made a deacon faint. 

Then, there were the curtains. Heavy, velvet drapes that partitioned off small corners of the room. They ain’t hide much. Evangeline watched the silhouettes pressed against the fabric. The violent thrusting of a man’s hips. The arch of a woman’s back. The frantic movement of hands clutching at hair and skin. Wet, slapping noises, guttural moans, and the occasional sharp cry of pleasure that cut through the music. Blatant. Obscene. Honest.

The smell of the place wrapped around her. A heady, intoxicating cocktail of expensive pomade, pungent cigar smoke, and the mouth-watering scent of Aunt Pearl’s kitchen. Plates of fried catfish and collard greens piled high with smoked turkey were being passed around, the grease glistening on fingers and lips. Folks was eating with a primal intensity, laughing with their whole bodies, doubting over in fits of genuine, unburdened mirth. 

Evangeline felt strange, trembling sensation in her gut. Since she was a little girl, she’d been taught to walk the “right” path, a version of holiness that felt more like a cage every day. Been taught to look at people like this with pity. And to see Sister Marigold give into her hidden desires left her confused and angry. Looking at the raw, sweating, fucking, laughing chaos of The Blackline, she could see no judgement here. No one was pretending to be a saint while hiding a secret in the dark. The sin was out in the open, worn like a badge of honor, and in that openness, there was a terrifying, electric kind of peace. 

She watched a woman lean back in a chair, legs spread wide, laughing as she fed a piece of corn bread to a man who looked at her with pure, uncomplicated lust. 

This is it, Evangeline realized, the thought echoing in the hollow space where her faith used to be. This is what it looks like to actually be alive.

It wasn’t just a juke. Or a brothel. It was a sanctuary of the flesh. For the first time, the word ‘freedom’ didn’t feel like a Sunday school lesson. It felt like the heat of a stranger’s hand on a hip, the smell of grease and sex, and the courage to be exactly as broken and hungry as everyone else.

Sammie Moore stood near the edge of the stage with his guitar resting comfortably against his shoulder, still riding the rush of applause and his first taste of pussy that refused to leave his chest and his tongue. Every few seconds someone stopped him with a pat on the back. A handshake. A clap on his shoulder. 

“Damn, boy! You sure can play!” 

“You had Delta Slim grinnin’.” 

“That guitar talk back to you.” 

Sammie smiled through every compliment, thanked every stranger, but his eyes kept drifting over their shoulders. 

Searching. 

Soft-blue dress had been easy enough to find. 

But now…nothing.

Despite that, Sammie caught himself smiling anyway. She was probably making him wait on purpose. That seemed like something Evangeline Monroe would enjoy. Sammie finally excused himself and began weaving through the crowded room. Cards slapped against green felt. Dice bounced across polished wood. Women laughed and moaned with their heads thrown back. Someone carried two platters of fried catfish through the crowd while another hurried past balancing slices of sweet potato pie. 

Sammie circled once, then again. 

Still nothing.

His smile began to fade. 

Near the bar, he spotted the two young women who had arrived with her earlier. They stood shoulder to shoulder, wrapping light shawls around themselves while glancing nervously toward the front entrance. 

Sammie approached. “Evenin’ again, ladies.” 

The girls looked up. 

“Oh,” one of them said with relief. “Hi, Sammie.” 

“You seen Evangeline?” Sammie asked. 

“The girls exchanged a look. 

“We was just lookin’ for her ourselves.” 

“Thought she came back wit’ ya’ll.” Sammie said

“Naw. She wandered off after…somethin’.”

“After what?” Sammie questioned. 

“She shrugged. “Don’t know. She looked pretty upset. I tried to wave her over and she just kept on walkin’.” 

The second girl sighed, chewing the inside of her cheek. 

“We can’t stay much longer.” 

“Our mamas think we sleepin’ over at my auntie’s house. If we don’t get back ‘fore sunrise…” she winced. “Lord.” 

“The whole neighborhood gon’ know we snuck out.” The other friend said. 

Sammie glanced across the room again. “I’ll find her.” 

“You tell her we had to leave?” 

“We sure didn’t wanna but…we told Eva that we can’t stay too long.” 

“Our daddies…” one of them shook her head. “They’ll turn us black and blue if they find out.” 

Sammie cringed at that last part. But ultimately, he nodded his head with understanding.

“I’ll tell her. Ya’ll get home safe now.” 

The girls thanked him before hurrying toward the entrance, pulling their shawls tighter as one of the doormen quietly unlatched the door for them. For a second, Sammie simply stood there. He looked toward the stage. Toward the card tables. Toward Delta Slim and Aunt Pearl talking close. Toward the staircase where Violet stood, Smoke beside her puffing on a cigar like he was her watch dog. 

Still no Evangeline. 

Then, he saw her. 

Marigold.

She emerged from the hallway near the guest rooms, composed once more, though something about her expression seemed…heavier than before. Her lipstick had been touched up. Her shoulders were square. Only the faint puffiness under her eyes hinted that something heavy was on her mind. Sammie brightened immediately and walked toward her.

“Miss Marigold.” 

Marigold turned at the sound of her name. 

“I’m sorry to bother you.” 

“You aren’t a bother at all, Sammie.” 

Sammie glanced over his shoulder, still hoping to catch sight of dark-brown skin and a flirty grin. 

“I can’t seem to find Evangeline.” 

The name struck her like a pebble dropped into still water. Barely noticeable from the outside. Impossible to ignore beneath the surface. 

“Evangeline?”

“I done checked the dance floor. The bar. The stage. I ain’t checked none of the rooms down here but they seem to be occupied. Upstairs ain’t been checked. Her friend had to head home. They was lookin’ for her too.” 

Concern settled quietly across Marigold’s face. “When was the last time you saw her?” 

“A little while ago. We was supposed to meet back up.” Sammie rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile trying to return. “I reckon I might’ve got caught up wit’ folks tryna talk to me after I played.” 

Marigold looked across the crowded room. The celebration carried on without interruption. She could spot Stack laughing with Cornbread at the bar over a glass of bourbon. 

“I’ll help you.” 

Sammie’s shoulders relaxed. “You will?” 

“Of course. Evangeline is one of the youth at church. Her well bein’ is just as important to me as is to you, Sammie.” Marigold offered him a reassuring smile, though unease had already begun coiling inside her chest. “If she’s still here, we’ll find her.” 

Marigold grabbed Sammie by the hand as they stepped into the current of bodies moving through The Blackline. Sammie searched with hopeful eyes. Marigold searched with growing dread. Neither of them noticed that, across the room, someone else had quietly begun watching the search unfold. 

Someone only Liza June could see. 

Stack peeled himself away from the bar with the last swallow of bourbon still warm in his chest. His eyes drifted toward the hallway leading toward the bathrooms. 

Goldie should’ve been back by now. 

He frowned. 

As he crossed the floor, Peaches breezed past carrying a tray stacked with condoms and fresh drinks, hips rocking to the band without missing a step. 

“Peach.” 

She looked over one glistening shoulder. “Mhm?” 

“You see Goldie, tell her quit hidin’ from me and come on to my office.” 

Peaches smirked. “You done got needy.” 

“I been needy.” 

Peaches laughed. “I’ll tell her, baby. Maybe I should warn her you primmed and ready then, huh?” 

Stack shot her a lazy grin and kept walking. 

As he walked, the scent of fried catfish, greens, and fresh cornbread drifted from the kitchen. As he passed the swinging door, something caught the corner of his eye. Stack stopped and backed up. He pushed the kitchen door open just enough to peek inside. 

Delta Slim had Aunt Pearl backed against one of the prep tables, grinning from ear to ear while she cupped the old pianist’s face with both hands and kissed him like she’d been waiting all week to do it. Delta Slim chuckled into the kiss. Aunt Pear swatted his shoulder without ever pulling away. 

Stack pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lord have mercy.” 

Neither of them heard him. Stack pushed the door shut with a quick thump. 

“Ain’t nobody wanna see all that.” His head shook as a laugh escaped him. “Two old folks actin’ like they sixteen.” 

Still smiling to himself, he adjusted his jacket and continued down the hallway toward his office, unaware that before the night was over, laughter would be the last easy thing anyone remembered. 

Stack’s polished shoes stopped dead on the worn floorboards. There was a girl huddled in the corner. She wasn’t just any stray, Stack recognized her to be the girl Sammie been checking for since he showed up in Little Rock. Her shoulders were drawn tight like she was still trying to fold herself smaller while her face told a different story. Split lip. Purple blooming under one eye. Marks that didn’t come from no fall. 

“You alright, sugar?” His voice came out low and careful. 

Evangeline dragged the heel of her hand across her wet cheeks, sniffling hard. “I’m fine. Just fine, Mr. Stack.” 

Stack stepped closer, the wall sconce from the hallway catching the damage. His jaw worked once. 

“Somebody put hands on you?” 

Evangeline remained silent. She looked past him like the wall might swallow her whole. 

“What’s your name?”

“Evangeline.” 

Stack studied her. “If you walk out them doors lookin’ like that, word gon’ travel faster than a rumor in a choir loft.” He said. “And if it gets back to your people that you was here…” he let the rest hang. They both knew what that meant.

“I’m not going back home.” She spoke, but it was so low Stack had to strain his ears to catch it. 

“Where my cousin at?” The question came out tight. Deep in his gut he knew Sammie wouldn’t raise a hand to a woman, he knew better than to do no shit like that. But the marks on her face made his fingers itch anyway. 

“I don’t know.” She whispered.

Stack exhaled through his nose and opened his office door, the hinges giving a soft groan. Warm lamplight spilled across a heavy desk cluttered with loose papers and an ashtray still smoking. 

He nodded inside. “Come on. ain’t nobody need to see you like this.” 

Evangeline hesitated, then stepped past him. Stack cracked the door behind them, cutting most of the noise from the hall. Stack stayed by the door a moment, watching her take in the room, her eyes darting over the velvet sofa, the half-empty bottle of whiskey, the coat rack heavy with his good jackets. 

“Go on, sit.” Stack said. “Ain’t gon’ bite.”

Evangeline lowered herself onto the edge of the sofa, her fingers twisting in her lap. Stack crossed to the desk, poured himself a finger of whiskey into a glass, and took a sip. His gaze drifted back to that split lip. 

“You don’t gotta tell me what happened.” He said, after a beat. “But if somebody’s puttin’ hands in you, you best believe they gon’ answer for it.”

Evangeline’s wet eyes tracked him from head to toe before pulling away. 

Stack eased himself onto the edge of the heavy desk, one polished shoe braced against the floor, the other dangling. He watched her for a moment, finger tapping the glass, the wheels in his head turning. Hoping Sammie ain’t got nothing to do with her hurtin’. 

“Who hit you, Evangeline?” Stack’s voice stayed low, almost gentle. 

She kept her eyes on her lap, shoulders shaking, fresh tears sliding free. 

Stack let out a slow breath through his nose. He set his glass aside and pushed off the desk. The door to the back room creaked as he disappeared inside. When he came back, he carried a damp cloth and a small chunk of ice wrapped in it. He held it out without a word. 

Evangeline took it with trembling fingers and pressed the cold against her swollen cheek. Stack lowered himself onto the sofa beside her, close enough that the cushion dipped under his weight. 

“One of them boys out front?” he asked. “Say the word and I’ll handle it. Get you home safe, no questions asked.”

Her face crumpled again. The tears came harder, silent and hot. Stack reached over and laid his palm between her shoulder blades, rubbing slow circles through the thin fabric of her dress. Stack just stayed there, unsure of what to do other than go out and ask around. Surely, if an altercation did occur, he would have known. 

“Did some man try and come on to you?” Stack asked. 

Evangeline sniffled, rubbing her eyes. Eyes that kept betraying her as they swept over Stack’s body. The feeling of his hand making her feel fuzzy. 

“Wasn’t nothin’ like that. I…”

“Funny thing ‘bout nothin’. It usually leave folks lookin’ like somethin’ happened.” His voice never rises. “You ain’t gotta explain it to me.” Another pause. “Just don’t sit here thinkin’ somebody got the right to leave their fingerprints on your life. Folks’ll have you believin’ love always come with a hard hand. I should know.” 

Evangeline crumbled. She leaned her head against Stack’s shoulder, her tears soaking into the silk of his shirt. 

“Shhh, hey now…it’s alright. Listen, why don’t I go look for Sammie. See if we can sort this out—”

Her hand slid down between his legs, fingers closing around the softened outline of his dick through the fabric of his trousers. Stack shot to his feet so fast the sofa scraped back an inch. 

“What the hell you doin’, girl?”

She stayed where she was, eyes puffy, lips trembling. “I always wanted to know what it was like to be with one of the Smokestack Twins. You been so kind to me, Mr. Stack.”

Her fingers went to the buttons of her dress. She started working them open.

Stack’s voice came sharp. “Keep that dress on.”

“What? You don’t wanna make me feel better?” 

Stack looked away. He swiped at his nose and then made his way to the door. “Not like this. I ain’t who you think I am. I’m many things but not this. Button that dress back up.” 

Evangleine laughed, a bitter little sound that didn’t reach her eyes. “Since when does Stack Moore turn down some pussy?”

Stack was seeing red. He crossed the room in three strides and reached for the door, “I’m gettin’ Aunt Pearl to take you home—”

Before he could open the door it swung open. 

Sammie and Marigold stood right there in the hallway. Sammie’s eyes went straight to Evangeline’s open dress, skin showing beneath, the bruise on her face. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped.

Marigold stepped inside first. “What’s going on in here?”

Stack looked from Sammie, to Marigold, to Evangeline. 

“Found her outside my office banged up. Somebody hit her—”

“Evangeline, everything alright?” 

Sammie crossed the room to her. Evangeline stood abruptly, turning away to fix herself. 

“Eva—”

“STOP! I’m fine. I ain’t fuck your cousin, Sammie. If that’s what you worried about.” 

Sammie frowned. “You think that’s what I care ‘bout right now? Your face—”

“Ask Sister Marigold why my face look like this.” 

Stack and Sammie turned their eyes onto Marigold. 

“I struck her.” Marigold confessed. “I ain’t mean to—”

“You meant to. Just like you meant to ruin our lives. Wait till I tell everyone that you fuckin’ a pimp in a pussy house. That image you worked so hard for gon’ burn so bright everybody in Little Rock gon’ see it.” 

Evangeline stormed past Sammie and bumped Marigold’s shoulder. Sammie grabbed her wrist but Evangeline wiggled her arm out of his grip and stormed out of the office. He was on her heels like a bloodhound with a fresh scent. Stack and Marigold stood frozen for a moment before following them. 

“Eva! Come on, now. We can talk about this—”

“Stop following me, Sammie!” 

“Listen, whatever happened, we can help. You ain’t gotta go through this alone—”

She turned as though she meant to leave, but Sammie stepped into her path. He didn’t grab her this time. He simply stood there, concern plain in his eyes. 

“Talk to me.” 

Her laugh came again, full of pain. “Why?”

“‘Cause somethin’ happened.” 

“You don’t know what happened.”

“No. But I know you hurtin’.” 

The tenderness in his voice hurt worse than an accusation could have. Evangeline’s chin trembled before she caught it between her teeth. She wanted him to be foolish. She wanted him to flirt, to say something smooth, to give her an excuse to laugh at him and walk away. Instead, he looked at her like her tears mattered. 

“You don’t even know me.” She said.

Sammie lowered his voice. “Maybe not yet.” 

“There ain’t gon’ be no yet.” 

His brows furrowed. “What that mean?” 

“It mean you need to stop lookin’ at me like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m somethin’ sweet.” 

“You are.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I know enough.” 

“No, you don’t.” Her voice sharpened, cutting through the music between them. “You met me on a sidewalk licking ice cream. You saw me in a pretty dress, let me dance on you, kissed me a little, sucked my pussy, now you think you know what kind of girl I am.” 

“I never said that.” 

“You ain’t have to, Sammie.” 

Sammie’s expression softened further, which only made her angrier. 

“Evangeline, I ain’t tryin’ to judge you.” 

“Everybody says that right before they do.” 

“I ain’t everybody—”

“You a preacher’s son.” 

“I ain’t my daddy—”

“You still got his Bible all through you!” 

The words struck him, though he tried not to show it.

“What would your daddy think if he found out you been licking pussy? You hangin’ ‘round The Smokestack twins? You performing blues music in a Juke full of the drunk and the frisky, huh? I’d get out while I still can. At least you got time for savin’.” Evangeline rubbed quickly beneath one eye. “Go enjoy your birthday. They threw this whole night for you. Got women in there that know exactly what you want and how to give it to you.” 

“I was lookin’ for you.” 

“Well, stop.” 

Sammie went still. Evangeline drew a breath that trembled all the way down.

“I got somebody anyway.” 

Sammie’s face changed. Only slightly. A tiny glimpse behind his eyes. 

“You got a man?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

Sammie searched her expression, perhaps waiting for the teasing curl of her lips or a wink that would reveal the game. None came. Evangeline forced herself to hold his gaze until the lie settled between them.

“Why you ain’t say that before?” 

Evangeline scoffed. “I ain’t owe you my whole life story.”

“I know…”

“Then quit askin’.”

Sammie nodded slowly. “Alright.” 

His acceptance should have brought relief. Instead, it left her feeling hollow. Evangeline looked at him properly thenz at the college pin on his lapel. At the faint sheen of perspiration resting along his temple. At the gentle hands that had gripped her waist and pinned her legs in that dressing room. He had looked at her as though she were worth discovering. That was precisely why she had to push harder. 

“Go find you somebody more suitable.” She said. “Some good little college girl. Some little church girl from back home. A girl who writes letter and sit quiet while you play. Somebody worth your time.”

Sammie’s brows drew together. “Why you talkin’ like you ain’t?” 

She looked away.

“Evangeline—”

“Just leave me alone, Sammie.” 

He could hear the plea beneath the anger. He could also hear his father’s voice from years ago, insisting that women needed correction when their emotions carried them too far. Jedediah would have followed. Cornered. Demanded answers until there was no room left for anything but obedience. 

Sammie would not become that man. 

Evangeline stepped around him and headed toward the front of the room. 

Sammie turned after her. For one breath, he followed. One step carried him into the stream of dancers before he stopped himself. She had asked him to leave her alone. Whatever had transpired between her and Marigold, she didn’t want him beside her while she carried it. 

“Preacher Boy!”

A hand clapped his shoulder from behind. Someone called for another song. Delta Slom lifted both hands from the piano and shouted that the birthday boy owed the room one more number. Sammie glanced back at them, then toward Evangeline. She had already disappeared among the bodies. He stood there another second, torn between instinct and respect, before lowering his head. 

She needed time.

He would find her later.

The office door had scarcely stopped rattling from Sammie and Evangeline’s hurried exit before things settled uneasy. Marigold stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring at the open doorway as though Evangeline might suddenly appear again. 

“I struck her.” Her confession came with shame. “So hard.” Her voice wavered. “I have never laid my hands on one of my girls.” 

Stack remained where he was beside his desk. He said nothing. 

Marigold laughed once, though it carried no humor. “I looked at her…” she swallowed. “…and all I could see was myself.” She pressed trembling fingers against her lips. “I became exactly what she accused me of.”

Stack watched her for another moment before speaking. 

“No.” 

She lifted weary eyes toward him. 

“You became somebody who lost hold of herself.” 

The distinction did little to comfort her. A fresh wave of shame crossed her face. Then, another thought entered. 

“What if she tells? What if she tells everybody?” Marigold whispered. “The congregation…my husband…those girls…” she shook her head. “My whole life…”

Stack’s answer came without hesitation. “Then she tells.” 

Marigold stared at him as though he’d struck her himself.

“That’s all you got to say?” 

“What else you want me to say?” Stack tilted his head. 

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand just fine.” 

“No. You don’t. They’ll talk.” 

“They might—”

“They’ll rip me apart.” 

“They might.” 

“My girls won’t listen to another word I say—”

“Maybe.” 

Each answer landed heavier than the last. Frustration finally overtook her. 

“You don’t care.” 

Stack’s brow lifted. 

“You think this some kind of joke.”

“I think it’s the truth.”

Marigold shut her eyes. “I could lose everything.” 

“You already losin’ it, Goldie.” 

She blinked. “What?” 

“You hate hearin’ the truth.”

“I do not—”

“You do.” His voice never rose. “You hate any truth that asks somethin’ of you.” 

Marigold shook her head fiercely. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Stack.” 

“I know exactly what I’m talking’ ‘bout.” He took one measured step toward her. “You spend time worryin’ ‘bout what everybody else think, you ain’t ask yourself what you think in a long while.” 

Marigold felt the walls closing in. 

“I need to go.” 

She turned for the door. Before her fingers reached the knob, Stack crossed the room. He opened the door first, glanced into the hallway, then quietly shut it again.

The lock clicked into place.

Marigold stared. “What are you doin’?”

He motioned toward the chair opposite his desk.

“Sit.”

“I said I need to leave.”

“I heard you.”

“Move.”

“No.”

She searched his face, waiting for the arrogance she had come to expect from men who gave orders. It wasn’t there.

Only patience.

Only resolve.

Her shoulders sagged. The fight left them. Slowly, she lowered herself into the chair. Stack remained standing for a long moment before finally asking the question that had lived behind his eyes for weeks.

“Why you still with him?”

Marigold looked down at her hands.

No answer came.

He asked another. “Why you still tied to that church?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Words that had once come so easily refused to appear.

Duty. Marriage. Calling. Obedience.

Each felt thinner than the last.

Stack watched the realization cross her face.

“You keep tellin’ me what you scared of losin’.” He leaned against the edge of his desk. “Tell me one thing over there that’s still holdin’ on to you.”

Marigold searched for it. For something. Anything.

Obadiah. No. Her marriage. No. The church building. No. Her title. No. Only faces came. The young women. Bible lessons. Hospital visits. Meals delivered to grieving families.

Evangeline.

The thought struck so sharply she rose from the chair.

“I can’t do this.”

She hurried to the door and unlocked it before Stack could stop her. The knob turned. She stepped into the hallway. Behind her came his voice, carrying just enough amusement to make her stop for the briefest second.

“Runnin’ again?”

She closed her eyes.

“Thought we was past that.”

Marigold looked back over her shoulder. The glare she gave him carried exhaustion more than anger. Then, she walked away. She moved quickly through the back corridors until the music softened behind thick walls. The warmth of the kitchen met her first. Pots soaked in wash tubs. The smell of cornbread still lingered in the air. Alma Rose stood at one sink with her sleeves rolled high, drying heavy platters while Aunt Pearl wiped down one of the long preparation tables, humming softly beneath her breath. Both women looked up together. One glance was all Aunt Pearl needed.

“What happened?”

Marigold tried to answer but nothing came. She lowered her eyes instead.

After a long silence, she managed quietly, “Aunt Pearl…”

The older woman set the rag aside. “Mm-hmm?”

“Would you…” Her voice nearly broke. “…would you mind drivin’ me home?”

Concern settled across Aunt Pearl’s face, but she asked no questions.

“Course I will.” She untied her apron and handed it to Alma Rose. “You finish up in here for me, baby.”

Alma Rose nodded. “I got it.”

Marigold waited near the back door while Aunt Pearl gathered her things.

Just as Aunt Pearl reached for her coat…

The church bell rang.

One slow toll.

Its sound rolled through the kitchen walls and settled over every pot, every plate, every tired pair of hands. Even Alma Rose’s rag stilled against the china. Marigold felt the sound settle somewhere deep inside her chest. Aunt Pearl quietly slipped her coat over her shoulders.

“Come on, baby.”

Marigold nodded.

Neither woman spoke as they stepped out into the Arkansas night.

Behind them, The Blackline laughed.

Across the street, the bell rang again.

The Rise of First Blood

Evangeline moved without purpose through The Blackline, letting the crowd swallow her. She passed couples with their foreheads pressed together, women laughing over cards, men losing money with good humor and ordering another round. The room that had seemed scandalous when she first entered now looked different through the sting of her tears.

She saw a young woman sitting beside the stage with her face buried against Peaches’ shoulder. Peaches did not tell her to straighten up. She did not tell her that tears invited weakness or that grief could be prayed away. She stroked the woman’s back and listened while she cried, her full attention offered without correction.

Near the bar, a patron reached for one of the dancers. The woman caught his wrist, shook her head, and continued past him. He lifted both palms, accepted the refusal, and turned back to his drink. No one dragged her aside. No one asked what kind of woman denied a man after accepting his attention. At a nearby table, Aunt Pearl set down a plate in front of a girl who had been too busy working to eat. She fussed over her until the girl took the first bite, then walked away satisfied. The Blackline contained vice. Evangeline could see it clearly. Liquor poured faster than water. Clothes fell open. Money passed between hands for pleasures no church woman would name aloud. Yet beneath all of it lived something she had not expected to find.

Choice.

The realization disturbed her more than the obscenity. Marigold’s face returned to her. Garnet lips. Black satin. Her body settled on Stack Moore’s lap while he kissed her neck and whispered filth no doubt. The look of shock on her face when she’d locked eyes with her. The woman who had once warned Evangeline that wickedness entered through open doors had looked more alive in that booth than she ever had standing beside Obadiah. 

Evangeline hated her for it. She envied her for it too. That truth was harder to bear.

She drifted closer to the entrance, wrapping her arms around herself. The mark on her cheek and the split in her lip had begun to ache now that the adrenaline has settled. Everything she had said to Marigold returned in jagged pieces, crueler now that the anger had faded. She remembered Marigold’s face after the slap, the horror and regret that followed it. 

She had wanted the First Lady to hurt. 

And she had succeeded. 

It had not made anything better. 

Across the room, tucked behind a veiled alcove, Liza June sat with her cards gathered loosely in both hands. She had stopped reading them some time ago. Lana had wandered away to tend to a John, leaving her alone with the spread and the company no one else could see. 

Louisa Fields, one of the spirits, had remained near the piano after Sammie finished playing. The Harris twins had stood together beside an empty booth, their fingers linked. Clarene Bell watched the stage with a longing that had survived her body. Larissa Boone lingered near the wall, stern and watchful. Cressida Weatherford stood closest to Marigold as she surfaced without Stack, her weathered hands held near her sides. 

Then, Louisa turned toward the front door. 

The Harris twins followed.

Clarene lowered her head and went after them. 

Larissa crossed the room with the grave composure of a woman answering a summons.

Liza June straightened. 

The spirits did not disappear. They moved through the living crowd, passing between dancers and tables without disturbing cloth or flesh. Every one of them traveled in the same direction. 

Her cards tightened between her fingers.

“Where ya’ll goin’?”

None turned.

One card slipped free and landed face up on the table. 

Death. 

Liza stared at it. 

Ordinarily, she would have scolded anyone foolish enough to fear the card. Death did not always mean a grave. It could mean change, release, one life ending so another might begin. Tonight, the image looked different. 

Cressida remained behind for one final heartbeat. Her eyes found Marigold across the room. The First Lady was scanning the crowd beside Sammie now. Both of them searching for someone they could no longer see. Then, Cressida looked toward Liza.

No chant came this time. No words formed inside her mind. The old woman simply closed her eyes. 

Grief moved across her face before she turned and followed the others. 

Liza’s stomach tightened. She didn’t rise or follow. She remained perfectly still while the dead passed through the front door. 

Evangeline reached it moments later. 

The doorman recognized her from when she came in and tipped his hat. “Headin’ out, Miss?”

“Just need some air.” 

“Friends left some time ago.” 

Evangeline glanced back into the room. Her girls had gone. She figured as much. They were past their curfew. She spotted Sammie with his guitar, forcing a smile on his face. Evangeline nearly called his name. The thought rose to her lips. Then, Pride swallowed it. 

“Actually, I think I’m a head home. Thanks anyway.” 

The doorman opened the door. “Have a good evening.” 

Music poured into the night around her, bright and lively for a few seconds before the heavy door closed and reduced it to a muffled pulse behind brick. West Ninth had thinned considerably. Storefronts sat dark behind their glasses. Stratton’s three pale circles across the pavement, leaving stretches of shadow between them. The August heat had not broken, though the night breeze cooled the tears drying on Evangeline’s face. Across the narrow lane stood Greater Calvary Holy Temple Church of Deliverance. It’s white exterior looked gray beneath the moon. The iron fence bordered rows of lilies that appeared colorless at this hour. High above the street, the bell tower cut into the skit like a raised finger demanding silence. 

Evangeline turned away from it. 

She walked slowly, without any true destination. She didn’t want to go back home. To face her mother’s judgment or her father’s hand. She only wanted distance form Marigold, from Sammie’s kindness, from the music that had reached into her chest and stirred feelings she was not prepared to name. 

Behind her, the dead emerged through The Blackline’s closed door. 

Louisa came first, small and barefoot, ribcage visible above her nightgown; malnourished. The Harris twins walked behind her, still holding hands, translucent and water-soaked, dripping constantly, leaving puddles wherever they moved. They still wore the same swollen, bluish features with their hair plastered their face and clothing clinging like wet rags. Clarene had bruising around her neck and walked with a wobble. Larissa carried a medicinal scent mixed with the old communion wine sweetness. Other spirits joined them, spirits tied to the patrons, the musicians, the kitchens and the old streets beneath Little Rock. Faces from lives already lived. Shapes belonging to years not yet born. 

Cressida came last. 

The formed a silent procession several paces behind her, keeping pace as she crossed beyond the strongest reach of The Blackline’s lights. Evangeline felt the change without understanding it. The fine hairs along her arms lifted. She glanced over one shoulder. 

The street appeared empty. 

She rubbed her palms over her sleeves and kept walking. The music weakened with each step Evangeline took until that world became no more than a distant rhythm carried through the night. 

Evangeline paused beside the church fence. 

A lily had fallen onto the pavement. She nudged it with the toe of her shoe, then looked toward the road leading home. 

“Miss Monroe.” 

The voice came from behind her. 

Evangleine turned.

Deacon Josiah Wells stood beneath the nearest streetlamp. She had known him most of her life. He had carried her on his shoulders during church picnics when she was small and slipped peppermint candies into her palm after services. Tonight he wore a dark suit buttoned to the throat, his hat held respectfully against his chest.

The tension left her shoulders.

“Deacon Wells.”

“Your mama and daddy been worried.”

Her gaze dropped. “They know I’m gone?”

“They know enough.”

“I was fixin’ to head home.”

“I figured as much.” He gave her the same patient smile she remembered from childhood. “Come on, then. I’ll see you there safe.”

Evangeline glanced toward The Blackline. She thought of Sammie. She thought of going back inside and telling him the truth, at least enough of it to apologize. Then, she pictured her father waiting at home.

“I can walk.”

“At this hour?” Deacon Wells chuckled softly. “Your daddy would have my hide if I let his girl cross town alone.”

The words sounded reasonable. Familiar.

She stepped toward him.

The spirits stopped.

Every one of them.

Louisa’s face tightened with fear. The Harris twins drew closer together. Clarene opened her mouth though no sound passed through it. Larissa reached for Evangeline and met only distance.

Cressida raised both hands. The hands that had delivered children, closed wounds, calmed fevers and helped women survive the touch of cruel men.

They could do nothing now.

Evangeline had nearly reached Deacon Wells when another man stepped from the deeper shadow beside the church steps. Then, a third appeared near the gate.

Her pace slowed. “Who they?”

Wells’ smile remained, though all warmth had left it.

“Church business.”

“At this time of night?”

“You been keepin’ late hours yourself.”

Something in his voice changed her breathing.

Evangeline stepped backward.

Wells reached for her arm.

She jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

The men moved at once.

One caught her from behind. A broad hand covered her mouth before she could scream. She kicked backward, heel striking bone, and heard someone curse. Her teeth closed against the palm over her lips.

“Hold her.”

Evangeline twisted hard enough to tear one sleeve at the shoulder. She clawed at the arm trapping her, eyes fixed on The Blackline’s entrance only yards away.

The music continued behind the walls. She tried to call Sammie. Only a broken sound escaped beneath the man’s hand.

Deacon Wells seized her legs as the others lifted her from the pavement. Her eyes widened. Not with confusion anymore.

With recognition.

The spirits crowded around them, reaching, grieving, powerless. Cressida stood closest, her hands pressed against Evangeline’s face without being felt.

The girl fought until a dark cloth was forced over her nose and mouth.

The church bell tolled once.

Evangeline’s body went slack.

The men carried her through the iron gate. Behind them, the fallen lily lay crushed against the pavement. And across the lane, The Blackline kept singing.

Morning came. It slowly settled over the carriage house behind The Blackline. Thin ribbons of sunlight caught lazy flecks of dust that drifted through the warm air. The fragrance of old cedar, worn leather, hay, faint traces of manure, and machine oil. An empty wagon leaned against one wall beside stacked feed crates and coiled harnesses that hadn’t seen a horse in years. 

Beyond the open doors crowded with overgrown grass, life had already begun again. Minnie laughed and cooed in the kitchen. A pan clanged against a stove, probably Aunt Pearl frying up some bacon fat fritters. Delta Skim tested a few wandering notes on the piano before deciding against a tune to play tonight. Cornbread was snoring in one of the guest rooms, causing some of the girls to groan about missed sleep because of a grisly bear. The little white kitten, Trouble, darted across the courtyard chasing something only he could see. 

The world had moved on accordingly.

Sammie had not. 

He sat alone on an overturned crate with his guitar resting across his lap. It had once belonged to Smoke and Stack’s father before the brothers placed it in Sammie’s hands years later, telling him every instrument deserved another voice. 

This morning it felt heavier than usual. His fingers wandered over the strings, searching for something familiar. A blues progression found its way beneath his fingertips before faltering halfway through. He tried again. Stopped again. But nothing sounded right. Sammie’s thoughts refused to stay on the music. Instead, they drifted back to the night before. 

Evangeline laughing. Evangeline dancing. The sharp wit behind every smile she sent his way. Then…her face after everything had unraveled. The bruise. It wasn’t the mark itself, or that Marigold had struck her. It was the way she reacted. She hadn’t looked surprised. She didn’t seem to care that she’d been hit in retaliation. She looked…ready. As though somewhere in her life she’d already learned what it meant to brace herself before a hand came. 

That was the part Sammie couldn’t shake. 

He drew a slow breath and rested both hands across the guitar. He allowed himself to be swallowed by silence before it was broken by footsteps crunching across the gravel outside. 

“They teach y’all that at college?”

Sammie looked up.

Stack leaned against the doorway with a steaming mug balanced in one hand. His hat had been traded for a neatly combed head of conked hair, his suit coat abandoned somewhere inside. Suspenders crossed a white shirt rolled neatly to his forearms. But the gold on his fingers and around his neck never left him. He was Elias Moore after all.

Stack nodded toward the guitar. “Or you tryin’ punish that poor thing?”

A corner of Sammie’s mouth lifted despite himself.

“I ain’t punishin’ it.”

“Mmm.”

Stack wandered inside without waiting for permission and lowered himself onto a crate beside him. He took a sip of his chicory coffee mixed with a little melted chocolate. He looked out through the open carriage doors, his eyes tracking Trouble trying to catch dragonflies. They simply breathed beside each other, Stack taking sips of his coffee and Sammie plucking the strings with his thumb. Stack had always known when silence needed company more than conversation. After a while he nudged Sammie’s shoulder.

“She got you all tangled up already?”

Sammie gave a quiet scoff. “Ain’t like that.”

“If you say so, lil’ nigga.” 

“It ain’t.”

Stack smiled into his coffee but let the denial pass. Another stretch of quiet settled between them. Finally, Sammie spoke.

“I keep thinkin’ about her.”

“The girl?”

Sammie nodded. “I keep seein’ that look on her face. The way she…” His voice lowered. “She looked…broken.” He swallowed. “Not because of Marigold.”

Stack turned his head. “What you mean?”

Sammie stared down at the strings. “I don’t know.” He searched for the words. “Sum’ just ain’t right.” 

Stack didn’t rush to answer. He simply listened.

Sammie let out a tired breath. “I don’t know. Just…it bothered me.”

“It ought to.”

Sammie looked over.

Stack rested his elbows on his knees, turning the coffee mug slowly between his palms.

“World got a habit of puttin’ too much on folks before they old enough to carry it.” He looked toward the bright morning outside. “Sometimes somebody cross your path and all they leave you with is a question.”

Sammie frowned. “What kinda question?”

Stack’s gaze stayed fixed ahead. “The kind you spend years answerin’.”

The words lingered between them.

Sammie looked back down at the guitar.

“You ever have somebody just…” He hesitated. “…walk out your life before you figured ’em out?”

Stack chuckled softly. “More than once.”

There was something unreadable behind the smile that followed. Before Sammie could ask anything else, Stack clapped both hands against his knees and stood.

“That’s enough of this.”

“What?”

“You.” Stack pointed at him. “You in your big cousin’s house actin’ like somebody done stole Christmas.”

Sammie laughed. A real laugh this time, though it still carried a trace of weariness.

“I ain’t actin’.”

“You absolutely actin’.”

Stack reached over and caught him in a loose headlock, rubbing the top of his head with his knuckles until Sammie pushed him away.

“Man, quit.”

“There he is.” Stack grinned. “I knew you was still in there somewhere.”

Sammie shook his head, trying not to smile. 

“You supposed to be celebratin’.” Stack slung an easy arm across his shoulders and steered him toward the open doors. “You a college man now. A bluesman. My lil’ cousin. Ain’t no room ‘round here for mopin’ all day.”

They stepped into the morning together. Trouble darted past their feet and damn near leaped up the steps into the kitchen. 

Stack leaned close, lowering his voice as though conspiring to rob a bank.

“Aunt Pearl got sweet potato biscuits coolin’ in that kitchen.”

Sammie raised an eyebrow. “So?”

Stack looked over both shoulders with exaggerated caution.

“I heard tell she made peach preserves too.”

A grin finally spread across Sammie’s face.

“You know she gon’ fuss.”

“Only if she catch us.”

They crossed the courtyard shoulder to shoulder, laughing quietly like two boys about to steal something they both knew they’d be forgiven for before supper.

Stack moved like a shadow, his broad shoulders hunched as he crept toward the cooling rack. He didn’t make a sound, his movements were fluid and practiced while Sammie hovered just behind him, his eyes darting toward the doorway. Stack’s large hand shot out, snatching a golden-brown sweet potato biscuit still steaming from the oven. He grabbed another for Sammie, pressing it into his cousin’s palm with a wicked, knowing grin. Using his thick fingers, Stack split the biscuit in half and walked over to the peach preserves, using a tiny, sterling silver engraved spoon to scoop some onto the biscuit. Sammie held his own biscuit out and stack gave him a dollop. 

“Hush now,” Stack whispered with a low, gravelly voice. “‘Fore Pearl catch us and use that bread paddle to whip us.” 

Sammie snorted a laughter while Stack masked his by taking a bite of the buttery delight. Peach preserves danced across his tongue and made his eyes roll shut. 

They retreated from the kitchen, sneaking through the back hallway and slipping into the main area of The Blackline. The main area held the aftermath of a crowded room with floorboards scarred by years of dancing boots and spilled liquor. On stage, Delta Slim sat at the upright piano, his dark fingers dancing over the keys in a slow, mourning melody that seemed to pull the very soul out of the keys. 

A few paces away, Aunt Pearl stood still as a statue. Her dark skin was etched with the lines of a hard-lived life. Her gaze was fixed on Delta with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. She watched him play with a look that hovered somewhere between love and a deep, aching grief. 

Stack leaned in close to Sammie, the biscuit halfway to his mouth. He lowered his voice, a playful glint in his whiskey-colored eyes. 

“I tell ya’, Sammie…I seen ‘em last night,” Stack whispered, glancing back at Pearl. “Caught ‘em in the kitchen. Delta and Aunt Pearl was tongue-kissing like two teenagers who just found out the preacher went to sleep. Thought they was gon’ swallow each other whole.” 

Sammie almost choked on a piece of biscuit, his eyes widening. “Aunt Pearl? Swear? She too strict for that.” 

“Strict in the light, maybe,” Stack chuckled, his deep dimples popping. “But the dark do something to a person. Make ‘em remember things they tried to bury.” Stack paused, his expression softening as he watched the two of them. “I wonder how they even started. You don’t just look at a man like that unless there’s a whole lifetime of ghosts between you.” 

A heavy sigh sounded beside them. Minnie stepped into the light, her shoulders slumped and her eyes heavy with a bone-deep weariness. Her dark skin looked matte when the light hit it and she moved with a slow, dragging gait of someone who hadn’t seen a bed in twenty-four hours. She didn’t say where she’d been, but the way she rubbed the small of her back and the distant, exhausted look in her eyes hinted at her night spent pacing a floor. 

Minnie overheard them and let out a dry, raspy laugh. “Ya’ll talkin’ ‘bout ghosts now? You ain’t gotta wonder, Stack. Pearl used to be the star of the show.” 

Stack raised an eyebrow. “The star?” 

“Mm-hm,” Minnie nodded leaning against a pillar. “She told me sum’ she ain’t never share before. Back in the day, Pearl had a voice that could make the devil weep. She used to sing them old ragtime songs—fast, filthy, full of life. Delta there? She said he was the heart of the band. They was thick as thieves, those two. Had a fling that set the whole Delta talking.”

Sammie looked from Minnie to the piano. “What happened?”

Minnie’s expression dimmed. “Life happened. Delta got caught up in some trouble and needed to on the chain gang. Gone for years. Just like that. Pearl…she ain’t hear nothin’ for a long time. Word got back that he and his buddy Rice had been hanged by the state. Pearl took that news and buried it deep. She married a good man, had her boy, and tired to forget the sound of that piano.” 

Stack watched Delta hit a low, resonant chord. He saw the way Pearl’s chest hitched, a small sharp intake of breath. 

“Seein’ him walk back through those doors.” Minnie continued softly. “It ain’t just bring back the love. It opened up every old wound she ever managed to scab over. It’s a heavy thing, comin’ back from the dead.” 

Stack just stood there, chewing the last of his biscuit, watching the silent communication between the woman and the musician. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. It wasn’t a cruel one. It was the smile of a man who understood that the most powerful desires were the ones that survived the impossible. 

Sammie’s expression turned thoughtful, almost tentative. He looked at his cousin—this man who seemed to glide through life with an effortless, seductive confidence, always surrounded by laughter and the scent of expensive pomade and women’s perfume. 

“Stack,” Sammie started, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You always out here playin’ the field, keepin’ every girl from here to Chicago guessin’. You ever think you gon’ actually find love? Or you just gon’ keep collectin’ ‘em like stamps?” 

Stack let out a loud, booming laugh that bounced off the scarred floorboards, his deep dimples carving into his cheeks. He slapped his thigh, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Delta Slim and Aunt Pearl looked over like they’d been interrupted. Minnie walked away with a shake of her head towards the kitchen to start prepping for the night’s opening. 

“Find love?” Stack chuckled, shaking his head. “Boy, you talkin’ like I’m some lonely soul wanderin’ the wilderness. I got love in spades.” Stack gestured broadly with a large hand, encompassing the room. “I got you, I got Smoke—even if that man act like a stone wall half the time. And I got my girls, them sweet twins. I got more love than I know what to do with, Sammie. Why trade a whole garden for one single rose when I can have the whole damn field?” 

Sammie didn’t seem convinced. He let the silence stretch for a second before his voice dropped an octave, becoming a soft, pointed needle. 

“What ‘bout Marigold?” 

The laughter didn’t vanish but it froze. The playful light in his eyes dimmed into something guarded, something unreadable. The name hung in the air between them, heavy and thick, clashing with the mournful chords of the piano. For a heartbeat, the mask of the charming rouge slipped, revealing a glimpse of the man who knew exactly how dangerous a woman like Marigold could be. And exactly how much he craved that danger. 

Stack cleared his throat, his jaw tightening as he straightened up. He didn’t look at Sammie, instead focusing his gaze on the doorway, his voice returning to its usual smooth, dismissive rumble, though the warmth was gone.

“I got shit to do,” Stack muttered, pushing off the pillar. He didn’t linger, turning on his heel to make a quick exit. As he walked away, he tossed a hand back over his shoulder, his tone returning to a forced, teasing edge. “Go on now. Go find yourself some stag films and a bottle of corn liquor. Put some hair on that chest ‘o yours ‘fore you start gettin’ all poetic on me.” 

A few blocks over, Marigold scarcely slept. The dawn had come pale and slow through the bedroom curtains, finding her already awake, sitting upright with the blankets gathered around her waist. Obadiah had risen before first light as he always did, his side of the bed left neat and undisturbed, the lingering scent of his shaving soap hanging faintly in the room. He’d come home late, Marigold faking sleep to avoid him. She remained where she was long after he had gone. Her cheek rested against her fingertips and every time she closed her eyes, she saw Evangeline. Not the girl laughing with Sammie. Not the girl slipping through the doors of The Blackline.

The girl in that narrow hallway. Eyes shining with hurt. Voice trembling beneath anger.

You weren’t teachin’ us. You were teachin’ us how to become you.

Marigold squeezed her eyes shut. Then came another.

