Midnight Clouds

The Florida sun bled orange and violent across the Gulf, painting the floor-to-ceiling windows of their high-rise condo in liquid gold. Three years they'd been up in this glass box overlooking Clearwater Beach, and the view still fucked with Elijah's head every single time. He stood there now, barefoot on the cool travertine, a Black & Mild burning slow between his fingers, watching the waves roll in like they had somewhere important to be.

Behind him, the shower cut off.

"Smoke, you gonna smoke out my whole damn house?" Paris called, her voice warm and teasing, echoing off the walls.

He grinned, taking one last long drag before crushing the cigar out in the crystal ashtray on the kitchen island. "House? Nah, baby. This ain't a house. This is your kingdom. I just pay taxes and look pretty next to you."

The bathroom door swung open, releasing a cloud of steam that smelled of her coconut-and-shea-butter body wash. Paris stepped out, wrapped in a thick white towel that did little to hide the curves of her body. Her skin, the color of warm honey, glistened with moisture, and her micro braids, dark as midnight, were piled high on her head in a messy bun. She was five-foot-nine of pure woman—thick in all the right places, with hips that could make a man forget his own name and a smile that had knocked him on his ass the first time he'd seen it three years ago at that dive bar in Ybor.

"Pretty?" She arched a brow, padding toward him. "Nigga, you know you more than pretty. You know damn well you fine."

Elijah's laugh rumbled in his chest. He opened his arms, and she stepped into his embrace like she'd been made to fit there. Her damp skin pressed against his bare chest, and he rested his chin on top of her head, breathing her in. She smelled like home.

"Aight, aight. I'm fine as hell," he conceded, his hands roaming down her back to rest on the towel just above her ass. "But you the one who should be on a magazine cover somewhere."

Paris tilted her head back, her dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, searching his. "You just tryna get some."

"I already had some this morning," he countered, his voice dropping lower. "Tryna get some again."

"Greedy." But she was already rising on her toes, her lips finding his.

The kiss started slow, just the soft press of mouths, but it didn't stay that way. It never did with them. Three years in, and the chemistry between them still sparked like a live wire. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting mint and the sweet remnants of the juice she'd been drinking. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers tracing the muscles of his shoulders before tangling in the low fade of his hair. He deepened the kiss, one hand cupping the back of her neck, the other sliding down to grip her ass through the towel, pulling her flush against him.

He groaned as he felt himself start to harden. Paris laughed against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. "See? Greedy."

"You the one who came out here lookin' like a five-course meal," he shot back, nipping at her full bottom lip. "What you expect?"

She grinned, that bright, infectious smile that still made his chest feel tight. "I expect you to control yourself."

"Never been good at that when it comes to you."

Their moment was shattered by the buzz of his phone on the granite counter. Elijah ignored it. The buzzing stopped, then started again immediately. With a sigh, he pulled back, resting his forehead against hers.

"Stack," they said in unison.

Paris rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat in it. "That boy needs to learn patience."

"He needs to learn a lot of shit," Elijah agreed, grabbing his phone. The screen lit up with a picture of his twin brother—same face, different vibe. Where Elijah was calm and observant,   

Stack was pure chaos and restless energy. "What, nigga?"

"Where you at?" Stack's voice came through the speaker, loud and obnoxious as always. "I been calling you for twenty minutes."

"I'm at home with my woman, living life. What you want?"

"We got that thing tonight. That big thing. You 'member?"

Elijah's jaw tightened slightly. "I 'member."

"Well, get your ass ready. We gotta move by midnight."

"I'll be there."

"Aight, bet. And tell Paris I said hey."

"Will do."

Elijah hung up, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He looked at Paris, whose smile had dimmed slightly. She knew what "that thing" meant. It meant drugs, and money, and risk. It meant late nights and the constant, low-grade fear that came with their chosen profession.

"You gotta go tonight?" she asked, her voice softer now.

"Yeah, baby. It's the last one for a while. Stack promised."

She nodded, tracing the intricate patterns of the gold chain around his neck. "Promise me you'll be careful."