Naomi was right.

Her stomach tightened.

Naomi. Esther.

The wounds she had spent years trying to bind together with prayer and patience had been ripped open in the span of a few cruel minutes. Evangeline had spoken their names like accusations. Like Marigold had stood by while both of them slipped beyond her reach.

Had she?

The question refused to leave.

She rose at last, bathed, dressed simply, and tied her hat beneath her chin with hands that would not stop fidgeting. She intended to make her usual house visits that morning. Instead, her feet carried her somewhere else.

She needed to see Evangeline. Needed to apologize. Needed to explain. Or perhaps…she simply needed to know the girl had made it home. That thought settled uneasily in her chest. She couldn’t stop thinking that Evangeline had returned safely…and would tell someone where she’d seen the First Lady the night before. Marigold hated herself for thinking it. More than that, she hated that the thought had come before anything else. She whispered a prayer beneath her breath as she walked. The prayer wasn’t for protection. It was for forgiveness.

The Monroe home sat undisturbed beneath the morning sun, its white paint weathered by Arkansas summers and damp winters alike. A pair of rocking chairs rested on the porch, one still gently swaying as though someone had only recently risen from it. Marigold climbed the steps, and for a moment she almost turned around.

What if Evangeline refused to see her? What if Ruth answered with questions Marigold couldn’t bear?

She lifted her hand anyway. Three soft knocks.

Tap tap tap. 

Footsteps approached from inside. The door opened.

Ruth Monroe stood there, and Marigold knew instantly something was wrong. Ruth’s eyes were swollen. They weren’t red from a restless night. They were red from crying.  Her apron had been thrown on carelessly over yesterday’s dress, and her hair, usually pinned with meticulous care, had begun slipping loose around her temples.

“Ruth…” Marigold’s voice softened. “I came to—”

Ruth looked at Marigold with the bewildered expression of someone whose world no longer obeyed reason.

“You ain’t seen her…have you?”

The question struck like cold water.

Marigold frowned. “Seen?”

“Evangeline.”

A hollow ache opened beneath Marigold’s ribs.

“I thought she’d be here.”

Ruth shook her head slowly. “She never come home.”

The words settled between them. Heavy. Impossible. Marigold searched Ruth’s face for the certainty that this was all a misunderstanding. Perhaps she’d stayed with cousins. Perhaps she’d gone to one of the girls from Bible study. Perhaps…

Ruth lifted a trembling hand.

There was an envelope in it. Its edges had already softened from being unfolded and folded again.

“I found this on her bedside table this mornin’.”

Marigold looked down. Across the front, written in familiar handwriting, was one simple word.

Mama.

“I went to wake her,” Ruth whispered. “Her bed…it hadn’t been slept in.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “This was sittin’ underneath her Bible.”

Marigold felt something inside her sink. Like a stone disappearing beneath dark water.

Ruth held the letter against her chest. “She says she left.” Her voice broke. “She says she needed to find herself.”

Somewhere beyond the yard, a mockingbird sang as though the morning had begun like any other.

Marigold looked toward the open doorway, into the little house she had visited so many times over the years. She could almost picture Evangeline as a child racing through those rooms with ribbons flying behind her.

Then, her thoughts returned to the night before.

To the hallway. To the slap. To the hurt in Evangeline’s eyes.

A terrible guilt settled over her. She had come to ask forgiveness.

Instead…

She found only absence.

“Come on in.” 

Marigold hesitated only a moment before crossing the threshold. The Monroe joke carried all the familiar comforts she’d known for years. The smell of coffee lingered in the kitchen. There was a half-finished basket of mending rested beside Ruth’s favorite chair. Family photographs lined the mantel with polished silver frames that caught the light. 

Nothing changed. Yet everything had.

Ruth closed the front door behind them but didn’t sit. And wandered into the parlor, one hand wringing the folded letter while the other worried at the edge of her apron. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Her voice shook. “I just…I keep thinkin’ maybe she’ll come through that front door and fuss at me for worryin’.” 

Marigold removed her gloves, buying herself a moment to steady the knot in her chest. 

“Had anyone else seen this?” 

Ruth shook her head. “No. My husband left before daylight for the mill.” She swallowed. “He still think she asleep.” Her eyes filled again. “I don’t know how to tell him.” The words barely made it out. “He—he already think we been losin’ her.” 

Marigold stepped closer. Ruth had always been the steadier parent. Gentle where her husband was firm. Patient where he was quick to correct. Seeing her come apart unsettled something deep inside Marigold.

“May I…?” Marigold nodded toward the letter.

Ruth looked down at the page for a long moment before placing them into Marigold’s hands. 

“I’ve read it so many times I know every word by heart now.” Ruth drew a shaky breath that never quite settled. 

Madigold unfolded the paper with great care. The handwriting was unmistakably Evangeline’s. Neat. Rounded. Carefully practiced. Marigold could tell from the years spent in purity class walking the rows between desks, staring down over the girls’ shoulders as they wrote brief essays on how to remain sacred and serve the Lord. 

She began reading. 

Mama, 

I’m sorry. I know I disappointed you and Daddy more times than I can count. I don’t fit here anymore, and I don’t think I ever will. I need to figure out who I am without everybody tellin’ me who I’m supposed to be. Please don’t come lookin’ for me. I’m safe.  I just need somewhere I can breathe.  Maybe one day you’ll forgive me. Tell Daddy I’m sorry. I love you. 

Evangeline. 

Marigold lowered the page but did not immediately look up. It sounded…possible. Painfully possible. And painfully familiar. Every line echoed the frustration Evangeline had carried for months. Yet something about it sat strangely against Marigold’s heart. 

Ruth managed a weak, watery smile through her tears. 

“The handwriting’s hers.” 

Karigold looked back down. “It certainly looks like it. I recognized it the second I opened it.” 

Ruth laughed softly, though there was no joy in the sound.

“Funny thing is…” she wiped beneath her one eye. “When she was little, she would dot all her little i’s with Tony circles.” 

Marigold glanced up. “Circles?” 

“Mmm-hmm.” Ruth smiled at the memory. “Little bitty things.” She held her fingers barely apart. “Looked like she’d sprinkled flower petals all over her schoolwork. I used to tell her nobody’d take her serious writin’ like that.” Another quiet laugh escaped her. “I guess she finally outgrew it.” 

Marigold’s eyes drifted back to the page. Each lowercase i wore an ordinary dot. Perfectly ordinary. She folded the letter carefully along the original crease before returning it to Ruth.

“I hope that’s all it is.” 

Ruth clutched it against her chest again. “I keep tellin’ myself she’s eighteen. Maybe she just…” her voice cracked. “…needed to leave.” 

Marigold reached out and gently covered Ruth’s trembling hand. “I…I know this is hard.” 

Ruth looked at her with eyes full of questions no mother should ever have to ask. 

“You think she gon’ come back?” 

Marigold opened her mouth. No answer came. Instead, she gave Ruth’s hand the smallest reassuring squeeze she could manage.

“I pray she does.” 

Even as the words left her lips, an uneasiness settled deeper inside her. She could not shake the memory of the last thing Evangeline had said before walking away.

Hell already done broke loose in the both of us.

A grounding aroma of simmering okra, garlic, and the earthy sweetness of turnip greens filled the atmosphere of the Moore household. Annie moved through the kitchen with grace, her plush figure draped in a soft, cream-colored robe that clung to the generous curves of her hips and the heavy swell of her breasts. She was preparing for her evening bath, her mind drifting toward the quietude of the water. 

That’s when she heard the heavy thud of the front door echoing through the house. 

She didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was Smoke. She could feel him, the way the energy in the room transitioned, a wave of cold, hard steel crashing against the warmth of her sanctuary. 

When he stepped into the kitchen, he looked like a man who had walked through hell and brought some of the soot back with him. His Gatsby cap was pulled low, shadowing eyes that were vacant and haunted, his jaw set in a line of rigid tension. He didn’t speak; Smoke rarely did when the weight of his work was pressing down on his shoulders. He simply stopped in front of her, his presence towering and oppressive, yet desperate.

Annie didn’t ask about his day. She didn’t ask who he had broken or what he had seen. She simply opened her arms, Smoke collapsing into her, his large frame sinking into the softness of her body. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of magnolia and vanilla that radiated from her dark skin. His arms wrapped around her waist, his large hands squeezing the lush meat of her hip, anchoring himself to the only thing in the world that felt real. Annie let out a soft, humming sound, her arms winding around his broad shoulders, her fingers digging into the tension of his upper back. 

“You home,” she whispered, her voice a velvet balm. 

He groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure exhaustion, and pulled back just enough to capture her lips in a kiss. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was hungry and possessives. A silent demand for grounding. He tasted of stale tobacco and something metallic, but Annie met his intensity with a patient, nurturing heat, her full lips molding against his. 

Slowly, she began to peel the world away from him. Her soft hands reached up to take the cap from his head, setting it aside. His slicked hair came into view, neatly parted and still in place despite the way he was feeling. She slid the heavy wool suit jacket off his shoulder, gunpowder residue clinging tenaciously to the fabric. Then, her fingers moved to the buttons of his dress shirt. One by one, she popped them open, revealing the stark white tank top stretched tight across his massive chest and the hard ridges of his abdomen.

“Sit,” Annie commanded gently, guiding him to the heavy oak kitchen table. 

Smoke obeyed without question, his movements sluggish. He sat, his large hands resting flat on the table, gaze fixed on her with an intensity that bordered on worship. 

Annie ladled a steaming bowl of gumbo, thick with okra and seafood, and placed a generous slab of golden cornbread and a heap of turnip greens beside it. She didn’t leave him to eat; she stayed. As Smoke began to eat, the warmth of the food slowly thawing the ice in his veins, Annie stepped behind him. She placed her palms on his shoulders, her fingers finding the knots of tension that lived permanently in his trapezius muscles. She leaned in, the weight of her breasts pressing against his back, her warmth seeping through the thin cotton of his tank top. 

She began to massage him, her thumbs digging deep into the muscles, kneading away the violence of the day. Smoke let out a long, shuddering breath, his head dropping forward as he focused on the taste of her cooking and the feeling of her hands. A dangerous man being brought back to life by the woman who owned his soul. 

Annie leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. She spoke in a low, melodic whisper, the ancient tones of Yoruba flowing from her, the words a secret language of devotion and healing that only the two of them shared in the sanctity of their home. She pressed a lingering warm kiss to the side of his neck, her lips molding to his skin, leaving a mark of ownership and peace. 

Annie moved around the table, sliding into the chair beside him. With practiced, nimble fingers, she reached for his tobacco and rolling papers. Smoke watched her in a heavy glazed silence, his gaze tracing the way her breasts swayed beneath her cream-colored robe as she worked. She rolled the cigarettes with precision that was almost meditative, her movements fluid. When she finished, she set the hand-rolled cigarettes on the table and stood, gathering his empty plate. 

As she moved to the sink to clean the remains of gumbo, Smoke reached for one of the cigarettes, the familiar ritual grounding him. He stood and walked out to the back porch, the screen door clicking shut behind him. The night air was thick and smelling of rich, black earth baked by sun. River water from bayous, creeks, and drainage ditches. Corn, sorghum, and vegetable gardens. Cypress and oak after rain. Mule sweat. And humidity itself. 

Smoke leaned against the railing, the orange-cherry of his cigarette glowing in the dark. He inhaled deeply, the nicotine mixing with the lingering scent of Annie’s vanilla and magnolia that clung to his skin. He stared out into the blackness of trees, letting the silence of the Delta swallow the noise of the violence he had dealt with earlier. He stayed there until the cigarette was a mere stub, then crushed it out with a slow motion of his thumb. 

When he stepped back inside, he washed his hands in the basin, grabbed some water from the icebox to wash down his food properly, and headed to their bedroom. Past their bed with an iron frame that produced loud squeaks whenever Smoke pounded into his wife. He removed his shoes, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his feet. 

Annie was there, waiting. She had already begun to prepare for her bath, the room warm and humid. She didn’t say a word. She could feel the residue of his burdens, the tight coil of stress that still lived in the base of his spine and the hardness in his eyes. She knew the hunger that came with his exhaustion—a need not just for sex, but for the raw, scant-driven surrender that only she could provide.

Her gaze locked onto his, dark and knowing. Slowly, Annie reached beneath the hem of her robe. Her fingers hooked onto the waistband of her cotton bloomers, and with a slow, teasing slide, she stepped out of them. 

The fabric was damp, clinging to the lush, heavy curves of her thighs and saturated with the concentrated essence of her womanhood—the musk of her heat, the sweetness of her skin, and the deep, earthy scent of her arousal. 

Annie stepped closer to him, her eyes never leaving his, and dropped the warm, scented fabric directly into his large, calloused hand. The bloomers felt heavy and humid against his palm. 

Annie gave him one last, lingering look, then she turned and walked away, leaving him alone. 

Smoke stood frozen, his chest heaving slowly, his large hand tighter around the fabric. For Smoke, this wasn’t just a fetish; it was a grounding ritual. A way to purge the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of gunpowder that seemed to permanently stain his soul. 

Slowly, he brought the fabric to his face, closing his eyes as he inhaled the intoxicating, pungent cocktail of her natural musk, the sweetness of her fragrance and the salty, primal scent of her arousal, the only thing capable of truly silencing the noise on his head. He didn’t just sniff them; he pressed the fabric deep into his nostrils, molding the cotton against the bridge of his nose and cheeks, sealing himself off from the rest of the world. 

Smoke took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent with a violent intensity. The smell hit him like a physical blow. It was the scent of home, of safety, and of an overwhelming, earthy femininity. It was the smell of Annie’s plush, heavy thighs and the deep hidden folds of her pussy. The aroma was rich and fermented, a heady mix of vanilla, magnolia, and the raw musk-heavy scent of a woman in her prime. 

As the scent filled his lungs, Smoke’s eyes drifted shut, his heavy lids fluttering. A low, guttural groan vibrated in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders since dawn finally snapped. The ghosts of the men he’d killed, the screams, the suffocation of the Delta night—all of it was drowned out by the intoxicating potency of his wife. 

His body reacted instantly. Beneath his dark slacks, his thick, heavy dick surged to life, straining against the fabric. It throbbed with a demanding pulse, the head of his dick curving to the right, pressing hard against his thigh. He could feel the pre-cum leaking, wetting his underwear as his mind conjured the image of Annie’s full-bodied plushness, the way her heavy breasts would sway and how her wide, lush lips would feel beneath his palms. 

Smoke repositioned his grip, rubbing the fabric of the bloomers against his lips, tasting the faint, salty residue of her sweat and heat. He inhaled again, deeper this time, pulling the scent into the very depths of his chest until he felt lightheaded. The musk acted like a drug, stripping away his discipline, leaving only the raw, possessive hunger of a man who belonged entirely to the woman who wore these clothes. 

Smoke pressed the cotton harder against his face, breathing becoming ragged and shallow. He imagined he could feel her presence in the fabric—the warmth of her skin, the softness of her curves. He was anchored now, pulled back from the edge of the darkness by the scent of her womanhood. 

Smoke stood there lost in the sensory overload. His large frame trembled slightly. He was a deadly man, a killer feared by many, but in the solitude of this room, clutching a piece of damp cotton, he was nothing more than a devotee at an altar, completely consumed by the scent of the woman who had held his heart and his sanity in her hands. 

Annie stood by the edge of the clawfoot tub, the steam beginning to curl around her ankles, leaving her completely exposed in the dim lighting of the bathroom. She was a masterpiece of abundance, a landscape of deep, ebony skin that flowed with a soft, natural luster. Her breasts we’re heavy and lush, hanging with a natural, weighted grace, the dark wide areolas peaking through the mist. Her waist dipped inward, creating a dramatic curve that led to the magnificent expanse of her hips—wide, fertile, and sweeping. Her belly was soft, a gentle rounded swell that spoke of warmth and nourishment, leading down to a thick, neatly groomed mound of curls that guarded her honeyed heat. Her thighs were pillars of plushness, rubbing together with every slight movement of weight, and her rear was a heavy, rounded bounty that seemed to defy gravity, shaking slightly with the motion of her hips.

Just as she prepared to step into the water, the door creaked open. Smoke stood there, his silhouette filling the frame, his presence instantly sucking the air out of the room. His eyes—dark and predatory—swept over her nakedness with a hunger that was almost violent. His gaze locked onto hers, his face a mask of hard, disciplined desire. 

“Don’t wash yet.” He commanded.

His voice wasn’t a request; it was a low, guttural vibration that seemed to echo in the very marrow of her bones. It was primal, stripped of all civility, carrying the weight of a man who spent the day dealing in death and now craved the only thing that could bring him back to life. The sheer dominance in his tone sent a jolt of electricity straight to Annie’s core, making her clit twitch and jump against her thighs, a sudden, wet pulse of arousal that left her breathless. 

“Get back in this room.” Smoke commanded 

“Why?” Annie questioned, although she knew why. Like she didn’t just hand over her draws soaked in her pussy. 

“Cause I said so.” Smoke replied with finality. 

Without a word, Annie obeyed. The submission was instinctive, a response to the raw power radiating off him. She turned and walked back into the bedroom, her heavy hips swaying, her plush thighs brushing together with a soft shuck-shuck sound. When she reached the vanity, she gripped the polished wood and leaned forward, bending deep at the waist. She poked her ass out, offering herself to him, her massive, rounded cheeks framing the hidden entrance to her heat. 

Smoke approached her slowly, his feet silent on the floorboards. He didn’t touch her at first, he simply stood behind her, his predatory gaze devouring the sight of her bent-over posture. He could see the way her skin stretched over the fullness of her rear, the deep dimples at the base of her spine. 

He reached out, his hands spanning the width of her cheeks. He began to stroke her, his palms sliding over the velvet softness of their skin, kneading the heavy flesh of her ass with a possessive grip. Then, with a sudden, firm movement, he hooked his fingers into the crease of her thighs and pulled her cheeks apart. 

The sound was visceral—a wet, tacky schlick as the suction of her plush cheeks broke, the skin peeling away from itself with a moist sliding noise. 

As Smoke pulled her open, the view was breathtaking. The stark contrast of his rough fingers against her glowing skin highlighted the vulnerability and the invitation. Her pussy was revealed in all its glory. A plump, swollen slot of deep pink and mauve, glistening with a thick layer of translucent arousal. The outer lips were heavy and lush, pushed aside to reveal the tight, pulsing opening of her canal and the hooded, engorged pearl of her clit, which was weeping with desire. 

Smoke sank to his knees with a heavy thud, his breath hitching. From this angle, he was staring directly into the heart of her. He was blown away by the sight—the sheer, fertile abundance of her, the scent of her musk hitting him in a concentrated wave, mixing with the smell of the room. He looked at the way her heavy thighs trembled and how her pussy pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a raw, opening invitation that promised total consumption. Smoke stayed there for a moment, frozen in awe, a predator captivated by the absolute beauty of his prey. 

“Lines to a Nasturtium.” Smoke whispered, breathy and full of desire.

Up close, the sight was hypnotic. Smoke watched with a predatory intensity as her clit, a swollen, engorged m pearl of deep mauve began to twitch. It was a frantic, involuntary pulsing, jumping against the hood of her pussy as it sought a friction that wasn’t there yet. The sheer anticipation of his presence, the raw dominance of his command, had pushed her body into a state of desperate readiness. 

Below the twitchy pearl, her creamy canal was reacting in kind. Smoke could see the plush walls of her opening clenching and releasing, a hungry contraction that gripped at the empty air. Her pussy was breathing, the tight ring of muscle pulsing in a desperate attempt to pull him inside, the walls sliding against one another in a wet, sliding motion that produced a faint, squelching sound. 

The longer he stared, the more her body surrendered to him. The arousal became a flood. A thick, translucent trail of clear cream began to seep from her depths, glistening under the light. It pooled momentarily on her labia before gravity took hold and a single, heavy drop of nectar began to slide slowly down the curve of her clit, tracing a shimmering path toward the floor. Smoke’s dark eyes followed the drip with a focused, singular intensity, his pupils blown wide, tracking every millimeter of its descent as if it were the only thing that existed in the world. 

Smoke leaned in closer, his face just inches away from her. The scent of her—that heady, musk-heavy aroma of a woman in peak arousal—bit him like a physical blow, making his thick dick throb violently against the fabric of his slacks. Smoke didn’t touch her yet because he wanted her to ache. He wanted her to feel the void where he should be. 

Annie’s palms were pressed flat against the cool wood, her spine arching beautifully. The position thrust her wide, plush hips back, offering her full, rounded ass and plump pussy to him like a feast. The deep dark crease where her cheeks parted. Swollen pussy lips just between them. 

He leaned forward, his warm breath ghosting over her sensitive flesh, sending a fresh wave of shivers through her plush thighs. His tongue caught the dripping trail as it spilled like warm honey. He savored the flavor on his tongue before licking his lips. When he spoke, his voice was a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to hum directly onto her clit. 

“I’m a lick every bit of this sweetness…” Smoke rumbled, his voice a low, a deep vibration. “Bury my tongue deep in ya and lap you clean ‘til you screamin’ my name.” 

Without waiting for a word, Smoke pressed his face flush against her, his tongue sweeping in one long, wet stroke from her opening all the way down to her clit just hanging there begging for attention. 

Annie let out a sharp, strangled gasp, her fingers clawing at the vanity as her back arched further. The sound of it, the wet slapping noise of his tongue meeting her drenched folds filled the space. 

Smoke groaned deep in his chest, the sound primal and hungry. He began to lap at her greedily, his tongue broad and rough, mimicking the motion of a dick. He focused on her clit, swirling his tongue around the swollen bud before sucking it firmly into his mouth. 

Annie’s legs trembled, her knees nearly buckling as she let out a loud, guttural moan. She was soaking him now, her juices coating his lips and chin, but he ain’t give a fuck. He wanted every drop. Smoke pushed two fingers deep inside her, feeling the tight, hot walls of her pussy clamp down on him in a frantic, come-hither motion like he was exercising his trigger finger, all while his tongue continued to punish her clit with relentless pressure. 

Smoke was possessed. Driven by a primal hunger that had been simmering since he first pressed her scent-soaked bloomers to his face. The smell of her—that heavy, musk-laden sweetness—had snapped something inside him, and now he was taking it out on her pussy with a predatory vigor. He didn’t just lick her; he devoured her. With Annie bent over the vanity, her plush cheeks spread wide by his bruising grip, Smoke buried his face deep into her flower. He was eating her like a starving man, his thick tongue working with a relentless force that left no inch of her untouched. 

Smoke started at her clit, his broad tongue sweeping upward in long, wet strokes that slurped up every drop of her arousal. The sound was visceral—a loud, wet, lapping noise, the sound of his lips slurping her open. Smoke was sucking her pussy clean, lips sealed tight around her swollen folds, pulling the sensitive flesh into his mouth and creating a suction that made Annie’s entire body shudder. 

“Goddamn, you taste like heaven…” Smoke growled against her skin, his voice a vibration she felt deep in her womb. “I’m a drink every last drop of you, Annie. Every single fuckin’ bit.” 

Smoke shifted his focus, his tongue becoming a weapon of ruin. He began to lap at her clit with a frantic, greedy energy, swirling around the engorged bud before sucking it deep into his mouth. Smoke slurped at her, his tongue flicking rapidly, wet, tongue thrashing sounds mixed with her arousal, driving her higher and higher. He was trying to clean her out, his mouth working tirelessly to lap up the thick, creamy juices that were flooding from her. 

Annie was a mess, her fingers digging into the wood of the vanity, her head hanging low as she let out uncontrolled moans. Every time he sucked her in, she felt a jolt of electricity shoot through her spine, her wide hips bucking against his face.

Smoke pushed his face harder against her, his nose pressing right up against her rear entrance, inhaling her intoxicating scent while his tongue—dripping with so much saliva it clung to his goatee—continued to punish her, the wet sounds of his gluttony filling the air—slurp, lap, suck—as he worked his way from her clit up to the very entrance of her canal, licking her clean with a possessive, ritualistic gusto. He wanted her tasted, drained, and completely claimed. He used his thick tongue to probe the opening of her pussy, licking deep inside, tasting the salt and sweetness. He was eating her with a desperation that bordered on violence. 

When that thick, wet muscle slapped against her clit and slurped at her opening with a primal greed Annie was seeing stars. 

The world had shrunk down to the sensation of Smoke’s mouth devouring her. She had been rendered speechless for several long minutes, her breath hitching in jagged gasps, her mind a blur of white heat. But as he continued to suck her—pulling her folds deep into his mouth and creating a seal that felt like it was drawing the very soul out of her—she finally broke.

“Smoke…oh, Smoke…please…” she whimpered, her voice shaky and thin. 

She didn’t know what to do with herself. Her hands, which had been gripping the vanity, began to claw at the wood, then wandered blindly, one hand reaching back to clutch at his head, the other pressing flat against the mirror, leaving a smear of sweat and her fingerprints. She was completely at his mercy, her heavy breasts swinging beneath her, rounded belly trembling with every sound she made. 

Smoke didn’t answer with words. He answered with a deep, vibrating hum that echoed through her entire pelvic floor, a low grunt of satisfaction that vibrated against her clit. He was eating her like she was the only thing keeping him alive, his nose buried in her musk, his tongue flicking with a frantic expert precision that drove her toward the edge. 

The sensation became too much—a tidal wave of pleasure that crashed over her. As the first spasm of her orgasm hit, Annie’s head snapped back, her eyes rolling. In the height of her release, she gasped out a phrase in Yoruba, her voice a melodic, breathless moan. 

"Olúwa, mo n'íyìn rẹ...mọ́ mọ́ mi..."

The words were a prayer and a plea. A surrender to the raw power of the man between her thighs. Her plush body began to shake violently, her wide hips bucking uncontrollably against his face. Her pussy clamped down hard on his tongue, pulsing in thick waves, flooding his mouth with a fresh surge of creamy, hot arousal.

Smoke didn’t give her a second to breathe. As she came, he doubled down, sucking her clit, slurping up the overflow of her climax with a greedy, wet sound. He grunted into her, his face drenched in her juices, his tongue continuing to lap and probe her twitching twat even as she shuddered. He wanted to feel every single contraction, wanted to taste the very peak of her pleasure, refusing to stop until he had drained her completely. 

Smoke finally eased back. He stood at his full, imposing height, his chest heaving slightly, dark eyes clouded with lust. Annie turned and leaned against the vanity, her legs trembling, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches as she tried to gather the shattered pieces of her composure. She was drenched, her own juices and Smoke’s saliva slicking her thighs. 

Annie watched, mesmerized and breathless, as Smoke reached up and gripped the hem of his tank top, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric clung to his sweat–slicked skin before falling to the floor, revealing the raw power of his torso—broad shoulders, a hard, carved chest, and abdominal muscles that rippled with every breath. Smoke shrugged off his pants and underwear with a disciplined efficiency, letting them drop.

Annie’s eyes widened, her throat going dry. There it was—his massive, thick dick, fully erect and pulsing with a heavy vein wrapped around the shaft. It was a formidable piece of meat, long and heavy, with a distinct aggressive right hook that curved slightly at the top, promising to hit every sensitive spot deep inside her. It stood proud and rigid, a dark, swollen pillar of desire that made her pussy react with a sudden, renewed emptiness. 

Smoke stepped forward, no words said. He reached out and gripped her hips, his large hands nearly meeting around her waist with a sudden, commanding strength. Smoke didn’t give her time to adjust. He hooked his arms under her plush thighs, muscles digging into the plush flesh, and hoisted her up, lifting her heavy ass off the vanity. 

Annie gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her ankles locking behind his back to keep herself anchored to him. Smoke slammed one of his palms down onto the vanity, gripping the edge of the wood so hard his knuckles bulged, anchoring them both. 

Then, he drove into her. 

Smoke didn’t ease in. He aligned that right-curving head with her opening and buried himself deep inside her in one brutal, thumping stroke. The impact was seismic. Annie’s head snapped back, a loud moan escaping her as her tight walls were stretched to their absolute limit by his girth. He buried himself to the hilt, his balls slapping hard against the cuff of her cheeks that spilled over the edge of the vanity. 

Smoke began to move, delivering relentless, thumping strokes that were more like beating down than lovemaking. Each thrust was deep and punishing, the curve of his dick hooking and grinding directly against her G-spot with every plunge. The force of his movements was so powerful that Annie’s plush body was damn near bouncing off of him, her heavy breasts swaying wildly, soft belly slapping against his hard abs with a wet sound. 

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

A raw, carnal percussion. 

Annie was rendered completely speechless, her mouth hanging open, her breath hitching in her throat. She couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t even scream. She could only cling to him, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back. 

Through it all, Smoke never looked away. He kept his gaze locked onto hers, his dark eyes boring deep into her soul. There was no softness in his expression, only a fierce, possessive intensity. He watched her face as he fucked her, watching her eyes glaze over and her lips tremble, savoring the way she broke under the weight of his masculinity. He was claiming her, marking her from the inside out, his silence more commanding than any word he could have spoken. 

He didn’t let up for a second.

His grip on her thighs tightened as he grounded his weight, folding Annie’s plush body even further. He pressed her back against the mirror of the vanity, her spine arching as he tucked her legs deeper over his muscular arms. Her feet dangled in the air, bouncing helplessly with every thumping drive of his hips. The impact was delivered with ferocity, the sound of his heavy balls slapping against her like a wet drum. 

Annie was lost in it, her head tossing from side to side, her voice breaking as she cried out his given name. 

“Elijah…ooh, Elijah!”  Annie wailed, the sound raw. She rarely called him that, but in the heat of this collision, she needed the man. Not the ghost. Not the enforcer. Her Elijah.

 As she looked up at him, her vision blurred with pleasure, she saw the evidence of his hunger. Her own thick, sweet cream was smeared across his dark mustache and glistening on his full lips, a messy trophy of how he had just spent the last thirty minutes eating her out. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris, leaving only two dark, predatory voids that stared into her with an intensity that made her feel like she was being consumed. Inside her, his dick felt like a rod of heated iron, so stiff and thick that it stretched her walls to the breaking point. 

Mid-thrust, as Smoke drove himself deep, burying his length to the hilt, Annie’s hand shot out. Her fingers brushed the surface of the vanity, snagging the lace of her discarded bloomers. She gripped the fabric tight, pulling the scent-soaked garment toward him just as he lunged forward again. 

She pressed the damp cotton directly against Smoke’s nose and mouth, muffling his heavy breathing with the concentrated scent of her own arousal. 

Smoke froze for a split second, the sudden olfactory attack hitting him like a physical blow. The smell of her filled his lungs. It was the scent of his woman, his home, and his obsession. A low, growl ripped from his throat, vibrating against the fabric. 

The scent triggered something feral in him. His eyes darkened even further, and he stopped the thumping, instead grinding his hips in a slow, agonizing circle, twisting that curved head deep inside her at all angles. Smoke inhaled sharply through the fabric, sucking in the essence of her while he stared down, his nostrils flaring. 

“You tryna drive me crazy, Annie?” Smoke rasped, his voice a deep, shaky rasp.

“I ain’t gotta try…you already there, baby.” 

Smoke grunted, bit down on the bloomers, holding the fabric between his teeth, saliva dampening the fabric further and returned to the brutal pace. His strokes becoming even more forceful. He fucked Annie with a renewed, desperate hunger, his body slamming into her plush curves with a force that threatened to knock the vanity over, claiming every inch of her as he chased the edge of his own release. 

“Fuck me, daddy.” Annie moaned, gripping his sweaty biceps. 

Smoke’s pace didn’t slow. If anything, the scent of her on his breath and in his nose had pushed him into a state of pure, focused aggression. He was hammering into her, thick, right-curving dick grinding non-stop over her G-spot with a wet thud that shook the vanity. Annie’s breath was coming in jagged, shallow hitches, her fingers digging into his arms. 

“Get, it, daddy. Get it. Fuck ya’ wife’s pussy. This Smoke’s pussy—ahhh!” Annie gasped. “Tire ni, tire ni, tire ni baba.” 

She could feel it building. A tight electric coil winding up inside her belly, radiating down into her drenched pussy. Every time he bottomed out, her internal muscles clamped tight around him, milking him instinctively. Her voice began to tremble, the words shaking as the pleasure reached a fever pitch. 

“Elijah…I’m…I’m gonna…” Annie gasped, her voice wavering, thin and needy. “I’m ’bout to break, baby…I’m comin’…”

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. 

He let her draws fall from his mouth.

Smoke let out a low hum of approval, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He leaned in, his chest crushing her plush breasts, his lips grazing the shell of her. 

“Then break for me, baby,” Smoke rasped, his voice a dark, commanding rumble. “Give it all to me, let me feel every bit of it on my dick.” 

Thwack…thwack…thwack…thwackthwackthwackthwack—

“Sweet Jesus, please!” Annie wailed, her voice shaking violently. “Right there…just like that…oh, baby!” 

Smoke groaned. He repositioned his angle, driving his hips forward with a grinding force that pinned her further against the glass. 

Thwackthwackthwackthwack—

“You feel how that pussy hug on my dick?” Smoke grunted, his breath heavy against her neck. “You fuckin’ drenched, woman. Squeezin’ me like you never want me to jump out this pussy—” 

“I don’t!” Annie cried out, her voice cracking. “I want you…I want you deep…right on that spot!” 

“I’m right here,” Smoke growled, his pace becoming a blur of friction and deep-seeded desire. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Now cum for your man. Cum on this dick, Annie. Let it go.” 

The command was the final trigger. Annie’s body stiffened, her toes curling as a violent wave of orgasm crashed over her. Her pussy walls began to spasm, clamping down on his thick shaft in punishing pulses. Annnir let out a long, shaky moan, her voice trembling with the power of her explosive orgasm, her entire frame shuddering against him. 

Thwackthwackthwack…thwack. Thwack. THWACK—

Smoke let out a loud, triumphant roar, his own control snapping. He leaned back, grabbed two fistfuls of her heavy breasts, and drove himself in one last time, burning his length to the absolute hilt, his balls slapping hard against her as he began to unload. Smoke groaned, a deep, primal sound of surrender as he pumped thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside her, filling her to the brim while she continued to shake and sob beneath him, completely undone by his strength. 

It wasn’t just hot.

 it was a wet, clinging weight that soaked through cotton shirts in minutes, making clothes stick to skin like a second, suffocating layer. The Mississippi sun was hateful this particular early evening, beating down on the dusty crossroads outside of Clarksdale until the red earth cracked and the horizon shimmered with a dizzying mirage. The only sound that dared to break the oppressive silence was the relentless, screaming drone of cicadas, a noise that felt like it was drilling straight into the skull. Horse flies flew too close because of the donkeys that wandered. Mosquitos feasted happily on any inch of exposed skin it could find. 

Smoke stood by the rusted fender of a Ford Model A, his frame a hard, unyielding silhouette against the bleached-out landscape. He was dressed for business, despite the weather. He wore dark slacks held up by heavy leather suspenders, a wool coat draped over his broad shoulders that he refused to shed, and his cap pulled low, casting a deep shadow over his eyes. His face was a mask of neutral stone, but beneath the surface, he was vibrating. 

In the back of the truck, crates of corn liquor were piled high, hidden under coarse, grit-covered burlap. Gasoline and stale, sharp whiskey wafted up, mixing with the smell of hot dust and the metallic tang of the gun oil on his fingertips. The drivers from the north were jittery, their eyes darting toward the road every time a bird flew over, terrified of a federal raid or a knife in the back. 

Smoke’s jaw was clamped so tight it ached. He didn’t like the way this deal was dragging. He didn’t like the nervous sweat on the drivers’ brows or the way the wind carried the faint, distant sound of a dog barking. Or even how the few bushes across from them moved in a particular direction. Every second they sat exposed at the crossroads was a second too long. The law or the klan—no difference—the pressure was building in his chest, a primal, violent urge to just start shooting until the silence returned. 

Smoke needed to ground himself before he snapped and painted the red dirt with someone’s brains. 

Without a word to the men, Smoke stepped away from the truck, his leather ankle boots crunching on the dry earth. Smoke retreated into the shade of a sprawling cypress tree, its limbs draped in ghostly curtains of Spanish moss that swayed in a breeze that offered no coolness. The shade was dim and damp, smelling of rotting vegetation and ancient water. 

He reached into the inner pocket of his wool coat, his gloved fingers brushing against a piece of soft, white cotton. Smoke pulled it out. It was the bloomers Annie had worn the night he’d claimed her on the vanity, the fabric still holding the ghost of her shape.

 Smoke closed his eyes and pressed the cotton hard against his face, burying his nose in the fabric. He inhaled with a sharp, greedy lungful, hunting for her. 

There it was.

The concentrated, raw musk of her. The salty, pungent tang of her pussy. The deep earthy scent of the root herbs she worked with and the underlying sweetness that belonged only to his Annie. It was a scent of warmth, of plush skin and hidden depths. A stark contrast to the grit of the Delta. 

As he breathed her in, the tension in his shoulders dropped an inch, and the red haze in his vision cleared. Smoke clung to the fabric, his nostrils flaring, feeding on the essence of his wife to keep the monster in his blood at bay. The scent of Annie’s pussy was the only thing that kept him sane.

The spell was broken by the sharp, clack-clack-clack of polished oxfords hitting the hard-packed dirt. Smoke didn’t jump, he wasn’t the type to startle, but his hand snapped shut over the white cotton, shoving the bloomers back into his coat pocket in one fluid, violent motion. Smoke stepped out from the cypress shade, his face returning to that impenetrable slab of granite, just as a flash of cream-colored linen emerged from the heat haze.

Stack strolled toward him, looking like he’d just stepped off a street corner in Chicago rather than a dusty road in the Delta. He wore a tailored three-piece suit of pale cream that defied the grime of the crossroads, a silk tie the color of bruised plum knotted perfectly at his throat. A gold pocket watch chain looped across his vest, glinting aggressively under the harsh sun. He walked with a loose, swinging gait, a smirk playing on his full lips, his fedora tilted at a rakish angle that screamed confidence. 

“Lawd have mercy, Smoke,” Stack called out, his voice a smooth, honeyed drawl that vibrated with amusement. “You look like you fixin’ to bury a body or start another war. Why you standin’ in the shade lookin’ all moody? You gon’ let the heat rot ya’ brain.” 

Smoke just stared, his deep brown eyes tracking his brother’s every movement. The two of them stood there, identical mirrors of the same blood and bone but where Smoke was a closed fist, Stack was an open hand, ready to steal whatever wasn’t nailed down. 

Stack stopped a few feet away, smelling like expensive cologne and imported tobacco, clashing with the smell of corn liquor and horse manure in the background. Stack leaned back, hooking his thumbs into his trouser pockets, his gaze drifting from Smoke’s rigid posture to the sight.

A tell-tale bulge in the inner pocket of Smoke’s coat. 

Stack’s eyes sharpened. He knew that look. He knew the way Smoke’s nostrils flared when he was trying to hold onto something that didn’t belong to the world around them.

“You got a little secret tucked away in that coat, don’t you?” Stack teased, his voice dropping closer, invading Smoke’s personal space with a playful boldness. “Sum’ sweet. Sum’ that smell like home and magnolia. You lookin’ all stressed out, but I reckon you found a way to keep your temper from boilin’ over.” 

Smoke’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek. 

“Get ya’ head right, Stack. We got a shipment to move.” 

Stack laughed, a bright melodic sound that felt out of place in the oppressive silence of the crossroads. He reached out, his fingers grazing the lapel of Smoke’s coat, a daring, risky move that would have gotten any other man’s arm snapped. 

“I’m just sayin’, brother…you holdin’ onto that scent like a dyin’ man hold a prayer,” Stack whispered, his eyes dancing with a forbidden curiosity. “Make a man wonder just how sweet Annie’s been lately. Make me wonder if she still wearin’ them little lace things that make her hips look like a damn miracle.” 

Smoke’s hand twitched toward the grip of the pistol at his hip, his gaze darkening into something predatory. The brotherly bond was there, but beneath it lay a jagged edge of possession and rivalry. Stack didn’t flinch, he simply grinned wider, his eyes locked on Smoke’s, savoring the danger. He loved pushing Smoke. Loved seeing the disciplined enforcer struggle to keep the beast on a leash. 

“Move the crates, nigga.” Smoke commanded, his voice a low, guttural warning.

Stack winked, stepping back with a flourish of his linen jacket.

“Whatever you say, Big Brother. I’ll handle the drivers. They shakin’ like leaves in a storm and I’m just the man to charm ‘em into movin’ faster.” 

As Stack turned to lean the jittery men back to the Ford, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. He didn’t see the bloomers, but he could practically smell the musk of Annie clinging to Smoke’s clothes. A hunger ignited in Stack’s gut. Not just for women, but the thrill of taking something that belonged solely to the most dangerous man in the county. 

The shipment was handled with frantic energy that only comes from men who know the law—or worse the mob—is breathing down their necks. Stack spent the next hour orchestrating the chaos, his voice cutting through the humidity like a whip, directing the drivers and the muscle with a practiced, theatrical flair. He looked every bit the pretty gangster, leaning against the fender of a black Model A, flicking ash from a gold-tipped cigarette while his eyes never truly left his brother. 

Smoke was a ghost in the midday sauna, moving between the crates with a heavy, focused routine. He pointed, shoved, and stared. But Stack noticed the way Smoke’s hand stayed glued to the pocket of his coat, his fingers that were once gloved twitching against the fabric. It was a tell. Smoke was anchored to something, tethered to a scent and a memory that made him dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with the pistol on his hip. 

Once the last crate was loaded and the dust from the departing cars settled back into the red Mississippi clay, the stillness of the crossroads beat down on the twins. Stack watched Smoke wipe grime from his forehead with a handkerchief, the muscles in his broad shoulders bunching under his coat. 

He’s starving for her, Stack thought, a sudden, sharp hunger clawing at his own gut. 

It wasn’t just about the woman. It was the possession of her. 

Stack had always been the one to charm the gals in juke joints, rent parties, dance halls, and Chicago clubs alike. The one who could slide into a bed and out of it before the sun rose, leaving nothing but a scent of expensive cologne and a broken heart. 

But Annie…Annie was different. She wasn’t a gal; she was a force. He remembered the way she looked the last time he’d seen her, that midnight-brown skin glowing, her hips swaying under a heavy cotton skirt, the sheer, plush weight of her body promising a blaze no city girl could mimic. 

Stack pushed off the car, his polished oxfords crunching on the gravel. He walked toward Smoke, his gait loose and predatory. 

“You practically vibrating, Smoke,” Stack drawled, his voice a low, teasing vibration. “I can see it in your eyes. You ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout the money or the liquor. You thinkin’ ‘bout gettin’ home to that woman. Thinkin’ ‘bout how she feel when she pressed up against you. All soft…heavy skin…”

Smoke stopped dead, his gaze snapping to Stack. The look was murderous, a warning that the leash was fraying. 

“Shut ya’ fuckin’ mouth ‘bout my woman, Stack. I swear to’ god that’s my last time warnin’ ya’.” 

Stack didn’t shut it. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes dancing. “I bet she smell like heaven and earth all at once. I bet she got that musk on her now that get in a man’s blood and stays there. I can smell it on ya’, brother. You drenched in her.” 

The admission sent a jolt of electricity through Stack’s spine. He imagined Annie in the house, perhaps stripped down to her shift in the midday heat, her large breasts straining against the fabric, thick thighs rubbing together as she moved through the kitchen. He imagined the scent of her—that floral, herbal musk with the raw, salty tang of a woman’s sultriness. 

The thought made Stack’s own dick stir. A thick, heavy pressure building behind the fly of his cream-colored trousers. His dick, curving to the left, throbbed against the fabric, demanding release. He wanted to know if she tasted as rich as she looked. He wanted to know if her pussy was as plush and tight as the rest of her body suggested. 

“You outta line,” Smoke grunted, his voice a guttural warning. He stepped forward, his massive frame looming over Stack even though they were the same height. “You gon’ earn a spot next to our daddy if you keep talkin’ slick ‘bout Annie.” 

Stack just grinned, the expression sharp and hungry. He didn’t fear his brother, not technically, he thrived on the friction. He loved the idea that they shared everything. The same face, the same blood, the same hunger translated differently. If Smoke could have her, if Smoke could keep a piece of her tucked in his pocket to sniff like a gahdamn dog, then Stack wanted a taste. He wanted to steal a moment, a scent, a touch. He wanted to see the look on Smoke’s face when he realized that some things were too delicious to be kept by one man alone. 

“I’m just appreciatin’ the finer things, Smoke,” Stack whispered, his eyes flashing. “And Annie…she the finest thing in this whole damn state. Hell, this whole damn South. Ain’t no woman touchin’ Antoinette. Just givin’ my sis in law her praises, Big Brother. After all…I’m the least of ya’ worries. Heard some niggas in town talkin’ bout her.” 

Smoke grit his teeth. Jaw working.

“What they sayin’? Sum that’s gon’ get ‘em bumped off ain’t it?” 