"Always am."

"No, you're not," she countered gently. "You're careful enough, but you're not always careful. You and Stack... y'all move like nothing can touch you."

Elijah cupped her face in his hands, his dark eyes serious. "Nothing gonna touch me. I got too much to come home to."

That's what he did—made promises with his eyes, his voice, his whole presence. That's what made him Smoke. He moved through life like he already knew how it would play out, confident and unhurried, even when everything around him was moving at a hundred miles an hour. He was a man's man, dominant without being overbearing, protective without being suffocating. He knew how to take care of a woman, how to make her feel safe even when he was walking into danger.

Paris leaned into his touch, her eyes closing. "I love you."

"Love you more."

"Impossible."

He chuckled, kissing her forehead. "Nah. I just love you better."

She laughed, swatting at his chest.

The rest of the day moved in the comfortable rhythm they'd established over three years together. Paris got dressed, pulling on a pair of designer jeans and a cropped top that showed off the flat expanse of her stomach and the delicate butterfly tattooed just above her hip bone. Elijah watched her move around their bedroom, admiring the way she carried herself—all confidence and grace. She was the one thing that made sense when everything else was chaos.

They ate dinner on the balcony, watching the sun disappear completely and the city lights of Clearwater Beach spring to life across the water. Elijah told her about his day—the boring shit, the business details he knew she pretended to care about but didn't really. Paris listened, nodding in all the right places, her mind clearly somewhere else.

"What's wrong?" he asked finally, setting his fork down.

She shook her head, forcing a smile. "Nothing. Just thinking."

"Bout what?"

"Us. This." She waved a hand, encompassing the condo, the view, the life they'd built together. "Sometimes it feels like a dream."

"A good dream, though, right?"

"The best," she agreed, but her smile was weak.

Elijah reached across the table, taking her hand. "Hey. Look at me." She did, her gaze searching his. "We good. Whatever you thinking about, we good. We always gonna be good."

"I know," she whispered, but there was a tremor in her voice.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Just... hormonal, I guess."

That's when he noticed it, the slight puffiness around her eyes that hadn't been there that morning, the way she kept picking at her food, the faint line of tension between her brows. He'd seen it before, the subtle shifts in her mood and behavior that signaled something was off. Paris was usually warm, open, quick to laugh and even quicker to speak her mind. Lately, though... lately she'd been quieter, more reserved. Snappy, sometimes, over small shit that wouldn't normally bother her.

"You been feeling sick?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"Just tired," she said, pulling her hand back. "It's this heat, I think."

It was more than the heat, and they both knew it. But Elijah let it go, for now. He knew how to read Paris, knew when to push and when to give her space. Right now, she needed space.

Later that night, after he'd dressed in his usual uniform—designer jeans, a fitted black tee, his gold chains, and a varsity-style leather jacket—he found her in the living room, staring out at the water. The moonlight caught the waves, turning them silver.

"I gotta go," he said, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.

She leaned back against him, her body tense. "Be safe."

"Always."

"Smoke?"

"Yeah, baby?"

She turned in his arms, her eyes wide and serious in the dim light. "If... if something happened to you..."

"Nothing gonna happen to me."

"But if it did... would you want me to wait?"

He frowned, confused by the question. "Wait for what?"

"For you. If you were gone. Would you want me to move on someday?"

Elijah's heart did a strange little flip in his chest. This wasn't like Paris. She didn't talk like this, didn't dwell on the what-ifs. She was here, now, present and alive.

"Where this coming from?" he asked, his hands tightening on her waist.

"Just thinking," she said again, but this time her voice was thin, brittle. "About life. About how fast it can change."

"Paris, what's wrong?"

She shook her head, forcing a smile that didn't fool him for a second. "Nothing. I'm being silly. Go. Stack's waiting."

He searched her face, his observant eyes taking in every detail—the slight tremor in her bottom lip, the way she wouldn't quite meet his gaze, the frantic pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

"Paris."

"Smoke, please. Just... go. We'll talk when you get back."

He wanted to push, wanted to demand that she tell him what was going on in that head of hers. But the buzz of his phone in his pocket reminded him that Stack was waiting, that business called. With a sigh, he leaned down and kissed her—deep and slow, trying to pour all the things he couldn't say into the press of his lips.

"I love you," he murmured against her mouth.

"I love you too," she whispered, but when he pulled back, he saw the tears shining in her eyes before she quickly blinked them away.

He left with a heavy feeling in his chest, a sense that something was shifting between them, something fundamental and terrifying. But he pushed it down, buried it under the layers of focus and determination he always summoned when it was time to work. Stack was waiting. The night was calling. And whatever was wrong with Paris, whatever storm was brewing in her mind, they'd face it together when he got home.

They always did.

The clinic was sterile, cold, everything their warm, beachfront condo was not. Paris sat in the waiting room, her hands clenched so tightly in her lap. The air conditioning hummed overhead, pumping out frigid air that raised goosebumps on her bare arms. She'd worn a hoodie—Elijah's hoodie, the one he always threw on after a shower when the condo got too cold, but it wasn't helping. Nothing could help.

The other women in the waiting room kept their eyes down, their bodies hunched in on themselves as if to make themselves smaller, less noticeable. Paris watched them, wondering about their stories, their reasons for being here on a Tuesday morning when the sun was shining, and the world outside was moving on as if nothing was wrong.

"Paris Miller?"

A nurse in blue scrubs stood in the doorway, a clipboard in her hand. Paris stood, her legs shaking so badly she almost had to grab the chair for support. The other women didn't look up. They knew why she was here. They all knew why they were all here.

The procedure room was even colder than the waiting room. Paris lay back on the table, the paper crinkling beneath her, loud in the quiet room. The doctor—a kind-faced woman with graying hair and tired eyes—explained the procedure one more time, her voice gentle but clinical.

"You're sure about this?" the doctor asked, her eyes searching Paris's.

Paris nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.

"It's okay to be scared," the doctor said softly. "It's okay to change your mind."

"I'm not changing my mind," Paris managed to say, her voice hoarse. "I can't... I can't do this. Not now. Not with his life... the way it is."

The doctor nodded, as if that was reason enough. Maybe it was. Maybe the fear that gripped Paris's heart every time Elijah walked out the door to handle "business" with Stack was reason enough. Maybe the knowledge that their life, as beautiful as it was, was built on a foundation of risk and illegality was reason enough. Maybe the certainty that bringing a child into that world would be the cruelest thing she could do to anyone, let alone someone she loved enough to die for, was reason enough.

The procedure itself was a blur of sensation—the cold instruments, the sharp cramping, the muffled sounds of the medical staff moving around her. Paris stared at the ceiling, at the fluorescent lights that seemed too bright, too harsh, and she thought about Elijah. She thought about his hands, strong and calloused but gentle when they touched her. She thought about his voice, low and rumbling, the way it sounded when he whispered her name in the dark. She thought about his eyes, dark and observant, the way they saw right through her, even when she thought she was hiding everything.

She thought about the life growing inside her, a life she'd only known about for two weeks but had already loved with a ferocity that scared her. A life that would have had his eyes, his smile, his calm, confident way of moving through the world.

A life she was ending.

Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, tracing paths down her temples and into her hair. She didn't wipe them away. She let them fall, silent and hot, mourning a future that would never be.

When it was over, the doctor helped her sit up, her hands gentle on Paris's arms. "Take it easy for the next few days," she said, pressing a pamphlet into Paris's hands. "Physically and emotionally."

Paris nodded, her body aching with a hollow sort of pain. She dressed slowly, her movements stiff and uncoordinated. The hoodie she'd worn felt heavier now, saturated with grief.

In the recovery room, she sat with a cup of lukewarm tea, watching other women come and go. Some cried openly, their faces blotchy and red. Others sat stoic, like her, their faces masks of composure. They all had their reasons, their stories, their heartbreaks. They were all alone together in this sterile, quiet room.