Stack took a hit of his gold-tipped cigarette before passing it to Smoke. “Fed to the eagles.” 

Smoke clocked it. Filed it away. He walked off, his stride heavy and possessive. 

Stack followed a few paces behind, his mind racing, the seed of a dangerous desire now fully planted. He wasn’t just looking for a thrill anymore; he was hunting. He wanted those bloomers. He wanted the scent of her arousal. He wanted to slide his hand where Smoke’s had been, to feel the weight of her hips and the heat of her skin, and to do it all while the most dangerous man in Mississippi was just within earshot. 

The black Model A roared, kicking up a violent cloud of red dust that coated the roadside weeds in a fine, rust-colored powder. Stack sat behind the wheel, one hand draped casually over the top of the steering wheel, his gold rings glinting in the harsh Mississippi sun. He looked every bit of city slicker, his silk shirt open at the collar to let the breeze hit his chest. He glanced over at Smoke, who sat rigid in the passenger seat. Smoke was a statue of tension, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as if he could force the car to move faster through sheer will. 

“I’m tellin’ you, Smoke, I gotta stop at that stand up ahead,” Stack drawled, his voice smooth as bourbon. “I got a hankerin’ for some tamales. Real ones. Those things they try to sell up in Chicago? Pure cardboard. Ain’t nothin’ like the taste of home to settle a man’s nerves.”

Smoke didn’t even turn his head. His voice came out as a low guttural rasp, stripped of any patience. “Annie’s got a pot of greens and corn pone on the stove. You can eat at the house.” 

Stack let out a short, sharp laugh, a glint in his eyes. He shifted gears, the engine whining as he pushed the car harder. He could feel the heat radiating off his brother. The raw, pulsing desperation. Smoke wasn’t thinking ‘bout no food. He wasn’t even thinking ‘bout the successful drop-off or the stacks of cash tucked away. 

Stack watched the way Smoke’s thick fingers gripped the leather upholstery. He knew that look. He knew the way Smoke got when he’d been away from Annie for too long. Like a starving dog finally seeing the door to the kitchen. 

He ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout no corn pone, Stack thought, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

He could practically see it in his mind: Smoke bursting through the front door, not even stopping to take off his hat before he had Annie pinned against the wall. He knew Smoke had been sniffing those bloomers like a lifeline all day, but the cloth wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted the real thing. The dripping scent of pussy that only a man who owned her could truly savor. 

“You in a mighty big hurry, ain’t ya’?” Stack teased, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a provocative whisper. “I can practically smell it on you, brother. You ain’t worried ‘bout my belly. You worried ‘bout gettin’ your face between them thick thighs ‘fore the sun go down.” 

Smoke’s head snapped toward him, dark eyes flashing with a warning that would have sent any other man running for cover. “Tired of putting your face in sour, street rat pussy, Stack? Ain’t my fault you so stuck on being up North while you missin’ out on some real pussy. Since when you had fresh cooch? That watered down, industrial muff got you sayin’ shit that’ll get you tore up. I don’t play ‘bout Annie.” 

Stack grinned, leaning back into the seat, feeling his own dick throb against the fabric of his trousers. “Why you think I’m back? I miss home, Smoke. Miss my southern gals with sweat on they backs and a hot pussy.” 

The though of Annie and those wide hips, heavy breasts…fuck. The way she always smelled like magnolia and raw woman. It was starting to coil in his gut like a snake. He didn’t want the tamales anymore. He wanted to see the look of possessive rage on Smoke’s face when he realized that Stack was thinking ‘bout the exact same thing.

“I’ll skip the stand,” Stack conceded, his voice humming with a dangerous kind of excitement. “I’m startin’ to get hungry for somethin’ a bit more…substantial.” 

The car crunched to a halt on a path, the engine giving one final, shuddering gasp before falling silent. The house didn’t just sit on the land, it seemed to emerge from it. It was tucked away behind a curtain of weeping willows and towering magnolias that shielded it from the prying eyes of the road. 

To get to the house, one had to pass by Annie’s shack—a small, weathered structure with the fragrance of dried sage, sulfur, and old earth. It was a place of business and mystery, where the locals came for root-work, protection charms, and cured for ailments the white doctors wouldn’t touch. The shack was cluttered with bundles of hanging herbs and jars of murky liquids, a stark contrast to the sanctuary that lay just beyond. 

Smoke’s home was a testament to his silent, disciplined nature. He hadn’t just built a shelter, he had carved a fortress of peace out of the Delta mud. It wasn’t a typical sharecroppers house with a sagging porch and a leaking roof—what they once lived in. This was a sturdy, wide-planked house made of deep-grained cypress and heart-pine, the wood polished. Smoke had built the porch deep and wide, with heavy railings that could support a man’s full weight, overlooking a lush garden of collards, peppers, and medicinal blooms that Annie tended with a spiritual precision.

The greenery swallowed the house in a protective embrace. Thick ivy climbed the walls, and the air felt different around him. It was cooler, dampened by the shade and the smell of damp earth and blooming jasmine. It was a place of absolute privacy, a hidden kingdom where Smoke could shed the skin of the killer and the enforcer and simply be a man. 

Stack stepped out of the car, his polished shoes hitting the dirt. He looked at the house and felt a sudden, sharp pang of envy that had nothing to do with the architecture. He thought about where he was staying. A cramped, miserable boarding house in town where the walls were as thin as parchment. In that place, he could hear every cough, every argument, and every creak from the room next door. 

His bed at the boarding house was a torture device. It was a rusted iron frame with a mattress that had long since surrendered its stuffing. Every night, Stack felt the cold, jagged press of the metal springs digging into his ribs and hips, leaving him restless and wired. He spent his nights tossing and turning in the humid dark, his mind racing, his body aching for a comfort he couldn’t buy. 

Looking at the solid, loving sanctuary Smoke had built for Annie, Stack felt the hunger in his gut intensify. It wasn’t just the house he wanted. It was the warmth inside it. He imagined the soft sheets. The smell of spices and vanilla and musk clinging to the curtains. The plush, heavy curves of Annie moving through the rooms. 

Smoke was already moving toward the door, his pace quickening, his broad shoulders tense with the need to be inside. He didn’t look back at his brother. He was a man returning to his altar, and Stack felt like a thief stepping into a temple, already planning how he might steal a piece of the holiness for himself. As they approached the porch, the scent of simmering greens wafted through the air. Stack felt his pulse hammer on his throat. 

Smoke pushed the heavy, cypress door open, the hinges making no noise because it’s well-oiled. The interior of the house smelled of the savory food Annie was preparing, beeswax, cedar, and the lingering, sweet scent of Annie’s skin. It was a clean, honest space, devoid of the cluttered chaos of the boating house. The furniture was all Smoke’s handiwork. Heavy oak tables and chairs with smooth, rounded edges, built to last a century. 

Stack stepped inside, his shoes clicking softly on the polished heart-pine floors. He reached up and plucked the fedora from his head, holding it by the brim as he let his gaze wander. Usually, Stack’s visits were brief. Business transactions and quick drinks before he headed back to the noise of the Windy City. But today, the tranquil silence pulled at him. He felt the weight of the boarding house sliding off his shoulders, replaced by a sudden, sharp curiosity. 

Stack noted the small details.

The hand-woven rugs from the coast. The jars of preserved peaches on the sideboard. The way the natural light filtered through the lace curtains. It was a home built on love and stability, things Stack traded in but rarely owned. 

As he drifted further into the house, his eyes were drawn toward the hallway. Their bedroom door was pushed ajar, leaving a gap that felt like an invitation. Stack paused, his brow quirking as he peered inside. 

Even from where he stood, he could smell a heavy scent of musk and spent passion. The large iron-frame bed dominated the space. The sheets were a chaotic, rumpled mess of white cotton and linen, twisted as if a storm had passed through them. The floorboards around the bed were marked with scuffs and scratches, evidence of frantic movement and heavy weight. 

But it was one thing that caught his attention. 

The headboard.

Tied firmly to the rusted iron bars were several strips of fabric.

Silk scarves. Sturdy cotton ribbons. All knotted tight. 

They weren’t decorative. They were functional. Worn slightly at the edges from strain. 

Stack stared at the scarves. A slow, knowing grin spread across his full lips, dimples popping out like tiny craters. 

He imagined Annie’s wrists bound tight against those bars, her wide hips arched and shaking as Smoke hammered into her from behind. He could almost hear the wet slap of skin on skin and the way Annie’s voice would break into a shaky, desperate moan when she was pushed to her limit. 

Stack felt a sudden, hot throb in his trousers. His own thick dick stirred against the crotch of his tailored slacks. The thought of his brother using those ties to hold Annie still, to possess every inch of her lush body without resistance, sent a jolt of raw envy through him. 

He wondered if Annie liked the feeling of being trapped. Being completely overtaken by Smoke’s brutal protective hunger. 

“You just gon’ stand there gawked or you gon’ settle?” Smoke’s voice rasped behind him, low and warning. 

Stack quickly shifted his stance to hide the bulge in his pants. He turned back to his brother, the charm sliding back into place like a mask, though his eyes remained dark with the image of those scarves. 

“Just admirin’ the craftsmanship, Smoke.” Stack purred, his voice smooth like the silk of his tie. “You always did have a knack for buildin’ things that last.” 

Smoke let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his brother. “Ain’t my fault you stayin’ at that shit hole,” he rasped, his voice like gravel grinding together. “You got more coin than sense, Stack. You can afford to stay somewhere decent, like that fancy-ass apartment you keep up in Bronzeville.”

Stack just shrugged, a playful, knowing glint in his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe. He knew the game of visibility. “That’s exactly why I don’t, Smoke. In a boarding house, I’m just another traveler passing through. I blend in. Safer to be a ghost when you haulin’ the kind of heat I do. Too many eyes.” 

Smoke grunted, not entirely convinced but knowing Stack’s paranoia was usually rooted in profit. He stepped further into the space. 

“You don’t gotta play ghost in your own blood’s house. You can always sleep in the guest room when you come visit. Save yourself the fleas.” 

Stack let out a smooth, melodic chuckle, shaking his head. 

He looked back toward the bedroom door—and those tied scarves—with a flicker of desire crossing his face.

“I appreciate it, truly. But I don’t want to be a bother. Besides,” Stack added, his voice dropping into a suggestive purr, “I fuck too much to be in here violating ya’ home. I’d have some poor girl screamin’ your roof off by midnight, and I know how ya’ get ‘bout ya’ peace and quiet.”

Smoke reached up and peeled off his coat, tossing it over a chair, followed by his cap, which he set firmly on the sideboard. Stack followed suit, sliding his tailored jacket off his shoulders with a fluid motion, reveling the crisp lines of his shirt and the gold chain glinting against his chest. 

“Where Annie?” Stack asked, his voice softening, though the hunger in his gaze remained. 

“Finishin’ up at the shack,” Smoke answered. “Got a few folks comin’ for cleansing and roots ‘fore sundown.”

As they moved toward the kitchen, the rich, savory scent of home hit them full force. On top of the black iron wood-burning stove, a heavy cast iron pot sat simmering, the lid rattling slightly as steam escaped. The smell of slow-cooked collards, smoked turkey, and seasoned cornmeal filled the air. It was the smell of Annie.

“I’m a go check the ice box.” Smoke grunted, his voice low and final. He didn’t look back as he stepped out the back door, the screen door slapping shut with a sharp crack. 

 The moment the door closed, Stack didn’t waste a second. He reached over to the stove, snatching a piece of warm, buttery corn pone from the platter, and slid into a wooden chair. He leaned back, one leg crossed over the other. He was chewing slowly, tasting the salt and corn, but his mind was still vibrating from the sight of the bedroom. After he finished, tongue skimming his teeth, he started flipping a silver coin with a clink-snap against his palm. 

Then, the front door groaned open. 

Stack stopped mid-flip. The coin landed on the table with a dull thud, forgotten. 

Annie walked in, and for a heartbeat, Stack forgot how to breathe. 

It had been months since he’d seen her, and the woman had only grown more lush, more devastating. She was dressed for the end of a workday at the shack, wearing a deep indigo cotton dress that clung to every magnificent curve of her frame. The fabric was stretched tight across her heavy, rounded breasts, the buttons straining slightly against the swell of her chest. As she moved, the skirt hugged the massive, sweeping flare of her hips and the plushness of her thighs, swaying with a weight that made Stack’s mouth go dry. 

She had an ivory-colored lace shawl draped loosely over her shoulders, and her hair was wrapped in a vibrant orange head tie that made her deep brown skin glow. She looked like a goddess of the earth, smelling of dried sage, sweet vanilla, and that raw feminine musk that always seemed to radiate off her skin. 

Stack’s gaze didn’t just linger on Annie. 

It devoured. 

He watched the way her backside moved under the indigo fabric. The heavy jiggle of her rear with every step she took toward the kitchen. He could almost imagine the feel of those wide hips under his palms. The way her soft, ample flesh would spill over his fingers if he dared to grab her. He felt his dick stir and thicken in his trousers, a sudden hard ache pulsing in his groin as he imagined her stripped bare, plush body shaking under him. 

Annie stopped dead in her tracks the moment she spotted him.

Her expression changed from exhaustion to a cold, sharp irritation. Annie didn’t hide her distaste; her eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. She knew exactly how Stack looked at her. Like a starving man looking at a feast. 

Bastard. 

“Elias,” she said, her voice a rich, smooth contralto that vibrated right through Stack’s chest. “I didn’t know Smoke had let the circus back into the house.” 

Stack’s eyes slid down from her face to the deep valley of her cleavage and then back up. He gave her a slow, lazy grin. That smile usually worked on every woman from Clarksdale to Chicago, but he knew Annie was different. He knew she carried a blade in her bodice and a spirit that couldn’t be bought or charmed. 

He wanted her. Goddamn if he didn’t. But he wasn’t stupid enough to push her to the point where she’d carve a piece out of him. 

“Now, Annie,” Stack purred, his voice dripping with a forced sweetness. “No need to be so cold. I just came to visit my dear brother and sis in law.” 

Annie ignored the flirtation. She stepped further into the kitchen to set her bag of herbs on the table. As she leaned over, the fabric of her dress pulled taut across her backside, outlining the deep, rounded cleft of her ass. 

Stack’s eyes locked onto it, pupils dilating. He was practically eye-fucking her, his gaze tracing the curve of her waist down to the heavy swell of her hips. He could almost smell the torridity coming off her, the scent of a woman who spent her days working with the earth and her nights being thoroughly claimed by a man like Smoke Moore. 

She straightened up, catching him staring. 

She just looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. 

“How you been, Elias?” Annie asked, though the question sounded more like a formality than actual interest. “Still runnin’ scams and dodging the law in the North?”

Stack let out a low, humming chuckle, his eyes never leaving the heavy swing of her hips as she moved. He leaned back in the chair, the silver coin dancing across his knuckles again, though his focus was entirely on the way that indigo fabric strained against her plush thighs. 

 “I been aight, Annie. Just a bit lonely for some of that Southern hospitality,” Stack purred, his voice sliding over her like silk.

Annie didn’t give him the satisfaction of a blush. She just gave him a look of pure, unadulterated disdain, her nostrils flaring. She knew he was tracing every curve of her wide hips and the deep swell of her breasts, and she treated his gaze like a smudge of dirt on the floor. 

“You still got a mouth that runs faster than your brain, Elias,” she snapped, turning her back to him to reach for a pot on the stove. 

The movement was a gift.

As she reached upward, the hem of her dress lifted just enough to reveal the tops of her thick, deep brown thighs and the tantalizing curve of her rear. 

Stack’s dick throbbed violently against his trousers. 

He was practically salivating, his gaze locked onto the jiggle of her backside. 

Then, the screen door creaked. 

Smoke stepped back into the kitchen, his presence instantly swallowing the room. The second his dark eyes landed on Annie, the hard, neutral mask he wore for the world shattered. 

He didn’t say a word. 

Smoke walked straight up to her, ankle boots thudding on the pine floor, and wrapped his massive arms around her from behind. 

Stack watched, a mixture of envy and heat flooding his gut as Smoke claimed her. Smoke’s large, calloused hands didn’t falter. They slid down from her waist and clamped firmly onto her plush ass, squeezing the heavy flesh with a possessive, bruising grip. He pulled her back hard against his groin, letting her feel the thick, curved length of his dick pressing into the small of her back. 

Smoke buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, his mustache brushing against her glowing skin. He looked like he was claiming his prey, eyes closing as he breathed in her scent of vanilla and musk. He began to whisper something low and guttural in her ear—something private and filthy—that made Annie’s shoulders drop and a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. 

Annie glanced sideways at Smoke’s coat, her eyes flickering with a secret understanding.

The realization that Smoke was carrying her scent around like a drug while currently squeezing her real-life ass made Stack’s head spin.

“Lord have mercy,” Stack interrupted, his voice loud and jarring, breaking the spell. He stood up, tossing the coin one last time and catching it with a sharp snap. “Ya’ll gon’ get to the fuckin’ or can I find out when I get to eat? ‘Cause I’m starvin’ over here, and the smell of that corn pone is startin’ to make me crazy.” 

Annie rolled her eyes. She leaned back into Smoke’s chest for one last second before pulling away. She shot Stack. Look that promised a blade to the ribs if he kept talking, but the irritation was tempered by the lingering heat Smoke had just sparked in her. 

Annie turned back to the stove, the heavy cast iron skillet sizzling with corn pone and fried catfish. She moved with grace. She slid the golden-brown cakes onto a platter, the scent of grease and salt filling the kitchen. 

Stack leaned against the counter, a glass of liquor in his hand that he’d fetched from the Model A, sipping slowly. His eyes were locked on Annie, tracing the deep dip of her waist and the way her breasts strained against her blouse as she leaned over to scoop collards. He took a swallow of the whiskey, the burn in his throat matching the heat pooling in his groin as he watched her. 

Smoke, meanwhile, hadn’t moved far from her side. He stood silent and strong, dark eyes locked onto his wife. He wasn’t just looking, he was devouring her. His eyes traveled from the curve of her calves up to the heavy swell of her rear, his jaw tight. He looked like a man who wanted to throw the food on the floor and bend her over the table right then and there.

“Here,” Annie spoke with a hushed tone, setting the heavy ceramic plates down on the pine table. 

She stepped behind Smoke, her soft, warm palms landing on his broad shoulders. She began to knead the hard knots of muscle there, her fingers digging into the tension he always carried. Smoke let out a low, grunt, his head tilting back slightly as he surrendered to her touch. 

As the men began to eat, the contrast was stark. Stack ate like a city man—precise, talking between bites, his movements theatrical and light. Smoke ate like a starving animal. He tore into the catfish and corn pone with a primal intensity, his movements efficient and heavy, focused entirely on the fuel and the woman rubbing his shoulders. 

Annie watched them, her intuitive gaze flickering between the two identical faces. She could feel the static in the room, the way Stack’s energy was a jagged line of desire and mischief, while Smoke’d was a heavy, possessive weight. 

“So, Elias,” Annie said, her voice smooth but cautious. “How long you plannin’ on stayin’ in town this time?” 

Smoke didn’t stop chewing, but he answered for his brother, his voice so deep that it vibrated through Annie’s palms. 

“He stayin’ at that boarding house in town. The one with the thin walls and the bedbugs.” Smoke repositioned his hips, his shoulder brushing against Annie’s chest. “I told him he could take the guest room here. Told him he ain’t need to be payin’ a stranger for a drafty room.” 

Annie’s hands paused for a fraction of a second. She didn’t say a word, but her silence was word enough. The thought of Stack sleeping under her roof brought a familiar tightness to her chest. It wasn’t that she feared him, but she knew the wake of trouble he left behind. Stack was a whirlwind of bad decisions and risky gambles, and whenever he rolled into town, he spent half his time trying to convince Smoke to dive headfirst into some new, dangerous venture. She didn’t want that energy in her sanctuary; she didn’t want the instability he brought leaking into the peace she and Smoke built. 

But she felt the way Smoke leaned into her. She knew how much the silent man missed his twin, how the bond between them was a tether that Smoke refused to cut, no matter how many times Stack played the fool. 

Annie sighed, her fingers resuming their massage. She looked over at Stack, who was watching her with a smug, knowing grin, looking every bit the charming rogue who knew exactly how to push her buttons. 

“Now, Elias,” Annie said, her voice softening into a forced sweetness, “don’t be stubborn. You know that boarding house is a pit. Why don’t you just stay here wit’ us? I’ll make sure you got a hot, cooked meal every night you in town.” 

Stack’s grin widened, his eyes flashing. He didn’t look at the food on his plate. He looked straight at Annie. His gaze slid down to her chest and back up with an appreciative, playful hunger.

“Well now.” Stack purred, his voice dripping with honey. “If the lady’s promisin’ to feed me…I’d be a fool to say no. 

The dinner plates were cleared, the remnants of the meal still steaming on the wood-burning stove. As soon as the screen door clicked shut behind Stack, leaving him to retrieve his bags from the boarding house, the playful jagged energy Stack brought with him evaporated, replaced by the heavy, grounding inferno that only existed between Smoke and Annie. 

Smoke didn’t waste a second. He reached out, his large calloused hand wrapping around Annie’s waist, and with one firm tug, he pulled her plush body down onto his lap. Annie let out a soft oomph, her heavy hips settling securely against his muscular thighs. She rested her arms on his broad shoulders, her espresso-brown skin glowing against the fabric of his shirt. 

“Thank you for lettin’ him stay, baby,” Smoke whispered, his voice low and gravelly. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. “I know he a handful. Promise you, it won’t be long. Just ‘til he gets his head right.”

Annie exhaled, a long sigh that made her large breasts brush against his chest. She ran her hands over his slicked hair, settling them at the nape of his neck where she drew lazy circles with her thumbs. 

“I know he your blood, Smoke. I ain’t blind to that. But tell your brother he better be on his best behavior while he under my roof. I got a root that’ll put him in line and make him as quiet as a church mouse if he start stirrin’ up trouble for you.” 

Smoke let out a rare, huffing sound—almost a laugh—and tilted his head up. His deep brown eyes were dark, hooded with a hunger that had nothing to do with the meal they’d just finished. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that started tender but quickly turned possessive, his tongue sliding against hers with a primal urgency. 

As they broke for air, Smoke kept his lips brushed against her ear, his breath causing her to shiver as it ticked her ear. His voice dropped to a filthy, desperate whisper that sent a jolt of electricity straight to Annie’s core.

“I can’t stand it, Annie,” Smoke groaned, his hand sliding down from her waist to squeeze the lush curve of her ass. “Those draws I been keepin’ in my coat…the scent done gone dry. I spent all day sniffin’ ‘em just to keep my mind on you, but they don’t smell like you no more. They ain’t fresh.” 

Annie’s breath hitched. The sheer hunger in his tone, the way the most feared man in the county sounded like a starving dog begging for a scrap, made her pussy quiver violently. She could feel the sudden rush of arousal between her thighs, her own juices beginning to soak into the cotton of her underwear.

“You a damn animal,” she whispered, though she arched her back, pressing her softness deeper into his lap.

“I am for you,” Snoke growled, his hand migrating forward, fingers hooking beneath her skirt and slithering up to cup her fat pussy in the palm of his hand. It was hot to the touch and moist. “I need a fresh pair. I need ‘em soaked in you, Annie. I need to smell that sweet pussy fresh off ya’ skin ‘gore I lose my goddamn mind.” 

Annie slid side-saddle across Smoke’s thighs. The movement caused her heavy breasts to sway and her wide, plush hips to grind against him. She reached down, her fingers hooking into the lace edge of her bloomers, and slowly peeled them down. She didn’t stand up. She just slid the fabric down her thick thighs and off her feet. Her swollen, dark pussy was now within reach just beneath her indigo skirt.

Smoke didn’t waste another second. He snatched the fabric from her hand with a desperation bordered on feral. He pressed the damp cotton deep into his nostrils, inhaling sharply, his eyes closing as he drank in the concentrated scent of her. 

Annie let out a low, throaty moan, her hand sliding down to find the massive bulge in his pants. Smoke was rock hard, dick as thick as a forearm and straining against the fabric. She gripped him, squeezing the heavy length of him, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat through his pants. She leaned in, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear, her voice dropping to a filthy, honeyed whisper. 

“I got ‘em extra drenched just for you, Smoke…I been in that shack all day, just sittin’ wit’ my legs open…thinkin’ ‘bout how you fucked me the other night. Thinkin’ ‘bout how you stretched me out ‘til I couldn’t walk straight. Left me sore and achin’ in all the right places.” 

Smoke let out a low growl, his grip tightening on the bloomers, bunching the fabric in his fist as he breathed her in. The image of her alone in her shack, leaking for him, sent a surge of desire through his veins. 

“You like that, baby?” Annie breathed, her fingers kneading his thick dick “can you smell it? Can you smell how much I gushed for you?” 

Smoke didn’t respond with words. He gripped Annie’s thick, brown thighs and hoisted them up, sliding them over his broad shoulders. He dropped to his hands and knees on the floor, positioning himself perfectly between her legs. Annie leaned back in the chair, her breath hitching as she felt the sudden, cool air hit her soaking wet slit, followed immediately by the searing heat of Smoke’s mouth. He dove in with a primal hunger. Smoke didn’t tease; he dove straight in, his long, thick tongue lashing out to swipe across her soaking wet slit. 

Smoke groaned into her meaty pussy, the taste of her hitting him like a drug. He tongued her deeply, tasting the thick, creamy mess she’d been brewing all day, his tongue swirling around her clit before sliding deep between her folds—flat against her labia and curling right at her opening—to lap up every drip of her arousal. He was eating her with a starving intensity, breath heavy against her sensitive flesh, confirming exactly how much she had been longing for him.

 He was devouring her. 

His tongue, thick and powerful, lashed against her clit with a punishing force that made Annie’s entire body shudder. Smoke sucked her clit deep into his mouth, creating a suction that sent electric shocks straight to her core. The sound was wet and obscene. Loud, slapping noises of his tongue meeting her drenched flesh and the guttural groans he made as he tasted the concentrated musk she’d been brewing all day. 

Driven by a need to see the devastation he was causing, Annie reached down and hiked the hem of her skirt up past her waist, bunching the fabric in her fists. She looked down, her eyes widening at the sight of her husband’s head buried between her legs, his jaw working tirelessly as he licked her clean, only for her to gush more juice the moment he touched her. 

The pleasure was becoming too much to contain. 

With shaky fingers, Annie began to undo the buttons of her blouse. She popped them one by one, her chest heaving with every ragged breath. As the fabric parted, she relaxed her breasts from the constraint of her bra, letting them spill out with a heavy, satisfying bounce. 

Lush, and heavy, with a deep rich brown hue that shimmered under the natural light filtering in. They were full and pendulous, swaying slightly as she breathed, the weight of them pulling downward in a way that emphasized her womanly curves. The skin was smooth as fine silk, stretching over the ample volume of her chest. At the center of each breast sat a wide, dark areola, the color of bitter chocolate, circling nipples that were hard and peaking, straining for touch. They were thick and prominent, resting to the intensity of the oral pounding she was receiving below.

Smoke looked up for a split second, his face glistening with her juices, eyes dark as he stared at her swinging breasts. He let out a low, growl, then dove back in, his tongue swirling deep inside her pussy, tasting the creaminess of her while Annie arched her back, heavy breasts bouncing with every thrust of his tongue. 

Her voice broke into a series of high, desperate moans. 

Smoke didn’t pull away. He started talking against her drenched folds, his voice vibrating through her thighs. He sounded possessed, his words muffled by the plush folds of her pussy as he continued to lap at her with a relentless, starving need.

“Goddamn, Annie…I can’t get enough of this pussy,” he groaned, the words wet and thick. 

Smoke pulled back just an inch, his lips glistening with her cream. His dark eyes looked up at her with so much adoration. 

“I spent all day thinkin’ ‘bout it, baby. Every minute I’m out there, I just ache to get my face back in this sweet, soaking wet pussy.” 

Smoke dove back in, tongue delivering a long, sweeping stroke from her bottom to the top, slurping loudly as he sucked her clit so deep she could feel the length of his tongue swipe her button as he sealed his lips. The sound was nasty. A wet, schlick-slurp that filled the kitchen. 

“I need it, baby,” Smoke rumbled, his voice breaking into a growl against her flesh. “I need this pussy to ground me. I need to taste you, smell you…fuck, you taste like heaven and sin all at once, woman. I could eat yiu for a lifetime and still be starvin’ for more.” 

Annie let out a jagged. High-pitched moan, her head snapping back against the chair. The sensation of his tongue lashing her clit while he whispered filth into her folds was driving her to the edge. Her hands flew to her heavy breasts, her fingers digging into the lush flesh. She gripped her own tits, squeezing, the weight of them spilling between her fingers as she kneaded them. 

She watched him from above, her eyes hazy with lust, seeing the way his shoulders bunched and flexed as he worked. She began to roll her hard, chocolate-colored nipples between her fingers, pulling on them in sync with the suction of his mouth. 

“Elijah…oh, Lord, Elijah,” Annie whimpered, her voice shaking. She arched her back, pushing her wide, plush mound harder against his face, demanding every bit of his tongue.

Smoke responded by intensifying the assault. He began to sick her pussy with a cyclone-like force, his cheeks hollowing as he slurped her juices up, making loud, messy sounds. He was tearing her fat, fuckin’ pussy up, his tongue swirling and poking deep inside her, tasting the thick, honeyed musk of her arousal. 

“My beautiful, thick-hipped woman,” Smoke mumbled with a shaky voice that vibrated against her clit. “This pussy the only thing keepin’ me sane. I love how you gush fa’ me, baby. I love how you taste. Give it all to me, Annie. Just leak all over my damn face.” 

Annie’s moans turned into shaky cries. She squeezed her breasts tighter, nipples peaking and straining as she felt the orgasm building, thick thighs trembling on his shoulders while he continued to eat her like she was the only meal he’d ever known. Like the corn pone, catfish, and collards ain’t settle his hunger. 

Smoke’s voice had gone from a rumble to a command, a raw, demanding groan. He didn’t just want her pleasure; he wanted her surrender. He gripped her thick, plentiful thighs, fingers digging into the meat of her legs to hold her wide open, pinning her firmly against his face. 

“Cum on my tongue, Annie—cum fa’ me, baby, gimme it girl I’m workin’ hard for it where my gushy mess at, baby, give it to daddy.” Smoke barked, the words muffled by her soaking wet folds. “Cum right now. I wanna feel you shake. Paint my tongue wit’ that sweet cream.” 

Smoke repositioned his attack, his tongue becoming a weapon of precision. He started to flick her clit with a rapid, punishing speed then his lips created a tight seal around her, sucking her into his saliva-filled mouth. He would go back and forth between quick flicks of his tongue and tight sucks. Wet, slurp–pop, sounds. The sound of a man trying to drain every single drop of cum from her body. 

“Paint it, baby—fuck—give it to me.” Smoke commanded, voice deep and demanding and filled with so much hunger. “I wanna taste every bit of it. Pour it all over my fuckin’ tongue, baby, now—”

Annie was beyond words. Her head was thrashed back, her eyes crossed, and her fingers were practically bruising her own heavy breasts. Her thick, thunderous thighs clamped down on Smoke’s head tight. The command in his voice acted like a trigger, snapping the eruption that had been building in her core. 

“ELIJAH. Oh…my…God—bẹẹni, kan lara ki o dara, bẹẹni—ELIJAH!” Annie screamed, her voice cracking. 

Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, a violent, racking explosion that started in her womb and radiated outward. Her pussy clamped down hard in his mouth, pulsing in powerful spasms that squeezed her juices out in thick, hot bursts. She felt herself gushing, milky–white flooding his tongue, painting his lips and chin in a glistening honeyed trail similar to coconut milk. 

Smoke didn’t pull away from the trap of her thighs. He leaned into it, lapping at her orgasmic floods, sucking and slurping the pulses of her climax as if he were trying to drink her soul. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure, animalistic satisfaction, as he felt her body shudder and quake on his shoulders. 

“That’s it…yeah, paint it…give it all to me,” Smoke mumbled against her skin, his voice thick with lust. 

Annie’s muscles twitched because her thighs trembled violently. The aftershocks of the orgasm continued to ripple through her. She collapsed back into the chair, her chest heaving, breasts bouncing with every ragged breath and shaky exhale. She looked down at him—her husband, her rock—his face drenched in her musk, eyes dark and looking up at her with a look that told her he was far from finished. 

Smoke rose up from between her spread thighs, knees planted firm on the kitchen floor as he stayed right there between them. His big hands came up and cupped the heavy weight of her breasts, palms sliding underneath to lift and cradle them. Both hands wrapped around the plush fullness, fingers sinking into the squishy give as he pushed them together and angled the wide dark areolas straight toward his mouth. 

Annie watched from above, breath catching as his lips brushed the first areola. Smoke kissed slow and open–mouthed, pressing warm, wet kisses all across the dark circle before moving to the thick nipple itself. His tongue flicked out, tasting the pebbles skin, then he sealed his lips around it and began to suck. 

The pull was steady and deep. He sucked in a rhythm that matched the throb still pulsing between her legs, tongue pressing up against the underside while his lips worked in a tight seal. Every few pulls he released with a wet pop, only to switch to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. Back and forth he went, sucking one nipple hard until it stood shiny and stiff, then moving to the other, leaving a trail of spit connecting them. 

Annie moaned low in her throat. The suction sent sharp sparks straight down to her clit, each strong pull making her pussy clench around nothing. She felt the wet, heat of his mouth and the firm drag of his tongue circling and flicking while he suckled. The pressure was building until it bordered on too much before easing off just enough to start again, sending goosebumps over her skin and a tickle down her spine. Her heavy breasts bounced slightly with every switch, the air cool from his spit hitting her wet nipples before his hot mouth claimed them once more. 

“Elijah…” Annie breathed, one hand sliding over his slicked hair as he kept going, sucking and releasing…sucking and releasing, big hands keeping her tits aimed exactly where he wanted them. “te siwaju, mase duro, Elijah…”

She was telling him to keep going. 

He swirled his tongue around the thick stiff tip of her nipples, teasing the nerve endings until she gasped, then he’d plunge it back in, drawing the flesh tight. 

He was keeping her right on the edge. 

“Fuckin’ love these big ol’ breasts, baby—”

“I love the way you make love to my breasts wit’ that mouth—”

“Yeah?” 

“beeni, yes…”

“I eat up every inch of you, baby, you know that—”

“I do, yes—Daddy—yes, I do—”

Smoke used his teeth lightly, grazing the fleshy, ample sides of her pendulous breasts, creating a sharp contrast to the wet, sliding, heat of his tongue. Smoke was working her breasts like they were the only thing keeping him alive, big hands squeezing the plush undersides, pushing the heavy mounds upward to give his mouth better access. 

Annie was completely undone. The words she tried to form died in her throat, replaced by broken, airy whimpers and trembling moans. She couldn’t find the breath to tell him how much she loved it, or to beg him not to stop. Her mind had gone blank, reduced to nothing but the sensation of his mouth. Every time he switched breasts, the sudden rush of cool air on the wet, swollen nipple made her shiver, only for the heat to return a second later as he claimed the other side. 

The suction was so intense it felt like he was pulling the very spoil out of her through her chest. The sensation radiated downward, triggering a heavy, pulsing and in her drenched pussy. Annie felt the wetness leaking from her, dripping down her thighs, while her breasts felt heavy and engorged, tingling with a fierce, electric blaze. 

Smoke looked up for a solid second, pupils dilated and eyelids low like he was drunk off her body. His lips were covered in a mixture of spit and her pussy juices. He saw her dazed expression, her head lolling back, her chest heaving. He let out a grunt and a hum and dove back in, sucking her nipples with an even more aggressive hunger.

Smoke was determined to keep her in this state of mindless, shivering bliss and keep her pussy wet so he can get in it with one stroke and make her cream even more. 

Smoke sensed her peaking, his instincts sharpening. He latched onto her left nipple with a fierce grip, pulling the dark, swollen bud into his mouth. The sensation came in slow draws, each one lingering longer than the last. While he worked that breast, his fingers reached up to grip the right breast, his thumb and forefinger catching the other stiff nipple and twirling it, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers.

The dual sensation—the deep, wet heat of Smoke’s mouth on one side and the firm, twisting friction on the other—was too much. Annie let out a broken, high-pitched keen, her hips bucking instinctively against the air. She was completely undone, her mind a gaze of deep-brown skin and the overwhelming presence of her husband.

“Smoke…oh god, Smoke,” she whimpered, her voice shaking and thick with lust. Annie reached down, her fingers brushing against the hard, heavy ridge of his dick pressing against his pants. The feel of him—thick, long, and pulsing with a need that mirrored her own—sent a fresh wave of wetness crashing through her. 

Annie couldn’t take the anticipation anymore. The need to taste him, to feel that massive length in her mouth, becaus an obsession. She began to plead, her voice dropping a guttural rasp. 

“Smoke…please, baby…please let me,” Annie begged, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. “I need it. I need to suck you…let me taste you, Smoke. Please, let me suck ya’ dick.” Her eyes were pleading and glazed. “I’m beggin’, Daddy…let me get on my knees. Let me take it.” 

Smoke let out a grunt. He stepped back, pulling away from her plush breasts, leaving her nipples swollen, dark, and glistening with saliva. He stood tall, his imposing frame casting a wide shadow over her, but the bright Mississippi sun that early, summer evening streamed through the kitchen windows, bathing his brown skin with rich, gold undertones in a warm light. 

Smoke reached down and gripped the hem of his shirt. He lowered his suspenders from his shoulders. He started unbuttoned his shirt, eyes never leaving Annie’s face. 

“It’s okay, baby…daddy gon’ give you this dick, aight? You ain’t gotta beg me, baby. This dick belong to you. You take this dick, hear?” 

The light hit the hard planes of his abdomen, highlighting the ripple of his muscles and the deep, rich tone of his brown skin.

Annie, still breathless and trembling in the chair, watched with wide, glazed eyes as he stood before her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, pussy throbbing with a wet, heavy pressure that made her feel like she was melting into the wood of the seat. She reached out with shaking hands, her fingers fumbling with the buttons on his pants. She could feel the heat radiating off him. Primal. Masculine. Smelling of tobacco, musk, and raw desire. 

Her fingers popped open the button and she slid the zipper down with a slow, agonizing rasp. As she reached inside to hook her fingers into the waistband of his underwear, pulling the fabric down and away, his dick sprang free with a heavy thud against his lower belly. 

Annie froze. Her breath hitched in her throat.

The natural light from the window hit him perfectly.

It reflected off the smooth, taut skin of his shaft. 

His dick was a masterpiece of masculine power. 

Thick. Long. Pulsing with a life of its own. 

The skin was a deep, dark brown, stretched tight over the engorged veins that coiled around the length like vines of temptation. The head was a swollen, blunt crown, glistening with a so much pre-cum it left behind a long, slimy string that was still connected to his underwear. It sparkled like a dining against the dark velvet of his flesh. 

Annie stared. Mesmerized by the way it curved slightly to the right. A heavy, authoritative arc that promised to fill every fucking inch of her. The sheer size of it made her mouth water; just looking at the thickness of the base…where it joined his muscular thighs…made her imagine the feeling of it stretching her wide, splitting her open and hitting the very back of her womb.

A wave of pure, unadulterated lust crashed over her. 

The size of his pleasure stick…

Standing proud and rigid in the golden light made her feel small and greedy. She felt a primal urge to serve him. To wrap her lips around that massive head and feel the pulse of his heartbeat in her throat. Her pussy gave a violent, needy squeeze, leaking a fresh torrent of slickness down her thighs as she gazed up at the man who owned her soul and body. 

Annie had memorized every vein. Every ripple of muscle. The way the sunlight danced on the wet tip of his dick, knowing that in a few moments she would be tasting every bit of it. Her voice was a fragile, trembling thing, barely a whisper as she looked up at him from her knees. Her eyes were glossy, wide with a mixture of awe and hunger. 

“I ain’t never seen nothin’ so beautiful in my whole life,” Annie whispered, her voice shaking with the intensity of her arousal. 

Her fingers wrapped around the thick base. As her fingers circled, the tips barely closed around the girth, her palm pressing against him. As she began to stroke him, her movements were slow and delirious, her gaze locked onto the way his dark skin slid over the engorged veins. Annie looked up at him with a look of pure, submissive devotion, her expression screaming that she couldn’t believe he possessed such a massive, powerful piece of meat. 

Smoke let out a sharp, jagged breath, his head snapping back, adam’s apple bobbing, a wave of pleasure crashing through him. He was ruined. The contrast of her soft, supple hand gripping his rigid dick was almost too much to bear. He looked down at her—his lush, opulent wife, her heavy breasts swaying and her face filled with worship—and felt a surge of primal dominance. 

Annie leaned in, her breath hot against his skin.

 She started with a long, wet lick from the base all the way up to the crown. She moaned deep in her throat, a sound of pure satisfaction as she tasted him. 

“My big, strong man,” Annie whispered against his flesh, her voice thick with lust. “Got such a big dick…such a beautiful, big dick.” 

She licked him again, more insistently this time, swirling her tongue around the swollen head and catching the bead of pre-cum. She was praising him with every wet sound. Every shaky breath. Treating his dick like a holy relic. She looked up at him again, her lips glistening with his pre-cum and her spit, her eyes pleading. 

“You so big, Smoke,” Annie groaned, her hand tightening its grip, pumping and bouncing that meaty dick in her grip. “I just want it…I want all of this dick inside me. But I gotta taste ya’ first. I gotta serve ya’…”

Smoke groaned, his hips giving a small, involuntary twitch forward. He reached down, his hand burying itself in the fabric of her headwrap, tilting her head back so he could see the sheer desperation in her eyes. He loved the way she looked at him. Like he was a god. Like his dick was the only thing in the world that mattered. 

“Then get it, baby,” Smoke growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Open that pretty mouth and take every inch of it.”  

She opened her mouth wide, her lips parting in a wet, eager circle as she leaned forward to take him. She started by swirling her tongue around the broad, weeping head of his dick, tasting the thick bed of pre-cum that clung to his slit and wouldn’t stop leaking. She let out a muffled moan of approval, her eyes fluttering shut for a second as she savored the taste of his skin. 

Then, she slid forward, taking the head and the first few inches of the shaft into her mouth. The sheer girth of him stretched her lips tight, filling her oral cavity completely. She loved the feeling of being stretched, the way her cheeks puffed out slightly to accommodate the massive thickness of his meat. She knew exactly how Smoke liked it. He didn’t want a gentle touch. He wanted to feel her struggle and succumb to his size. 

Annie started to suck. 

She used her tongue to massage the ridge of the glans—his most sensitive spot—creating a wet, slapping sound every time her lips broke the seal to gasp for air.

Slurp. Pop. Shlick

The noises were raw and vividly resonant. 

Annie focused on the underside of the shaft, flicking her tongue over the vein that pulsed like a living thing against her palate. As she worked her way deeper, she felt the back of her throat tighten. She pushed past her limit, gagging slightly as the head of his dick hit the back of her throat. Instead of pulling away, she leaned into it, her eyes watering, her nose closer to his pubic hair the more she tried. 

She loved the feeling of him claiming her mouth. The way he dominated her breathing. 

She began to bob her head. Sliding up and down the length of him, throat working hard to swallow as much as possible. Nose pulling in air so she wouldn’t choke. Lips and jaw muscles working to keep a tight ring around his shaft as she sucked. 

Smoke was losing his damn mind.

He gripped the fabric of her headwrap tighter, knuckles bulging, guiding her with a firm hand. His hips twitched forward instinctively, driving himself deeper into her wet mouth. He loved the suction she created. The way she slurped and sealed his dick, pulling at him with a needy intensity and a slow, roll of her neck that made his toes curl in his ankle boots. 

“Yeah, like that, baby…do it like that,” Smoke groaned, his voice a jagged rasp. “Suck it…take all this meat, you such a greedy lil’ thing.” 

Annie responded by increasing the suction, cheeks hollowing out as she pulled on him. She used her hand to grip the base of his dick, pumping in sync with her mouth, ensuring that every single inch of him was being stimulated. She could feel the vibrations of his groans traveling through his dick and into her jaw. 

Annie looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes dazed and devoted, watching the way his face contorted in pleasure. 

She knew the signs. The way his breath became short and shallow. The way his thighs began to tremble. 

She sped up, her tongue working frantically around the head while she sucked the shaft with a powerful force. The sound became a wet, messy symphony of lubrication and lust, the squelch of her saliva coating his dark stick as she worshipped him. She was determined to drain every drop of pleasure from his massive frame. 

Smoke’s hand clamped tight onto Annie’s headwrap, his fingers digging into the fabric to anchor her firmly in place. He stopped letting her set the pace and took complete control, his hips beginning to drive forward in a slow, punishing motion. 

He started fucking her mouth, the thick rigid length of his dick sliding deep into her throat with every thrust. 

Annie looked liked she’d been crying for hours—eyes puffy, spit-covered, cheeks sunken and lips puffy from all that damn sucking—and Smoke loved it. 