When she was finally released, Paris stepped out into the bright Florida sun, blinking against the glare. The world outside hadn't changed. The sky was still blue, the palm trees still swayed in the breeze, people still laughed and talked and lived their lives as if nothing had happened. As if a part of her soul hadn't just been carved out and left behind in that cold room.

She drove home with the windows down, the wind whipping through her hair, trying to blow away the feeling of emptiness that settled deep in her bones. But it was no use. The emptiness was a part of her now, a hollow space where something precious used to be.

Their condo was just as they'd left it—the remains of their dinner on the balcony, Elijah's cigar crushed out in the ashtray, his scent still lingering in the air. Paris walked through the rooms, touching things—a book on the coffee table, a throw pillow on the couch, the cool glass of the window overlooking the beach. Everything was the same, but everything was different.

She stood in their bedroom, looking at the king-sized bed where they'd slept together for three years, where they'd made love and fought and made up again a hundred times. She thought about the last time he'd touched her, the last time he'd looked at her with those dark eyes that saw too much. Had he known? Had he sensed the change in her, the shift in her body, the secret she was carrying?

She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over his name. She could call him. She could tell him. He would come home. He would hold her and tell her it was okay, that they would figure it out together.

But then she thought about his life, the risks he took every day, the danger that followed him like a shadow. She thought about bringing a child into that world, a child who would always be looking over its shoulder, always wondering if its father was coming home. She thought about the fear that lived in her heart every time he walked out that door, a fear that would only multiply a thousand times if a baby was waiting for him too.

No. This was better. This was cleaner. This was the only choice she could make.

She slipped the phone back into her pocket and walked into the bathroom. She turned on the shower, as hot as she could stand it, and stepped under the spray, letting the water beat against her skin, trying to wash away the memory of cold instruments and sterile rooms and the sound of her own heart breaking.

She walked out of that clinic empty and decided to keep it that way.

The heavy oak door of their condo clicked shut behind Elijah, the sound swallowed by the vast expanse of the living room. Three in the morning. The Gulf was a black mirror outside the windows. He was tired down to his bones, the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that settled in after a twelve-hour run with Stack, moving product, collecting debts, and cleaning up messes that weren't theirs to begin with. All he wanted was to peel off these sweat-stained clothes, crawl into bed next to his woman, and forget the world existed for a few hours.

But the condo was too quiet.

Too still.

Paris wasn't curled up on the couch waiting for him like she usually was, wrapped in a blanket with some reality show playing low on the TV. She wasn't in the kitchen, leaving him a plate of food in the microwave. Her car was in its designated spot in the underground garage, so she was home. But the air felt different. Colder.

He found her in their bedroom, sitting on the edge of their king-sized bed, staring at nothing. The moonlight cut across her face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in the two weeks since he'd first noticed them. She was wearing one of his old college hoodies, the big gray one that swallowed her frame, and her bare legs were drawn up to her chest.

"Paris?" he said, his voice low so as not to startle her.

She jumped anyway, her head whipping around like she'd been caught doing something wrong. "Smoke. You're back."

"Yeah, baby. Just got in." He shrugged off his leather jacket, tossing it onto the armchair in the corner. "Everything good? You aight?"

"I'm fine," she said, but her voice was flat, devoid of its usual warmth. "Just tired."

He crossed the room, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers. He'd been noticing it more and more lately, the subtle shifts in her behavior. The way she flinched when he touched her sometimes, the way she pulled away when he tried to hold her. The way she'd started sleeping on the far side of the bed, creating a chasm between them that hadn't existed before.

He knelt in front of her, his hands resting on her knees. "You don't look fine, Paris. You look like you ain't slept in a week."

She shrugged, avoiding his gaze. "I told you. Just tired."

"Talk to me," he pressed, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of her knees. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"Nothing," she said, pulling her legs away from his touch and standing up. "I'm gonna go get some water. You want some?"

He watched her walk away, his jaw tight. This wasn't his Paris. His Paris was warm, open, quick to laugh and even quicker to speak her mind. She didn't hide things from him. They didn't do secrets. But this woman... this woman was a stranger wearing his girlfriend's skin.

The last two weeks had been a slow, agonizing descent into this strangeness. It had started small, the way she'd stopped waiting up for him when he was out with Stack, the way she'd started picking at her food until he finally asked if she was sick. She'd said no, just stressed about work, but he knew better. Paris loved her job as a third-grade teacher; stress didn't make her lose weight, didn't make the light dim in her eyes.

Then there were the nights. Nights when he'd come home to find her already asleep, or nights like this, when she was awake but a million miles away. Nights when he'd reach for her in the dark and she'd tense up, her body rigid against his until he gave up and rolled onto his other side, staring at the ceiling until the sun came up.

He stood up, stripping off his clothes and tossing them into the hamper. He could hear her in the kitchen, the clink of a glass, the hum of the refrigerator. When she came back, she handed him a bottle of water without looking at him.

"Thanks," he said, twisting the cap off and taking a long drink. "You gonna come to bed?"

"In a minute," she said, sitting back down on the edge of the bed. "I just need to... think."

"Think about what?"

"Things, Smoke. Just things."

He sighed, running a hand over his low fade. "Aight. I'm gonna shower. Don't wait up for me."

But he knew she would. Or at least, she'd lie there awake until he came out, pretending to be asleep when he slid into bed beside her.

The hot water did little to wash away the feeling of dread that settled heavy in his chest. He rested his forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall, letting the water pound against his back. He thought about the last time things had felt right between them, the last time she'd looked at him with that fire in her eyes, that hunger that still made him feel like the luckiest man on earth. It had been weeks, maybe a month, since he'd seen that look. Since she'd initiated anything, since she'd melted into his touch instead of stiffening at it.

When he came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, she was in bed, turned away from him, her breathing even and steady. Too steady. Fake.

He slid in beside her, the cool sheets a shock against his heated skin. He reached out, his hand resting on her hip, and felt her flinch.

"Paris," he whispered into the darkness.

"What?"

"Look at me."

Slowly, she rolled over, her face a pale oval in the moonlight. Her eyes were wide, but they weren't seeing him. They were looking through him, at something he couldn't see.

"What's wrong?" he asked again, his voice soft. "For real this time. No bullshit."

She shook her head, a tear slipping from the corner of her eye and tracing a path down her temple. "I can't, Smoke."

"Can't what?"

"Can't talk about it. Not yet."

"Then when?"

"Soon," she promised, but her voice was thin, brittle. "I just need some time."

He wanted to push, wanted to demand that she tell him what was eating her alive from the inside out. But he knew Paris. Knew that pushing would only make her retreat further into herself. So he nodded, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

"I'm here," he murmured against her skin. "Whatever it is, I'm here."

She didn't respond, just turned back over, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the growing chasm between them.

The next morning, he woke up to an empty bed. The spot beside him was cold, telling him she'd been up for a while. He found her in the kitchen, standing at the counter, staring at the coffee maker like it held the secrets to the universe. She was wearing a pair of leggings and a sports bra, her workout clothes, but he knew she hadn't been to the gym. She hadn't been to the gym in weeks.

"Morning," he said, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.

She tensed immediately. "Morning."

"You sleep aight?"

"Fine."

He rested his chin on her shoulder, trying to ignore the way she was holding herself away from him. "You got work today?"

"Yeah. And then I'm meeting Gia for dinner."

Gia. Stack's girl. The two of them had been thick as thieves since Paris and Gia had met two years ago at a cookout Stack had dragged Elijah to. Gia was loud and wild and everything Paris wasn't, but somehow they worked. They balanced each other out.

"That's good," he said, releasing her and moving to the coffee maker. "Y'all been hanging out a lot lately."

"We needed to catch up," she said, her voice guarded.

He nodded, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "You want me to come with? To dinner?"

The look of panic that flashed across her face was so brief he almost missed it. "No. That's aight. It's just... girl time. You know how it is."

"Aight," he said slowly, watching her. "But you and me... we need to talk soon, Paris. For real."