His face was a mask of raw, unfiltered pleasure. 

His features contorted, eyes squeezed shut as he felt the wet, tightness of her mouth gripping him. A low, jagged groan ripped from his chest. Smoke was shaking, powerful thighs trembling with the effort of holding back the tide, but the sensation of her tongue swirling around the head while her throat squeezed the shaft was driving him over the edge.

“Goddamn, Annie…” Smoke rasped. “You suck it so fuckin’ good…mouth feel like heaven…so tight…so wet…”

Smoke thrust deeper, forcing a muffled, throaty whimper from her. He loved the way she surrendered her mouth to him. The way her eyes fluttered in devotion as she took every inch of his girth like a good wife supposed to. Smoke could feel his dick pulsing violently inside her mouth, the veins throbbing against her tongue, engorged to the absolute limit. 

Then, she grabbed for his balls. His heavy balls. They were covered in spit. Annie used her fingers to massage his wet balls like they were fine jewels. A soft, rotating motion that tickled in the best way. 

The pressure in his loins became an unbearable ache, a white–hot tension that demanded release. Smoke increased the speed, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, and more desperate. The sound of his dick sliding in and out of her mouth became a wet, slapping symphony—shluck, squelch, pop—as he drove himself into her. 

“Look at me. Look up at me while you suck my pole. I wanna see your eyes when I cum.”

Annie did just that. She flicked her gaze up at Smoke, giving him a slow, tantalizing blink like a femme fatale flapper. 

Smoke arched his hips forward at the same time Annie sucked. His fingers dug into her plush shoulders. He sounded like he was fighting for air. 

“I’m gon’ cum, Annie,” Smoke growled, his grip on her headwrap tightening until his fingers shook. “I’m ‘bout to blow—baby—take it all…take every fuckin’ drop of me—”

Smoke gave one final, deep plunge, burying himself to the hilt in her throat, his hips locking against her face as the first violent wave of orgasm crashed through him. 

maybe I’ll write a part two.

Poem: Lines of a Nasturtium by Anne Spencer

Smoke sits back against the headboard, his heavy frame sinking into the pillows while she straddles him cowgirl. Her knees plant wide on either side of his thick thighs, hands braced flat on his broad chest. She lowers herself slow, letting that right-curving dick stretch her open inch by inch until her pussy swallows every fat vein. The head nudges deep, curving right against her front wall, and she pauses there, clenching once to feel how perfectly he fits. 

She starts moving with lethal control. Her hips roll in deep circles first, grinding her soaked walls down around his dick so every ridge drags against her. Then she lifts just enough for the head to catch at her entrance before she drops back down heavy, taking him to the root. The wet slap of her ass meeting his lap filling the bed room. She keeps the motion tight. No wasted motion, just a continuous bounce and grind that milks him from base to tip. Smoke’s hands lock onto her waist, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks. His jaw stays tight, breath pushing out in low grunts every time she drops. 

“Fuck…you feel too fuckin’ good,” he spoke with a shaky voice. 

His eyes stay half-lidded, watching her the whole time, but the pressure builds fast. Her pussy squeezes on the upstroke, walls fluttering and gripping like she’s trying to pull the cum straight out of him. 

She doesn’t look away. Her gaze stays locked on his, dark and focused like a siren while she works him. She bounces with perfect timing, short sharp drops followed by slow grinds that drag her clit against his pelvis. Every time she clenches around the curve of his dick, his breath stutters. A single tear slips from the corner of his left eye first, tracking down his temple. Another follows on the right. 

Smoke doesn’t sob or make extra noise, just those broken grunts and the way his chest rises harder under her palms.

Her pussy is soaked, creamy from how deep she’s taking him. The stretch feels obscene every time she sinks down, tight walls hugging that fat 9.5 inch curve so good he can feel every pulse. She leans forward a little, changing the angle so the head rubs that spot inside her over and over. 

Smoke’s grip tightens. His mouth parts, breath coming ragged.

“Shit…you gon’ make me bust, baby,” he growls low but the tears keep coming while she rides him like she owns every inch of that big ass dick.

She keeps the pace lethal. 

Bounce…grind…clench…repeat…

His dick throbs harder inside her, veins pulsing against her walls. She feels him swell, knows he’s close, but she doesn’t speed up. She just keeps staring into his glassy eyes, rolling her hips in those deep circles that drag every sensitive spot along his length. Smoke’s head tips back against the headboard, another tear sliding free. His body locks up, muscles tight, overwhelmed by how perfectly her wet ass pussy milks him. He stays silent except for those low, broken sounds, eyes still on her even as the pleasure cracks him open and leaves him wrecked beneath her. 

Smoke’s fingers slide up the back of her neck and fists her hair. He drags her down hard, plush lips crashing against hers in a deep, wet kiss that tastes like his low grunts. Their tongues slide together while she keeps rolling her hips, never breaking the ride that’s wrecking him. 

He breaks the kiss just enough to growl against her lips. 

“This pussy so fuckin’ good, baby, fuck it’s so damn wet.” 

Smoke’s hands drop to her ass, gripping both cheeks right. Then, he starts driving up into her from below, thick muscular thighs flexing as he slams his right-curving dick straight into that soaked grip. 

Her walls clenched around every inch, creamy and hot, sucking him deeper with every thrust. The head of his dick drags against her front wall on each upward stroke, stretching that pussy open and making her moan into his mouth. 

“Smoke…Smoke…yes…” she gasps his name over and over, voice breaking every time he bottoms out. 

Smoke’s eyes remain locked on hers, heavy-lidded and glassy. He keeps talking while he fucks up into her. 

“You’re so quiet but I can feel you shaking. I can see it in your eye, smoke. You losin’ it, ain’t you? My pussy is wrecking you, daddy. Tell me it’s wrecking you.”

“You know it is…shit. You killin’ me.” Smoke released a deep groan. 

“Good I want you ruined. I want you so obsessed with this coochie that you can’t even think straight,” She rolled her hips. “I’m gonna bounce on this big ass dick ‘til you cry for me. You wanna cry for me, Smoke? You wanna let it go?”

 “Fuck…just leep ridin’ this fuckin’ dick, baby. Don’t stop.” 

She bounced. Hands on her knees. On her feet. Ass dropping down on him like an earthquake. 

CLAP CLAP CLAP CLAP

“I’m gonna take every inch of you. This dick mine now. Every bit of this thick, heavy dick belongs to me. You feel me creaming? I’m soakin’ this dick, just sliding right on and off this big dick—”

Smoke starts meeting her stroke for stroke. Balls slapping that ass. 

“Pussy so perfect…uuuugmh FUCK—”

“I’m your favorite addiction.” She licked her lips. “Now hold my hips and push up in me—harder—I want to feel you hittin’ the back of my throat—no, the back of my pussy. Dick so good I’m saying anything—give it to me, Smoke. Fuck me like you tryna put a baby in me—”

She stopped moving and Smoke completely took over, plowing her pussy from beneath. His vision blurred, his nostrils flared, his growls grew louder. 

“I got you…I ain’t lettin’ go. You mine. This shit mine—all mine.”

“Yes, daddy…yes daddy. You’re just a big strong man getting broken by a little pussy, ain’t you?” 

“Fuck…yes, just…gahdam, girl. Good pussy…so wet…grippin’ me like that…fuck.” Each word comes out rough, voice cracking when her walls flutter around him. 

Tears still slip from the corners of his eyes.

 She leans in and drags her tongue across one, licking the salt from his temple while he keeps pounding up into her. Another tear tracks down his cheek and she catches that too, sucking it off his skin with a soft moan. 

Her back bows hard, pushing her tits against his chest. Smoke slides his arms under hers, locking his hands behind her shoulders so he can drive her down onto every thrust. The angle lets him bury that fat 9.5 inch curve all the way in, hips snapping up fast and deep. Wet sounds fill the space every time his lap meets her ass. 

Her pussy starts pulsing around him. She cries out, body shaking as the orgasm crashes through her. 

“Smoke—fuck—I’m cumming—oh god I’m cumming—”

Her walls clamp down tight, squeezing while she soaks his dick and thighs. Smoke keeps fucking her through it, eyes locked on hers, grunting low and broken while fresh tears slide down his face. 

He doesn’t stop. He keeps driving up into that spasming pussy, holding her in place with those strong arms, voice hoarse as he keeps repeating it. 

Smoke bucked upward, his hips snapping up into her with raw, primal force, trying to bury himself as deep as humanly possible. He shot thick, hot ropes of nut deep against her cervix, his entire body racking with intense, rhythmic spasms. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in like she’s oxygen and he’s been drowning. He didn’t say much, releasing one final, shaky moan.

“Fuck…you really just broke me, baby…”

————-

She swings her leg over Stack and settles reverse, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Her back is to him, ass high, and she reaches down to line that thick left-curving dick up with her dripping hole. She sinks down slow, letting every inch stretch her open until her ass meets his lap. Stack’s hands fly to her waist, fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself.  

She starts moving. 

Slow, deep rolls of her hips that make her cheeks spread and clap softly with each grind. Her walls grip him tight, pulsing around the curve that drags against her back wall on every downward stroke. She glances over her shoulder, eyes hazy, voice low and syrupy. 

“Feel that, Stack? Feel how my pussy squeezin’ every inch of that dick? Mmm, you do deep like this…right where I want you…deep in my pussy.” She rolls her hips again, slower this time, letting him feel the way her walls flutter and suck. “That’s it…just like that…let me ride you nice and deep.” 

Stack’s breathing turns ragged fast.

His head drops back against the pillows, mouth open but he can’t look away from the way her ass moves. His hands slide down to her cheeks, spreading her wide so he can watch his fat dick disappear inside her over and over. The sight makes his thighs tense under her. 

“Damn…baby girl…shit,” Stack groans, voice cracking. Tears are welling in his eyes. Spilling over faster than he can blink them away. One tracks down his cheek while he bites his bottom lip hard, trying to hold in the sounds. She keeps talking, sweet and nasty at the same time. 

“Look at you takin’ this pussy so good. Yo feel his wet I am? Drippin’ all down your balls. Keep those hands right there—spread me open so you can watch that dick stretch me. Yeah…just like that.” She bounced a little harder, cheeks clapping louder, then grinds down in tight circles that make her walls drain him from bass to tip. 

Stack’s chest heaves. More tears slip fee, running in steady lines while his lips tremble around the table. A broken moan slips out anyway, followed by a soft so he can’t swallow. His fingers flex, spreading her wider, thumbs brushing the place wheee they’re jointed so he can feel every slick inch sliding in and out. 

She looks back again, voice dropping even lower. 

“You cryin’ for me, baby? That pussy makin’ you lose it? Keep watchin’. I’m finna ride you till you can’t talk no more.” 

She picks up the pace, hips snapping down in deep strokes that have him gasping and shaking beneath her. His tears keep flowing, eyes glassy and half-shut, but every second of her taking every inch of him. 

She leans forward more, arching her back so her ass is pushed back and high, right in his face, on her feet. That motion opens her up wide. Giving him a front-row seat to the sight of his thick, left curve disappearing into her soaking wet, pulsing folds. 

She picks up the pace from the slow grind to a lethal, pound. She slams her weight down on him, the wet slap of her pussy hitting his thighs echoing in the room. Every time she drops, she makes sure to angle herself so his left curve hooks deep into her, hitting a spot that makes her toes curl into the sheets and makes Stack’s eyes damn near roll to the back of his head.

Stack’s breath hitches. He reaches up, his rings cold against her hot skin as he grips her hips, his fingers digging in. 

“Look at that…look at how you just swallow me whole,” Stack moans, his voice trembling. “You a little freak, ain’t you? Just a nasty little bitch for this dick. Fuckin’ me and my brother like one dick ain’t enough for this tight pussy.” 

She lols back over her shoulder with a wicked smirk on her lips, her eyes locked onto his.

“You like seeing it, Stack? You like how tight I am for you? Like this nasty bitch pussy, huh?” She whispers, her voice sultry. “Let me see if you can bust in this pussy better than your older twin. Smoke gave this pussy some work the other day. Think you can do better?” 

The sheer, overwhelming sensation of her walls gripping him so tight and hot was breaking him. His face was contorted in a mix of agony and ecstasy. 

Stack drives his heels into the mattress, flexes the muscles of his torso, and gives her exactly what she asked for. Dick beating her pussy in. Her breath stutters and hitches each time he drives up. She drops to her knees in reverse, stack placing one hand on her lower back to keep her steady while his hips levitate from the bed to pump her full of fat, curvy dick. It felt like a fresh wave of wetness was leaking from her. That hot rod was working her pussy so good. 

“Damn, Stack!” 

“Yeah, take this dick. Be a good bitch and take this dick—fuck this pussy so good—”

Her voice stays low but gets breathier. “I’m close, Stack…this dick got me right there. You feel how tight I’m gettin’?” She speeds up just enough, using the full length of him now, bouncing in short strokes that make her walls flutter and grip. Her moans started slipping out. Raw. Loud. 

Stack’s hands tighten on her ass, thumbs digging in while he watches his dick disappear as he fed her pussy exactly what it needs. His voice cracks but stays steady, guiding her through it. 

“That’s it, baby…ride that shit. Use every inch. Fuck, you grippin’ me so good. Don’t stop—keep bouncin’ just like that, I got you.” 

Her moans climb higher, hips snapping down harder as the pleasure peaks. 

“Stack—fuck, I’m finna cum—”

Her pussy clamps down hard, pulsing around him in wet grips while she rode through it, thighs shaking. She keeps moving. Moaning his name between gasps. 

Stack’s breathing turns ragged, voice hoarse as he talks her through her orgasm and straight into his own. 

“Yeah, cum on it…just like that. Shit, you squeezin’ the life outta me—fuck I’m right behind you.” 

Elijah "Smoke" Moore.

His name alone was enough to make grown men lower their voices and rethink their decisions. People feared him. Respected him. Avoided him.

Everyone...

Except you.

Which was exactly why you got under his skin.

You were halfway out the door, sliding into your shoes, when your phone lit up for what felt like the twentieth time in the last ten minutes.

Elijah.

You sighed dramatically before finally answering, tapping the speaker button.

"Yes, Elijah," you deadpanned. "What could you possibly want?"

A loud kiss of his teeth echoed through the speaker.

"Girl, why the fuck you ain't been answerin' ya phone for?"

Smoke was already pacing the hardwood floors of his penthouse, phone pressed against his ear, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. Anybody looking at him would've thought somebody had robbed him blind.

You froze in the middle of your living room, one brow raised.

"I told you I was going to brunch with my girls."

Silence.

"You remember? Tonya got promoted last Monday, so we're celebrating."

...

"Elijah."

Nothing.

"You were literally sitting next to me while I was on Zoom with all the girls making these plans."

The silence somehow got louder.

A slow smirk spread across your lips.

"Yeah... that's what I thought."

Smoke dragged a frustrated breath through his nose.

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost disappeared into the back of your head.

"Look, I should've been gone. The only reason I'm still standing here is because you keep blowing my phone up like somebody got shot."

One hand settled on your hip while the other adjusted the strap of your purse.

Your reflection stared back at you from the hallway mirror.

A buttery-yellow cropped jacket hugged your curves perfectly, paired with a matching pleated tennis skirt that showed off just enough leg. Your honey-blonde French-curled braids cascaded down your back, half-up, half-down, framing a face that looked entirely too good to be arguing with a hardheaded man before brunch.

Meanwhile, Smoke was still talking.

Talking...

Talking...

Talking.

You honestly tuned him out somewhere between 'you need to answer' and 'what if something happened?'

"Are you done?" you interrupted, your voice dripping with enough attitude to sour milk.

The line went dead quiet.

"...Girl."

His tone dropped.

"Who you gettin' smart with?"

A laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it.

"Ain't nobody getting smart. You just doing the absolute most."

"You always got a mouth—"

"And you always got a problem."

Another beat of silence.

You smiled sweetly... the kind of smile that usually came right before somebody got cussed out.

"My ride's here."

"You better not—"

Click.

You hung up.

Across town...

Smoke slowly lowered his phone from his ear.

His eyebrows knitted together.

"...Did this girl just hang up on me?"

Nobody...

Nobody hung up on Elijah "Smoke" Moore.

His boys sitting around the living room exchanged cautious glances before immediately finding something else to look at. Nobody was volunteering to comment on that.

Meanwhile, you were already locking your front door, sliding your phone into your purse with a satisfied grin.

Finally.

A peaceful brunch.

No drama.

No interruptions.

No Elijah.

Your phone vibrated.

Then again.

And again.

You sighed before pulling it back out.

Smoke: Don't hang up on me.

Another vibration.

Smoke: Are you out ya fuckin' mind?

Then another.

Smoke: Answer the phone.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost gave you a headache.

"He's so damn dramatic."

You tossed the phone back into your purse without another glance.

If only you knew...

Elijah "Smoke" Moore wasn't finished.

Not even close.

You made it all the way to the restaurant before you realized one very important thing.

You should've known better.

Because when it came to Elijah "Smoke" Moore...

Peace was never really an option.

You stepped out of Lyft, smoothing your yellow skirt down as you walked toward the entrance. The sun hit your skin perfectly, your girls already waiting outside with wide smiles and phones raised.

"Okayyyy!" Tonya shouted the second she saw you. "Look at you! Miss Sunshine herself."

You laughed, pulling her into a hug.

"Girl, it's your celebration. I had to show up cute."

"Baby, you always show up cute," one of your friends teased.

You smiled, rolling your eyes as everyone walked inside.

For the first twenty minutes, everything was perfect.

Mimosas.

Laughing.

Gossip.

Complaining about work.

The usual.

You finally relaxed, leaning back in your chair as Tonya told the story of how her boss surprised her with the promotion.

"See, this is why I love us," you said, lifting your glass. "We really be showing up for each other."

Your phone buzzed.

You ignored it.

Buzz.

Again.

Ignored.

Buzz.

Your friend across from you looked at the table.

"Girl..."

You already knew.

"No."

"That man is blowing your phone up."

You sighed.

"He's being dramatic."

Tonya laughed.

"Elijah Moore? Dramatic?"

You gave her a look.

"Yes. Don't let that scary act fool you. That man is the biggest baby when he doesn't get his way."

Your friends burst into laughter.

Because everybody knew.

The same man who could make an entire room go silent with one look...

Was completely powerless when it came to you.

Your phone buzzed again.

This time you looked.

Smoke: Pick up the fuckin’ phone, Y/N.

You stared at the message.

Then another one came through.

Smoke: I'm not asking twice.

Your eyebrows lifted.

"Oh, he really thinks he's somebody."

Your friend shook her head.

"Girl, answer before he shows up."

You laughed.

"He would not."

A beat passed.

Then your phone rang.

You looked down.

Elijah.

Your smile slowly disappeared.

Because the annoying thing about Elijah was...

He absolutely would.

You answered but didn't say anything.

For a few seconds, all you heard was his breathing.

"Wow."

You took a sip of your drink.

"What?"

"That's how you answer me now? You just gonna sit there quiet?"

You smiled to yourself.

"You called me."

"You hung up on me."

"You deserved it."

A low chuckle came through the phone.

And somehow that irritated you more.

Because Elijah only laughed like that when he knew he was about to get on your nerves.

"You really got an attitude, huh?"

"You really got control issues, huh?"

Silence.

A dangerous kind of silence.

Your friends immediately picked up on it and started watching you.

Because everybody knew that tone.

The two of you could turn a simple conversation into a full-blown war in under thirty seconds.

"You know what your problem is?" Smoke asked.

You leaned back.

"Oh, please enlighten me."

"You think because I let you get away with shit, you can do whatever you want."

You laughed.

"Baby, I don't think that. I know that. Let’s be for real, baby."

Your friends covered their mouths trying not to laugh.

On the other end, Smoke rubbed his forehead.

"You are something else."

"And you're obsessed."

"Obsessed?"

"Yes."

You looked around the table.

"Because no normal person panics because their girlfriend doesn't answer for twenty minutes."

"I wasn't panicking."

You scoffed.

"Elijah."

"What?"

"You called me seventeen times."

"..."

"That's literally the definition of panicking."

He went quiet.

And you smiled because you knew you had him.

Then his voice lowered.

"Where you at?"

Your smile faded slightly.

"Why?"

"Just answer the question."

"No."

A pause.

"No?"

"No."

You took another sip.

"I'm having brunch with my friends. Remember? The thing I told you about three times?"

"I remember."

"Do you?"

"Yeah."

You narrowed your eyes.

Something about his voice had changed.

It wasn't the playful Elijah.

It wasn't the annoying, teasing Elijah.

No.

This was the Elijah that made grown men straighten their backs when he walked into a room.

The one who didn't like being ignored.

"I know one thing," Smoke said, his voice dropping lower. "You hang up on me again... that fine, thick ass of yours gonna regret it. You hear me?"

You stared at your phone with the biggest eye roll of your life.

"Uh huh. Sure, Elijah."

Before he could respond, you ended the call.

Click.

You placed your phone face down on the table and picked up your mimosa like nothing happened.

Your friends stared at you.

"What?" you asked.

Tonya blinked.

"You really just hung up on Elijah Moore?"

You shrugged.

"Yes. And?"

"And you are either the bravest woman alive or absolutely insane."

You smiled.

"Both can be true."

Across town...

Smoke stared down at his phone.

The call had ended.

The woman actually hung up on him.

Again.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Then a slow smirk pulled at his lips.

Because that was the thing about you.

Anybody else would've been nervous.

Anybody else would've apologized.

Anybody else would've tried to calm him down.

But you?

You challenged him.

And somehow that only made him want to bother you more.

Smoke ran a hand over his jaw before dialing another number.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

"What's up, brotha? You need something?"

Stack's voice came through the speaker, resulting in a smirk from Smoke.

Meanwhile...

You were having the time of your life.

The conversation had moved on, the drinks were flowing, and for once you weren't thinking about Elijah.

You were laughing so hard your stomach hurt while Tonya reenacted a conversation with her boss.

"Girl, I swear, when he said 'we see leadership qualities in you,' I almost cried."

"You better not cry today," you teased. "This is your celebration."

Everyone laughed.

Then suddenly...

Tonya stopped.

Her expression changed.

Her eyes moved past you.

Slowly.

Confused.

And slightly terrified.

You noticed immediately.

"What?"

She pointed behind you.

"Uh..."

Her voice lowered.

"Y/N."

You looked at her.

"What?"

"Is that Elijah?"

Your smile dropped.

You almost choked on your mimosa.

"What?"

You slowly turned around.

And there he was.

Walking through the restaurant like he owned the entire building.

Elijah "Smoke" Moore.

Dressed in all black.

Black jeans.

Black shirt.

Black watch.

That same unreadable expression on his face.

The kind that made people move out of his way without him saying a word.

Every step he took toward your table made your friends sit up straighter.

You stared at him.

He stared right back.

And the audacity of this man...

The absolute audacity.

You placed your glass down slowly.

"Elijah."

He stopped beside the table, looking down at you.

"Y/N. Ladies."

Your eyebrows lifted.

"Are you serious right now?"

A small smirk appeared on his face.

"Get up."

Your friends exchanged looks.

Because this was no longer brunch.

This was entertainment.

You leaned back in your chair.

"I ain't doin' shit."

Smoke crossed his arms.

"You sure about that?"

"Yep."

Smoke stood there for a moment, staring at you like he was waiting for you to test him.

And knowing you...

You probably would.

You lifted your chin, crossing your arms.

"What?"

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Nothing."

"Exactly. So why are you standing here?"

Your friends tried their best not to laugh.

Because everyone knew this was the same Elijah "Smoke" Moore who had half the city nervous...

And yet here he was arguing with you in the middle of brunch.

Smoke shook his head before reaching into his pocket.

He pulled out a thick roll of cash, peeling through the crisp bills while his eyes never left yours.

"How much the food?"

Tonya blinked.

She looked around at the girls.

Then back at you.

Then at Smoke.

Because she wasn't stupid.

She knew better than to answer the wrong way.

"I... I ain't sure, Elijah."

Smoke didn't say anything.

He simply counted out a few bills before pulling out five crisp hundred-dollar bills.

Your eyes widened.

"Elijah."

He ignored you.

Instead, he handed the money to Tonya.

"Y'all have a good brunch."

Tonya stared at the cash in her hand.

"Elijah, this is too much—"

"Nah. It's good."

His eyes stayed locked on you.

"We headin' out."

Your jaw dropped.

"I'm sorry... we?"

Smoke gave you that look.

The one that said he had already made up his mind and there was no point arguing.

Which, unfortunately for him...

Only made you want to argue more.

"No, sir."

You grabbed your purse.

"I am not leaving my brunch because you decided to have a surprise appearance."

Smoke raised an eyebrow.

"Surprise appearance?"

"Yes."

"You mean the brunch you told me about?"

"Yes."

"The brunch where you ignored my calls?"

You narrowed your eyes.

"Don't start."

A few of your friends were silently watching, trying not to laugh.

Because the tension between you two was ridiculous.

Smoke stepped closer.

"Come on."

"No."

"Y/N."

"Elijah."

The two of you stared at each other.

A silent battle.

Neither one willing to back down.

Then Smoke sighed.

"See, this right here..."

He shook his head.

"You always gotta make things difficult."

You smiled sweetly.

"And you always think you can just show up and take over."

Before you could say another word, Smoke reached down, pulled your chair back, and grabbed your handbag from the table.

Your eyes widened.

"Elijah!"

Your friends immediately started laughing.

"Girl..."

"Not him picking you up!"

"You better call somebody!"

But before you could react, Smoke easily lifted you up and threw you over his right shoulder.

"Excuse me?!"

You lightly smacked his back.

"Put me down!"

"Nope."

"Elijah Moore!"

"Yeah?"

"You are embarrassing me!"

He started walking toward the exit like you weighed nothing.

"You embarrassed me when you hung up."

"You are so dramatic!"

"And you're still coming with me."

You looked back at your girls, completely betrayed.

They were no help.

They were crying laughing.

Tonya waved.

"Girl, call us later!"

"TONYA!"

But it was too late.

You were already halfway across the parking lot.

Your girls' laughter echoed behind you, making your embarrassment ten times worse.

"TONYA!" you yelled, still thrown over Smoke's shoulder.

The only response you got was more laughter.

Traitors.

All of them.

You started hitting his back lightly.

"Elijah, put me down!"

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

You gasped.

"Did you just tell me no?"

"Yep."

"You are unbelievable."

"And you're stubborn."

"I am not stubborn!"

Smoke let out a low laugh.

"You arguing with me while I'm carrying you proves my point."

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn't see it.

"People are watching!"

"Let them."

"Elijah!"

You soon arrived at the curb of your home, your arms folded tightly across your chest.

You hadn't said a word the entire ride.

Not one.

You'd spent most of it staring out the passenger window, cheeks still warm from the embarrassment of being carried out of a restaurant like a damn child while your friends laughed their asses off.

And the mimosas definitely weren't helping.

You weren't falling-over drunk, but you were pleasantly—and unfortunately—tipsy enough that your emotions were sitting right on the surface.

Smoke pulled the truck to the curb and put it in park.

The second the engine cut off, you reached for the door handle.

Smoke got out first.

You stayed put.

He walked around the front of the truck and opened your door.

"Come on."

You looked up at him.

"No."

His eyebrow lifted.

"No?"

"No."

You folded your arms tighter.

"I'm still mad at you."

"I figured."

"And embarrassed."

"I figured that too."

"And annoyed."

Smoke nodded slowly.

"Definitely figured that one."

You stared at him.

"Then why are you standing there looking so damn calm?"

He leaned against the open door.

"Because you drunk."

Your eyes widened.

"I am not drunk."

"You had how many mimosas?"

You pointed a finger at him.

"That's none of your business."

He fought back a smile.

"Exactly."

You scoffed and finally climbed out, immediately swaying just a little when your heels hit the pavement.

Smoke's hand instinctively reached for your waist.

You slapped it away.

"Don't touch me."

"Okay."

He raised both hands.

You started walking toward your front door.

One step.

Two.

Three.

You fumbled with your keys.

Smoke stood a few feet behind you, watching.

"You need help?"

"No."

You tried the key again.

Wrong one.

You sighed.

"Stupid keys."

Smoke pressed his lips together.

"Keys ain't the problem."

You slowly turned around.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"That's what I thought."

You turned back around and tried again.

Still wrong.

Smoke finally stepped forward.

"Move."

"No."

"Y/N."

"I got it."

"You've been fighting that lock for thirty seconds."

"Because you are distracting me."

He laughed under his breath.

That did it.

You spun around.

"You think this is funny?"

His smile faded.

"No."

"Because I'm not laughing."

"I know."

"You embarrassed me in front of everybody."

"I know."

"You didn't even let me say goodbye."

"I know."

"And then you just—"

Your words stumbled over each other.

You stopped, frustrated, blinking hard.

Smoke's expression softened.

"You done?"

You looked away.

"No."

Your voice came out quieter.

"I'm still mad."

"I know."

"You always do this."

"Do what?"

"You act like you can just decide what's happening and everybody else has to go along with it."

Smoke was quiet.

You swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of the alcohol and the day's emotions crashing down on you.

"I just wanted one day with my girls."

There it was.

The real thing underneath all the attitude.

Smoke looked at you for a long moment.

Then he stepped closer.

"I know."

You shook your head.

"No, you don't."

"Yeah, I do."

His voice was calmer now.

"I just wanted to see you."

You scoffed.

"You could've waited until I got home."

"I could've."

"Exactly."

"But I didn't."

You rolled your eyes.

"Obviously."

Smoke reached past you and gently took the keys from your hand.

This time, you didn't fight him.

He unlocked the door.

You stepped inside, immediately kicking off your heels.

"Never again," you mumbled.

Smoke closed the door behind you.

"What's that?"

You pointed at him.

"You."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Me?"

"You are never kidnapping me from brunch again."

A faint smirk appeared.

"Kidnapping?"

"Yes."

"You got in the truck."

"You carried me to it!"

"You walked into the house."

"Because I am independent."

Smoke shook his head, amused.

You narrowed your eyes.

"Don't laugh."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Maybe a little."

You groaned and dropped onto the couch, covering your face with both hands.

"I cannot believe you."

Smoke stood in front of you.

For once, he didn't tease.

Didn't argue.

Didn't push.

He simply looked at you.

Then quietly said,

"I'll make it up to you."

You peeked through your fingers.

"You better."

His mouth twitched.

"And tomorrow?"

"What?"

"We're gonna talk about that seventeen missed calls."

You stared at him.

"Absolutely not."

He laughed.

You grabbed a pillow and threw it at him.

"Get out."

He caught it easily.

"Nah."

"Elijah."

"Go to sleep, trouble."

You crossed your arms again, glaring at him.

"I'm still mad."

"I know."

"And I don't forgive you."

"I know."

You looked away, fighting a sleepy smile.

"Good."

Smoke watched you for a moment before shaking his head.

"Still got an attitude."

You mumbled under your breath.

"Still got a problem."

And somehow...

Neither of you was ready to let the argument end.

You were still sitting on the couch, arms folded, staring at the television like it had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world.

Smoke stood across the room.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

You glanced at him.

He wasn't smiling anymore.

His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on you.

"What?" you mumbled.

He shook his head.

"Nothing."

You rolled your eyes.

"There you go again."

"There I go doing what?"

"Looking at me like you wanna say something."

Smoke let out a slow breath through his nose.

"Yeah. I do."

You looked over at him.

"Then say it."

He stepped closer.

"You hung up on me."

You blinked.

"Here we go..."

"Nah. Don't 'here we go' me."

His voice was low now.

"I can deal with you going to brunch. I can deal with you having drinks with your girls. I can deal with you ignoring me for a little while."

He pointed toward you.

"But hanging up in my damn face?"

You scoffed.

"You were threatening me!"

"I wasn't threatening you."

"You literally said my thick ass was gonna regret it!"

"Because you kept playing with me!"

You stared at him.

"And you think that's okay?"

Smoke dragged both hands down his face, visibly frustrated.

"See? This is what I'm talking about."

"What?"

"You always find a way to flip the shit around."

Your eyebrows lifted.

"Because you were wrong."

"I called you because I couldn't get ahold of you."

"You called me seventeen times!"

"Because you weren't answering!"

"Because I was with my friends!"

"I didn't know that!"

"NIGGA, I TOLD YOU!"

"I KNOW!"

His voice echoed through the room.

You went quiet.

Smoke stood there breathing heavily, chest rising and falling beneath his shirt.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything.

Then he spoke again, quieter.

"I don't give a damn about you having brunch."

His eyes locked onto yours.

"I give a damn about you making me feel like I don't matter."

That caught you off guard.

Your expression softened slightly.

But Smoke wasn't finished.

"You hung up on me like I was some random dude."

He shook his head.

"You don't do that to me."

You swallowed.

"Elijah..."

"No."

He held up a hand.

"Let me finish."

You nodded slowly.

"I ain't asking you to stop having your own life. I ain't asking you to sit by the phone all damn day waiting on me."

He stepped closer.

"But when I call you, answer me. And if you can't answer, tell me that."

His jaw tightened.

"Don't hang up on me like I'm nothing."

You looked down at your hands.

"I wasn't trying to make you feel like that."

"I know."

His voice softened for half a second.

"But that's how it felt."

You were quiet.

Then you muttered,

"You still embarrassed me."

Smoke gave a short laugh with no humor in it.

"You embarrassed me too."

Your head snapped up.

"How?"

"You had me calling your phone seventeen damn times."

You rolled your eyes.

"Oh my God."

"And then you hung up on me."

"You are never letting that go, are you?"

"No."

You stared at him.

He stared right back.

Then he leaned down slightly, his voice dropping.

"Because you need to understand something, Y/N."

You waited.

"I can handle your attitude."

A pause.

"I can handle your mouth."

Another pause.

"I can even handle you being mad at me."

His eyes narrowed.

"But don't ever make me feel like you don't give a damn."

Your anger faltered.

Because underneath all that frustration...

You could hear the fear.

The concern.

The attachment.

You sighed.

"You're still an asshole."

Smoke's eyebrow lifted.

"And you're still drunk."

"I'm tipsy."

"Whatever helps you sleep."

You grabbed the pillow beside you.

"Don't start."

He smirked.

"There she go."

You threw the pillow at him.

He caught it.

And for the first time since the restaurant...

The tension cracked just a little.

But neither of you apologized.

Not yet.

Because you were still mad.

And Smoke?

He was still pissed about that damn phone call.

Smoke didn't throw the pillow back. Instead, he tossed it aside with a careless flick of his wrist, his eyes darkening as he watched you. 

The brief moment of levity vanished, replaced by a heavy, suffocating heat. The anger hadn't left him; it had just shifted, morphing from a shouting match into something far more primal and possessive.

He stepped into your space, his large frame looming over you on the couch. The smell of his cologne mixed with the scent of raw frustration.

Before he claimed you on the couch, Smoke’s rage hadn't fully burned out; it had just shifted into a need for total submission. He didn't just want your body; he wanted your breath, your voice, and your pride. With a sudden, violent movement, he grabbed a handful of your hair and yanked your head forward, forcing you down onto your knees on the hardwood floor. You let out a startled gasp, but it was cut short as he stepped closer, his heavy dick pulsing and leaking pre-cum just inches from your face.

"Since you love using that mouth to talk back to me," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "let's see how you use it for something useful."

He didn't wait for you to open up. Smoke gripped the back of your head and slammed his thick head into your mouth, forcing his way past your lips in one aggressive shove.

You gagged instantly, your eyes watering as he buried himself deep in your throat, hitting the back of your windpipe with a brutal thud. 

He didn't care that you were choking; he liked the way your throat clamped around him in a desperate struggle for air. He began to fuck your face with a ruthless, rhythmic intensity, his hips snapping forward to drive his dick deeper and deeper into your gullet. Each thrust was a punishment, a silent command to shut up and take it. 

He held your head firmly, controlling the pace, forcing you to take every inch of his girth until you were sobbing and gagging around him, your hands clawing uselessly at his thighs.

He groaned, the feeling of your tight, wet throat squeezing him nearly pushing him over the edge, but he pulled out with a wet pop just as you were about to collapse, leaving you breathless and shivering on the floor before he hauled you back up onto the couch to finish what he started.

"You think you're so fuckin’ cute when you're act the fuck up," he growled, his voice vibrating in his chest. "Thinking you can just push me and then act like a brat."

You opened your mouth to snap back, but Smoke didn't give you the chance. He lunged forward, his hand gripping your jaw firmly, forcing your head back against the cushions. His thumb pressed hard into your cheek, pinning you in place.

"I told you that thick ass was gonna regret it," he hissed, his face inches from yours. "And since you like to ignore me so much, I'm gonna make sure you can't think about anything else but me for the rest of the night."

He didn't kiss you gently. He slammed his mouth onto yours in a bruising, demanding collision. It wasn't a request; it was a claim. He tasted of mint and rage, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, raiding it with a hunger that bordered on violent. 

You moaned into the kiss, your hands clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer even as you tried to fight for dominance.

Smoke groaned, a low, animalistic sound, and ripped your lips away. Without a word, he grabbed the hem of your skirt and yanked it upward, bunching the fabric around your waist. He didn't bother with finesse. He reached down and ripped your panties to the side, the fabric tearing with a sharp snap.

"You're mine," he muttered, his voice a rough rasp. "Every inch of you. You don't get to shut me out."

He stood up just long enough to shred his own clothes, his 8-inch-long, 3-inch-wide dick and springing free—thick, pulsing, and fully erect, your spit making it shine. He didn't use a condom. He never did. He didn't even ask. He just grabbed your thighs, hoisting them up over his shoulders, exposing your dripping pussy to the cool air of the room.

"Look at me," he commanded.

You looked up, eyes hazy with lust and alcohol, and Smoke drove himself into you in one singular, brutal thrust.

"FUCK!" you screamed, your back arching off the couch. He had bottomed out instantly, his heavy balls slapping against your clit. The sheer size of him stretched you to the limit, filling every void, claiming your insides with a ruthless force.

Smoke didn't give you time to adjust. He began to hammer into you, his hips slamming against yours with a rhythmic, punishing thud. Each stroke was deep and violent, designed to remind you exactly who you belonged to. He wasn't just fucking you; he was marking you.

"Still want to hang up on me?" he gasped, his grip tightening on your thighs until his fingers left bruises. "Still want to play games, Y/N?"

"Smoke... please..." you whimpered, your head tossing from side to side.

"Please what? Please stop? Or please fuck you until you can't walk?" He sneered, leaning down to bite hard on your shoulder, his teeth sinking into your skin. "I'm gonna put a baby in you.

I'm gonna fill you so full of my cum that you'll feel me leaking out of you for days. That way, every time you think about ignoring me, you'll feel my seed inside you."

The thought sent a jolt of pure electricity through your core. The possessiveness, the raw desire to be claimed and impregnated by him, made your pussy clench tight around him. Smoke felt the squeeze and let out a guttural roar, his pace becoming frantic.

He shifted his angle, digging deeper, hitting your cervix with every punishing drive. He was relentless, his breath coming in ragged heaves, his sweat dripping onto your chest. He was focused on one thing: total colonization.

"I'm filling you up," he groaned, his voice breaking. "I'm claiming this pussy. You're gonna carry my fucking child."

As the climax hit him, Smoke didn't pull back. He slammed himself in as deep as he could go, pinning you to the couch with his entire weight. He let out a long, shaking moan as he erupted inside you.

You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum flooding your womb, wave after wave of seed pumping deep into your depths. He stayed buried inside you, pulsing, ensuring that every single drop of his load stayed trapped within you.

He stayed there for a long time, breathing heavily against your neck, his heart hammering against your ribs. He didn't move, keeping you plugged and filled.

"Now," he whispered, his voice possessive and dark. "Tell me who you belong to."

"You, baby. You."

You sat there on the couch, breathing heavily, your mind still trying to catch up with everything that had just happened.

Smoke stayed close for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Then he leaned down, pressed a slow kiss to the top of your head, and stood.

"Stay right here," he murmured.

You barely looked up at him.

"Where you going, baby?"

"Bathroom."

He turned and walked down the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

A second later, you heard the bathroom door click shut.

And that's when the smallest smile appeared on your lips.

Because while Smoke thought he had finally gotten his way...

He hadn't.

Not completely.

You had known exactly what you were doing from the beginning.

The attitude.

The arguing.

The way you kept pushing his buttons.

Even hanging up on him.

It hadn't all been spontaneous.

You knew Elijah.

You knew exactly which buttons to press to get him riled up, exactly how far you could push before that calm exterior cracked.

And tonight?

You'd pushed every single one.

You slowly sat back against the couch, staring toward the hallway.

"Got you," you whispered under your breath.

The bathroom faucet turned on.

Your smile widened.

Smoke thought he was in control.

He had no idea he'd been walking straight into your plan the entire time.

-𝕾𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙 𝕭𝖆𝖇𝖎𝖊𝖘-

The sun was a merciless, white-hot hammer beating down on the long stretch of I-10, turning the asphalt ahead into a shimmering, liquid mirage. Inside her cherry-red coupe, Kamilah felt like she was baking in an oven, the vintage air conditioner wheezing a pathetic, lukewarm protest against the oppressive Mississippi heat. It was day three of her solo pilgrimage from the sandy shores of Florida to the promised land of California, and the initial thrill of the open road had given way to a sticky weariness. This wasn't just a trip; it was a rebirth. She'd packed up her entire life, cramming it into the trunk and backseat, leaving behind a dead-end job and a relationship that had been dying on the vine for years. Out here, under the vast, unforgiving sky, she was nobody but herself, and that freedom was exhilarating. Her hair, a thick cascade of dark curls, was pulled up into a messy bun, but rebellious strands clung to the damp skin of her neck and temples. She was a woman untethered, a carefree spirit chasing the horizon, and right now, all that spirit wanted was a fucking Slushie and some air conditioning that actually worked.

The gas station appeared on the horizon like a mirage given form, a faded oasis promising fuel and frozen treats. It was the kind of place that time seemed to have forgotten, a relic from a bygone era of American road trips. The main building was a low-slung rectangle of peeling white paint and sun-bleached brick, with two rust-stained pumps standing guard out front like weary soldiers. A flickering neon sign, missing several letters, proclaimed "G-S STATI-N," its buzz a constant, irritating hum even from a distance. As Kamilah pulled her coupe up to the pump, the gravel crunched under her tires with a sound that seemed to absorb all other noise. She killed the engine, and the sudden silence was broken only by the drone of cicadas hidden in the sparse, parched trees that dotted the landscape. The heat was a thick, wet blanket that clung to her skin the moment she stepped out of the car, making the simple act of breathing feel like an effort. She could feel the sweat begin to prickle between her breasts and along her spine almost instantly. This was the deep, sweaty, soul-crushing South, and it was a character in its own right.

Kamilah was dressed for the weather, not for modesty. Her outfit was a celebration of her own body, a canvas of brown skin and confident curves. The cutoff muscle shirt, once a standard piece of athletic wear, was now a ragged crop that ended just below her breasts, leaving her toned midriff completely exposed. The frayed edges of the denim shorts were a testament to how often she wore them, and they were glued to her hips and ass. They were short—embarrassingly short, her mother would have said, but Kamilah didn't give a fuck. The high-cut hem showcased the thick, powerful muscles of her thighs, a legacy of years spent dancing and her recent dedication to Pilates. Every step she took was a statement, a rhythmic sway of her hips that was both natural and practiced. She knew she looked good, and in the suffocating monotony of this rural landscape, she was a splash of vibrant, unapologetic life. The soles of her worn leather sandals slapped against the hot concrete as she walked toward the station's entrance, her movements unhurried despite the heat. She was on her own time, her own schedule, and the whole world could just fucking wait.

The interior of the gas station was a welcome shock of cold air, blasting from a rattling unit above the door. It smelled of stale coffee, disinfectant, and the faint, sweet tang of motor oil. The fluorescent lights hummed and flickered, casting a jaundiced glow over the aisles stocked with an overwhelming array of junk food, sodas, and automotive necessities. Behind the counter, a bored-looking teenager with a face full of piercings scrolled listlessly through his phone. Kamilah paid him no mind. Her mission was clear, a quest as important as any she'd undertake on this journey: find the perfect road trip snacks. This wasn't just about hunger; it was about ritual. The right combination of sweet, salty, and sour could make the difference between a tedious drive and a joyful one. Her eyes scanned the shelves, a connoisseur assessing her options. She bypassed the healthy shit—granola bars and baked chips—with a disdainful curl of her lip. This was a vacation from responsibility, a rebellion against her own better judgment. She wanted sugar, she wanted salt, she wanted the kind of processed goodness that would make her teeth ache, and her spirit soar.