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the countertop. "I know."

He left it at that, but the feeling of wrongness followed him all day. At the warehouse where he and Stack conducted their business, he was distracted, his mind constantly drifting back to the haunted look in Paris's eyes, the way she'd flinched away from his touch.

"You good, nigga?" Stack asked, slapping him on the back. "You been spacey all day."

"I'm good," Elijah said, but they both knew it was a lie.

"Bullshit. You thinking about that girl of yours?" Stack grinned, but his eyes were sharp, observant. "She finally get tired of your boring ass?"

"Fuck you," Elijah shot back. "She's just... going through some shit."

"Women always going through some shit," Stack said dismissively. "That's what they do. You just gotta let 'em do it and be there when they come out the other side. Unless they cheating on you. Then you gotta cut they ass."

Elijah shot him a look. "She ain't cheating."

"How you know?"

"Cause I know."

Stack shrugged, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. "If you say so. But if she is, I got a friend who knows a guy who can tap her phone. Real discreet-like."

"Nah," Elijah said immediately. "We don't do that. We don't cross that line."

"The fuck we don't?" Stack countered. "We sell drugs, Eli. We ain't exactly saints."

"That's different," Elijah said, his voice firm. "That's business. This is Paris. This is us. We don't cross that line."

Stack held up his hands in surrender. "Aight, aight. Damn. Just trying to look out for my brother."

"I know," Elijah sighed. "But I got this."

But did he? As the day wore on, he found himself second-guessing everything. The way Paris had been acting, the distance between them, the secrets she was keeping... was it possible? Was she seeing someone else? The thought was like a knife to his gut, sharp and twisting. He shook his head, trying to dislodge it. Paris wouldn't do that. They wouldn't do that.

But the doubt lingered.

When he got home that evening, the condo was empty. Paris's car was gone, her purse missing from the hook by the door. She'd left a note on the kitchen counter, her handwriting neat and precise.

Went to Gia's. Be back late. Don't wait up.

He crumpled the note in his fist, a surge of frustration rising in his chest. This wasn't like them. They didn't leave notes. They didn't do "be back late." They were a team, a unit. They talked.

He was in the middle of making himself a sandwich when his phone buzzed. It was Paris.

"Hey," she said, her voice tight. "Just checking in."

"Hey," he said, trying to keep his own voice neutral. "You at Gia's?"

"Yeah. We're about to grab dinner."

"Aight. Have fun."

There was a pause, long enough to be uncomfortable. "Smoke?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you too," he said, but the words felt hollow, empty.

She hung up, and he was alone again with his thoughts and the gnawing feeling that something was fundamentally broken between them.

He finished his sandwich, but it tasted like cardboard in his mouth. He was cleaning up when he noticed it—a small piece of paper sticking out from under the stack of mail on the counter. He pulled it out, his brow furrowed. It was a receipt from a pharmacy. CVS. Dated two weeks ago.

His eyes scanned the items, his heart starting to pound in his chest. Prenatal vitamins. Pregnancy test. Antibiotics. Pain medication.

The blood drained from his face. Pregnancy test. Prenatal vitamins. Antibiotics. Pain medication.

What the fuck?

He was still staring at the receipt, his mind racing, when he heard the key in the lock. He quickly folded the receipt, shoving it into his pocket just as Paris walked in.

"Hey," she said, her smile forced. "You're still up."

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough. "Just waiting up for you."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

She crossed the room, dropping her purse onto the counter. "You hungry? I could make you something."

"Nah, I'm good," he said, his eyes fixed on her face. "How was dinner?"

"It was aight," she said, avoiding his gaze. "Gia's being... Gia. You know how she is."

"I do," he said slowly. "She ask about me?"

Paris laughed, but it was a hollow, brittle sound. "Yeah. She wanted to know if you'd finally sold me to a sheik in Dubai."

Elijah smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Tell her I'm working on it."

He watched her move around the kitchen, her movements stiff, unnatural. She was hiding something. He knew it with a certainty that settled like a stone in his gut. The receipt burned a hole in his pocket, a silent accusation.