Her bare feet, now cool against the linoleum floor, carried her deeper into the labyrinth of processed delights. She started in the chip aisle, her fingers trailing over the colorful bags. Lays? Too basic. Doritos? A classic, but she was feeling more adventurous today. Her gaze landed on a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos, and she felt a pull. Yes. That was the kind of heat that matched the weather outside. She grabbed the bag, its crinkle satisfying in the quiet store. Next, she moved on to the candy section. This required more thought. Should she go with something chocolatey and melty, or something fruity and long-lasting? Her eyes danced over the options—Snickers, Milky Way, M&Ms—before settling on a bag of Sour Patch Kids. The perfect combination of sugar and sour, a little explosion of flavor for every mile. She was building an arsenal, a curated collection of delights to sustain her through the long, lonely hours of driving. She felt a small smile touch her lips. This was it. This was the freedom she was looking for. The simple joy of choosing her own path, even if that path was currently paved with high-fructose corn syrup and monosodium glutamate. She was lost in her mission, her mind focused solely on the task at hand, completely unaware that she was about to become the focal point of someone else's very different kind of mission.

She moved toward the refrigerated section at the back of the store, her hips swaying to a silent beat only she could hear. The glass doors were fogged with condensation, and she had to wipe a clear spot with her palm to see inside. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the brightly colored Slushie machine. That was the prize. The holy grail. But first, more snacks. She turned her attention to the lower shelves, where a new treasure awaited: a limited-edition flavor of Pringles. "Smoky Gouda," the label proclaimed. Intriguing. She squatted down, her back to the aisle entrance, to get a better look. The position caused the denim of her shorts to ride up even higher, the frayed hem disappearing into the crease where her thigh met the curve of her ass. The fabric stretched across her backside, outlining every generous curve in explicit detail. Her skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, making the brown of her thighs and the darker denim a delicious contrast. She was completely absorbed, her fingers reaching out to trace the lettering on the can, her mind already tasting the smoky, cheesy flavor. In that moment, she was the picture of unselfconscious, sensual abandon, a woman in her element, and she had no idea that the door had just chimed, signaling the arrival of a man whose frustration was about to find a very unexpected, very compelling target.

The chime of the doorbell was a shrill, metallic clang that sliced through Kamilah's candy-coated reverie, a jarring intrusion into her snack-fueled sanctuary. She didn't look up, her focus still locked on the Smoky Gouda Pringles, but the cold air seemed to thin, replaced by a thick, oppressive wave of heat and something else… something acidic and tense. Elijah stepped into the gas station like a storm cloud threatening to burst. The Mississippi heat had done him no favors; his onyx-toned skin gleamed of sweat, and the crisp lines of his white t-shirt were already damp, clinging to the sculpted planes of his chest and shoulders. He was a powerful man, thick with muscle, a presence that demanded space even when he was standing still. But today, that power was a compressed spring of frustration. His jaw was set like granite, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he scanned the store, his deep brown eyes holding no warmth, only a simmering, dangerous heat that had nothing to do with the weather.

Trailing in his wake was the source of that heat: his wife, Heaven. She was a beautiful woman, there was no denying it, with smooth, caramel skin and a body that was still turning heads even after a decade of marriage. But her beauty was currently weaponized, her mouth set in a thin, unforgiving line as she launched into another tirade. "I'm just saying, Elijah, you could have at least asked me if I wanted something to drink before you just parked and got out. It's called common courtesy. Or does that not exist in your world anymore?" Her voice was a whining drone, the kind of sound that could burrow under a man's skin and lay eggs. Elijah didn't turn, just kept walking toward the counter, his shoulders hunched slightly as if bracing against a physical blow. "Heaven, for the last time, I'm not your butler. You got two perfectly good feet. Use 'em," he muttered. The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a hundred similar arguments, a decade of built-up resentment that was starting to crack at the seams.

This was their dance. A vicious, exhausting tango of nagging and retreating, of pushing and pulling until one of them—or both—broke. Today, the music was particularly discordant. The trip to visit her mother had been a disaster from the start, a four-hour drive filled with her complaints about his driving, his choice of music, his very existence. The heat had amplified everything, turning their car into a pressure cooker of unspoken grievances. Heaven, for her part, felt justified. She was tired of feeling like a single woman who just happened to share a last name and a bed with a man who was more like a roommate than a husband. She missed the man who used to look at her with fire and desire, the man who would bring her flowers for no reason. Now, all she got was this grunting, silent brick wall who seemed to be actively plotting her demise with every passing mile. "Don't you 'Heaven' me like I'm some child," she snapped, her heels clicking angrily on the linoleum as she followed him. "You've been in a mood since we left home, and I'm sick of it. You're supposed to be my husband, not some brooding-ass nigga I picked up on the side of the road."

Elijah stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his head slowly, and the look in his eyes made Heaven flinch, despite herself. It was a look she knew well, the one that promised consequences, the one that usually preceded a night of him sleeping on the couch or her giving him the silent treatment for a week. But today, there was something different in that gaze. Something colder. Something broken. "You want to know what's wrong, Heaven?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft. "I'm tired. I'm tired of the sound of your fucking voice. I'm tired of this trip. I'm tired of your mother's passive-aggressive comments about my job. And I swear to God, if you say one more word to me, I'm gonna put my fucking fist through this wall. And then I'm gonna get back in the car, and I'm gonna drive home. And you can figure out your own damn way back." The threat hung in the air between them. Heaven's mouth opened, then closed. She saw it then, the line he was about to cross. For the first time all day, a sliver of genuine fear pierced through her indignation.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Elijah held her gaze, his chest rising and falling with each controlled breath, the fight draining out of him and leaving behind a hollow, aching void of pure anger. He was at his breaking point. He could feel it in the way his blood pounded in his temples, in the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He needed out. He needed a fucking minute before he did something he couldn't take back. He broke the stare first, turning away from her with a sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body. "Look," he said, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion. "I'm gonna get a drink. You wanted food, right? They got a little diner thing in the back. Go see what they got. I'll be here." It wasn't a suggestion; it was a dismissal. A clear, unspoken command to get the fuck out of his face before he exploded.

Heaven stared at his back, a war of emotions waging across her face. She was still angry, still hurt, but that flicker of fear had sobered her. She knew Elijah. She knew his limits, and she knew she'd just been dancing on the edge of a cliff. With a huff of indignation that was more for show than anything else, she spun on her heel. "Fine," she tossed over her shoulder, her voice tight. "But you're paying. And you better not leave without me." She stalked toward the back of the store, her movements sharp and aggrieved, disappearing behind a partition that separated the main convenience store from the greasy spoon attached to it. The moment she was gone, the tension in Elijah's shoulders eased, just a fraction. He was alone. Alone with his anger, his frustration, and the overwhelming, suffocating silence. He ran a hand over his low-cut fade, trying to physically push back the rage that was threatening to consume him. He turned, his eyes scanning the aisles, looking for nothing and everything at once. And that's when he saw her. Squatting in the chip aisle, her back to him, a vision of brown skin and thick curves that seemed to suck all the air out of the room. And in that moment, the chaotic storm of Elijah's anger found its eye.

Kamilah was still lost in her own little world, a universe contained within the shiny foil of a Pringles can. She was completely oblivious to the domestic drama that had just unfolded, the toxic energy that still lingered in the air like the scent of ozone after a lightning strike. All she knew was the cool air on her skin and the life-altering decision of whether to commit to the Smoky Gouda or stick with a classic like Sour Cream and Onion. The position she was in, bent at the waist with her ass pushed out, was one of unthinking convenience. It gave her the perfect angle to peruse the lower shelves, but it also presented a spectacle that was nothing short of criminal. The frayed denim of her shorts had surrendered completely, disappearing into the deep crease of her ass, leaving the round, firm globes of her buttocks almost entirely exposed. The thin strip of dark fabric from her thong was a stark line against her rich, brown skin. Her thighs were flexed slightly, the muscles defined from her squat, and the soft curve of her hips flowed into her narrow waist. It was an ass that could make a man forget how to speak, an ass that could start wars and broker peace treaties. And it was currently aimed directly at the entrance of the aisle.

Elijah saw it, and his world stopped. The roaring in his head, the cacophony of Heaven's nagging, the suffocating weight of his own anger, it all vanished. In its place was a sudden, sharp, and almost violent surge of lust. It hit him like a punch to the gut that stole his breath. His body reacted before his brain did. Blood rushed south, thickening his dick in an instant, a hard ache that pressed insistently against the zipper of his jeans. There was no thought of his wife, no flicker of guilt, no consideration of his wedding vows. There was only the undeniable need radiating from the woman in front of him. He felt like a parched man who had just found an oasis. His anger didn't disappear; it transmuted. The destructive energy that had been aimed at Heaven was now channeled, focused, and honed into a single, burning point of desire. This wasn't just a woman; she was a solution. A release. A goddamn gift from the devil himself, delivered in a gas station chip aisle in the middle of Mississippi.

He moved without a conscious thought, his feet carrying him down the aisle toward her. His movements were silent, predatory, in contrast to the heavy, frustrated energy he'd brought into the store. He stopped a few feet behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, close enough to smell the faint, sweet scent of her perfume. He just stood there for a moment, his eyes devouring the sight before him. He took in the smooth, unblemished skin of her back, the delicate curve of her spine, the way her muscles shifted as she adjusted her position. He could see the tiny, dark hairs at the nape of her neck, damp with perspiration, and he had an almost overwhelming urge to lean down and press his lips there, to taste her skin. His hands, which had been clenched into fists at his sides, relaxed, his fingers uncurling as if preparing to touch her.

Finally, Kamilah made her decision. With a soft grunt of satisfaction, she grabbed the can of Smoky Gouda Pringles and straightened up, turning to place it in the small basket she was carrying. And that's when she saw him. She turned, and her eyes met his, and she came face-to-face with a wall of a man. A little gasp of surprise escaped her lips. He was… intimidating. And gorgeous. His skin seemed to absorb the fluorescent light, and his eyes, a deep, intense brown, were locked onto hers with a focus that was almost frightening. He was close, too close, invading her personal space, but she found herself not wanting to back away. There was an energy coming off him, a masculine power that was thrilling. She could feel the heat of his body, and she could see the unmistakable bulge in his jeans, an effect she had on him. A sly smile crept across her face. Well, well, well. This day just got a whole lot more interesting.

"Damn," she said, "You tryin' to give a girl a heart attack, sneakin' up on her like that?" She didn't sound scared; she sounded amused. Her eyes danced with mischief as she looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the hard planes of his chest, the thick muscles of his arms, and the prominent erection straining against his denim. She wasn't shy about her interest, and her blatant appreciation seemed to feed the fire in his eyes.

Elijah's lips curved into a smile of his own, but it wasn't a friendly smile. It was a hungry, knowing grin that promised all kinds of trouble. "My bad, ma," he said. "Couldn't help myself. You were bent over lookin' so good, I had to get a closer look." He didn't bother with pretense. He didn't try to pretend he wasn't just staring at her ass. He owned it.

Kamilah laughed, "Oh, so you just admiring the view, huh?" she teased, shifting her weight to one hip and pushing her chest out slightly. The movement caused the thin fabric of her cutoff shirt to stretch even tighter across her breasts, and she saw his eyes drop to her cleavage for a split second before meeting her gaze again. "Well, the view is free, but touching costs extra." She was playing with fire, and she knew it. But this was the kind of adventure she'd been looking for, the kind of spontaneous, unexpected encounter that made a road trip memorable.

"I got money," Elijah replied, his voice dropping even lower. He took another step closer, closing the distance between them until they were almost touching. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, could smell the sweet, floral scent of her body wash. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of her arm, just below the sleeve of her shirt. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it was electric. Kamilah felt her nipples harden, pressing against the thin cotton of her shirt. "But I was thinkin' more of a trade," he continued, his eyes locked on hers. "I touch you, you touch me. Sounds fair to me."

Her breathing faltered again. This man was playing for keeps, and she was more than ready to play along. She leaned in slightly, her lips just inches from his, her voice a seductive whisper. "What makes you think I want to touch you, big daddy?" she challenged, her eyes sparkling with defiance and desire.

Elijah's smile widened, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a hot, ticklish breath that sent shivers down her spine. " 'Cause I can see it in your eyes," he murmured. "You want this. You want this just as bad as I do. You lookin' for a little adventure on this road trip of yours, and I'm the motherfuckin' adventure you been waitin' for." He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his gaze intense and unwavering. "So what's it gonna be? You gonna let me show you what a real Mississippi welcome feels like?"

The air between them crackled, Elijah's words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation rolled into one. Kamilah felt a thrill course through her that made her heart pound in her chest. This was it. This was the edge she'd been chasing, the moment where the safe, predictable path diverged into something wild and unknown. She looked up into his eyes, seeing the storm of anger and lust swirling in their depths, and she wasn't scared. She was turned the fuck on. She saw the glint of gold on his left hand, the unmistakable band of a wedding ring, and it didn't give her a moment's pause. If anything, it amplified the excitement. A married man. A man who was supposed to be off-limits, a man who was clearly looking for something his wife wasn't giving him. Well, Kamilah was more than happy to provide. She wasn't a homewrecker; she was a temporary escape. An irresistible detour on his journey of marital misery.

"An adventure, huh?" She took a small step forward, closing the last inch of space between them, her breasts brushing against the hard wall of his chest. "You talk a big game for a nigga whose wife is probably in the back orderin' a BLT right now." She brought her hand up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath her fingertips. Her touch was a slow, sensual exploration that let him know she was in control of her own desire. "You sure you can handle the kind of trouble I bring?"

Elijah's response was a low rumble in his chest. He didn't answer with words. He answered with action. His hand shot out, wrapping around the back of her neck, he pulled her closer, his face just inches from hers, his hot breath fanning across her lips. "I don't handle trouble, ma," he rasped. "I am the fuckin' trouble." His other hand came up to rest on the small of her back, his thumb stroking the strip of exposed skin just above the waistband of her shorts. The touch was proprietary, a silent declaration that he was claiming this moment, this space, her.

They were in the middle of a public gas station, with the teenage cashier just a few aisles away and Elijah's wife potentially emerging from the back room at any second. The thought of getting caught, of Heaven walking around the corner and seeing her husband with his hands all over another woman, should have been a deterrent. But for both of them, it was an accelerant. It fueled the fire, turning a simple flirtation into a high-stakes game of erotic Russian roulette. Kamilah could feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, making her feel alive. She leaned into his touch, her body molding against his, a silent invitation to take it further.

Elijah's mind was a blank slate. There was no room for guilt, no space for hesitation. All he could think about was the feel of her skin under his hands, the taste of her lips that he hadn't even had yet but already craved. His anger at Heaven was a fuel, a raging fire that needed an outlet, and Kamilah was the perfect kindling. He wanted to fuck her. Not make love, not have sex, but fuck. He wanted to bend her over, to bury himself inside her, to use her body to purge himself of all the frustration and resentment that had been building up for months. He wanted to hear her scream, to feel her nails digging into his back, to mark her as his, even if it was only for a few stolen minutes.

He tightened his grip on her neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear. He leaned in, his lips hovering just above hers, teasing her with the promise of a kiss. "You still haven't answered my question. You gonna let me show you what a real Mississippi welcome feels like?" His eyes bored into hers, demanding an answer, daring her to back down.

Kamilah's response was to close the distance between them. She surged up on her toes, crushing her lips against his in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a clash of teeth and tongues, a hungry, desperate exploration. She poured all of her carefree, adventurous spirit into that kiss, all of her pent-up loneliness and longing for connection. She kissed him like she was starving and he was a five-course meal. Her hands came up to grip his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, holding on for dear life.

Elijah met her passion with a ferocity of his own. He kissed her back with a punishing intensity, his tongue delving into her mouth, claiming every inch of her. He dominated the kiss, his lips and teeth and tongue working in concert to overwhelm her senses. He wanted to devour her. His hand on her back slid down, cupping the curve of her ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling her against his aching erection. He grinded his hips against hers.

The kiss deepened, growing more frantic, more urgent. They were lost in their own little world, a bubble of lust and need that existed outside of time and space. The sounds of the gas station faded away: the hum of the fluorescent lights, the drone of the cicadas outside, the distant voice of the cashier. All that mattered was the feel of each other's bodies, the taste of each other's mouths, the overwhelming, all-consuming need for more. They were two strangers on a collision course, and the point of impact was going to be explosive. There was no more talking, no more teasing. The decision had been made. They were going to do this. They were going to fuck in the chip aisle of a rundown gas station in the middle of nowhere, and they were going to love every goddamn second of it.

The kiss broke, leaving them both breathless and gasping, their chests heaving. A thin string of saliva connected their lips for a moment before Kamilah licked it away with a wicked grin. There was no need for words. The decision had been made in that frenzied clash of tongues and teeth. Elijah's hand was still clamped on the back of her neck, a firm, possessive grip that sent another jolt of desire straight to her core. He used that grip to turn her, his movements rough and unapologetic. He guided her deeper into the aisle, past the Pringles and the Doritos, toward the more secluded corner near the endcap, where the store kept the oversized bags of party chips and generic pretzels. It was a sliver of privacy, a flimsy shield against the rest of the world, but it was enough.

"Bend over," he commanded, his voice a low growl that was all command and no request. He didn't have to tell her twice. Kamilah was a woman who appreciated a man who knew what he wanted, and this man wanted to fuck her right here, right now. She turned, placing her hands on her knees and sticking her ass out, presenting herself to him like an offering. She could hear him behind her, the sound of his zipper being lowered, the soft rustle of denim. It was the sexiest sound she'd ever heard. He didn't bother with finesse. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her shorts, yanking them down over the swell of her hips and ass in one motion. The denim pooled around her ankles, followed quickly by her flimsy thong, which he pushed aside.

Elijah took a moment to just look at her. Her ass was a masterpiece; her pussy was glistening, he'd done that to her. He'd made this stranger, this tourist with her sweet, non-local accent, wet and ready for him with just a look and a kiss. He spat on his hand, coating the head of his dick, which was hard as steel and leaking. He didn't need to; she was more than ready, but it was a gesture of nastiness that he knew she would appreciate. He positioned himself behind her, the thick head of his dick knocking at her slick entrance.

"Fuck me," she moaned, wiggling her hips, trying to impale herself on him. "Stop teasin' me, nigga, and fuck me."

That was all the encouragement he needed. He gripped her hips with both hands and slammed into her. He didn't give her time to adjust. He started fucking her, hard and fast, his hips pistoning against her ass, his balls slapping against her clit with every stroke. He was using her, fucking her with aggression. He was taking out all his frustration on her pussy, every nagging word from his wife, every moment of suppressed rage, every ounce of his pent-up anger; he was channeling it all into this one act.

The sounds of their fucking were a wet, slapping rhythm that echoed in the quiet aisle. It was punctuated by the crinkle of chip bags as Kamilah's hands pressed against them for support, and the distant hum of the store's air conditioner. Elijah's hands roamed her body, one gripping her hip, the other sliding up her back to tangle in her hair. He wrapped her thick, dark curls around his fist, pulling her head back, arching her spine. The new angle allowed him to go even deeper, and she screamed, a muffled sound of ecstasy that he quickly stifled by covering her mouth with his free hand.

"Shut the fuck up," he grunted, his voice strained with effort. "You want the whole store to hear you gettin' this dick?" His words were degrading, but they only made her wetter. She loved it. She loved being treated like a dirty little slut, a receptacle for his anger and his lust. She bit down on his palm, the sharp pain making him hiss, but he didn't let go. He just fucked her harder, his strokes becoming more erratic.

He was lost in a haze of pleasure and rage, his mind a blank slate of pure sensation. He was fucking her so hard his vision wouldn't stay focused, his balls drawing up tight. He was close. He could feel her tightening around him, her pussy clenching and spasming as her own orgasm approached. He pushed her down even harder, forcing her to bend even lower, until her forehead was almost touching her knees. The new position showed off her flexibility and his power. And it was from this vantage point, looking over the top of the chip rack, that he saw her.

Heaven.

She was standing by the entrance to the little restaurant, a paper bag in her hand, a confused look on her face. She was looking for him. And then their eyes met. Her expression shifted from confusion to dawning horror, to disbelief. She saw him. She saw him with his hand fisted in another woman's hair, his hips buried between her thighs. She saw him fucking a stranger in the chip aisle of a gas station. For a split second, a rational thought flickered through Elijah's mind. A thought of panic, of regret, of oh fuck, I've been caught. But it was quickly extinguished by a surge of something much darker: triumph.

He didn't stop. He didn't slow down. He just stared at his wife, his eyes burning with a cold, hard fire, and he fucked Kamilah harder. He used the look on Heaven's face as fuel, as a catalyst for his release. Every thrust was a punishment, a declaration. He was owning this moment, this woman, this act, and he was doing it right in front of her. He watched as her face went slack with shock, her mouth falling open. He felt a sick, twisted sense of satisfaction. This wasn't just about release; this was about power.

He slowed his strokes just enough to speak, his voice cut through the wet slapping sounds of their fucking. "Heaven," he called out, his eyes never leaving hers. "Come here."

Kamilah, her face buried in her arms, muffled a confused sound, but Elijah tightened his grip in her hair, a silent command to stay put. He saw his wife hesitate, her body frozen in place, a war of shock and humiliation waging across her features. He didn't repeat himself. He just waited, his hips still moving in a slow rhythm, his dick buried deep inside the stranger. 

Slowly, as if in a trance, Heaven started to move. She took one step, then another, her eyes locked on the scene in front of her. She walked down the aisle, her movements robotic, the paper bag in her hand crinkling with each step. She stopped a few feet away, close enough to see everything, to hear the slick sounds of his dick pistoning in and out of the other woman's pussy, the smell of their sex. Her eyes were wide, her face drained of color, but she didn't cry. She just watched.

"That's it," Elijah grunted, his pace picking up again, his hips snapping against Kamilah's ass. "Stand right there and watch. You wanted to know what was wrong with me? This is what's wrong with me. This is what you do to me. You push me, and you push me, and you push me, until I don't give a fuck anymore. Until I'd rather fuck a stranger than listen to you run your damn mouth for one more second."

He was talking to Heaven, but his words were for Kamilah, too. He was using them both, using his wife's humiliation and the stranger's body to exorcise his demons. He could feel Kamilah's pussy clenching around him, her body responding to his dominance, to the nasty power of the moment. She was getting off on it, too. The thought made him fuck her even harder.

"You see this, Heaven?" he snarled, his voice strained with effort, each word punctuated by the wet slap of his hips against Kamilah's ass. "You see how she takes this dick? You see how she loves it? This is what I need. This is what you've been denying me. This is what I'm gonna take whenever the fuck I want." He paused, his strokes slowing to a deep, grinding rhythm that made Kamilah whimper, his eyes never leaving his wife's. He saw the shock, the humiliation, the dawning understanding in her gaze, and he fed on it. "And you're gonna watch. Every. Single. Time."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You think I'm gonna divorce you? Oh no, baby. That's too easy. That's a clean break. You don't get off that easy." A cruel smile twisted his lips. "Nah. From now on, this is your life. This is your new job. You're gonna be my little cuck. You're gonna stand right there and watch me fuck any woman I want. You're gonna watch me fill their pretty little pussies up with my cum, and you're gonna thank me for it."

He straightened up, his pace quickening again, the power of his words fueling the force of his thrusts. "You keep bitchin', you keep moanin', you keep gettin' on my motherfuckin' nerves, and I promise you, I will humiliate you. I will fuck your best friend on our wedding anniversary. I'll bend the checkout girl at the Piggly Wiggly over the conveyor belt and make you watch me bust a nut all over her back. Shit, I'll go to your mom's next Sunday dinner and fuck her on the dining room table while you're in the kitchen making the damn sweet tea. And your sister? Oh, I've been wantin' to hit that for years. I'll fuck her in the back of my car while you're on the phone with her, tellin' you how good she takin' this dick."

He was breathing hard now, his chest heaving, his words a torrent of petty, dominant rage. He was painting a picture of a future so bleak, so debasing, that it was a fate worse than divorce. He wasn't just cheating on her; he was systematically dismantling her world, claiming everyone and everything she held dear as potential territory for his wrath. "So you think about that next time you wanna run your fuckin' mouth. You think about me diggin' deep in your sister, thinkin' about how I'm gonna make you lick my cum outta her pussy. You keep pushin' me, and I swear to God, I'll get the whole town pregnant. Now stand there and be a good wife. Watch me make this pussy cum."

He was close, so close. He could feel the cum boiling in his balls, ready to explode. He looked at his wife, his eyes burning into hers, a final, brutal act of ownership. "Watch me, Heaven," he commanded. "Watch me cum in her pussy."

He slammed into Kamilah one last time. His body seized as his dick began to spasm, each contraction sending another thick spurt of his creamy release into her. He held himself there, buried deep inside her, his eyes locked on his wife as he emptied himself into the stranger. He was claiming Kamilah's pussy, and he was destroying his marriage, and rebuilding it in his own image, all in the same explosive moment. He felt Kamilah's body shudder beneath him as her own orgasm ripped through her, her pussy drawing out every last drop of his cum. And then it was over. The storm had passed. He was spent, empty, and strangely calm, and as he slowly pulled out of Kamilah, a trickle of his cum ran down her thigh. He turned to face his wife, a satisfied, fulfilled smirk playing on his lips.

The air in the chip aisle was thick. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths, a trio of people trying to find their equilibrium after a Category 5 hurricane of lust and rage had just blown through. Kamilah was the first to move, slowly and stiffly pushing herself upright. Her legs felt like jelly, her thighs trembling with the aftershocks of an orgasm that had been ripped from her soul. She could feel the sticky warmth of Elijah's cum beginning to trickle down the inside of her thigh. She reached down with shaky hands, her fingers fumbling with the denim of her shorts. She pulled them up, she didn't bother with her thong, just left it where it was, a sodden scrap of fabric hanging from her hip. She looked over at Elijah, who was watching her with that smirk still playing on his lips.

Heaven was still standing there, a statue carved from humiliation and shock. Her eyes were wide, but she was no longer crying. She was just… present. A witness to her own degradation. She watched as Kamilah dressed, her gaze flickering between the stranger and her husband, a silent, frantic computation happening behind her eyes. She was trying to process it, to compartmentalize it, but how do you file away the image of your husband filling another woman with his cum in a gas station chip aisle? You don't. You just carry it. You carry it like a stone in your gut.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the spell. It was the teenage cashier, his bored voice calling out, "Y'all find everything okay over there?" The mundane, everyday normalcy of the question was absurd, a cosmic joke. Panic, sharp and sudden, sliced through the post-coital haze.

Elijah, however, didn't panic. He was the eye of the storm, the calm center of his own chaos. He just turned his head toward the sound of the cashier's voice and called out, "We're good, my man. Just lookin' for the right flavor." His voice was smooth, casual, as if he weren't standing in a cloud of his own sexual musk with his dick still half-hard and his wife watching him like a ghost. He then turned his attention back to Heaven, his expression hardening. The smirk was gone, replaced by a look of cold, dismissive authority.

"Go to the car," he said. His voice was low, but it carried the weight of a threat. "Now."

Heaven didn't argue. She didn't even hesitate. She just turned and walked away. She didn't look back. She just walked, her head held high, her back straight, a queen marching to her own execution. The paper bag of food she was still holding crinkled with each step, a sad, pathetic little soundtrack to her retreat.

Elijah watched her go, his eyes narrowed, as he waited until she was out of sight, until he heard the ding of the bell on the door as she stepped outside into the oppressive heat. Then he turned back to Kamilah. He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. He reached out, his fingers gently tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"You good?" he asked, his voice softer now.

Kamilah looked up at him, her eyes still wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. She saw the man who had just fucked her with a brutal, punishing intensity, the man who had used her body to wage war on his wife. But she also saw something else in his eyes. Respect? Gratitude? It was hard to tell.

"I'm good," she said, her voice a little shaky. "I'm real good."

A small, genuine smile touched his lips. "You're somethin' else, you know that?" he said. "A real fuckin' trip." He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Thanks for the adventure, tourist."

He pulled away, his eyes holding hers for a long moment. It was a look of mutual understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the crazy, fucked-up, beautiful thing they had just shared. There were no regrets, no apologies, no promises. There was just the memory, an indelible mark on their souls. He gave her a final, lingering glance, a look that said, "I'll never forget you." Then he turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the chip aisle, the scent of him still clinging to her skin, the taste of him still on her lips, the memory of his dick buried deep inside her forever etched in her mind.

Kamilah stood there for a moment, the silence of the aisle pressing in on her. She could still feel the ghost of his touch, the phantom weight of his hand in her hair, the lingering heat of his body pressed against hers. She took a deep, shuddering breath, the air thick with the scent of their sex, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across her face. She felt alive. She had just been a willing participant in a man's public, brutal takedown of his wife, and she had enjoyed every fucking second of it. She adjusted her shorts, wiped a smear of his cum from her thigh, and picked up her basket of snacks. The Smoky Gouda Pringles, the Sour Patch Kids, the bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos—they were no longer just snacks. They were trophies. Souvenirs from the battle. She walked to the counter, her hips swaying with confidence.

The teenage cashier didn't look up from his phone, just grunted when she placed her items on the counter. "That'll be $12.47," he mumbled.

Kamilah dug a twenty out of her pocket, her fingers still a little shaky. "Here you go," she said.

He took the bill, still not looking at her, and made change. As he handed her the bills and coins, he finally glanced up, his eyes widening slightly as he took in her disheveled appearance, the rosy flush on her cheeks, the wild, satisfied look in her eyes. He looked from her to the chip aisle and back again, a flicker of understanding, or at least suspicion, in his gaze. Kamilah just smiled at him, a bright, innocent smile that didn't reach her eyes. She took her change and her snacks, and walked out of the store without a backward glance.

The cherry-red coupe was a welcome sight, a beacon of freedom and escape. She slid into the driver's seat, the hot leather sticking to her skin as she tossed her snacks onto the passenger seat and started the engine, the rumble of the motor a comforting purr. As she pulled away from the pump, she saw them. A black SUV, parked in the shade near the edge of the lot. Elijah was in the driver's seat, his arm resting on the windowsill, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Heaven was in the passenger seat, her head turned away, looking out the side window, a still, silent figure. Elijah watched her as she drove past, their eyes meeting for a brief, charged moment. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He just watched her. Kamilah held his stare for as long as she could, then she turned her attention to the road, put the car in drive, and sped off, leaving the gas station, the drama, and the married man behind her. She didn't know where she was going to stop next, but she knew one thing for sure: this was a road trip she would never forget.

Inside the SUV, the silence was alive. It had weight and substance, filling the space between them, pressing down on them with an unbearable pressure. Elijah took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his head, a hazy halo for his dark, brooding mood. He watched Kamilah's red coupe disappear down the highway, a speck of color in a landscape of dull green and brown. He felt a sense of satisfaction that had been missing from his life for months. He had done it. He had crossed the line. And he had enjoyed it.

He turned his attention to his wife. "So," he said, his voice casual, as if he were asking about the weather. "You understand my terms? You understand my rules?"

Heaven didn't look at him. She just kept staring out the window, her jaw set, her hands clenched in her lap. "You're not serious," she said, her voice tight, brittle. "You wouldn't dare."

Elijah laughed, a low, humorless sound. "Oh, I'm serious, Heaven. I'm dead serious. I just showed you how serious I am. Or were you not paying attention?"

She finally turned to face him, her eyes flashing with a familiar defiance. "You're a pig," she spat. "A disgusting, pathetic pig. You think you can just fuck some random whore and threaten to fuck my family and I'm just gonna roll over and take it? You're insane. I'm not gonna be your little cuck. I'll divorce you. I'll take you for everything you're worth."

Elijah just smiled, which made her blood run cold. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "You still think I'm bluffing?" he asked, his voice soft. He tapped the screen. He held the phone up to his ear, his eyes locked on hers. "Let's find out, shall we?"

Heaven's heart stopped. She watched him, her breath caught in her throat, as the phone rang. Once. Twice. Then a voice, a voice she knew better than her own, answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, Whitney," Elijah said, his voice smooth as silk. "It's Elijah. How you doin', girl?"

Heaven's world began to tilt. Her sister. Her younger sister, Whitney. The one she was supposed to protect, the one who looked up to her, the one who had no idea what kind of monster her brother-in-law truly was. A wave of nausea washed over her, and she felt the blood drain from her face. She shook her head, her eyes wide with pleading, a silent, desperate plea for him to stop.

Elijah ignored her. He just kept smiling, his eyes cold and hard. "Nah, I'm good, just chillin'. Hey, listen, I was wonderin' if you were free later. Me and Heaven were talkin' about you, and we were thinkin' it'd be nice to get together. Maybe you could come over to the house tonight? Just us. We got a lot to catch up on."

He could see the fight drain out of Heaven, the defiance replaced by fear. She knew he would do it. She knew he would fuck her sister, not just to hurt her, but because he enjoyed it. She shook her head again, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. She mouthed the word, "Please."

Elijah watched her, his smile widening. He had her. He had her right where he wanted her. He had broken her. "Okay, cool," he said into the phone. "See you tonight, Whitney. Bye." He hung up the phone and tossed it onto the dashboard. He looked at his wife, his expression triumphant. "Well?" he asked. "You ready to agree to my terms now?"

Heaven just nodded, her head bobbing up and down like a broken doll.

"Good," he said, his voice soft, satisfied. He started the engine, the SUV rumbling to life. He put the car in drive and pulled out onto the highway, heading west, toward home. He glanced over at his wife, who was staring out the window, a silent, obedient little thing. "Now," he said, his voice commanding. "Suck my dick."

Heaven didn't hesitate. She just unbuckled her seatbelt, leaned over, and unzipped his pants. The moment she reached in to pull his dick out, the scent hit her. It was a faint aroma that was undeniably not her own. It was the ghost of another woman's pussy, the lingering evidence of his infidelity, and it made her stomach clench with a sickening mix of humiliation. The smell was potent; the moment his dick was exposed to the cool air of the car, it stood up immediately, hard and proud, the head still glistening with the remnants of his cum and Kamilah's juices.

She took his dick in her mouth, the taste was even more potent than the smell. It was a salty, tangy flavor that was foreign and intimate all at once. It was the taste of betrayal, the taste of another woman's pleasure on her husband's skin. She didn't know what to make of it, didn't know what to make of the situation, didn't know why his sudden dominance was such a turn on and also angered her at the same time. But she did as she was told. She closed her eyes and sucked his dick, her tongue swirling around the head, trying to erase the taste of the stranger with her own saliva, but only succeeding in mingling their flavors together.

As she began to suck him off, Elijah picked up his phone again. He found Whitney's number and hit redial. As the phone rang, he rested his hand on the back of his wife's head, his fingers tangling in her hair, guiding her movements. "Hey, Whitney," he said. "It's me again. Change of plans. Why don't you just come on over now? The sooner, the better." He pushed her head down, forcing his dick deeper into her mouth, making her gag slightly. He smiled, a cruel, satisfied smirk. He had his wife's mouth on his dick, and he had her sister on the phone. Life was good.

It's been three days. And John’s house had become a cage.

It was a spacious loft in a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and steel beams, a space that usually felt like a sanctuary. Now, it felt like a box. He’d tried to sleep, but the sheets were too cool, the silence too loud. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back on that train. The sway of the car, the heat of her body, the way her ass had felt pressed against him. He’d get up, his dick already half-hard, a persistent, aching reminder of his unfinished business.

He tried to eat. A steak, rare and bloody, sat untouched on a plate on his kitchen counter. He’d stared at it, his mind not on the food but on the way she’d bitten her lip, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and lust as Franklin watched them. The thought made his dick throb, a heavy pulse against his thigh. He hated this feeling. This… need. It was a weakness. A hunger that was gnawing at him from the inside out.

He paced the length of his living room, his bare feet silent on the polished concrete floors. He was a man who needed a problem to solve, a thing to fix. He looked around his loft, at the perfectly placed furniture, the organized bookshelves, the spotless floors. There was nothing to fix. And that was the problem. His hands itched to break something, just so he could have the satisfaction of putting it back together.

Is she thinking about me? The thought was a whisper in his mind, a question that had been looping for days. Does she crave this as I do? He hated that he didn’t have her number. Hated that he was at the mercy of a weekly meeting, a public forum where he couldn't say the things he needed to say. He felt like a junkie jonesing for a fix, and she was the only drug that could take the edge off.

He stopped his pacing, his eyes landing on the laundry basket in the corner of his room. He’d thrown his sweatpants in there the night he got home, too exhausted to even think about laundry. He walked over and reached into the pile. His fingers brushed against the soft, familiar fabric of his sweats, and then they found it. Something smaller, lacier.

He pulled them out.

The red lace panties. They were still slightly damp, a tangible reminder of their night. He brought them to his face, and slowly pressed the fabric to his nose and took a deep sniff.

The scent hit him like a punch to the gut. It was her. The sweet scent of her pussy, mixed with the salty, sharp smell of his own cum. It was the scent of their perfect, intoxicating blend of submission and dominance. It was the scent of her need, and his.

And just then, he remembered.

He didn’t need her number.

He knew where she lived.

He’d walked her home. He’d counted the steps, noted the street, the specific townhouse with the black door and the single flickering porch light. It was only a ten-minute walk.

A dangerous smile spread across his face. The pacing stopped. The hunger sharpened into a singular, undeniable purpose.

He didn't bother to change. He just pulled on a black hoodie and a pair of dark jeans, his movements silent. He waited. He waited until the neighborhood outside his window was swallowed by the deepest part of the night, the time when the world was asleep, and the only sounds were the distant hum of the city and the frantic beating of his own heart.

Then he left.

The night air was cool, a welcome relief against his heated skin. He moved through the quiet Brooklyn streets like a ghost, his long strides eating up the pavement. He didn't see the houses or the trees. He only saw the path that led to her.

And then, he was there. Standing in front of her townhome, the black door cast in the darkness. The porch light was off now, the house shrouded in shadow. He could picture her upstairs, in her bed, asleep, unaware that the monster from her dreams was standing just a few feet away, ready to make himself at home.

The front door slammed so hard the frames on the wall, a collection of Stack's half-assed photography and a faded photo of his dead mom, shivered against the plaster. Lola stood her ground in the middle of the living room, a statue of righteous fury in tight blue jeans and a thin white tank top, her arms crossed tight enough to push up the smooth brown skin of her cleavage. The air was thick with the ghosts of his blunt, a sweet, lazy scent that clung to the velvet couch and the cheap air freshener dangling from the lamp. For two hours, she'd been a ghost in his space, watching the blue light of his phone screen paint his sharp features. He'd been a statue too, but a useless one, hunched over on the couch, his long legs spread wide, offering nothing but the occasional grunt—a sound like a rock being dragged over concrete—whenever she tried to pierce his digital bubble.

"You gonna put that fuckin' phone down and actually look at me?" she asked, her voice sharp enough to cut glass, each word enunciated with precision.

Stack didn't even lift his head, his thumb a blur on the screen. "In a minute."

"A minute? Nigga, that's what you said an hour ago," she snapped, the clip in her voice getting tighter. "I came over here to see my man, not to watch you scroll through Insta like some bitch with a new weave. The fuck is so important on that goddamn phone?"

Finally, his eyes lifted, bloodshot and heavy with annoyance. He dragged his gaze over her, slow and dismissive. "The fuck you want from me, Lola? I'm busy."

"Busy?" she laughed, a short, ugly sound. "You're just being an asshole. You're always busy ignoring me, busy acting like I'm a fuckin' inconvenience in your house. You know what? Forget it. I shouldn't have even come."

She turned to snatch her purse from the leather couch, the movement sharp and angry, but his voice stopped her cold, smooth and sharp as a razor's edge.

"Nah, nah, don't run off now," he said, his tone casual, almost conversational, which was always more dangerous than when he was yelling. "You know what your problem is? You think that pussy is a VIP pass. You walk in here expecting me to drop everything, bow down and kiss your feet 'cause you blessed me with your motherfuckin' presence. Let me tell you somethin'. You ain't the only one who can give it up. Shit, you ain't even the best at it. Maybe if you spent less time runnin' your goddamn mouth and more time on your knees, I'd actually have a reason to give a fuck."

The words hit like a slap. Her breath caught, eyes widening in disbelief. She could handle his usual bullshit, his teasing, his arrogance, but this was different. This was meant to wound.

"Fuck you," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

Stack shrugged, already looking back down at his phone. "Door's that way. Don't let it hit you on the ass."

The words hung in the air, ugly and sharp, and for a split second, Lola's whole world narrowed to the burning humiliation behind her eyes. She didn't trust herself to speak or even to breathe, certain that if she did, a sob or a scream would tear out of her throat. So she didn't reply. Just turned, and snatched her purse from the couch. The strap tangled around her fingers, and she gave it a vicious yank. The door slammed behind her with a thunderous crack that vibrated up through the soles of her feet, a final fuck you. The sound echoed through the house, rattling the cheap blinds on the window, but Stack didn't move. He didn't even wait for the sound to die down. He just smirked and kept scrolling, his thumb swiping up on the screen as he watched some random girl shake her ass in a video he'd already seen three times.

Eight hours later, the world outside Lola's window had dissolved into a humid, moonless night. She was curled into a tight ball on her couch, a nest of throw pillows and a crumpled blanket that still smelled faintly of his cologne. The TV cast a silent, flickering blue light across the living room, but her eyes were glued to the phone in her hand, the screen a blur of faces and posts she wasn't actually seeing. The initial, hot sting of his words had long since cooled, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache that thudded in time with her heart. She'd gone through the whole cycle, first the hot, shameful tears that streaked her makeup, then the red-hot anger that had her pacing her living room and muttering curses at the walls, and now, this. A quiet, heavy numbness that settled in her body. Fuck him. A fresh wave of it, cold and sharp. Fuck Stack and his petty, soul-crushing bullshit. She took a vicious bite of the half-eaten pint of ice cream melting on her coffee table, the spoon scraping against the cardboard container, the taste of chocolate and self-pity thick on her tongue.

Then she heard it. Faint at first, then growing louder, a bass line thumping through the neighborhood, getting closer to her house. She sat up, frowning. Who the hell was blasting music this late? The sound grew until it was right outside. A deep, familiar voice boomed through the night: "What these bitches want from a nigga?"

Lola's eyes widened. No. No fucking way.

The bass hit first, a deep, insistent thump that vibrated through the floorboards and up into the soles of her feet, a physical intrusion that made her teeth ache. Lola's head snapped up, her heart kicking against her ribs. She scrambled off the couch, her bare feet silent on the carpet as she crept to the window, her fingers fumbling with the slats of the blinds. She peered through the narrow gap, and her eyes widened.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

There he was. Stack, looking like a fucking myth in the yellow glow of the streetlamp. He was leaning against the hood of his car, legs spread wide in that cocksure stance of his, a giant, old-school boombox lifted onto one shoulder like he was a black John Cusack in some ghetto-ass remake of an eighties movie. The night air around him vibrated with the sound, and then the gravelly, unmistakable voice of DMX tore through the quiet suburb: "What these bitches want from a nigga?" He was looking straight up at her window, his face half in shadow, but she could see it clear as day, that goddamn smirk. The one that was all arrogance, the one she both wanted to kiss off his face and slap right off it. It was a look that said, I know I'm an asshole, but you know you love me. And he was right.

"Knock on door, no show, I'm sleep tryin' to creep, Wit yo' best friend, put it in, dig deep," the boombox blasted.

Lola's heart was pounding, a mix of anger and amusement. She watched as he set the boombox down, pulled out his phone, and started texting. A second later, her phone buzzed.

[Stack]: Come outside.

[Lola]: Are you serious right now?

[Stack]: Come talk to me.

[Lola]: After what you said earlier? Go fuck yourself.

[Stack]: Look, I'm a dickhead. And I fucked up. I know this. But I'm your dickhead. Now come outside before I serenade you with the whole goddamn album.

Lola bit her lip, fighting a smile. This was so typical of Stack, he knew exactly how to push her buttons, how to make her forget why she was mad in the first place. With a sigh, she grabbed her keys and headed for the door. When she stepped outside, the music was still blasting, Stack watching her with that intense gaze that made her stomach flip.

"Took you long enough," he said, his voice vibrating through the soles of her bare feet.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" she shot back, but the venom had drained out of her, leaving behind something tired and brittle.

The smirk finally fell from his face, replaced by an unguarded look she rarely saw. "Yeah," he breathed, stepping into her space until they were almost touching. "I know." He didn't apologize with words. Instead, his hand came up, not to touch her face, but to gently wrap around her throat, his thumb resting on the frantic pulse point in her neck. It wasn't a threat, but grounding. "I was a fucked-up prick earlier. That ain't on you. That's all me."

Lola didn't pull away. She just stared up at him, her eyes searching his. "Then why say it?"

His thumb stroked her skin. "'Cause I'm a selfish motherfucker who gets stupid when I think I'm about to lose something. And I don't wanna lose you." He leaned in, his forehead pressing against hers, the gesture surprisingly tender. "Now you gonna stand there all night, or you gonna let me make it right?"

He didn't wait for an answer. His mouth crashed down on hers, a kiss that was a frantic apology he could never speak aloud. It tasted like cheap menthol cigarettes and regret, and Lola kissed him back just as hard, her hands fisting in the front of his hoodie. The boombox in the yard continued its aggressive serenade, but the world had shrunk to this, to the punishing grip of his hands on her hips, pulling her against him, to the way he was trying to crawl inside her skin, to erase the last eight hours with a single kiss.

He's thorough with his choices of meat that he picks for his dishes. He's serious about his craft, and that includes being serious about who he picks to put in his dishes. Typically, he likes to pick customers that he deems are very rude. You know the ones. The guy who likes to insist on complaining to the waitress about every small, minute detail of his order. The lady who just swears up and down that she needs to speak to the manager.

The annoying foodie who watched way too many seasons of Chef's Table and swears that they're so advanced just because they bought a Pacojet.

Or his least favorite kinds of customers. The assholes who thought that it was a good idea to be dicks to waitresses because they thought they were bad off for tips.

The way that Grant sees it. He's doing a huge favor to the world by ridding it of these vermin. No one would miss any of these people. He sees their sacrifice (or murder, but who's counting semantics, anyway) as the ultimate good that you could be doing for their fellow man. Plus, they should be honored.

They're being made into a delicious dish that brings joy and fulfillment to his guests. What could be better than that?

The first time that Grant Reilly sees you stepping into his restaurant, he can't help but wonder how you'd taste. He wonders how your organs would pair with a nice red bottle of Château Margaux from the 20s. He's not blind by any means, so he's very aware of your beauty and your gorgeous body. He lets his eyes trail down your thick thighs and his mouth water as he imagines your leg roasted.

Most of all, his mind goes to other places. He's always been gifted at smelling things that other people can't. Which is how he smells your menstrual blood from his position at the door. He wonders how your pussy would taste after he supplies you with the richest and sweetest foods over the course of the weekend. Even more, how rich would the blood from your cunt taste as the thick, gelly-like blood clots slide from you during your period? He practically salivates at the thought of the squishy substance crunching through his teeth.

"Do you know who that is?" Taylor whispers harshly to him.

"No, should I?" He asks.

"That's Yn Yln. She's a famous influencer on TikTok and Instagram. Seriously, Grant, the girl's got like 10 million followers on both platforms. She's known for her vlog and food reviews."

Huh, so you were one of those pretty girls who held a camera to your face, letting the world see every detail of your life? Through the glass, Grant watches you as you smile at Kelly, one of their waitresses. It's clear that Kelly recognizes you, and she's trying her best not to fangirl over you. You're polite when asking her questions about the menu and ordering your food.

Grant is the one to prepare your food. It just so happens that you order the kidney pie with red and yellow beets. He searches through the fridge for the best cut of kidney. He finds the one labelled 07/31/26. Ah yes, he remembers this one vividly. Some tech-bro named Kyle, who insisted that he could buy Grant's entire restaurant after Grant refused to serve him a dish that was out of season. Well, Kyle would pair quite nicely with the dish. Thank you, Kyle.

When Kelly brings the dish out to you, Grant spots you taking pictures of the food before setting the camera up to take a video of you trying the dish. He watches you gently slice at the dish and slide the fork between your perfectly glossed lips.

Your eyes close in ecstasy as you chew on the dish.

"This is amazing," You said to the camera before jumping into describing the details.

"Chef Reilly made it himself for you," Kelly comments.

"Could you thank him for me?" You ask, smiling at the girl.

"Of course!"

Kelly rushes back to the kitchen with a bright smile on her face. Grant tries to appear indifferent as she approaches him. "Chef Reilly, she loves the dish, and she wants me to thank you for it."

Good girl. You were proving to be grateful already.

Throughout the course of the night, you and your group order more food, which you try for your followers. At some point, you put your phone away to enjoy the full experience of the dinner and setting. Grant watches you the entire night under the guise of ensuring that you are having a good experience. Truthfully, he's developing more and more of an obsession with you.

However, the familiar itch of irritation starts to claw at Grant once he notices one of your friends being rude and dismissive to his staff. He looks to you to see what you'll do to handle this. He hopes for your sake that you handle it promptly. Because it'd be very rude if you didn't. Grant can think of plenty of dishes that he could use your body in, but he hopes that you won't disappoint him.

He spots you leaning over to the girl, your pretty face pinched in frustration as it's clear that you're telling her off discreetly. The girl huffs in anger before pushing her chair back to exit the restaurant. You roll your eyes, and Grant catches you apologizing.

Good girl.

He figures that he'll kill your friend later on this week and pair her with his red Cumberland sauce. By the end of the dinner, Grant realizes that this may be the best time to introduce himself to you. He grabs your check from Kelly's hand and walks over to the table.

"Good evening. I trust that you all enjoyed your meal tonight. I'm Grant Reilly, owner of North & Vine," He said, but he only kept his eyes on you.

Your eyes light up. "Chef Reilly, hi! It's really nice to meet you. The food was amazing. I've actually never tasted anything like it before."

"Good, I'm glad that you found everything satisfactory. I wanted to invite you to tour the kitchen, and I've prepared a special dessert for you," Grant said.

"Oh, you didn't have to go through all of that trouble for me," You said.

"S'no problem at all, sweetheart. It's an honor to have you dining with us tonight."

After paying for your meal, you leave a generous tip for Kelly and the other staff members. You bid your friends farewell before following Grant back into the kitchen. He introduces you to the other staff before showing you all of the parts of the kitchen. Most of the staff leaves after cleaning, which leaves you and Grant alone in the restaurant. He ushers you over to one of the tables, which holds the dessert that he prepared for you.

"This is a black forest cake-inspired tiramisu with chocolate savoiardi, spiked cherry espresso, dark sweet cherry compote, vanilla bean mascarpone cream, and shaved dark chocolate."

Your pretty eyes widen in delight at the beautiful dish sitting in front of you. You turn to face him. "It looks like a work of art. It's so pretty."

"Yes, it is," Grant states, but his eyes are nowhere near the dessert and only on you. You catch his stare and can feel the heat blooming through your body. You'd seen pictures of the man many times, and you found him very attractive, but seeing him up close was a whole other experience.

Before you can even think of picking up the fork, Grant does it for you. He scoops each layer of the dessert onto the fork before holding the silverware to your lips.

He smirks, "I wouldn't want you to miss any of the flavors, sweetheart."

Gently, you part your lips, and Grant ushers the fork between your lips. His eyes zero in on the way that your lips close around the fork. Your eyes close again as the explosion of flavors hits your taste buds. You moan softly, and the sound hits Grant squarely in the chest.

"It's the perfect balance of sweet and bitter. The chocolate is bitter, but not overpowering. The cherries add this layer of tartness to balance out the chocolate. It's amazing, Chef Reilly."

"Grant," He corrects softly.

His eyes go to the cherry compote that stains the bottom of your lip. You're oblivious to this. Grant reaches out to run a finger across your lip and collects the red substance onto his finger along with some of your pink lip gloss. The older man keeps his eyes on you as he slides his finger between his lips, sucking the combination from his finger.

You push your thighs together.

Grant steps closer, squaring his shoulders and looking down at you. You swallow the saliva that's collected in your mouth from the dark look that the man gives you.

"You taste sweet," He announces.

You're both chest to chest. He lowers his voice, "I wonder how sweet you are in other places."

You gulp, "My period is on."

He shrugs, "Even better."

Which leads you to lying back on one of your workstations that Grant and his staff prepare food on, with the older man's silver hair peeking from between your legs. Grant slides the soaked tampon from between your legs. He holds the tampon up by the string, red liquid dripping from it into his waiting mouth. Your jaw drops as you see the man lower the stained tampon into his mouth and start to suckle all of the blood off. The sharp iron taste bursts across his tongue, and he moans in delight.

Once he's sure that he's drained all of the blood from the tampon, he slides the pale material from his lips and carelessly deposits it on the floor. His freckled hands come up to spread your thick thighs wider, where he can see the true source of his admiration.

Your weeping cunt.

Grant slides his tongue from your entrance to your sensitive clit. He wraps his bloodied lips around your pearl before starting to suckle. Your back arches from the table as you grind your pussy across his face.

"Oh my gosh, Grant," You yell, glancing down at the way that the man feasts on you. This definitely has to be grown-man behavior because none of your prior partners have ever thought of the possibility of pleasuring you this way.

The older man groans into your folds, the vibrations sending chills through your spine. He moves down to slide his tongue inside of you, swirling his tongue around your walls. His nose bumps clumsily into your clit, and you moan louder.

Grant brings his hands up to grip your thighs to pull you closer to his face–if that were even possible. He slides two fingers into your sensitive walls, scissoring the digits and hoping that more of your juices will leak into his hand. He moans loudly once one of your clots slides into his mouth.

"You taste so good, sweetheart. Cum for me. Let me taste you," Grant pants. He curls his fingers upwards, catching that spot that has you seeing stars. Simultaneously, he wraps his lips around your clit once again.

You feel like you're receiving an exorcism with the way that your soul leaves your body once your release hits. Grant licks you dutifully while watching your pleasured expression. The moans that leave your mouth are truly unladylike. It sounds like the man is murdering you inside the kitchen. Fortunately for you, he has no plans of doing that anytime soon.

Hopefully.

Grant looks up from his legs, your blood and slick staining his face and stubble. He smiles politely at you as if he wasn't just taking your soul.

"Would you wanna go on a date with me, sweetheart?"

-

Seven months later.

Grant finds out something very interesting about you.

You're big on celebrating anniversaries no matter how small. You felt that it was necessary to celebrate your seven-month anniversary, and who was he to deprive his pretty girl of being celebrated? Plus, you'd landed a seven-figure deal with a brand, so he figured that it must be a coincidence.

Which leads him to the current moment of chopping up some arrogant prick who was leaving hate comments on your videos. No one gets to be rude to his pretty girl without any consequences.

What makes the occasion even more special for Grant is that he removes the man's heart with him still alive and very much aware of what's happening to him. The man cries silent tears as Grant opens him up piece by piece.

Grant spares a bored glance at the man. "You know, Robert, if you weren't such a raging racist piece of shit, I wouldn't even be doing this, but you felt that it was necessary to leave hateful comments on my girlfriend's videos. Do you know how hard she works on those? Do you understand how she has to get the perfect angle with her back camera, and then she has to check the lights to make sure that they catch her pretty brown skin just right? Let's not forget how much time she takes to get dolled up, Robert, and you thought that you could shit all over that."

The man sluggishly tries to beg for his life, but honestly, there's no way that Grant's letting him go.

His phone rings from the table, and he answers it as he places it on speakerphone.

"Hey, pretty girl, are you excited for tonight?" He asks casually as if he isn't cutting Robert's heart out.

"I'm so excited. I can't wait to try out the dish you're making. Thank you again for doing this, baby. I love you so much."

"I love you too, honey. Now, I don't want you to worry about a single detail. The only thing you need to do is get all pretty for me tonight."

Grant continues the rest of the call in his normal voice. He removes Robert's heart and watches the light fade from the man's eyes. He places the organ on ice before wiping his hands.

He'll collect the rest of the organs from Robert later.

-

Later, as you sit at the table in all of your beauty, Grant walks from the kitchen holding both of your plates.

"My lady, tonight, we'll be having heart wellington served in a special red sauce with portobello mushrooms and carrots," Grant states, placing the plate in front of you.

"Oh, Grant, it's gorgeous, baby. Thank you!"

"Of course, sweetheart, always the best for you. Try it out."

He watches closely as you cut a piece of the dish and slide the fork into your mouth. As usual, your eyes close in ecstasy, and you moan softly at the taste. Your eyes meet his. "I swear if you keep feeding me this good, I won't be able to fit into any of my dresses."

Grant smirks. "I like you thick and healthy, baby. Don't worry your pretty head about any weight. So tell me about this new brand campaign."

You immediately smile and launch into all of the details surrounding your brand deal. Grant smiles, cuts a slice of the heart, and eats it. He takes a sip of his wine right after. He hums happily at the taste. He made an excellent choice by deciding to pair Robert with the Chardonnay.

As he gazes at you, he can only describe the love that he has for you. He displays it each time he prepares a dish for you, and you're blindly oblivious to the contents of the dish.

But who else could say that they'd shown their love language this way?

Grant Reilly had signified his love to you in the most ultimate way.

By giving you a real heart.

-

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The 24-hour fitness gym on Flatbush was a cathedral of forgotten ambition at 2 a.m. It was a space of humming silence and cold, blue light, a graveyard of good intentions. The air, thick with the sterile scent of rubber sanitizer and the faint, metallic tang of old sweat, was the only thing that moved. Upstairs, a lone runner’s feet kept a monotonous, slapping rhythm against a treadmill belt, a sound that didn't break the quiet so much as embody it. Down here, in the weight room, John was a statue carved from shadow, leaning against the cinderblock wall, his presence absorbing the dim light from the emergency exit sign.

His phone, a slab of black glass, was the only illumination on his face. His profile on a niche kink forum was a masterclass in efficiency. No name, no face, no carefully curated bio. Just a username: JC6'6. Below it, under the stark heading "Kinks," was a list that read less like a menu and more like a set of demands: Dry humping. Public/risk. Being watched. Panties. His DMs were a digital morgue, a scroll of closed conversations with women whose names he’d already forgotten. They were tools, means to an end, and once their purpose was served, they were discarded. He was a collector of moments, not memories.

A new message lit up the screen, a sharp white pulse in the gloom. ChloeVantasy: I know what you need. 24-Hour Fitness on Flatbush. Free weight section, bench by the squat rack. 2:15 AM. Don't be late.

John’s thumb hovered, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes. He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. His presence was the confirmation. He pocketed the phone, the movement fluid and silent, and remained where he was, a predator waiting for his prey to walk into the trap.

She arrived at 2:17, a flicker of nervous energy in a room built on stillness. Chloe was pretty in a way that was instantly forgettable—her dark brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail, wide, uncertain eyes. She wore a matching set of black leggings and a sports bra that did little to hide the tremble in her limbs. She wore a matching set of black leggings and a sports bra that did little to hide the tremble in her limbs. She scanned the empty weight room, her gaze landing on him. He didn't move. He didn't nod. He just watched her, his expression a blank canvas that she could project all her desires onto. She understood the unspoken command. Her eyes darted to the workout bench he’d claimed, the one angled just so, offering a perfect view of the room’s entrance while remaining partially obscured by the massive squat rack beside it.

She walked over, her steps hesitant on the rubber-matted floor. She stood by the bench, looking at it, then back at him, a silent question. He finally pushed off the wall, his 6'6" frame unfolding with a dangerous grace. He didn’t say a word as he approached. He didn't touch her, not yet. He just circled her once, a slow, appraising orbit, his gaze stripping her bare as he stopped behind her, his body radiating a heat that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature.

“On the bench,” he said.

Chloe obeyed instantly, a shiver of anticipation running down her spine. She positioned herself on all fours, her hands gripping the cool, textured vinyl of the bench, her knees sinking into the thin mat beneath it. The position was vulnerable, and perfect. John moved behind her and hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings and, in one smooth, decisive motion, pulled them down to her knees, exposing the smooth skin of her ass and the delicate black lace of her thong. He didn't take them off. He just left them there, a band of fabric that restrained her, a reminder that she was at his mercy.

He hooked a thumb under the string of her thong and slid it to the side. The view was fucking perfect. Bent over like this, her ass was high and round, a deep, rich brown that gleamed under the cold gym lights. Her pussy was bare, smooth, and already glistening, catching the light. The lips were plump and slightly parted, a dark, dusky pink at the center, revealing the soft, wet flesh inside. A private feast just for him. He could smell her, too—a faint, sweet scent that cut through the smell of the gym and went straight to his head. It was the smell of want, and it made his mouth water.

He pulled down the waistband of his gym shorts and freed himself. His dick sprang out, heavy and demanding. It was rock-hard, the thick vein along the underside pulsing with his heartbeat. The tip was flushed and swollen. It looked hungry. It felt hungry. It was a beast that wanted one thing: to feel that hot, slick skin against its own. He didn't enter her. That wasn't the point.

He gripped her hips with his large, strong hands, his fingers digging into her side, and positioned the length of his dick against her slick folds. He began to move, a slow slide. The underside of his dick dragged against her clit, the sensitive head bumping over her entrance with each pass. It was a torturous friction. With every stroke, he coated himself in her wetness, the glide becoming easier, slicker, more intoxicating. He could feel her trembling beneath him, soft, desperate whimpers escaping her lips as she pushed back against him, trying to force him inside.

He just held her tighter, controlling the rhythm, denying her what she thought she wanted. This was his need. The heat, the slide, the feeling of her pussy coating his dick without the barrier of entry. It was skin-to-skin contact, a tease that was more satisfying than any fuck.

And then, it happened. The click of a lock, the groan of a hinge.

A cleaning woman, a heavyset woman with tired eyes and a tired soul, emerged from the back office, pushing her wide, clattering cart of supplies. She was moving on autopilot, her mind a million miles away, until she saw them. She froze, her hand hovering over a bottle of all-purpose cleaner. Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open in a perfect 'O' of shock.

This was it. This was the moment John lived for.

He didn't stop. He didn't flinch. He didn't even break his rhythm of his strokes. He lifted his head, his eyes finding the woman’s over Chloe’s shoulder. He locked his gaze with hers, a look of unapologetic dominance. A smirk spread across his face. The shock on her face, the way she couldn't look away, the mixture of disgust and a flicker of awe… that was the fuel. That was the spark that ignited the fire in his gut.

He picked up his pace, his thrusts becoming harder. The sound changed instantly. It was no longer a quiet slide; it was a sharp, staccato slap of skin on skin, a filthy, rhythmic beat that echoed in the vast room, a counterpoint to the low hum of the lights. From beneath him, Chloe’s moans grew louder, no longer soft whimpers but desperate, guttural cries that were swallowed by the empty space. "Oh god, oh god," she chanted, her voice breaking with each punishing thrust. But John wasn't listening to her. His entire focus was on the woman by the door.

He was putting on a show now, performing for his audience of one. He watched the woman’s face, saw her cheeks drain of color, saw her hand abandon the cart and grip the metal shelf beside her. He saw her chest rise and fall with her own ragged breaths. He stared right into her wide, shocked eyes as he drove into Chloe again and again, his hips snapping forward with a force that made the bench scrape against the floor. He was daring her to look away, daring her to admit she was seeing something she had no business seeing, and the fact that she couldn't made his dick throb with a primal, victorious power.

“Fuck,” he growled. He gripped Chloe’s hips bruisingly tight, slamming against her one last time, and with a shuddering groan, he came. He came all over her pussy, his thick release painting her lips, her clit, the inside of her thighs. It was a mess.

But he wasn't done.

He pulled back, his chest heaving. He hooked his fingers into the soaked lace of her thong and, with a sharp tug, ripped it. The fabric gave way with a satisfying tear. He pulled the ruined panties from between her legs, balled them up, and stuffed them into his shorts pocket. A trophy.

He tucked his softening dick back into his shorts and turned away. He didn't look at Chloe, who was still trembling on the bench, a mess of sweat, cum, and confusion. He didn't look at the cleaning woman, who was still standing there, her cart forgotten. He just walked toward the exit, his steps calm, leaving behind the wreckage of his satisfaction.

That’s the shit, he thought, the damp lace a secret weight in his pocket. Not the nut. The look in their eyes when they see something they ain’t supposed to. And this… this is proof. A reminder that I was here. That I took what I wanted.

A week earlier, the scene was different. The air wasn't sterile and cold; it was thick, hot, and heavy with the scent of steam, eucalyptus, and chlorine. The sound wasn't a hum; it was a hiss, the percussive drumming of water against tiled walls in the gym's communal showers. It was late, past eleven, the last class having long since ended. For Kam, this was the only time the world felt quiet enough to breathe.

The past few weeks had been a slow burn. Terrance, the gym’s manager, had been circling her. He was a beautiful specimen of a man, all muscle and swagger, his mahogany skin always glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. He was cocky, sure, but he backed it up with the kind of solid, powerful frame that made Kam’s mouth water. He was built like a defensive lineman, all broad shoulders, thick chest, and powerful legs. He wasn't just big; he was dense, a solid wall of muscle that promised the one thing Kam craved more than anything: weight.

His flirting had been a masterclass in escalation. It started with comments on her form. "Arch that back more, Kam. Let me see that spine straight." Then it moved to her physique. "Damn, girl. You squat heavy. You need a real spotter, someone who can handle all that weight." His hands would linger on her lower back, his thumb brushing against her ass, a touch that was both proprietary and a promise. Kam, a woman of action, not words, responded in kind. She added more plates to the bar; she let her grunts be a little louder, she held his gaze for a second too long. Her body language was a challenge that said, You talk a good game. Let's see if you can back it up.

Tonight, he finally took the bait.

The locker room was empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Kam had just finished her shower, the hot water turning her skin a deep, glowing bronze. She was wrapping a towel around her body when the door to the shower area swung open. It was Terrance. He was wearing nothing but a pair of wet, black basketball shorts that clung to his thick, muscular thighs, his chest and abdomen a breathtaking landscape of carved muscle. He didn't say a word. He just walked toward her, his presence instantly consuming the small, steamy space.

He stepped into her personal space, his large frame crowding hers, backing her up until her shoulders hit the cool, slick tile of the shower wall. He was a furnace, his body heat a clear difference to the cold wall at her back. He reached past her and turned the shower head back on, the hot water immediately spraying over them both, plastering her hair to her skin and making his muscles glisten.

This was it. This was what she had been waiting for. The pressure of him.

He spun her around with an effortless strength, snatched the towel from her body, and pressed her breasts and stomach against the cold, wet tile. He kicked her feet apart with his own, his stance wide and dominant. His weight was pinning her, a delicious force that made her head spin and her pussy clench with a desperate, immediate need. It wasn't just his physical mass; it was the intention behind it.

He entered her from behind in one hard, deep thrust that stole her breath. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't romantic. It was exactly what she fucking wanted. The stretch a yummy, satisfying ache. Kam had never been a fan of dirty talk; for her, pleasure was found in the physical, in the reality of the act. Her version of dirty talk was a series of commands, gasped out between powerful, punishing thrusts.

“Harder,” she grunted, her hands flat against the tile, pushing back against him.

He obliged, his hips snapping forward, the sound of his skin slapping against hers echoing in the steamy enclosure.

“Don’t you fuckin’ stop.”

His rhythm never faltering.

“Right there. Right fuckin’ there.”

As he pounded into her, the water cascading over their bodies, she felt that perfect, mounting pressure building deep inside her. It wasn't just the stretch of him inside her, the way his thick dick dragged against her inner walls with every stroke. It was everything. It was the weight of his heavy chest on her back, the feel of his powerful hands gripping her shoulders, the way his muscular thighs pressed into the backs of hers, pinning her completely. It was the feeling of being held, pinned, and consumed by a man's solid, undeniable presence. It was the pressure, the glorious, crushing weight, that was pushing her toward the edge.

The pressure coiled deep in her belly, a tight, hot knot that had nothing to do with the friction inside her and everything to do with the solid wall of muscle at her back. It was the weight of him, the sheer, undeniable mass that stole the air from her lungs and replaced it with a dizzying, intoxicating high. Her thighs began to tremble, a fine vibration that started in the muscles and spread inward, a deep, cellular hum of anticipation. The world narrowed to the feel of his hands on her shoulders, the steady, punishing rhythm of his hips, and the cold, slick tile pressed against her breasts.

Then, she broke

It wasn't a wave of pleasure; it was an implosion. A sharp, broken cry was ripped from her throat as every muscle in her body seized at once. Her spine locked, her toes curled, and her cunt clenched around him. It was a full-body convulsion, a violent shudder that started in her core and shot out to her fingertips, a release born not from a touch, but from being held, dominated by his mass. The force of it buckled her knees, and only the weight of his body pinning her to the wall kept her from collapsing.

He followed her over the edge a second later, his groan muffled by the wet hair at the nape of her neck as he pulled out and emptied himself on her ass, the heat of his release a fleeting warmth against her skin.

Before leaving, he gave her ass a sharp, slap that echoed in the small space, and then was gone. Kam slid down the wall, her legs too weak to hold her up, and sat under the hot spray, boneless, sated, and finally, perfectly still.

The basement of the St. Jude Community Center smelled of stale coffee, institutional disinfectant, and the quiet desperation of too many secrets crammed into one room. It was a church for the godless, a confessional for sins that couldn't be forgiven with a dozen Hail Marys. Forty folding chairs were arranged in a near-perfect circle, a lopsided halo of beige plastic and muted suffering. A lukewarm pot of coffee sat on a card table in the corner, next to a stack of styrofoam cups and a box of donuts that looked like they’d seen better days. This was the weekly meeting for "Sexual Compulsivity Anonymous," a place where people came to talk about the itch they couldn't scratch, the hunger that wouldn't be sated.

John was already there. He’d been there for twenty minutes, a silent, immovable object in a room full of anxious, fidgeting energy. John was already there. He’d been there for twenty minutes, a silent, immovable object in a room full of anxious, fidgeting energy. His body was a stark contradiction to the flimsy chair he occupied. He carried the dense, powerful build of a former SEAL, but packed with a thick, functional muscle that spoke of combat, not a weight room. His shoulders were broad, his chest a solid slab, and his arms, corded with veined strength, rested heavily. He was a weapon that had been put away but not forgotten, a fixture of quiet intensity whose presence sucked the air out of his immediate vicinity. He wore a simple black hoodie and gray sweatpants, his massive frame cloaked with a stillness that was more rage than peaceful. The metal groaned under his weight, a constant, low complaint. He was a fixture of quiet intensity, his presence sucking the air out of his immediate vicinity. He wore a simple black hoodie and gray sweatpants, his massive arms crossed over his chest, his hands tucked away, out of sight. His face was a mask of stoic observation, his eyes scanning the room, missing nothing. He wasn’t here to share; he was here to observe, to be in a room where the thing that drove him was named, dissected, and neutered by words like "coping mechanism" and "impulse control." They didn't get it. For them, it was a sickness to be cured. For him, it was a language to be spoken.

He’d learned the language well. He knew the difference between a cry for help and a performance of guilt. He knew the signs of a relapse before the person even opened their mouth. He’d learned all this in a group just like this one, down in D.C., right after he’d retired from the Navy. That’s where he’d seen her. A girl, no older than twenty, who couldn't stop rubbing her thighs together. Every meeting, she’d sit there, her hands clasped in her lap, her legs pressed so tightly together they’d tremble. It was a subconscious act of friction, a desperate attempt to simulate the one thing she craved: the solid, heavy weight of a man between her legs. He’d watched her for months, recognizing the silent scream of a need that went far beyond a simple desire for sex. It was a need for pressure, for deep satisfaction that only came from being physically overwhelmed.

The door to the basement swung open with a sudden, sharp creak, slicing through the drone of a man talking about his porn addiction. And then she walked in.

Kam.

She was a disruption, a splash of vibrant, chaotic color in a world of beige and gray. She was late, and she looked like she’d just fought her way out of a nightclub. Her outfit was an act of war against her own self-control. A thigh-high velvet skirt, the color of deep burgundy, clung to her thick thighs and generous hips, ending high enough to be a threat. Her top was a sheer, black cropped thing that did little more than frame her full breasts, the dark peaks of her nipples a blatant shadow beneath the fabric. Her hair, a wild cascade of braids, was pulled back from her face, but a few rebellious strands had escaped, framing a face that was stunningly beautiful and etched with a frantic, restless energy. She wasn't dressed for the group; she was dressed for the fight she’d been having in a club ten minutes before, a fight she had clearly lost.

She mumbled an apology to the group counselor, a weary-looking woman named Brenda, and scanned the circle for an empty seat. John watched her, his posture unchanged, but his focus sharpening to a fine point. He saw the frantic hum beneath her mask of calm, the way her eyes darted around the room, an animal looking for an escape. She was a live wire, and everyone in the room could feel the electric charge she was giving off.

She found the only empty chair, directly across the circle from him. As she walked toward it, John’s mind, a place usually reserved for cold calculation and strategy, went to a very specific, dirty place. He saw the velvet skirt, the sheer top, and his brain supplied the rest. He thought about bending her over one of these flimsy chairs, yanking that skirt up over her hips, and making her his little cum dumpster. He imagined the slide, the heat of his dick against her skin, the feeling of her coating him without ever letting him inside. He thought about marking those panties, leaving his cum in the fabric as a sign, a claim. It wasn't about fucking her. It was about owning the space between her legs.

Kam sank into the chair, the cheap plastic groaning in protest. The meeting continued, but for John, the sound had faded into a dull, irrelevant buzz. His world had shrunk to the ten feet of linoleum that separated him from her. He watched as she crossed her legs, then uncrossed them. She shifted in her seat, trying to find a position that didn't feel like a torture device. She was restless, a caged panther pacing in a cage that was far too small. Every shift of her hips, every subtle press of her thighs together was a silent scream.

He saw it then. The sign. The same one he’d seen in D.C. She started rubbing her thighs together. It was a slow, rhythmic motion, almost imperceptible to anyone who wasn't looking for it. Her hands were clenched in her lap, but her legs were moving, creating a small, secret friction. She was trying to ground herself, to simulate the weight, the pressure, the one thing that could quiet the storm raging inside her.

His control began to fray. He could feel his own dick stirring, a slow, thickening response to the need she was broadcasting. He watched, mesmerized, as she shifted again, her velvet skirt riding up just a fraction higher. And then he saw it. A flash of color. Red. Silk. The edge of her panties peeking out from beneath the hem of her skirt as she adjusted her position.

The air between them, across the circle of broken people, became charged and heavy, thick with a tension that had nothing to do with sexual recovery and everything to do with the animal desire. It was a live current, arcing across the room, connecting them in a way that no one else could feel or understand.

As if feeling the weight of his stare, Kam’s head lifted. Her eyes, wide with a frantic energy, found his. The room, the people, the drone of the counselor's voice—it all melted away. It was just the two of them, locked in a gaze that was more intimate than any touch. He didn't try to hide what he was thinking. He let his eyes go dark, let the hunger show. He saw the recognition in her gaze, the moment she understood that he saw her. Not the late arrival, not the pretty girl in the scandalous outfit, but her. The hungry her. The needy her.

He gave her a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

Her lips parted slightly. She held his gaze for a second longer, a silent, desperate acknowledgment passing between them. It was a conversation without words, a pact sealed in the air of a church basement.

I see you.

I know what you need.

The meeting ended with the familiar, hollow chime of a cheap timer. Brenda, the counselor, offered her usual benediction of platitudes. "Keep coming back. It works if you work it." A lie, and everyone in the room knew it. The circle broke, and the awkward post-group ritual began, the shuffling of feet, the pouring of stale coffee, the forced small talk that was just another form of hiding. People lingered, desperate for the connection they couldn't find in the real world, a connection they'd just spent an hour admitting they were incapable of handling.

Kam didn't linger. She was up and moving the second the chime rang, a shot fired from a starting block. She grabbed her tote bag from the floor and was halfway to the door before anyone could offer her a donut. She needed out. She needed air. She needed the anonymous, uncaring crush of a crowd to swallow her whole, to drown out the humming in her blood that had gotten a thousand times louder the second she locked eyes with the man across the circle.

Fuck, she thought, her mind a frantic scramble as she pushed through the heavy basement door and into the cool night air. He saw me. It wasn't just the acknowledgment of her outfit or her tardiness. It was deeper. He saw the need, the frantic, clawing thing that lived under her skin. He saw it and he just… nodded. The memory of that simple gesture made her pussy clench.

John watched her go, his gaze tracking her until the door swung shut behind her. He didn't move. He let the others mill around, their nervous chatter a meaningless buzz. He stayed in his chair, the flimsy plastic groaning as he shifted his weight. He was processing. Savoring. He hadn't just seen a woman in a short skirt; he'd seen a reflection of his own hunger. He’d seen the tell, the rubbing of the thighs, and it had taken him back to that group in D.C. But this was different. That girl had been young, lost. Kam was a woman, fully formed and radiating a power that was a direct challenge to his own.

She knows what she is, he thought, his dick a heavy, solid presence in his sweats. And she knows I know what I am.

Kam didn't walk to the subway; she power-walked, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm on the cracked pavement. Each step was an attempt to outrun the energy coursing through her, the phantom feeling of his eyes on her skin. The stairs down to the L train were a gauntlet of shadows and echoing sounds, and she practically dove through the turnstile, desperate for the sanctuary of the train.

The car was packed, a sardine can of late-night commuters—baristas, bouncers, students, and night-shift workers. It was perfect. There were no seats, so she was forced to stand in the middle of the car, exposed, holding onto a greasy metal pole for balance. The anonymous crowd closed in around her, a wall of bodies that was both a shield and a cage. The doors hissed, beginning to slide shut.

And then he was there.

A large figure slipped through the narrowing gap at the last second, a shadow detaching itself from the platform and merging with the darkness of the car. John. The doors closed behind him with a decisive thud.

It wasn't long before their eyes locked across the sea of strangers. It was like the world had tilted beneath his feet and landed squarely between her legs. He was near the doors; she was a few feet across from him. The game wasn't just on anymore. It was being played out in real-time, on a moving stage with a captive audience.

The train lurched to life, swaying as it picked up speed, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the tracks a steady, pounding beat. The crowd became a curtain, a shifting, anonymous mass that gave them the illusion of privacy. From his spot, John watched her; Kam watched him right back, her own stare no longer frantic but openly appreciative, hungry. She took him in, really took him in. The scale of him. The way his hoodie stretched across his broad shoulders and thick chest, the way his sweatpants couldn't hide the powerful, muscular lines of his thighs. His arms, crossed over his chest, were like tree trunks, his hands large and capable. He was perfect for her. Exactly what she loved. Exactly what she needed.

Her body began to respond before her mind could catch up. Her thighs started to move, rubbing together in that slow, subconscious rhythm. It was a tell, a sign of a need that was about to boil over, a desperate attempt to create a small, secret friction in the most public of places.

John saw it instantly. But seeing it here, on this train, on her… it was different. It wasn't a cry for help. It was a declaration. His own desire, already a low, simmering fire, hardened into a singular, burning purpose. He was going to have her.

The train car was alive, swaying and groaning as it hurtled through the dark tunnel. The air was thick with the smell of damp wool, cheap perfume, and the metallic tang of the rails. It was a perfect, anonymous chaos, a moving bubble of humanity where no one was supposed to see anyone else. But John saw her. He saw nothing but her. His gaze was a touch that was more intimate than any hand, and it was making her skin feel too tight for her body. The frantic rubbing of her thighs was no longer enough; it was just fanning the flames.

He knew the signs of a need that was about to boil over. His own desire, a simmering fire, hardened into a singular, burning purpose. He needed to have her. He shifted his weight, his hips turning just slightly, and his hand moved to his crotch, a casual, adjusting gesture that any other passenger would dismiss. But Kam wasn't any other passenger. She saw it. She saw the way his large hand gripped the hard member that was straining against his sweatpants, a slow, intentional squeeze that was made to tease her.

Her breath stilled in her throat. Her eyes, which had been roaming over his powerful frame, snapped back to his face. He was watching her watch him. A knowing smile touched his lips. And then, she did it. She bit her lip. It wasn't a nervous gesture; it was a carnal act. It was a green light flashed across a crowded room. And that was all he needed.

He began to move; he didn't shove or push his way through the crowd. He flowed, his massive form parting the sea of bodies with an effortless grace. People seemed to sense his presence before they saw him, shifting unconsciously to create a path for him. Kam watched him come, her heart hammering against her chest, a frantic drum solo that matched the clatter of the wheels on the track. He moved in behind her until the space between them nearly disappeared. Warmth radiated from him in quiet waves, making the cool air slipping through the train doors feel distant.

No words were spoken. There were no words to say. He simply pressed his full, solid weight against her. The air was forced from her lungs in a silent whoosh. He was a wall, a mountain of muscle and heat, and she was pinned against him and the pole she was holding. She could feel every solid inch of him, the hard planes of his chest against her back, the powerful columns of his thighs against her own. And she could feel his dick, it nestled perfectly in between her ass, a promise of the pressure she craved. She didn't pull away, she did the only thing she could, she arched her back, a subtle shift of her hips that pushed her ass out, pressing back against him. It was an offering.

A low, inaudible groan rumbled in his chest, a vibration she felt more than heard. He was a man of action, and her action had just unleashed his. One of his large hands came to rest on her hip. With his other hand, he reached in his sweatpants and freed himself, and the heavy, demanding length of him sprang free. He lifted the back of her velvet skirt, the soft fabric whispering against her skin. The first touch of his bare dick against the back of her thigh made her gasp.

He slid his dick upward, positioning it between her thighs, the hot, smooth skin of him gliding against her inner flesh. The first grind was pure friction, a slow slide of his dick against the silk of her panties. The fabric was already damp, and the texture of the lace against his sensitive skin was a delicious tease. He hooked the fabric aside with his thumb, and then… there it was. His dick was now trapped against her soaking wet pussy, he was fucking her panties, grinding his length against her clit, the slick, wet heat of her coating him with every passing.

The train's roar was their cover, a thundering symphony of motion that drowned out the soft, wet sounds their bodies were making. His breath was hot in her ear, a constant, intimate presence. And then he started to talk. His voice was a low stream of filthy praise and casual dominance that was unlike anything she had ever heard.

"Look at you," he breathed, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "Standing here in this crowded train, letting a stranger put his dick on you. You're a dirty girl, ain't you?"

Kam had always hated dirty talk. To her, it was a cheap, clumsy substitute for real passion, a string of meaningless words that did nothing to dull the ache. But this… this was different. His tone wasn't degrading, not really. It was filled with an unashamed yearning, a need that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. He wasn't just talking to her; he was confessing to her. He was telling her she was all he needed.

And it made her pussy drip. A fresh wave of slickness coated his dick, making the slide impossibly wet, impossibly good.

"Gonna fill these little red panties up, leave you walking around with my cum all over you. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Walking around with my secret between your legs."

She couldn't answer. She could only bite her lip harder, her eyes squeezed shut as the pleasure built, a tight, soothing coil in her belly. Her composure was a fragile thing, and it was shattering with each thrust, each whispered word.

"That's my fuckin' girl," he praised, his grip on her hip tightening. "Take this shit. All this fuckin' ass, just sitting there, begging for it. Knew you were a freak. Knew you needed this weight."

He was right. She did need it. She needed the weight of him, the pressure of his body against hers. She hated the words, but she craved the meaning behind them. He saw the hunger, and instead of running from it, he was feeding it, devouring it right back.

Standing there in the middle of the lurching train car was a surreal act of duality. To the other passengers, they were just another couple, a large man sheltering his woman from the jostling crowd. He was a wall of muscle, his arms a cage of protection around her, his face buried in her hair in a gesture of tired affection. If someone looked closer, really close, they’d see the tension in his jaw, the way his hips moved in a slow rhythm that had nothing to do with the motion of the train. They might see the dark, heavy fabric of his sweatpants shift, see the way the material seemed to disappear beneath the hem of her velvet skirt. But no one looked that close. Everyone on the train was a master of the art of not seeing, of creating a bubble of personal space in a public world. They were all stewing in their own miasma of sweat, cologne, and annoyance, blind to the secret happening just a few feet away.

The train began to slow, the rhythmic clatter softening as it approached a station. The automated voice crackled to life, announcing the stop. A wave of movement rippled through the car as a handful of passengers gathered their belongings and pushed toward the doors. The crowd shifted, parting like the sea, and for a moment, their bubble was burst. A man stepped directly into their line of sight, his path to the exit suddenly clear.

It was Franklin from their group.

Kam’s eyes, which had been squeezed shut, flew open in wide, panicked alarm. She recognized him instantly—the quiet man who always sat in the back, one of many who never shared but always listened. He saw them, his brow furrowed in recognition. He opened his mouth to say hello, to offer a friendly, awkward greeting to the people he knew from his once-a-week sanctuary. And then he stopped.

His eyes took in the scene. He saw John’s face, half-hidden in Kam’s hair, his expression a mask of intense concentration. He saw the rhythmic grinding of John’s hips, an unmistakable motion. He saw Kam, her face flushed, her eyes wide and locked onto him, her teeth sinking into her lower lip so hard he was surprised she didn’t draw blood. He saw everything.

Franklin didn’t intervene. He didn’t look away in embarrassment or disgust. He leaned against the metal pole near the door, making no move to get off the train. He became a knowing part of the scene, a new audience member for their private show.

The added thrill of being watched, of being seen and understood by someone from their world, sent a fresh wave of energy through John. This was better than the cleaning woman, better than any random stranger. This was someone who knew the hunger, who knew the why. He gripped Kam’s hips tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh, and pushed his face deeper into the fragrant softness of her hair. He could feel the knot in his groin tightening, the pressure building to an unbearable point.

Then, her hand, which had been gripping the pole for dear life, flew back and clamped down on his. Her fingers were cold, her grip surprisingly strong. It wasn't a plea to stop; it was a silent, urgent signal. He followed her gaze, lifting his head just enough to see over her shoulder.

Franklin.

He leaned into Kam even more, his entire body pressing against her. He began to talk to her, his voice a tease that was only meant for her, but loud enough to be a performance for their new audience.

"Look at that," he breathed, his lips brushing against her ear. "We got a fan. You like being watched, don't you? Like putting on a show for all these desperate motherfuckers." His other hand, the one that had been holding her hip, suddenly slid around her body and under her velvet skirt. His fingers gripped the front of her thigh, pulling her back against him, forcing her to meet his next thrust. The new angle was devastating, his dick grinding directly against her clit.

"Go on," he urged, his voice a dark, seductive command. "Let him see how bad you need it. Show him what a nasty girl you are, letting me use you right here in the middle of all these people."

Kam couldn't look away from Franklin. His eyes were burning into her, a mixture of amusement and lust that made her feel powerful and exposed all at once. The pressure of John’s words, the weight of his body, the heat of Franklin’s gaze—it was all too much. She was caught between two forces, the man behind her and the man in front of her, and the public intensity of it was a drug.

Caught up in the performance, John’s hips shifted, his movements becoming more aggressive, more possessive. He grinded against her, aiming for that perfect, slick friction. But in the heat of the moment, with her pushing back against him and him pulling her into his thrust, the angle changed. The slick, swollen head of his dick, coated in her wetness, caught on the edge of her entrance. And with one particularly hard grind, it slipped inside.

"Fuck," John cursed, the word a sharp gasp of surprise against her ear. It wasn't supposed to happen. That was the one rule. But the sudden, tight heat of her pussy enveloping the head of his dick was a violation so perfect, so unexpected, it shattered his control.

For Kam, it was a cataclysm. The accidental penetration was the final, unbearable stimulus. The pressure she craved, the friction she needed, the fullness she secretly desired—it all converged in that one, shocking moment. She came with a silent, shuddering gasp that was more like a seizure, her pussy clamping down on him like a vise. A gush of wetness flooded his dick and dripped onto the floor, her body betraying. The accidental breach had triggered an explosive, involuntary orgasm that left her trembling and weak in his arms.

Feeling her drip all over his dick, the tight, wet heat of her pussy milking the head of him was the push he needed. But this wasn't about being inside her. This was about the claim. With a groan of effort, he pulled out, his other hand, which had been gripping her thigh, moved with lightning speed. He hooked his fingers into the soaked fabric of her red panties and yanked them back into place, pulling the crotch tight against her sensitive pussy. The fabric was a barrier, but it was his barrier now.

He stilled, and a low moan escaped him, the sound muffled by her hair as he emptied himself. He came hard, his dick twitching against the silk as he pumped his cum directly into the crotch of her panties. The fabric grew heavy, saturated with his heat, a perfect, wet cup designed to hold his release. He held her there while his hips jerked with the last spasms of his pleasure, his face still hidden in her hair as he rode out the wave.

The automated announcement for the next stop crackled through the car. "This is… Franklin Avenue." Their cue.

John moved with a swift, practiced efficiency. He gently pulled his hips back, his semi-hard dick sliding free from the mess he’d made, and he tucked himself back into his sweatpants and took a small step back. Kam smoothed her skirt down, her legs feeling like they might give out from under her. She could feel the wet, heavy fabric of her panties sticking to her skin, could feel the trickle of his cum already starting to slide down her inner thigh. She took a deep, shaky breath and turned to face him. They broke apart as they walked toward the doors, they passed Franklin, but he didn't say a word. He just gave them an appreciative nod, his eyes lingering on Kam’s face before moving to John’s: I saw. I’ll be waiting for the next show.

The walk from the Franklin Avenue station to her townhome was a journey through a different kind of silence. It wasn't the empty, anonymous quiet of the train car, but a comfortable quiet that was saturated with what had just happened. They walked side-by-side, their footsteps echoing on the pavement, the night air cool against their heated skin. Kam could feel John’s cum cooling, seeping from the saturated crotch of her panties and trailing down the inside of her thighs in a slow, sticky rivulet. It was a filthy, intimate reminder of his possession, and with every step, her legs felt a little weaker.