"You okay?" she asked, finally looking at him. "You're being quiet."

"Just tired," he said, echoing her words from the night before. "Long day."

"Yeah," she agreed, her eyes dropping to the counter. "Me too."

He wanted to ask her about the receipt. Wanted to demand answers, to shake the truth out of her if he had to. But the fear in her eyes, the way she held herself like she was bracing for a blow, stopped him.

"I'm gonna head to bed," he said, pushing away from the counter. "You coming?"

"In a bit," she said, her voice soft. "I just need to... clean up a little."

He nodded, turning to leave the room. But at the doorway, he stopped, turning back to look at her. The moonlight caught the tense set of his shoulders, the way his hand hovered near his pocket like he was reaching for a weapon. And in a way, he was.

She stood there, silhouetted against the moonlight, a beautiful, heartbreaking mystery he was no longer sure he knew how to solve. And that was the problem. He'd always known how to solve her. He knew her tells, her triggers, the exact way to hold her when she was sad or the precise words to say when she was doubting herself. But this woman? This was a stranger. And Elijah Moore didn't like mysteries, not when it came to his own fucking house.

His hand moved from his pocket to his waist, then back again, a restless, agitated motion. He took a step back into the kitchen, his movements deliberate, heavy. The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken words and the weight of secrets.

"Actually, nah," he said, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "We ain't doing this. We ain't doing the 'I'll wait up for you' and 'I'm just tired' bullshit no more."

"Smoke, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about this," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the small, crumpled piece of paper. He pulled it out, the receipt crackling in the tense silence. He held it up, the moonlight glinting off the CVS logo.

Her eyes widened, her breath catching in a sharp, audible gasp. "Where did you...?"

"Where you think I got it, Paris? It was on the counter. With the rest of the mail." He took another step closer, his presence filling the room, sucking all the air out of it. "You wanna tell me what the fuck this is?"

She stared at the receipt in his hand, her face pale in the dim light. "It's... nothing."

"Don't lie to me," he growled, his voice a low rumble of warning. "Not tonight. Not in our house. You wanna tell me why you bought a pregnancy test two weeks ago? Why you needed prenatal vitamins? Antibiotics? Pain medication?" His voice rose with each question, the calm, observant man she knew giving way to something raw and wounded. "You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?"

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back, her chin lifting in defiance. "It's private, Smoke."

"Private?" he repeated, his voice incredulous, dangerous. "The woman I love, the woman I share my bed with, buys a pregnancy test and a pharmacy full of drugs, and that shit is private? Nah, Paris. That ain't how this works. That ain't how we work."

He was right in front of her now, his big body blocking out the moonlight, his dark eyes blazing with a mixture of hurt and fury. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the sweat and grime of a long night's work.

"Talk to me," he demanded, his voice a low, intense command. "Now."

She shook her head, her whole body trembling. "I can't."

"Yes, you can," he insisted, his hands coming up to grip her upper arms, his fingers pressing into her skin. "You can, and you will. What did you do, Paris? What the fuck did you do?"

The dam broke. The tears she'd been fighting back for weeks spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. A sob tore from her throat.

"I did it," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I did it, Smoke."

His grip on her arms tightened, his heart seizing in his chest. "Did what?"

Her eyes met his, and in that moment, he saw everything—the pain, the fear, the devastating secret she'd been carrying all alone.

"The test," she choked out, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. "It was positive. I was pregnant."

The words hung in the air between them, fragile and terrible. I was pregnant.

For a full ten seconds, the world stopped. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant crash of waves against the shore, the frantic beating of Elijah's own heart—all of it ceased to exist. There was only Paris's face, pale and streaked with tears, and the three words she had just unleashed into the quiet of their home.

Then, the world rushed back in, louder and more violent than before.

His hands dropped from her arms like they'd been burned. He took a step back, his body recoiling from the impact of her confession. "Pregnant?" The word was a foreign object in his mouth, sharp and ugly. "You were... what?"