John was a steady presence beside her, his large frame a comforting shadow in the dim streetlight. He didn't speak. He didn't touch her. He just walked, his presence a solid force that kept her from floating away on the hazy cloud of her own satisfaction. They turned onto her street, a row of identical brick townhomes with neat little lawns and glowing porch lights. It was a world of order and normalcy, and she was bringing a beautiful, secret chaos right to its front door.

When they reached her steps, he helped her up them, his grip on her elbow steady and strong, his touch a silent acknowledgment of her trembling legs. At her door, she fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking so badly she couldn't get the key into the lock. He didn't offer to help. He just waited, his patience a testament to his control. Finally, the lock clicked, and the door swung open, revealing the warm, familiar darkness of her home.

They stepped inside, and she turned to face him, no words were needed. The air in the small foyer was thick with the smell of a mixture of their hunger that was trailing down her leg. They stood there, just inches apart, their eyes locked in the dim light, the space between them humming with residual energy.

John broke the charged silence when he reached out and hooked his fingers into the waistband of her velvet skirt, pulling it down just enough to reveal the ruined red panties. But he didn't just take them. With his eyes locked on hers, he brought the soaked, cum-filled fabric to his face and inhaled deeply. A shudder ran through him, his eyes closing for a brief moment as he savored the scent of her and the scent of him, all mixed together. He folded the damp fabric and tucked it into his pocket, his MVP trophy secured.

Kam watched him, her mouth slightly agape, a look of pure, unadulterated shock on her face. Her kink was simple: the solid, grounding force of a man’s body against hers. But this… this was something else entirely. This was a level of possessive ritual she had never even conceived of. He wasn't just taking a souvenir; he was consuming their shared sin, making the scent of their union a part of himself. In that single, depraved act, he opened her eyes to a whole new dimension of desire. It wasn't just about the weight anymore. It was about the need. His specific, strange, and powerful need. And she realized, with a jolt that made her pussy throb all over again, that his need was growing on her. It made her want to jump into his arms, to wrap her legs around his waist, and slide her soaking pussy all over him until they were both dripping with a new mess.

He leaned down, and for a moment, she thought he was finally going to kiss her. But he didn't. He pressed his lips to her forehead in a shockingly tender gesture. "See you at the next session."

He turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the night, leaving her standing in the open doorway, breathless and fulfilled. But as his shadow merged with the darkness, a sudden, desperate panic seized her. She couldn't let him leave like that. Not without…

"John," she called out, her voice a hoarse whisper.

He stopped, turning back to look at her, his face a mask of shadow.

She ran to him, closing the distance between them in a few quick strides, and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight, fierce hug. She buried her face in his chest, breathing in his scent, needing to feel the solid weight of him one last time. He was surprised for a second, his body stiffening, but then his arms came around her, holding her just as tightly. They stood there for a long moment, a silent, desperate embrace in the middle of the quiet street.

Then, just as suddenly as she had grabbed him, she let him go. She took a step back, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn't say anything else. She just turned and walked back to her door, disappearing inside, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk. A small smile touched his lips as he turned and disappeared into the night for good.

The late morning sun spilled through the blinds in thick, golden shafts, painting stripes of light and shadow across their rumpled bed. The air was still and warm, smelling of their sleep and the faint, lingering scent of coffee from downstairs. On the floor, the black shopping bag from "The Adult Emporium" sat like a treasure chest waiting to be opened.

Erik sat on the edge of the mattress, his body a study in relaxed tension. He wore nothing but a pair of grey basketball shorts that did little to hide the hard length of his dick pressing against the fabric. His posture was easy, but his eyes were dark, fixed on his girlfriend who was sprawled trustingly across his lap.

Syn was a vision of caramel-colored softness, her body pliant and yielding over his powerful thighs. She wore one of his old, faded basketball jerseys. Her head was pillowed on her crossed arms, her face turned away from him, but he could see the gentle rise and fall of her back, the soft, generous slopes of her ass exposed by the bunched-up hem of the shirt.

In his hand, he held the sleek, black silicone plug they’d bought the day before. It was small and unassuming, but in his other hand, he held the small, matching remote, a wicked glint in his eye. He was already thinking about it, about the sight of her bent over his lap, the soft glow of the light a beacon as he slowly worked it into her tight, hot heat.

“You sure you’re ready for this, baby?” he murmured, his voice a low, teasing rumble that vibrated through his chest and into hers. “Gotta be a good girl for me.”

Syn just nodded, a soft, muffled sound of assent coming from where her face was buried in the blankets.

He started by warming her, his hands massaging the soft, supple flesh of her ass, his thumbs dipping into the valley between them, rubbing her pussy from the back to help her relax. He was in no rush.

He grabbed the bottle of lube from the nightstand and squeezed a generous amount onto the plug. The cool, clear gel was a clear difference to her hot skin, and she shivered slightly at the contact. He coated the plug, his movements slow, his eyes never leaving the sight of her spread open before him.

“Just relax for me, Syn,” he coaxed, his voice a hypnotic, soothing command. “Let me in. That’s it, breathe.” The deep cadence of his voice wrapped around her, steady against the mounting heat of anticipation.

He pressed the tip against her tight hole, a gentle, insistent pressure. He didn’t force it. He just held it there, letting her body acclimate, letting her get used to the foreign sensation. He could feel her resisting, a natural, instinctual clenching, and he knew he had to talk her through it.

“That’s it, baby, just breathe for me,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. “Relax that little ass. Let me in. You know you want to.” He leaned down, his lips brushing against the small of her back. “You gonna be a good girl and take this plug for me?”

Syn moaned, a soft, breathy sound that was equal parts nerves and anticipation. She nodded, her face still buried in the blankets, her hands gripping the sheets in anticipation.

“Words, Syn,” he commanded. “I wanna hear you.”

“Yes,” she whimpered, her voice muffled by the comforter. “I’ll be good. I’ll take it.”

He felt her push back against him then, an unspoken invitation, and he took it. But he wanted her wetter, wanted her to feel every inch of it. He leaned down and spat, a thick, warm drop of saliva landing directly on her tight hole. It was a gesture that made her gasp, her body arching at the raw intimacy of it.

He used the pad of his thumb to spread the spit around, mixing it with the lube, his other hand sliding down to find her clit. He began to rub slowly, his touch a maddening tease that had her rocking her hips against his hand.

“That’s it, baby, get that pussy nice and wet for me,” he growled, his voice thick with lust. He could feel her juices, a slick, warm heat that coated his fingers. “I can already feel you drippin’ for me. You like that? You like me playin’ with your ass while I rub this pretty little clit?”

He slid the plug in, inch by inch, his eyes fixed on the incredibly erotic sight of her swallowing the silicone, the soft toy disappearing into her body. The sensation was overwhelming, a full, stretching pressure that was both strange and intensely pleasurable. It made her toes curl, her hands gripping the sheets tighter.

“Erik…” she moaned his name in desperation. “Oh my god… it’s so… full.”

“Yeah, you’re full,” he grunted, his own dick throbbing in response to the sight and sound of her. “You’re full of my plug, and your pussy is soakin’ wet. I can feel it drippin’ down my hand.” He pushed the plug in a little deeper, the final inch disappearing into her body, and she cried out, her body shuddering against him. It was a slow, delicious process that had his own mind reeling, a testament to her trust, a gift he was unwrapping inch by inch.

Once it was fully seated, nestled deep inside her, he gave her ass a soft, possessive slap. “There you go,” his voice thick with satisfaction. “All lit up and ready to go.” He clicked the remote, and the plug began to glow, a soft, pulsing blue light visible against her rich, brown skin, a beautiful, dirty secret just for him.

Syn slowly pushed herself up from his lap, her movements a little shaky, her body still adjusting to the new, full sensation. She stood up, testing the feeling, a slow, experimental roll of her hips. Every movement sent a fresh jolt of pleasure straight to her clit, a delicious ache that made her bite her lip.

She walked over to their full-length mirror, her steps a little unsteady. She turned around, bending over at the waist, her hands resting on her knees. She peered between her legs, trying to get a better look. And then she saw it. The soft, pulsing blue light, a beautiful, otherworldly glow against her rich skin.

“Wow,” she breathed, her voice full of genuine wonder. “It’s so pretty.”

The sight of her, bent over like that, her ass on display, the soft blue light of the plug a beacon of her newfound sexuality, made Erik’s dick ache. It was the hottest fucking thing he had ever seen. He stood up and walked over to her. He gave her ass another sharp, possessive slap, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“Damn right it’s pretty,”. He leaned down, his lips finding hers in a deep kiss. He pulled away, his forehead resting against hers. “I gotta go do some work, baby,” he murmured, his voice a regretful rumble. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, disappearing down the hall to his office, leaving her alone with her glowing, secret treasure.

The rest of the morning bled into a slow, torturous afternoon. The apartment, usually a sanctuary of comfort and quiet, had become a chamber of sensual torment. Every sound, every shadow, every sliver of sunlight seemed to conspire against her, amplifying the presence nestled deep inside her.

Syn tried to go about her day, to maintain a semblance of normalcy, but it was a losing battle from the start. The plug was a constant ache that had bloomed into a low-grade hum of need that refused to be ignored. It wasn't a sharp, demanding pain, but a deep, insistent pressure, a reminder of its existence with every subtle shift of her body. Every movement, every step, every accidental brush of her thighs sent a signal straight to her clit, a spark threatening to ignite a wildfire.

She decided to make a cup of tea, a simple, mundane task that suddenly felt like a Herculean effort. She walked from the living room to the kitchen, each step a deliberate, agonizing exercise in control. The soft sway of her hips, a natural, unconscious movement, became a source of intense stimulation. The plug shifted slightly inside her, a subtle, internal caress that made her breath hitch and her knees feel weak. She had to stop and lean against the counter, her hands gripping the cool, granite surface, her eyes closed as she fought to regain her composure.

Just breathe, she told herself, her inner voice a shaky whisper. It’s just a toy. It’s just a feeling. You can handle this.

But it wasn't just a toy. It was their toy. It was a symbol of her trust, a testament to her journey, a physical manifestation of the wild, wonderful world Erik had introduced her to. And it was currently driving her insane.

She was dripping. Her pussy was constantly, embarrassingly wet. She could feel it every time she moved, a slick warmth coating her inner thighs, a shameful secret that was just for her. She was wearing a pair of his old briefs, and she could feel the damp spot growing, a dark, telling patch on the light grey fabric. She felt exposed, filthy, and incredibly alive.

She managed to make it to the couch, a cup of tea clutched in her trembling hands. She tried to read, her eyes scanning the words on the page, but they were just meaningless shapes, black squiggles on a white background. Her mind was too focused on the feeling of fullness. The plug was a weight, a promise of a pleasure she couldn't yet grasp.

The need built into a slow, creeping fire that threatened to consume her from the inside out. It started in her core, a low, simmering heat that spread through her veins, a fever that had nothing to do with illness. Her clit was throbbing, a demanding beat that echoed in her ears. Her nipples were hard, pebbled points against the thin fabric of his t-shirt, aching for a touch that wasn't her own.

She was so close to giving in. She was so close to spreading her legs, right there on the couch, and slipping her hand into her shorts. She was so close to rubbing her clit, to chasing the release she so desperately craved. She could almost feel it, the sweet, shattering rush of her orgasm, a reprieve from the ache.

But she couldn't do it. She couldn't do it without him.

It wasn't about shame or guilt. It was about him. His presence, his touch, his voice—they were the ingredients that made her orgasms truly earth-shattering. An orgasm by herself was a fleeting, solitary pleasure, a ripple in a pond. An orgasm with him was a tidal wave, a seismic event that reshaped her world. He made her feel things, see things, be things she couldn't be on her own. He was the conductor, and she was the orchestra, and without him, there was no music.

She needed him. She needed his touch, his voice, his dick. She needed something. She needed him to come out of his office, to see her, to touch her, to fuck her. She needed him to take control, to give her the release she so desperately craved. She was a vessel for her own desire, and she was at its mercy. She was so turned on, so aching for release, that she felt like she was going to crawl out of her own skin.

The low, professional hum of Erik’s voice drifted down the hall, a steady, reassuring sound that was both a comfort and a curse. He was in his office, in full work mode, his focus locked on the multiple monitors in front of him. He was on a conference call, his voice commanding as he discussed logistics with his team, a world away from the torment she was experiencing.

Syn couldn't take it anymore. The ache was a living, breathing thing that was sitting in her stomach, demanding to be fed. She needed him. She needed his presence, his warmth, his solid weight to ground her. She pushed herself off the couch and padded down the hall, her bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floors. She didn't bother to knock, just opened the door and slipped inside.

He was sitting in his large, leather chair, his back to her, his focus on the screens in front of him. He was wearing a pair of headphones, his voice a low, professional murmur as he discussed shipping routes and timelines. He looked so serious, so focused, compared to the wild creature she felt like.

She walked over to him slowly. She didn't want to interrupt him, not really. She just wanted to be near him. She just wanted to sit in his lap and wait for him to finish.

She straddled his leg, her head resting on his shoulder, trying to be still, trying to be a good girl. But his thick, muscular thigh that was pressed firmly against her clothed, aching pussy, was everything she needed. The plug inside her shifted, a subtle, internal caress that made her gasp. She bit her lip, trying to stifle the sound, her hands gripping his other thigh. She could feel the heat of his skin through his shorts, the hard, solid muscle of his thigh a perfect, unwitting tormentor. She was so close, so close to the edge, and he didn't even know it.

It started unconsciously. A slow, almost imperceptible rocking of her hips. She wasn't trying to do anything; her body was just seeking relief. The friction of his muscular thigh against her clit, combined with the pressure of the glowing plug, was a recipe for a sinful release. It was a slow, steady rhythm, a desperate attempt to put out the fire. Erik was in the middle of a sentence, his voice a professional baritone as he discussed the finer points of customs regulations with a supplier in Shanghai. "The manifest needs to be cleared by Friday, otherwise we're looking at a--" He felt it then. A subtle, rhythmic rocking against his thigh. A soft, warm pressure that was both distracting and intensely familiar.

He paused, his hand hovering over the mouse. He muted his call, his thumb pressing the headset button with a quick click. "Hold on, guys, let me check something," he said, his voice a smooth, believable lie. He covered the microphone with his hand, his attention now fully focused on his woman in his lap.

He looked down. He could see the top of her head, her dark hair wild and messy. Her face was still turned away, buried in the crook of his neck, but he could feel the tension in her body, the subtle clenching of her thighs around his. He could feel the heat of her through his shorts, a warm, inviting pressure that made his own dick throb in response.

He didn't stop her. He just watched.

Her movements became less controlled, driven by a need she could no longer hide. She leaned forward and held tightly onto his desk, her breath breaking into soft, ragged sounds as she moved against his thigh. Her eyes closed, and the tension in her face gave way to the unguarded pleasure. She was lost in the chase now, reaching for the release her body demanded.

His hand moved to her waist, closing around the softness there with enough pressure to steady her. His thumb shifted against her side, a quiet encouragement that sent her moving faster. He could feel the warmth of her through the thin space between them, every hurried movement translating beneath his touch. Erik watched without blinking, his expression growing darker as hunger tightened across his features.

Syn’s eyes were squeezed shut, her mind a whirlwind of sensation and imagination. She wasn't riding his thigh anymore. In her mind, she was riding his dick. She imagined his dick stretching her the way he always did. She wanted to bounce on it, to feel him deep inside her, to take every inch of him until she was screaming his name.

Erik leaned forward, his chin resting on her shoulder, his lips brushing against her ear. He could feel her body trembling, her breath hitching in her throat. He could feel the plug inside her, a solid, unyielding presence that was driving her wild.

"That's it, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. "Ride my thigh. Show me how bad you need it." He guided her, his hand on her hip, encouraging her to grind deeper, to press her clit harder against his muscle.

But then his tone shifted, a dark, teasing edge creeping into his voice. "I'm a little disappointed in you, Syn," he growled, "You came in here, interrupting my work, just to ride my thigh? When you could've been riding my dick? That's just... wasteful."

The praise made her feel good. The degradation made her move faster. Her rhythm turned frantic, every movement driven by the growing ache between her thighs. Her moans rose louder, stripped of restraint, and Erik watched her with an expression that made it clear he enjoyed every desperate sound. Her pussy tightened in sharp, aching pulses as pleasure continued to build. The plug shifted with each movement, the steady pressure adding another layer of sensation until she could barely separate one feeling from the next.

His hand slipped beneath her shorts, his fingers finding her clit with practiced ease. He worked slow, deliberate circles over the sensitive flesh, building the pressure until her body began to tremble beneath his touch.

Then she broke.

She started leaking like a faucet, warmth pouring between her thighs and soaking through his old briefs until the fabric clung damply to her skin. The wetness spread across his thigh, and for one ridiculous second, neither of them could pretend there wasn’t a full-blown plumbing emergency happening in his lap.

She came with a choked, broken sound that was half a sob and half a scream, her body arching off his lap as her release tore through her. It was a chaotic, reckless thing. Her hands flew from the desk to his thighs, her nails digging into his skin as she held on for dear life, her body a prisoner to the waves of sensation.

He held her through it, his arms wrapped around her trembling body as he watched her, his eyes full of pride. He couldn't help but think that maybe the plug had been too much for her to handle, that he had underestimated its power. He had unleashed a monster who was so desperate for release that she had to come into his office and ride his damn thigh like it was his dick. He was a little disappointed in her, but he was also a little proud. He had created this. He had turned his sweet, innocent Syn into this.

He was still on his call, his team chattering away in his ear, oblivious to the intimate, impromptu show on the other side of the phone as he held her. "Look at you," he murmured. "Couldn't even wait for me, huh? Had to get yourself all worked up on my thigh like a little kitten in heat."

Syn's face was a deep, mortified crimson. She buried her face in his neck, her body still trembling with aftershocks. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice muffled by his skin.

"Don't be sorry," he chuckled, his hand stroking her leg. "That was the sexiest thing I've ever seen. But you're in trouble now. You know that, right?" He could feel her nod against his neck, a silent, submissive acknowledgment of her fate.

A/N: Hi, Beautiful people. ☺️ I hope your Fridays are going well! I know this part is short, but that is 100% on purpose 🤫

Would you think that Terry is tripping as it is so early in their relationship? Or do you think that Terry should've just pulled up?

• • •

𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰, spreading through the room in a mere second. The only light present was Youtube videos auto-playing on the phone in front of her, lulling her to sleep with their repetitiveness. As she opened her eyes for a third time, this time feeling them heavier than the first time she dosed off, she reached to the iPhone to turn the screen off.

With a swipe out of Youtube, and a peek at the time, she realized she almost missed a very important part of her routine.

The call vibrated through her hand before she could see his caller ID, and then, his name came up. Terry ♥️. A very impromptu picture that she snapped of him on one of their many FaceTime calls spread across her screen and she answered the call with the smallest hint of a smile on her face.

“Hi, Terry.” Her voice rasped through his car speakers. A bit surprised by her tone, he glanced at the CarPlay screen and made sure that her name was the one he pressed. Cleo🧚🏾‍♀️.

“Hey, beautiful. You fell asleep on me already?” On the other side of the line, Cleo pulls her blanket further over her shoulder, snuggling into the warmth that she created in her spot.

“Yeah, I sort of had a long day today, so I needed my beauty sleep.”

Terry focused his eyes dead center, on the road. But his mind began racing with what could have made her day so draining… or who.

“What happened? You wanna talk about it?”

Cleo cleared her throat and she found herself feeling even more comfortable with Terry’s voice being in her ear.

“Nothing really happened… Just the same old bullshit; coworkers not doing their jobs and me getting pulled aside for it.” A yawn filled her mouth with air, and her jaw stretched briefly as her eyes fluttered closed.

“I hope it wasn’t that Bradley nigga you been complaining about.”

“Of course it’s Bradley.”

Cleo answered tiredly, her eyes still shut as she tried to keep up with the conversation. As the line stayed quiet for another moment, her limbs began to fall asleep, and she floated up to dreamland until-

“𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰’𝒅 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒖𝒑, 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕?”

His words were spoken so tenderly she almost didn’t catch the full sentence. But as her mind processed every vowel, her eyes opened to look at her phone.

“Terry, you don’t have to-”

“I’m sorry but, he sounds like a li’l bitch. I don’t like how his laziness is getting you meetings with the boss and his ass gets to lay around.”

The line is quiet for a few seconds, and then Cleo scoffs out a little laugh, causing a smile to raise on Terry’s lips.

“You okay, though? I can let them know I’m not coming in to work and come keep you company.”

“Mhmm, I’m good.” The soft-hearted young woman yawns once again, and Terry’s chest tightens at the fact that he’s not with her.

“Knowing you, you’re probably already at work. Just go in and have a good shift, I’ll talk to you after.”

Terry looked up through his windshield at the glowing Luxe Nightclub sign and sighed to himself.

“I don’t care, I’ll come right over there and call out from your place. Just let me know.”

“Goodnight, Terry. I don’t need your first day being late to be because of me. Call me when you get off.”

The man closed his eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose with his pointer finger and thumb. Usually, when a woman of his told him that they had a long day, he would rush to make it better. Buy a nice meal, get them some snacks and lay up. But, Cleo wasn’t his woman yet.

And he’d be damned if he scared her away by seeming too pushy.

“Alright. I’ll call you when I come out. Goodnight, Cleo.”

• • •

I do not condone any translations, replications or plagiarisms of my original work. Please do not repost as your own. Reblogs and comments/notes welcome. ♥︎

• • •

༓TAGLIST༓

@bruleecream @svnk1ssd @writingsbytee @naughtynolly @23jammy @mulanii9 @motheroffae @slvt4her @nayaesworld @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @mymindisneverhere @synsualsage

The first time that John saw you dance, he was convinced that he had transcended to another plane of existence. The subtle click of your heels as you walk up to the pole has him glued to you. He can’t help but trail his eyes over your figure, especially with how the lace clings to your body. His eyes go to the cross that sits perfectly between your breasts. It almost feels blasphemous with the way that he looks at you. His eyes find your face, which is partially covered by your big curls. 

There weren’t many women in the hotel who looked like you. For the first time, John actually wants to watch. Massive Attack’s “Angel” croons through the stereo and adds to the seduction of your dance. He watches as you coil your body around the pole as though you’re some kind of serpent. John imagines what it’d be like to have your body similarly wrap around him.

You roll your body languidly along the pole, as the lights illuminate the flecks of glitter on your skin. John knows that he’s staring too closely at you when he starts to pick out the details on your body. His eyes close in on the stretch marks that litter your thighs. He takes a sip of his drink after the thought crosses his mind of gripping your hips in his. 

John’s mesmerized by the way that you twirl and flip upside down on the pole. Gravity serves its purpose in pushing your breasts against the bra as the cross necklace hangs in your face like judgment. 

But from John, there’s no judgment. 

Because he’s sure that you’ll be the closest that he ever gets to Heaven.

Once you’re on your feet again, you lower yourself onto your knees and start to crawl along the stage. John can see the desperation in the other men’s eyes as they feign for your attention. They all want to be baptized in you, but you don’t bless them with your gaze. Instead, you keep your dark eyes locked on one man: him. 

You crawl until you’re sitting in front of John. He watches as you sit back on your knees and trail a lone hand down the length of your body. Sliding from the stage, you find yourself planting yourself in John’s lap like he’s your throne. But little did you know, John’s willing to worship at your altar and give his sacrifice. He knows that you don’t feel the shift in the atmosphere, as all the other patrons have noticed that you’ve chosen him as your lamb. 

There’d been this unspoken thing that everyone knew. John Wick doesn’t do dances. 

As far as anyone knows, he’s never actually entertained the thought of watching any of the women dance. Not until you.

You roll your hips into John’s lap and lean back. From this angle, your bare neck and body are vulnerable to his gaze. John could easily wrap a calloused hand around your throat or cement his teeth into the contours of your breast. 

For some reason, he knows that you’d like it.

You lean forward, and your hair covers the sight of your and John’s faces from everyone’s view. The other patrons and dancers lean forward to see what secrets lie beneath your hair. What were you sharing with John?

Beneath your afro, you hover your face over John’s. 

He moves his face an inch closer, so that his lips are nearly touching yours. His lips brush against yours, and a sliver of your gloss taints his lips. You flinch, but move back just as the song ends. You slide from John’s lap and give him a parting smile before walking away to collect your money. The air in the Continental is heated, and you’re oblivious to the storm that’s brewing. 

You’d cemented yourself as the woman who had given John Wick a lap dance, and he didn’t decline. John keeps his onyx eyes on your departing figure, even when he sees you move to the back. He flicks the tip of his tongue out to lick the remnants of your lip gloss from his lips. 

You sit down at your mirror as you point your fan towards yourself. You dab at the sweat that had collected on your body during your dance. You try to calm yourself as you remember the feel of the man’s lips on yours and the way that he looked at you. 

Most men looked at you like they wanted to possess you. But the way that he looked at you said that you were already his. It sends a creeping shiver down your spine the more that you think about it. Instead, you focus your attention on stacking the money and putting it away in the drawer attached to your vanity dresser. 

Kali, your friend, sits down next to you and turns to you, “Girl! Do you know who you were just dancing on?”

You shrug, “Just some regular business guy.”

Kali smacks her lips, “Wrong!” She looks around before lowering her voice, “You seriously don’t know? Girl, that was John Wick. The Baba Yaga.”

You peer at her from the corner of your eye. “Am I supposed to know what any of that means?”

Before she can reply, Charon approaches the two of you. He gives you both polite smiles before turning to face you and handing you a card.

“Good evening, madam. John Wick would like to request your services for the evening,” Charon said.

You look up at him suspiciously, “What kind of services?”

“My apologies, madam, I should’ve been more specific. Mr. Wick specifically told me to mention that he only wants a dance from you. He does send his regards if you choose not to see him. He told me that the amount listed on the card is yours to keep, but if you meet him in his suite in fifteen minutes, he’ll double the amount,” Charon explains, smiling at the end of the statement. 

You look down at the card in your hand, and your eyes widen at seeing the $6,000 written on it. So, John Wick was willing to give you $12,000 for a dance?

Charon can read the apprehension on your face, “I can assure you that Mr. Wick is one of our more respected and honorable guests. I’ve known him for many years, and I can confidently say that you are in safe hands.” 

You think it over. You could use the $12,000. Besides, it was just one dance. 

“Okay, I’ll do it. I accept his offer.”

“Good, I’m sure Mr. Wick will be happy to hear. He’s staying in room 720. Be there at 8:20. He’ll be expecting you.” With that, the man walks off as you turn to face the mirror again. 

From beside you, Kali squeals in excitement, “$12,000 for a dance? You must’ve really made an impression on him.”

Little did you know, one dance was about to turn into something much more intimate.

3 Months Earlier…

You sigh as you click to submit the payment for your rent for the month. You figure that you’ll have to ask George to put you down for more shifts this week, even though you barely have the energy to go to work. Your mother had always said that adulthood would come with its challenges, but you never expected there to be this many. 

It was exhausting. 

Between work and paying bills, it felt like there was never truly a moment for you to catch your breath. As a first-generation student in your family, there’d been a certain expectation that had been placed upon you. By your family and yourself. You couldn’t just be average. You had to be excellent. You had to exceed beyond measure so that you could set yourself and your family up for generations to come.

You were the one that everyone turned to when they needed “a few dollars” or “a shoulder to cry on.” You’d tried in vain to be assertive and say no, but it always felt like you were committing some egregious act if you did. 

So you gave over the money, even if it meant that you were left without. You’d traded in having full meals sometimes in favor of having noodles or canned sardines. Truthfully, you just wanted to have a moment where you were able to be selfish and comfortable without consequence. You were raised to not complain and to keep moving. But there was a silent rage that buried itself beneath each column of your spinal cord.

You just wanted to be able to put yourself first. 

Your phone buzzes beside you, and you pick it up as you spot Kali’s name on the screen. 

“Hey girl, what’s up?” 

“Hi bestie, how’s my favorite doing?” Kali asks. 

“Oh, you know, same old routine. I just paid my rent, and I’ll have to ask George to put me on a few more shifts,” you said, lying back on the couch. 

“Well, lucky for you, I have some good news. Do you remember that gig that I’ve been doing where I’ve been dancing?” Kali questions. 

“Yeah. Are you still enjoying it?”

“It’s great, sis. Look, they’re having some auditions for new dancers, and I put in a good word for you with the manager!” Kali exclaims. 

You take a second as you stare at the phone before laughing, “Kali, you seriously want me to come dance at some club?”

She scoffs, “Unt, unt, don’t play. Listen, I know you have some image of a trashy strip club in your mind, but it’s not like that at all. This is an upscale and classy hotel. I promise you that it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen, and they take care of the people who work here. Just come and give it a shot and interview with the manager. He’s a really nice man, plus I’ve been hyping you up all week.”

Before you can answer, Kali interrupts you, “Sis, I know you’ve been struggling to make ends meet, but you don’t have to anymore. The pay is great here. Think it over and get back to me.”

You sigh, “Fine, I’ll think it over.” 

“Good! Can I come over tonight to watch Love Island?”

“Sure, just don’t forget the wings.”

After yours and Kali’s appointed watch night, you decide to go ahead with the audition. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? With the way that Kali’s talking about the job, you’d be making way more money than your current employment. 

It’s Friday afternoon when you walk into the Continental Hotel for your audition. You spot a man with glasses working at the receptionist desk and make your way over to him. 

He greets you with a polite smile, “Hello, madam, welcome to the Continental New York. My name is Charon, how may I assist you today?”

“Hi, I’m here about a job. My friend, Kali, works here and she recommended me for the job…” 

The end of your sentence comes off as a question. Because truly, just from the luxury vibes of the hotel, it doesn’t seem like the plans to offer up dances, especially not the type that Kali suggested. 

“Ah yes, we’ve been expecting your arrival. Your friend speaks very highly of you,” Charon said. 

He turns to the other man at the desk and advised him to continue checking in the other guests. He turns to you again, “Right this way, madam.”

As you follow behind him, you suddenly feel very underdressed in your jeans and blouse. Multiple men and women walk past you in suits and dresses that you’re sure cost more than your entire apartment. 

As you and Charon enter the elevator, he spares a glance in your direction. “You have just as much of a right to be here as they do, madam.”

“Thank you. I guess I just feel a bit underdressed.” Your eyes flicker down to the golden buttons that decorate the elevator. “This really is a very beautiful hotel.”

“Thank you. We’ve actually operated for many years.” 

“And you guys employ dancers here?” You ask, peering at the man from the corner of your eye.

Charon chuckles, “Yes. I know that it seems a bit absurd, but most of our guests come here seeking rest and refuge. We like to make the experience more comfortable for them by providing entertainment in the comfort of the hotel, instead of having to leave.”

“Huh, well, I suppose that does make sense.” 

The elevator dings before you and Charon step out into the big room. You see the other girls who are standing in the middle of the room, chatting with each other. The room is surrounded by various mirrors with a wooden paneled floor. A pole sits neatly on a stage as if waiting to be claimed. 

“Good luck, madam. The changing room is that way,” Charon said, pointing off to the side. 

“Thank you, Charon. It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” you said.

“The pleasure is all mine, madam,” Charon said before disappearing into the elevator again. 

You walk into the changing room and change into the short and sports bra set that you had brought with you. You walk out of the changing room as you go to stand with the other girls. 

A girl with red hair scans her eyes across you, “Cute set, honey. What’s your name?”

You tell her. She nods, “That’s a pretty name. Do you have any background in dancing?”

“Yeah, I used to do ballet till I was a teenager. Outside of that, I usually just dance for fun,” you said, rocking back and forth on your heels. 

A few of the other girls chuckle. A blonde girl whose hair is cut into a bob flicks her eyes over to you, “Sweetie, ballet’s not gonna cut it. You have to have some real talent to be employed here.”

The redhead rolls her eyes, “Enough, Roxanne, just because everyone didn’t go to Juilliard, that doesn’t discredit their talent.” 

She turns her eyes to you, “I’m Katya. I’ve been working here for a few years. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

You give her a smile in appreciation. A woman with jet-black hair walks into the room. The sound of her heels on the wooden floor commands the attention of each one of you. Her red lipstick that resembles blood catches your eyes next.

“Good afternoon, ladies. I am Ms. Vorkowski. I am the primary manager of the dancers that work here. You all are here for a very special opportunity. Here at the Continental, we don’t just employ anyone. We employ the very best. This is your chance to show me why you deserve to work here,” She explains.

She walks down the line, observing each one of you. She scans every girl, and it’s clear to you all that she’s picking out distinctive features of you all. She finally stands in front of you and carefully scans her eyes down your frame. 

“You’re a very beautiful girl. Let’s see if you have the talent to match it,” She states, before turning and walking away. 

One by one, each girl is called up for their chance to perform. You can’t deny the sheer talent that’s present in the room. Naturally, there are a few women who aren’t good, but you still see the potential. Finally, your name is called, and you make your way to the stage. 

Ms. Vorkowski slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “We’ll pick a song for you, and you dance. Don’t let me down.”

“Okay,” You said, nodding your head. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath just as you hear the first notes of “One of Your Girls.” You take the moment to let your body catch the rhythm of the music. You imagine that the room is empty and the only person whose pleasure matters is yours. The pole feels like cold silk between your fingers as you twirl around it. You flip your body and hang from the pole as you feel the steady pressure of your legs holding you up. 

At the last note, you find yourself in a split as you finally look out into the crowd. The room is completely silent as everyone takes you in. Katya smirks and claps loudly, which causes a domino effect of other claps to sound throughout the room.

Ms. Vorkowski smirks, “Truly wonderful, my girl. I knew you wouldn’t disappoint.”

You see her writing down notes before you go to stand with the other women. Katya clasps a hand on your shoulder. “That was spectacular. I’ve been here for years, and I’ve never seen a girl move her body the way that you did up there.”

“Thank you,” You said, taking a sip of water.

It isn’t long before Ms. Vorkowski is standing before you all again. “Ladies, we here at the Continental would like to thank you all for coming to audition. Unfortunately, I am being told that we only have four spots available at the moment. If I call your name, then you have been officially selected. If not, we thank you for your hard work.”

One by one, you listen as she calls out the names of the first two girls. You feel your heart leap at the sound of your name leaving her lips. “You all will be meeting with our hotel manager, Mr. Winston Scott. He will explain all of the rules and regulations, along with your work schedules. Congratulations, ladies.”

As she turns to leave, she ushers you all to follow behind her to the elevator. She turns her gaze to you, “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

“I grew up taking ballet lessons, but I had to stop because we couldn’t afford them. Now, I just dance for fun,” You said. 

Ms. Vorkowski hums. “There aren’t many girls that I know who exhibit the talent that you’ve shown. It wasn’t just dancing up there. You were bringing something raw to life. We need more talent like that here.”

The elevator dings upon your arrival at the top floor. You can hear the faint clicking of Ms. Vorkowski’s heels against the marble floors. You get an opportunity to see more of the expansive, luxurious hotel. It’s something out of your wildest dreams. You’d always imagined lying around in a hotel this nice and being attended to. You liked to imagine that you would order room service, walk around in a fancy silk robe, and spread your expansive shopping bags on the sheets with thread counts that you couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Winston Scott’s office is just what you would imagine from a man who manages a hotel of this magnitude. The older man’s eyes scan over you in curiosity before he smiles at Ms. Vorkowski. “Thank you, Edna, for your help. I’d like to talk with each of the new employees individually, going over pay and benefits.”

Ms. Vorkowski nods, “Of course, sir.”

She nods at you to enter the room first. Winston Scott closes the door behind you and rounds his desk. He notes the frightened and wary expression that covers your face. 

“Please have a seat. I can assure you that I only have the purest intentions here,” He offers, gesturing to the empty seat. 

You walk to the chair and plop down carefully. Some part of you has to admit that these chairs are more comfortable than the ones that you have in your home. Winston offers you a polite smile. “As you know, we are formally offering you a position as a dancer at our hotel. Now, what that looks like is you come here for your shifts and perform for our guests. When you’re not performing, we ask that you perform tasks like bartending. Does that sound feasible?”

You nod, but Winston catches the inquisitive look that crosses your face. “You have questions, I assume?”

“Yes. Is it okay if I ask?”

Winston chuckles, “I’d be a bit concerned if you didn’t have questions, my dear. Please feel free to speak your mind. I promise there’s no admonishment.”

“Would dancing be the only thing that I’m doing? Like it’s strictly dancing? Would there be an expectation for me to remove my clothing, or…” You allow the end of the question to trail off, still too shy to speak the words aloud.

“There’s no expectation from us for you to do anything that you’re not comfortable with. If you wish to remain clothed, then you are allowed to do so. Now onto the other part of your concerns. I assume you mean private dances with our clients. While most of our dancers do provide private dances to our clients, it does not mean it is required. We’ve noticed that many of our employees are paid handsomely for private dances, but you are more than allowed to decline these offers. If any of the clients become unruly with you, you’d let us know, and they’d be removed promptly. I can assure you that we care about the well-being of our employees.” 

It eases some of your nerves to hear him say this. You’d seen and heard way too many horror stories of girls working at clubs and being assaulted while upper management merely dismissed their concerns or safety. To hear Winston say this puts some semblance of comfort in your body. 

“Now, let’s talk about pay. Considering that you are contracted as a dancer and bartender with our business, we will offer you hourly pay of $55,and full insurance benefits. Additionally, all tips that you receive from customers will automatically go to you. There will be no expectations for any percentages of your hard earnings,” Winston explains.

Your eyes widen, and Winston chuckles. “Oh, Ms. Yln, I can assure you, here at the Continental, we make more than enough money, which is why we value letting our dancers take all of their tips. We also offer room and board, but it would be taken out of your paycheck. Is that something you require?”

“No, I have an apartment already, but thank you for the generous offer,” You said. 

“Good. Here’s a contract outlining the rules of the Continental Hotel. We will also send a copy to your email for your convenience. We will send additional emails on setting up direct deposit and insurance benefits. The schedule does usually require you all to work nights, so I hope that won’t be a problem.”

You shake your head, “No, it’s not a problem at all. I can start as soon as you need me.” 

Winston smiles, “Good, how about Friday night?”

“I can do Friday.”

“Splendid.” He pauses and looks at you more seriously, “I must let you in on something. Our clients who stay at our hotel, they aren’t normal. They’re very important people, so I do ask that you exercise strict discretion and never speak of whom you saw at our property.”

You frown for a second, but you get the picture. You assume that he means that there are powerful people such as billionaires, politicians, and diplomats. You’d never guess that he was referring to assassins.

“I can do that, Mr. Winston.”

Present

The distinct click of your heels echoes against the marble floors as you walk to the elevator. You have a robe thrown over your outfit. You’d learned pretty early that there is a separate elevator for the dancers to use when they were requested for private dancers. 

You’d only watched as the other dancers, including Kali, used the elevator. You’d received many offers since being employed here to dance for some of the clients staying here, but you always politely declined. 

It wasn’t a secret that some of the dancers were sleeping with the clients. At this point, there were regulars who came to see their designated girl on special nights. Even Kali had a special client named Dominic, a man whose brown skin almost appeared blue under the lights. He had an unnatural yet unique beauty, and his eyes were fixed on Kali. She’d come back many times with a smile on her face and a limp in her step, but with a bag full of money in tow. 

This would be your first official private dance. 

You think back to John Wick and the way that he looked at you during the dance. You thought about how dark his eyes were and the feel of his lips touching yours. It almost felt like you could still feel him. The elevator dings, signaling that you’ve arrived on the seventh floor. You count the room numbers as you trek down the hallway.

15…16…17…18..19…

20.

The nerves multiply tenfold as you stand in front of the door. You genuinely can’t decipher if they’re from excitement or fear. Lifting your hand, you knock three times and wait to hear footsteps on the floor. It isn’t long before the door opens, and John Wick stands before you again. 

He’s discarded the suit jacket that he was wearing. The only thing that drapes his body is a black dress shirt and dress pants. The sleeves of his shirt have been rolled up, exposing his forearms. 

For only a breath of a moment do you both stare at each other. He scans his eyes across your face before stepping aside to let you into the room. 

You stand awkwardly in the middle of the room as John walks to stand in front of you. 

He moves to go pour himself a drink before looking back at you in question. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, that’s okay. Thank you though,” You respond, nervously fiddling with your fingers. 

“You’re nervous,” He points out. He simply states it as an observation and not to embarrass you. 

A nervous smile crosses your face. “Yeah, I don’t normally do dances for clients here. You’re my first.”

John smiles slightly. “If it’s any consolation, it’s my first time as well. I don’t usually do this either.”

“Would it be too forward if I asked what changed? Why me?”

It seemed to be well-known knowledge to everyone but you that John Wick doesn’t do dances, you can’t help but wonder why he chose you of all people? John takes another sip from his glass before his dark eyes find you again, “You aren’t afraid of me, and you don’t have any preconceived notions of who I am.”

“Should I know who you are?”

He smirks and shakes his head, “No.”

There’s another passing beat of silence as you both stare at each other. Due to habit, you reach up to start playing with the cross that sits on your chest. John’s eyes flicker down to the small golden necklace, and he starts to walk forward until you’re both standing chest to chest. You watch in curiosity as he lifts his hand to clasp around the necklace. By the time that you look up at him again, you find that he’s already staring. 

“What’s your name?” He asks.

“Angel.” 

A small huff of laughter leaves his mouth. He figures that this must be your designated name christened to you by Ms. Vorkowski. “What’s your real name?”

Against all of your better judgment, you utter the words to him like it’s a secret. You see him silently mouth your name to himself. “I like it.”

“Thank you.”

John continues to hold your necklace in his hands and stares into your eyes. His eyes zone in on your tongue as it peeks out to wet your lips. He thinks back to earlier, when he vaguely recalls the taste of your lip gloss. He’s almost tempted to taste you again. 

You decide to break the staring match. “I believe I owe you a dance, Mr. Wick.” 

You smile lightly and walk over to grab one of the chairs in the room. You place the wooden chair in the middle of the floor before turning back to John. You grab his hand between yours and usher him into the chair. Feeling bold, you grab the glass from his hands and down the rest of the whiskey. John watches you closely as you toy with the knot holding the robe closed. 

You look up at him and walk closer. “I think you should be the one to do the honors.”

Looking up at you, John’s fingers come out to tug at the knot, which loosens easily. He opens the robe more to reveal your body to his gaze. In this light, he can finally see you clearly without the slow red and blue lights. The set that adorns your body is a deep shade of green that complements your brown skin. He can see the specks of glitter, presumably from some sort of body lotion. John pushes the robe fully from your body, and it falls to the floor like a whisper. 

John raises a hand to trail down the length of your abdomen before he lightly grasps your hip in his hand. Goosebumps follow at the feel of his hands on you. You step back to walk over to the stereo that comes with the room. You think about the type of mood and ambiance that you want to create with John. He doesn’t seem like a man who’s in the mood for something fast–no, he seems like the type of man who likes to take his time. 

Connecting your phone to the Bluetooth, you choose the song. Not long, Sade’s smooth vocals for “Like a Tattoo” fill the space of the room. The song calls out to you, and even though you barely know him, you feel it strongly represents John.

He watches you closely, just as he had before. You saunter over to him, enticing him slowly with the soft sounds of your heels against the floor. Twisting your body slowly, John can’t help but admire the way that you twist and twirl. He imagines your body like a silk ribbon, one that he wouldn’t mind unraveling and tying back together again. You stand in front of him, moving your hands down your body. He isn’t surprised in the least when you straddle his lap and hover your hips above his. 

Without thinking, he pulls you down to be firmly pressed against him. You smirk softly, “Eager, are we?” 

He chuckles, “Very.”

You grab his hands and place them on your hips. It isn’t long before you start to roll your body again. The faint glimmer of your cross catches against the light. He brings a hand up, trailing down your stomach.  He can smell the floral notes of your perfume radiating from your skin. He hopes that it stains his clothes so that he can smell you forever.

You lean closer and your curly hair fans across John just as it had earlier. 

Your face is closer to his, and he’s desperate to taste your lip gloss again. He moves forward slowly, and when he doesn’t see you moving back, he connects his lips to yours. You taste even better like this. John moves his lips against yours, savoring the feel of your lips moving with his. You part your lips to allow him to slide his tongue into your mouth. A low whimper leaves your mouth, but you match John’s eagerness.

He cups the back of your neck and pulls you back gently. You both look at each other, and you can feel John’s hand slowly stroking your neck. 

“Can I have you?”

There’s a brief pause. 

John’s hand moves to cup your cheek, “I don’t want you to feel pressured. You’re allowed to leave at any point, and the money is still yours.”

You process his words. You also process Charon’s earlier words. You’d interacted with the man enough to know that he doesn’t lie when it comes to the guests at the hotel. Plus, since being in the room with John, you’d felt safer than you had in years.

Looking into his dark eyes now, that same sense of comfort remains. 

“Yes. You can have me however you’d like.”

John closes his eyes at your words. He opens them again, and you read the fire that’s present. Grabbing your thighs, he lifts you with ease and walks over to the bed, where he gently lays you down. You sit up on your elbows, and John leans down to press his lips against yours again. He moves to trail kisses down your neck. Breathy moans leave your mouth at the feeling of the man’s beard and lips rubbing against your skin. John grins at the moan that leaves your lips when he softly bites your neck. Moving down further, he continues to press kisses against your body until he reaches your breasts. 

John can see your nipples beginning to pebble against the lace material. He places his mouth over the material and kisses your covered areolas. Reaching behind you, John flicks the clasp open with ease. The bra slides down your body, leaving you open to John’s gaze. 

“Krasivyy,” He mutters, the Russian word flowing effortlessly off his tongue. 

John ushers you to lie down as he kneels between your legs. You squirm at the feeling of his breath ghosting over your center. He can see the wetness seeping through the panties that you’re wearing. He hooks his fingers through the material and slides it down your legs. Before you can even think of shying away from his gaze, John grabs both of your legs and holds them down. 

His dark eyes slowly trace across your wet folds and all of the sweet nectar that he can’t wait to drink from you. 

Moving closer, he presses a soft kiss against your mound before moving his fingers to open you up more to his gaze. A loud moan tears from your chest at the first stroke of John’s tongue against your pearl. The man watches intently to observe your reactions. His tongue circles around your clit before sliding down to collect the juices that have spilled from you. You try in vain to keep your eyes focused on John, but the pleasure is all-consuming. 

“John,” you whimper as the man fully starts to suckle at your clit while sliding two fingers into your entrance. If he was stretching you out this much with his fingers, you couldn’t imagine how much he’d stretch you out with his dick.

John continues sliding his fingers in and out of you. He’s intoxicated by the needy moans you’re letting out and the soft squelching of your pussy. He’s never seen or heard anything more beautiful. 

You jump at the sharp sting on your thigh. You look down at John, who gives you a stern look. “Keep your eyes on me.”

You nod. 

There’s some switch inside of you that flickers and makes you want to obey John. You want to be good for him. John knows that you’re close by the way that your pussy tightens around his fingers. He increases the suction around your clit and keeps his eyes locked onto your face, which scrunches in pleasure. 

With one last flicker of his tongue, your release washes over you like silk. Your jaw drops as you let out a long and shrill moan. John slides his fingers from you and moves down to softly lick at your entrance like a cat to milk. He’s about to place his fingers in his mouth when you grab his hand and guide it to your own mouth. 

His eyes darken more as you slide his fingers between your glossy lips and suck. He starts to move his fingers in and out of your mouth. You give him a challenging look, to which he pushes his fingers down your throat. A soft gag leaves your mouth before you adjust and smile around the soaked digits. 

John smiles. “What am I going to do with you?”

You slide his fingers out of your mouth. “Anything that you want.”

Sliding your manicured hands up his chest, you start unbuttoning the little black buttons on his dress shirt. Feeling impatient, you grip the shirt and rip the remaining buttons, which fly to the floor with silent clicks. 

“Eager are we?” John asks, parroting your words back to you.

“Very.” 

Your eyes move down the expanse of his skin, taking in the dark hair on his chest, along with fading scars that you know are bullet wounds. You reach out and lightly run your fingers across the raised scars. You surprise John when you lean down to press your lips against the old scar. 

It flips a switch in John, and he lays you down on the bed, pressing his lips to yours again. You gasp at the feel of his hand circling your neck. John can tell that you don’t mind. In fact, it only turns you on more. 

He disconnects from you to remove his pants and briefs. Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of his dick between his legs. You could already tell that he was about to have you limping for the following days. John leans down again to settle between your spread legs. Reaching between the two of you, you grasp his dick in your hand and slide it up and down your pussy a few times. John is intoxicated with the sight and the small gasps you let out every time the tip of his dick hits your clit.

You move his length to your entrance. You and John lock eyes as he pushes the first inch of himself inside of you. A mutual moan leaves both of you as he sinks further inside of you. 

John groans against your lips when he fully sinks inside of your warm, wet walls. 

“You’re perfect,” He mutters against your lips. You move your hands to wrap around his shoulders as he pulls back and thrusts forward again. The heels of your feet dig into John’s back as you moan freely in the room. He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of hearing the sweet sounds leave your lips. He pulls one of your legs into the crook of his arm, which causes him to slide deeper inside of you. 

The combination of your John’s skin slapping against yours along with the soft squelching of your cunt is music to John’s ears. 

You slide a hand into his dark hair. “You feel so good, John.”

“So do you, milaya,” He replies. 

He loves everything about this moment with you. The way that your breasts feel moving between you both. The sweat that is beginning to glisten on your skin. The soft and surprised moans that you keep letting out so freely. Your necklace still glimmers beneath the light. 

John leans down to take the necklace between his lips and moves it up to your mouth. He deposits the necklace onto your lips before connecting his lips to yours. You both kiss, with the cool metal providing some extra layer of intimacy between you. Reaching down, John’s calloused fingers find your throbbing clit. You cry out at the first swipe of his thumb against your sensitive pearl. 

John’s thrusts are in sync with his thumb, and he can feel your pussy squeezing him again. 

“I know you’re close. Let go for me,” John orders. 

You come with a long moan and tears stinging at your eyes. John kisses you through your release and strums his finger across your clit to prolong your pleasure. He welcomes the sharp sting of your nails against his back. You don’t have much time to recover when John moves up and picks your body up in his hold again. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, and you shiver as you feel the cold surface of the wall pressing into your back. 

Before you can even form a thought, the man is delivering devastating thrusts, which make you bounce up and down in his hold.

“Fuck,” You shout, pleasure overwhelming your body again. 

It makes you even hornier to see John’s strength as he holds you against the wall. He fucks you effortlessly as he grunts loudly in your ear. Pulling back, he stares into your eyes, groaning at the sight of your pleasured tears again. You don’t even think it’s possible, but John Wick knows your body far better than you ever could. 

“Mmm..John!”

“I know,” He responds, pressing his body closer to yours. 

The feel of his pelvic bone and hairs pressing against your clit has you at your peak already. Your third orgasm of the night hits you by surprise. Tears now openly stream down your face as John kisses you. He welcomes the salty taste of your tears and moans. He pins your hands over your head and moans as he can feel the creeping sensations of his own release.

With one last thrust, he stuffs himself down inside of you and groans loudly. You shiver at the feel of the hot spurts of cum shooting against your womb. It doesn’t even occur to you until now that you had let this man go raw inside you. 

You nudge John’s face towards yours and pull him into a searing kiss. The man matches your eagerness as he presses his chest against yours. You can feel the distinct beating of his heart, and it sends a small shiver of pleasure down your spine. 

When John pulls back, he brings a hand up to lightly stroke your face. 

You both know that this is only the beginning of something more.

You squint your eyes at the slight sunshine that comes through the curtains. 

For a moment, you’re confused about where you are until the events of the previous night pop back into your head like a movie. You look down at your bare body that’s been covered by the sheets and the slight pleasurable ache that’s settled between your legs. 

Your thoughts immediately go to the man who put that ache there. 

You look over, expecting to see John lying beside you, but you only find an empty pillow and ruffled sheets. You push back the sting of disappointment at not seeing the man there. It wasn’t like he was your boyfriend or had ever expressed anything past the dance. 

Standing up slowly, you grab the robe that the hotel provides and slide it onto your body. 

A knock sounds from the door, and a brief moment of panic courses through you. You settle once you hear Charon’s voice calling your name through the door. You open the door with a shy smile on your face. It’s not every day that one of your co-workers catches you doing a pseudo-walk of shame while still inside the room.

However, there’s not an ounce of judgment present on Charon’s face as he smiles at you.

“Good morning, madam. How are you this morning?”

“I’m good, Charon. How are you?”

He smiles, “I’m doing quite well, thank you for asking. I am here on orders from Mr. Wick. He’s asked that I come to provide you with breakfast and whatever else you may need. He also told me to give you this.” 

Charon hands you a card and an envelope before pushing the breakfast cart into the room.

He turns to you, “He said that you could stay in the room for however long that you wanted. Is there anything else that I can get for you today, madam?”

“Umm… no. Thank you, Charon,” You said, smiling softly at the man.

“You’re most welcome, madam. Please don’t hesitate to call the front desk should you need anything.”

You nod, and before long, he’s walking out the door again. You sit down on the bed and open the note first.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there when you woke up. I had business matters to attend to, but you can stay in the room as long as you need. Feel free to order whatever you want from the menu. I also wanted to leave you a token of gratitude for last night.

Thank you for the dance and everything else that followed.

-John W.

You bite your lip and try to will down the giddy feeling that appears. Grabbing the envelope, you tear it open gently and grab the paper inside. You’re momentarily stunned as you stare at the paper in your hands. 

It’s not just any ordinary paper.

It’s a check for $50,000 from John addressed to you. 

A small slip of paper falls onto your lap after you take the check out. You pick it up and laugh a little.

See you soon

-John W. xx

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The sun was warm on my neck, but the weight on my lap was warmer. "Eli, buddy, you gotta let go of my leg for a second," I grunted, trying to stand up from the bench. He just tightened his grip, babbling some nonsense that sounded suspiciously like "no" and "dada" all mushed together. A year. A whole damn year had passed since he'd been dropped on my doorstep like a forgotten Amazon package. The apartment was long gone, traded for a two-story house in a gated community with a backyard big enough for the slide set Smoke had insisted on buying. The name "Stack" felt like a ghost from another life, a loud, reckless kid who didn't know shit about anything that mattered. Now, I was just Elias. Dad. And this little dude, my son Elijah, was my whole world.

He was a walker now, all wobbly legs and determination, a true velcro baby who attached himself to me the moment I walked into a room. I wouldn't trade it for anything. "Alright, alright, you win," I laughed, scooping him up. His little fists immediately went to my chain, his favorite toy. "Let's go hit the slide before your uncle gets here and shows you how to do it all wrong."

I set him down in the woodchips at the base of the playground structure, and he took off, a tiny chocolate bolt of energy. I leaned against the fence, watching him, that quiet hum in my chest—the one that was always there now—keeping time with his happy squeals. That's when I saw her. Walking the path that circled the park. She gave off those black earthy girl vibes, the type who probably talks to her plants and has fresh lavender hanging in her kitchen. Her deep mocha skin seemed to drink in the sunlight, and her head wrap was a swirl of deep purples and golds. She wore a flowing dress that brushed the ground, and when she got closer, I saw her eyes were this light, warm brown, like honey. She was thick in all my favorite places, moving with a kind of easy confidence that had me standing up a little straighter.

She must've felt me staring 'cause her eyes met mine, and she gave me a small, polite smile before her attention was captured by Eli, who had stopped his mad dash to the slide. He was standing frozen by the fence, staring right at her. His mouth fell open. Then, he let out a string of excited babbling, pointing a chubby finger right at her. It was his official "I approve, come talk to me" signal.

The woman laughed, a sound like wind chimes. She stopped and walked over to the fence, crouching down so she was eye-level with my son. "Well, hello there," she cooed. "Aren't you just the cutest thing?"

Eli, completely smitten, babbled back, slapping his hand against the chain-link fence like he was telling her his entire life story. She giggled, nodding along like she understood every word. I just stood there, confused as hell. I don't even know what he's saying most of the time, and this random stranger is having a full-on conversation with him?

"He's very talkative," she said, looking up at me. Those light brown eyes.

"Only when he sees something he likes," I found myself saying, my voice smoother than it had any right to be.

"I'm Skylar," she said, pushing herself up gracefully.

"Elias. And this little charmer is Elijah."

"Elijah," she repeated, and the way she said it, soft and warm, had my son grinning like he'd just been told he could eat ice cream for dinner. "I'm a daycare teacher over at Little Sprouts. I have a soft spot for them when they're this age. All personality and no filter."

"No filter is right," I laughed, running a hand over Eli's curls. "He keeps me on my toes."

"I bet he does," she said, her smile lingering. "Well, it was nice meeting you both, Elijah."

As she turned to walk away, Eli let out a disappointed whine. "Da-da! Da!" he yelled, pointing at her retreating back.

Skylar stopped, turned back, and her face broke into the widest, most genuine grin I'd ever seen. She walked back to the fence. "Okay, okay, I get it," she laughed. "I can't leave without saying goodbye properly." She blew him a kiss, and my son, my little player, caught it right out of the air and pressed it to his cheek.

I was laughing. Skylar was laughing. Eli was giggling, completely enchanted by this woman who had appeared out of nowhere. And in that moment, with the sun filtering through the trees and the sound of my son's happiness filling the air, it felt like something was starting. Something good.

—

From across the street, behind the tinted window of a parked car, I watched them. My son. My beautiful, perfect boy. He was so big now, walking, talking in his secret language. He looked happy. Healthy. Loved. Elias had changed. The reckless, toxic energy I remembered from our last fight—the energy that had me blocked on every platform, ignored, erased—that had softened into something steady, something warm. He looked like a father. He looked like he was giving my son everything I couldn't. Everything I begged him to give me.

A sharp, bitter pain twisted in my gut. I'd made the right choice. I knew I had. Leaving him there was the only way. We were in such a bad spot, a vicious cycle of fucking and fighting. I wanted more. I told him I wanted to be his girl, to settle down, to start a family that was already growing inside me. He laughed. He actually laughed right in my face, because I'd lied about being pregnant before, a desperate, stupid attempt to get him to just look at me, to see me as something more than a warm body for the night. So when I told him the truth, he just shook his head and said I wasn't the only one and he wasn't ready to be tied down. He wanted to keep running the streets, keep fucking random girls. So I did the only thing I could think of. I prayed that seeing his son, holding him, would make him see me as more than just a convenient fuck. That he'd see me as the mother of his child. After giving birth, I tried messaging him from new numbers, calling until my fingers were numb, but he was gone. So I left our son on his doorstep and prayed for the best.

The first few weeks without him were a blur. Then the silence in my apartment became too loud. The weight of my decision crushed me, and I broke. A 48-hour hold turned into six months in a place with white walls and scheduled meals. Now I'm out. Settled into a new home, trying to find my footing again. A home that, by some cruel twist of fate, is in the same damn gated community as him.

Watching them now, watching Elias laugh with that other woman, watching my son look at her with the same open joy that should be reserved for me... it hurts. It makes me angry. Pissed off. Because this is what I wanted, this is what I cried for, what I sacrificed my sanity for. This was supposed to be me. I was supposed to be the one on the other side of that fence, giggling at our son's babbling, flirting with the man I loved. I was supposed to be the one he changed for. I shouldn't have come. But I couldn't stay away.

The silence in Elijah’s apartment was different now. It wasn’t the controlled quiet he had once curated, a space of pristine minimalism and cold, hard surfaces. It was warmer. Softer. It was a silence that held the memory of her laughter, the phantom scent of her coconut oil, the echo of her breathy moans. He was sprawled on his couch, the leather cool against his bare skin, wearing nothing but a pair of Nike grey sweatpants. The sweet, acrid smoke from the blunt he’d just finished coiled in the air around him, mingling with the faint, lingering trace of her perfume that still clung to the cushions.

He closed his eyes, and the memory hit him, not as a replay, but as a visceral, full-body experience. He could feel it again—the plush rug of her living room digging into his knees. He could feel the humiliating, exhilarating burn of his own tears, hot and salty on his cheeks. He could hear his own voice, a broken, desperate thing he barely recognized, begging.

‘Please, Ken. I need you. I need to be inside you.’

A slow, easy smile touched his lips. There was no shame in the memory. Not anymore. There was only awe. A deep reverence for the woman who had brought the great Elijah Moore to his knees without raising her voice, without breaking a sweat. She had seen through every layer of his carefully constructed armor, had looked at the raw, needy core of him, and turned him away. She had taken his desperation and his vulnerability and accepted them as her due.

And then she had given him what he wanted.

The memory shifted, the heat of his shame replaced by the searing, unforgettable heat of her. Skin on skin. The slick, tight welcome of her pussy as she’d sunk onto him, taking him in one slow, devastating motion. He remembered the way she’d looked at him, her eyes burning with a triumphant fire. He remembered the way she’d ridden him, her hips rolling in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that had built a tension in him.

‘Look at me,’ she’d commanded. ‘Watch how I take this dick. Watch how I make it mine.’

And he had watched. He had watched her unravel him, piece by piece, until he was nothing but a collection of nerve endings and aching need.

The craziest part? The friendship was still there. Unshaken. Unbroken. If anything, it was stronger. They had crossed a line, burned a bridge, and discovered that on the other side was a whole new country, a land of unspoken understanding and a shared, delicious secret. The sex wasn’t a complication. It was a bonus. A new, fluent language they could speak when words weren’t enough. It was the ultimate trust fall, and he had discovered he loved the feeling of falling, knowing she would always be there to catch him.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table, the sound a sharp, insistent vibration that cut through his hazy reverie. He glanced down at the screen, and his smile widened. It was her. A picture of her, mid-laugh, her head thrown back, the city lights blurred behind her, was his contact photo. He felt a familiar warmth spread through his chest, a low, pleasant hum of anticipation.

He swiped to answer, holding the phone to his ear. “‘Sup.”

The sound that hit him was a wall of chaos. A heavy, pulsing bass beat that vibrated through the phone, a cacophony of shouting and laughter, and then, cutting through it all, Kennady’s voice, loud, tipsy, and vibrant.

“Eliiiiiijah!” she sang, her voice a melodic slur. “My favorite nigga! My hero! I need you.”

He could practically hear the grin in her voice. He leaned back against the couch, his body relaxing into a state of lazy, confident readiness. “What’d you do now?”

“Nothing!” she insisted, her voice dropping to a whisper, though she was still shouting. “I’m just… out with the work people. And I’m… socially lubricated. And I miss you. And I need a ride home. Please?”

He could hear her friends giggling in the background, their high-pitched, drunken sounds a dramatic difference to Kennady’s low tone. He imagined her there, leaning against a wall in some loud, overcrowded club, a little drunk, gorgeous, surrounded by people who only knew the surface version of her. They didn’t know the way she looked when she was lost in pleasure, the way her voice got all soft and raspy when she was about to cum, the way she could reduce a man to tears with a few well-placed words and a slow roll of her hips. That was for his eyes only.

“Where are you?” he asked, his voice smooth, calm.

She rattled off the name of some new downtown hotspot, a place he’d probably seen on Instagram but would never be caught dead in. “Can you come? Please? I’ll make it worth your while.”

He chuckled, “I’m on my way.”

“Yay!” she squealed, and the sound was so genuine, so unburdened. “You’re the best! The absolute best! See you soon!”

She hung up, and the silence of his apartment rushed back in. He sat there for a moment, the phone still in his hand, a slow smile spreading across his face. He could still taste her on his tongue, still feel the ghost of her hands on his skin. She had taught him a lesson in patience. She had taught him what it felt like to need, to beg.

But that was then. This was now.

Tonight, he wasn't in the mood to learn. Tonight, it was his turn to teach.

—

The curb outside the club was a chaotic mess of idling Ubers and clusters of people dressed in their finest, desperate to be seen. Elijah’s blacked-out Yukon slid to a smooth, silent stop, a dark, imposing beast in a sea of glittering mediocrity. He didn’t get out. He just watched, his hands resting casually on the steering wheel, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.

Then he saw her. She was leaning against the brick wall, one hand on her hip, the other gesticulating wildly as she talked to a couple of women he didn’t recognize. She was a fucking vision. A tight, black mini-dress that hugged her body, the fabric shimmering under the club’s neon lights like a pool of oil. Her hair was down, a wild, voluminous mane that framed a face glowing with laughter and the happy, uninhibited buzz of expensive liquor. She looked like freedom. Like trouble. Like everything he’d ever wanted.

She pushed off the wall, said her goodbyes with a wave, and started toward the truck. He unlocked the doors with a soft click, the sound barely audible over the distant thump of the bass. She yanked the heavy passenger door open and tumbled inside, a whirlwind of laughter and the scent of tequila, and pure Kennady.

“Hey, you,” she breathed, slamming the door shut and plunging them into a sudden, intimate silence. The outside world, with its noise and its people, vanished. It was just them, in the dark, cavernous space of his truck. She immediately turned in her seat, her body flush against the leather, her hands finding his arm, her fingers curling around his bicep. “My hero. Always coming to my rescue.”

Her voice was a flirtatious melody that vibrated through his skin and went straight to his dick. He could feel the warmth of her touch, the slight pressure of her nails through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He could smell the liquor on her breath, a sweet mix that made him want to lean in and taste it.

“You called,” he replied smoothly. He didn’t look at her right away. He kept his eyes on the street, pulling the Yukon away from the curb and into the flow of traffic with an easy confidence. He was in control. The truck, the night, the conversation. It was all his.

“I did,” she said, her hand sliding up his arm, her fingers tracing the line of his shoulder. “I was thinking about you.” Her voice dropped, becoming a conspiratorial whisper. “I was telling my friends about this guy I know. He’s real bossy. A little mean, sometimes. But he’s got a soft spot for me. He’d do anything for me.”

He let out a low chuckle, a sound that was all knowing amusement. “Is that right? Sounds like a chump.”

“Oh, he’s not a chump,” she countered, her hand sliding back down his arm, her fingers trailing a path of fire. “He’s just… whipped. And I love it.” She leaned closer, her lips brushing against his ear. “Thank you for coming to get me, Eli. I owe you one.”

He finally glanced at her, a quick, sideways look. The streetlights painted her face in shifting shadows and light, highlighting the mischievous glint in her eyes, the full, inviting curve of her lips. “You don’t owe me anything, Ken.”

“Mmm, I think I do,” she purred, her hand leaving his arm and settling on his thigh, high up, dangerously close to the growing bulge in his sweatpants. “I think I owe you a very, very… special thank you.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t tense. He just kept driving, his movements calm, his expression unreadable. But beneath the surface, a slow fire was building. He could feel the heat of her hand seeping through the fabric, a brand that marked him as hers. He could feel the familiar, aching pull of desire, but this time, it was different. It wasn’t a desperate, needy thing. It was a slow, confident burn. He knew what she wanted. And he knew he was going to give it to her. But on his terms. In his time.

He placed his own hand on her leg, his fingers wrapping around her knee. Her skin was soft, warm, impossibly smooth. He let his hand rest there for a moment, a silent acknowledgment of her touch. Then, he began to move.

His thumb started to stroke slow circles on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Each pass was a little higher, a little bolder, a silent promise that made her breath catch. He could feel her shiver, a subtle, involuntary tremor that ran through her body. He could hear her breath hitch, a soft, sharp intake of air that was music to his ears. Every time his hand moved higher, toward the heat of her, her legs parted a little wider, an unconscious invitation, a silent plea for him to give her what she wanted. He could feel her anticipation, the way her muscles tensed, the way she held her breath, waiting for his touch to finally reach its destination. But he made her wait. He made her want. He made her need.

“You been drinking?” he asked, his voice casual, as if they were discussing the weather.

“Maybe a little,” she admitted, her voice a little breathless. She shifted in her seat, her legs parting slightly, giving him better access. “A couple of tequila sodas. A shot of Patron. Just enough to make me feel… brave.”

“Brave, huh?” he murmured, his thumb stroking higher, tracing the line of her dress, his fingers teasing the hem. “What are you gonna be brave about, Ken?”

She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “You’ll see,” she whispered. Her own hand began to move, sliding higher up his thigh, her fingers tracing the hard, thick line of his dick through his sweats.

He just kept driving, his thumb stroking, his touch a slow tease. He could feel the tension building in the small space of the truck, a thick, electric current that arced between them. He could feel her need, her desire, her impatience. It was a familiar feeling, but the roles were reversed. He was the one in control. He was the one setting the pace.

He took a left turn, heading away from the direction of her house, toward a darker, quieter part of the city. She didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she didn’t care. Maybe all she cared about was his hand on her skin.

He could feel her shifting her hips, sliding down in her seat, trying to use the movement to force his hand higher. Every time she did, he’d move his hand away, back to the safe, neutral territory of her knee. It was a slow game of push and pull, and he was winning. He could hear her pout, a soft, frustrated huff of air, and then a low, needy moan of frustration. She wanted him the same way he had wanted her days ago—a desperate, aching, all-consuming need that clouded judgment and obliterated pride.

“Eli…” she breathed, her voice a hoarse, desperate plea. “Please…” She grabbed his wrist, trying to guide his hand back to the heat between her thighs. “Stop teasing me. You know what I want. Please, daddy… just give it to me.”

He smiled. He had her right where he wanted her.

—

“Daddy?” Elijah’s voice was now filled with amusement. He finally took his eyes off the road, glancing over at her. She was pouting, her bottom lip pushed out in a way that was meant to be seductive but just looked fucking bratty. He could see the frustration in her eyes, the impatience warring with the desire. “Look at you. All that talk a few nights ago about patience and control, and now you can’t even wait five minutes. You’re a greedy little thing, aren’t you, Ken?”

His words were a tease, a light jab, but they held a new, dominant edge that made her shiver. He was enjoying this, enjoying her desperation, enjoying the power shift. “Please, Eli,” she whined, her hand still gripping his wrist. “I want you. I need you.”

“I know you do, baby,” he cooed, his voice softening. “But good things come to those who wait. Isn’t that what you taught me?” He finally gave in, letting her guide his hand back to the heat between her thighs. He let his fingers rest there, over the thin, damp fabric of her thong. He could feel the heat radiating from her, a searing promise that made his own body throb in response. “But since you asked so nicely…”

He didn’t rush. He didn’t tear at her clothes or fumble with the fabric. He let his fingers trace the outline of her lips through the silk, a light, teasing touch that made her hips buck up against his hand. He could feel how her fat pussy ate her thong, the thin strip of fabric disappearing between her slick, swollen lips. She was soaked, her arousal soaking through the material. With a frustrated whimper, Kennady took matters into her own hands. She grabbed the hem of her dress and yanked it up, pulling it higher until it was bunched around her waist. She kicked off her heels, letting them fall to the floorboard with a soft thud, and placed her bare feet on his dashboard, her legs spread wide in a blatant, desperate invitation. She slumped even further down in her seat, her body an offering, preparing herself to be fingerfucked by him right there in his truck as they drove through the dark city street.

“Eli…” she breathed, her voice a hoarse, desperate whisper.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Patience, baby. Remember?” He finally slipped his fingers beneath the fabric, his knuckles brushing against her wet, swollen lips. He found her clit, a swollen, throbbing pearl peeking out from its hood, glistening with her arousal. He began to stroke it in slow circles that made her gasp.

He risked a glance away from the road, his eyes drawn to the sight between her spread legs. As they drove under a streetlight, a flash of pale yellow illuminated her, and his mouth went dry. Her pussy was beautiful, a feast for the eyes. Her lips were puffy and dark, parted and slick with her wetness. Her clit, engorged and desperate, stood out, begging for his touch. He flicked it with his thumb, a quick movement that made her whole body jerk.

“Fuck, Eli!” she cried out, her hands flying to her own breasts. She slid her hands underneath her dress and grabbed her nipples, pinching them hard, rolling them between her fingers. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open, her eyes low and heavy-lidded with pleasure. She watched him through her lashes, watched as he played with her pussy, as he mastered her body with just a few fingers. The sight made his own mouth water, made him want to pull over and bury his face between her thighs, to taste her, to devour her.

“Right there,” she breathed, her voice a breathy affirmation. “Oh my god, right there. You’re making my pussy feel so good, Eli. So fucking good.”

He slid one finger inside her, and she was so wet, so ready, that it slipped in with no resistance. He watched her face as he did it, watched the way her eyes rolled back in her head, the way her lips parted in a silent moan. He added a second finger, then a third, stretching her, filling her. He had her pussy stretched open, his three fingers buried deep inside her, and he began to pound them in and out of her, a hard, fast rhythm that was worlds apart from his slow, teasing touches.

She met him pound for pound, her hips moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm, fucking his fingers right back. The sounds she made were obscene, a wet, squelching noise that filled his truck, mingling with her breathy moans and his own low grunts of effort.

“Look at you,” he praised. “Look at you taking my fingers like that. Such a good girl. Such a fucking good girl for me.” He could feel the sweet smell of her pussy filling his truck, a musky, intoxicating scent that made his dick harder than it had ever been. He wanted to add a fourth finger, to see how much she could take, to really stretch her, but he didn’t want to push her too much, not yet. He had to remain patient. He had to focus on tearing her little bratty pussy up, on making her cum. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of it. You’re so fucking wet. You’re so fucking tight.”

“Fuck, Eli,” she gasped, her hands gripping the edge of her seat. “Please… don’t stop…”

“I’m not gonna stop, baby,” he cooed, his voice a low, filthy promise. “I’m gonna make you cum all over my fingers. I’m gonna make you scream my name. And then you’re gonna thank me for it.”

He increased the pressure, his thumb still stroking her clit, his fingers still curling inside her. He could feel her getting closer, her walls tightening around him, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He could feel the tension building in her, an aching need that was about to snap.

“Cum for me, Ken,” he commanded, his voice a firm order. “Cum for me now.”

And she did. Her body arched, a silent, beautiful thing, her back bowing off the seat. A strangled cry was torn from her throat, a hoarse, breathy moan of his name. Her pussy clenched around his fingers, a series of powerful contractions. He kept his fingers inside her, drawing out her orgasm, until she was a trembling, whimpering mess.

He slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips. They came to a red light, the world outside the truck bathed in a sudden, stark red glow. He looked at her, his eyes dark and intense, and then he tasted her. He didn’t just lick his fingers clean; he made a show of it. He brought them to his mouth, one by one, sucking them clean, his eyes locked on hers the entire time. He savored the taste of her, the sweet flavor, a taste he knew he would never get enough of.

God, look at him, Kennady thought, her body still trembling. Look at him, tasting me like that. Like I’m the best fucking thing he’s ever had. He’s trying to kill me.

“You taste so good, honey,” he praised, his voice a low, rough murmur. “So fucking sweet. I could eat this pussy all night.”

The light turned green, but he didn’t move. He just kept looking at her, his eyes burning with an almost frightening hunger. He had her. He knew he had her. He had reduced her to a whimpering, needy mess with just a few fingers.

But he had underestimated her. He had underestimated her fire, her stubbornness, her refusal to be the one to surrender.

The aftermath wasn’t gratitude. It wasn’t a soft, whispered thank you. It was a demand.

“That was a warm-up,” she said, her voice a bratty challenge, her eyes burning with a renewed fire. “I want more. Pull over. Now.”

He let out a low, amused chuckle, a sound that was both a compliment and a dismissal. He finally put the truck in drive, pulling away from the intersection with a smooth, easy confidence. “Always so demanding, Ken. You’d think you’d learn a little patience after what I just did to you.”

“Fuck patience,” she shot back. “I want you to fuck me. Now. Pull the damn truck over, Eli, or I swear to God I’ll climb over this console and ride you right here while you’re driving.”

He laughed, a real, deep, genuine laugh that rumbled in his chest. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to be in charge, to be the one calling the shots. But that’s not how this works, baby. You’ll get what I give you, when I give it to you. And you’ll fucking like it.”

—

Her demanding tone ignited something in him. It wasn’t anger. It was a cold, calm fire. He’d been soft with her, patient, teaching her the way she had taught him. But she was a brat. A spoiled, greedy little thing who thought she could still call the shots. He could see it in her eyes, the defiance, the challenge. She wanted to be put in her place. And he was more than happy to oblige.

Gotta tame that mouth, he thought. All that talking back, all that attitude. Gotta give it something to do besides run.

He took a sharp right, pulling the Yukon into the entrance of a small, dimly lit park not far from her neighborhood. The playground equipment was a collection of dark, skeletal shapes against the night sky. He drove past the empty swings and slides, heading for the far corner of the parking lot, a secluded spot hidden by a copse of oak trees. He killed the engine, and the world outside the truck fell away, leaving them in a pocket of thick, heavy silence.

He turned to her, his expression unreadable in the dim light, but his voice was a low, firm command. “I told you, Ken. You don’t give the orders in here. Not tonight.”

She opened her mouth, probably to say something smart, something defiant, but he held up a hand, a gesture that was both gentle and absolute. “No. You wanted to play games. You wanted to be a brat. Fine. We’ll play. But we play by my rules. You taught me patience. Now I’m about to teach you some manners. You’re gonna learn how to worship this dick with your mouth.”

He could see the flicker of uncertainty, the dawning realization that she had pushed him too far. He could see the fear, and the excitement, and the aching need that was warring for dominance.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and pushed his seat back. “Come here,” he said, his voice a coaxing command. He didn’t grab her or force her. He just held out his hand, an invitation she couldn’t refuse.

She hesitated for a moment, then took his hand, her fingers trembling slightly. He helped her over the center console, her body clumsy and awkward in the confined space. She settled on her knees on the floor between his legs, her dress still bunched around her waist.

He freed his dick, the hard, thick length springing free from the confines of his sweatpants. It was a sight to behold, all eight and a half inches of hard, chocolate muscle. The shaft was thick, roped with prominent veins that pulsed with his heartbeat, the head a broad, mushroomed crown that was already leaking. It was pointed right at her face, a silent, demanding challenge, and Kennady’s mouth watered at the sight of it. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips, a subconscious reaction.

He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. “You’re gonna be a good girl for me, aren’t you, Ken?” he murmured, his voice softening. “You’re gonna open that pretty mouth and take this dick like the good girl I know you can be.”

He gripped her hair in one hand, his fingers tangling in the thick, soft strands. He guided her head down, his movements and intentions clear. He didn’t force her. He just guided her, letting her set the pace, letting her choose to surrender. He could feel her hesitation, her last bit of resistance, before she finally gave in, her head bowing, her lips parting in a silent offering.

He guided himself to her lips, rubbing the head of his dick against her mouth, smearing her with his wetness. She parted her lips wider, and he felt the first, tentative touch of her tongue. It was a soft, wet, fluttering thing, a small, shy lick that made his whole body tense. Then, she took him in, her lips sliding over the head of his dick. The feeling was overwhelming. Her mouth was so wet, so warm, a soft, velvety cavern that enveloped him.

“That’s it, honey,” he praised, his voice a filthy whisper. The new nickname felt right, a perfect, possessive endearment. “Slow. Take your time. Feel me on your tongue. Just the tip at first. Get used to it. Get used to the taste.”

—

For a moment, Kennady was obedient. She followed his instructions, her lips sliding over the head of his dick, her tongue exploring the sensitive ridge, her movements slow and tentative. She was testing the waters, learning the feel of him, the taste of him. The scent of him filled her senses. She could feel the soft skin of his dick against her lips, the hard, steel core beneath. It was intoxicating.

But obedience wasn’t in her nature, not when it came to this. Not when she knew she could make him lose control. She decided to push.

She took him deeper, her mouth widening to accommodate his girth, her movements becoming faster, more confident. She began to bob her head, a frantic, desperate rhythm that was designed to overwhelm him, to make him forget all about his lessons in patience and control. She wanted to hear him groan, to feel his hips buck, to see his composure shatter. She wanted to be the one in charge again.

For a split second, it almost worked. Her sudden, aggressive pace caught him completely off guard. The wet, heat of her mouth, the way her tongue swirled and lapped, the desperate force of her movements—it was a sensory assault that bypassed his brain and went straight to his dick. His hips betrayed him, giving a sharp, involuntary thrust upward. A low groan rumbled in his chest, a sound of pleasure. His hand, which had been resting gently on her head, almost slipped from her hair, his fingers loosening as his body threatened to surrender to the urge to fuck her mouth, to chase the release she was so desperately trying to give him.

But then, the teacher in him, the dom he was becoming, reasserted itself. He wasn't going to let her win that easily. He wasn't going to let her take back the control he had just fought so hard to claim. His hand tightened in her hair, his grip a firm, unyielding anchor that stopped her movements cold. He held her steady, his dick buried deep in her mouth, a silent, unyielding command.

She tried to pull back, to protest, but his grip was like iron. She was trapped, her mouth full of him, her body at his mercy.

“Uh-uh, honey,” he murmured, his voice a warning rumble. “I told you. We go at my pace. You don’t get to rush this. You don’t get to rush me.”

She let out a frustrated whine, the sound muffled by his dick. She tried to move again, a defiant little thrust of her head, but his grip tightened, a clear, undeniable command.

“I see what you’re doing,” he continued, his voice a low, teasing chide. “You think you can make me lose control. You think you can make me forget who’s in charge. But that’s not gonna happen. You wanted to be a brat? Fine. We can play that. But brats get punished.”

He used his other hand to guide her, pushing her down, forcing her to take more of him. She felt the head of his dick hit the back of her throat, and she gagged, her eyes watering. He didn’t let up. He just held her there, his dick buried deep in her mouth, her nose pressed against the hair at his base.

“Just stay there,” he cooed, his voice a soft, menacing whisper. “Feel that?” His dick throbed. “ That’s all you. Just surrender to it. This is what happens when you try to be a greedy little girl. You get to be reminded of your place.”

This wasn't a lesson, but a punishment. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but feel him. Feel him throb in her throat, feel his heartbeat against her tongue, feel the full, overwhelming reality of his control. She could feel the tears streaming down her cheeks, a mix of discomfort and a strange, unexpected arousal.

He held her there for what felt like an eternity, a long, silent moment where the only sounds were her own ragged breaths and the low hum of the truck’s engine. Then, just as she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, he relaxed his grip, allowing her to pull back.

She gasped for air, a desperate, ragged sound, her mouth wet and swollen. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and pleading, a silent question on her lips.

“You gonna be good now?” he asked, his voice a low, gentle inquiry. “You gonna do what I say?”

She nodded, her movements slow, submissive. 

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice a soft, filthy caress. “Now, let’s try again. But this time, you do it my way. Slow. Easy. No rushing. No trying to make me cum. Just… feel it. Worship it.”

He guided her back down, his hand still tangled in her hair, his touch a gentle, constant reminder of his control. She obeyed, her lips parting, her tongue darting out to lick the head of his dick. She took him in, her movements slow compared to her desperate attempts from before.

She was no longer the calm teacher. She was the eager student, desperate for his praise. She was no longer the bratty sub, trying to test his limits. She was the worshipful devotee, her only goal to please him, to earn the release he now controlled.

He was no longer the desperate man, begging for a taste of her. He was the soft dom, praising her with his smooth, filthy voice, his words a constant stream of encouragement and degradation.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice proud. “Got that mouth all sloppy for me, making a mess all over my dick. You’re a nasty little thing, aren’t you, honey? So fucking greedy for it. But you’re learning. You’re learning how to be a good girl and take this dick the way I want you to. And that’s how you get rewarded.”

He guided her, his hands firm but gentle, his voice a constant, reassuring presence that was a stark contrast to the filthy things he was teaching her. This wasn't about her skill; she knew how to suck dick. This was about his preference. This was about teaching her the intricate, specific art of pleasing him.

"Slow down, honey," he murmured, his grip on her hair loosening just enough to let her move. "Not like that. We're not in a race. I want you to worship it. Start with the tip. Just the tip."

She obeyed, pulling back until just the broad, mushroomed head of his dick was between her lips. She flicked her tongue against the slit, tasting the salty bead of pre-cum that had gathered there.

"Yeah, just like that," he praised. "Now swirl your tongue. All the way around. Get it real wet for me."

She did, her tongue tracing the sensitive ridge, a slow, deliberate circle that made his hips twitch. She could feel the thick, pulsing vein on the underside of his dick, a throbbing line that begged for attention.

"Feel that vein?" he asked. "I want you to lick it. I want you to trace it all the way down to my balls. Slow. Don't you dare rush."

She flattened her tongue and did as he asked, licking a long, slow path from the head of his dick all the way down to the base, where his balls were drawn up tight against his body.

"Good girl," he praised. "Such a good fucking girl for me. Now, take me back in your mouth. But this time, when I tell you to, I want you to relax your throat. I want you to let me in. I want to feel the back of your throat."

She took him in again, her lips sliding over his dick. She could feel him getting deeper, the head of his dick pushing against the back of her throat.

"Relax, honey," he coaxed, his voice soft. "Breathe through your nose. Just let it happen. I'm not gonna hurt you."

She took a deep breath, and then she felt it. A slow, steady pressure as he pushed her head down, forcing her to take more of him. She felt the head of his dick slide past the tight, constricting muscles of her throat, a full, overwhelming sensation that made her eyes water. She gagged, a reflexive, uncontrollable contraction, but he held her steady, his grip a firm, unyielding anchor.

"That's it," he praised.

He held her there for a moment, letting her get used to the feeling of him, letting her adjust to the full, overwhelming reality of his size. Then, he began to move.

He started slow, a gentle, rocking motion of his hips, his dick sliding in and out of her throat. He was fucking her mouth, but it was a slow, controlled thing.

"You like that?" he asked, his voice a low, filthy whisper. "You like me fucking your mouth?"

She could only moan, a muffled, desperate sound that was lost in the wet, sloppy sounds of their fucking. She was lost, adrift in a sea of sensation, a prisoner to the slow rhythm of his hips, to the soft, whispered words of praise, to the overwhelming, all-consuming desire that was pouring from him, into her, filling all the empty places she hadn't even known were there. She was no longer Kennady, the bratty, demanding friend. She was his. His to command, his to teach, his to worship. And she had never felt more alive, more free, more complete.

He could feel her surrender in the way her body went pliant, in the way her whimpers of protest turned into soft, eager moans of acceptance. She was no longer fighting him; she was flowing with him.

"Good girl," he praised. "You see? You see how much better it is when you're good? You learn your lesson, you get your reward."

He slowly pulled her head back, letting his dick slide from her throat until just the head was resting on her lips. He loosened his grip, his hand moving from her hair to her cheek, his touch gentle, almost reverent.

"You've been such a good student, honey," he murmured. "You've learned so well. Now, I'm gonna give you a prize. I'm gonna let you show me what you can do. Show me how you can make me cum. Show me how nasty you can be for me."

A smile spread across her lips, a look of lust in her eyes. She was free. Free to explore, free to experiment, free to unleash the full force of her desire.

She didn't hesitate. She took him in again, but this time, she was in control. It was her prize, and she was going to enjoy every second of it. She bobbed her head, her lips sliding up and down his dick, her tongue swirling and lapping, her movements a symphony of sloppy, wet, obscene sounds. The truck was filled with the music of it—the wet, glck, glck, glck of her mouth, the soft slap of her lips against his skin, the low, guttural groans that were torn from his throat.

“Fuck, Ken… just like that,” he breathed. He was no longer calm. He was a man on the brink. His hips began to buck, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate.

She pulled back, a thick string of spit connecting her lips to the head of his dick. “You like that, Eli? You like it when I suck your dick like this?” she asked, teasing him. She wrapped her hand around his dick, her grip tight, and began to stroke him; her movements made his whole body tense. She was a fucking tease, a master of the art of pleasure, and she was using all of her skills to drive him wild.

“Don’t stop,” he groaned, his hands gripping the edge of his seat. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

“Or what?” she asked, her voice a playful taunt. She slowed her strokes. “You gonna punish me again? You gonna make me hold your dick in my throat until I cry? I don’t think you have it in you.”

He let out a low, frustrated growl, a sound that was a warning. She was pushing his buttons, testing his limits, and he was loving every second of it.

She took him back in her mouth, teasing him, edging him, bringing him to the brink of release and then pulling back, again and again. She could feel his frustration, his desperation, his aching need for release. It was a power she reveled in, a power she had no intention of giving up again.

She reached down with her other hand, her fingers finding his balls. She began to massage them, her touch gentle, a soft, rolling motion that made his whole body tense. She could feel them drawing up tight against his body, a sign that he was close.

She could feel her pussy dripping, her juices soaking her thong, a testament to the power she held over him. She was so turned on that she could barely think straight. All she could think about was him, his dick, his pleasure, his release.

She reached down, her hand sliding between her own thighs. She was wet and still swollen from his earlier attention. She began to play with her pussy, her fingers circling her clit, her movements matching the rhythm of her mouth. She was pleasuring herself while she pleasured him, a feedback loop of sensation that was pushing them both closer to the edge.

"Fuck, Ken," he groaned. "I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna fucking cum."

She could feel it, the tightening of his balls, the pulsing of his dick, the hot, thick flood of his release. She took him deep, her mouth a perfect, tight sheath, and she swallowed, her throat muscles milking him, drawing every last drop of his cum from his body.

He came with a strangled cry, his body arching, his hands gripping her head, his hips bucking, emptying every drop into her throat. And as he came, so did she. The feeling of him cumming in her mouth, the taste of him, the sound of his pleasure- it was all too much. Pleasure surged through her in relentless waves, unraveling her until she was shaking between his legs. She moaned around him, her body tightening instinctively as the last of the sensation moved through her.

He slumped back in his seat, his chest heaving, his body spent. The truck was silent, save for their ragged breaths and the faint hum of the engine. Kennady slowly lifted her head, a lazy, smile on her swollen lips. She wiped a stray drop of cum from the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

Elijah looked at her, at the woman who had just brought him to his knees and then lifted him to the heavens, and a slow, easy smile spread across his face. He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice a low, raspy whisper. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna get tired of this new part of our friendship.”