His eyes, dark and observant, scanned her face, her body, searching for the truth he could feel in his bones but couldn't comprehend. His gaze dropped to her stomach, flat and perfect under the thin fabric of her shirt. A life. A whole life had been there. Their life.

"When?" he demanded, his voice cracking. "When did you know?"

"The day you left for that run with Stack," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The morning after... the morning you asked me if I was happy."

He remembered that morning. The sun on the balcony, the taste of her lips, the strange, melancholy look in her eyes he'd dismissed as moodiness. He'd kissed her goodbye, told her he loved her, and walked out the door while their world was quietly ending.

"And you didn't tell me?" The question was a low growl, a wounded animal sound. "You didn't think to call me? To text me? To say, 'Hey Smoke, your whole life is about to change, you might wanna come home'?"

"I couldn't!" she cried, her voice rising with panic. "You were in the middle of something dangerous! I wasn't gonna call you and distract you over something like that!"

"Something like that?" he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief and fury. "Paris, that ain't 'something like that'! That's everything! That's us! That's the future we been building!"

"Building on what?" she shot back, her own anger rising to meet his. "On drug money and late nights and the constant fear that you're not gonna come home? What kind of life is that for a baby, Smoke? What kind of father can you be when you're always looking over your shoulder?"

"So you made the decision for me?" he roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "You took my child—our child—and you decided what was best for me without ever giving me the chance to decide for myself?"

"I did what was best for us!" she screamed, tears streaming down her face. "I did what was best for that baby! I wasn't gonna bring a child into this world just to watch it grow up without a father because you got shot in some alley over a fucking kilo of coke!"

The accusation hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at her, his mind reeling. She wasn't just angry. She was terrified. She'd been terrified all along, and he hadn't seen it. He hadn't seen anything.

"That's what you think of me?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "That I'd get myself killed and leave you alone? That I wouldn't do whatever it took to be there for my family?"

"I don't know what to think!" she cried, her hands flying up in frustration. "All I know is that every time you walk out that door, a part of me dies a little! All I know is that I can't breathe until I hear your key in the lock again! All I know is that I love you so much it scares me, and the thought of loving something that much, of having a baby that looked like you, that had your eyes... I couldn't do it. I couldn't survive that."

Her words were a confession, a declaration of love and fear so profound it stole the anger from his lungs, replacing it with a hollow, aching emptiness. He understood her fear. He lived with it every day—the fear that this life they'd chosen would one day demand the ultimate price. But he never imagined she'd let that fear dictate their future. Never imagined she'd make a choice this monumental, this devastating, without him.

"So what happened?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. "The test was positive... and then what?"

She looked away, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "I went to the doctor."

"And?"

"And I was eight weeks along," she whispered, the words barely audible. "They gave me... options."

He closed his eyes, the image of her in some doctor's office, alone and scared, flashing through his mind. He should have been there. He should have been holding her hand, asking the questions, making the plans. He should have been her partner, her rock, the man she trusted enough to face anything with.

"And you chose... this?" he asked, his voice breaking on the last word.

She nodded, her face crumpling. "I made an appointment."

"At the clinic?"

Another nod.

"And you went... alone?"

She didn't answer, just stood there, her body shaking with silent sobs.

The full weight of her betrayal crashed down on him then. It wasn't just the decision. It was the secrecy. The solitude. The fact that she had faced the most terrifying, life-altering moment of their lives alone, without him. Without a single word.

"Paris," he said, his voice hollow, dead. "Look at me."

Slowly, she raised her head, her eyes swimming in tears.

"Did you do it?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Did you go through with it?"

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She just stood there, her mouth working like a fish out of water, her eyes wide with panic.

"Did you do it?" he asked again, his voice rising, cracking with the force of his pain. "Did you kill my baby, Paris?"

The words were ugly, cruel, a weapon designed to inflict maximum pain. And they did. She flinched as if he'd slapped her, a strangled sob tearing from her throat.

"It wasn't like that," she choked out.

"Then what was it like?" he demanded, his voice rising to a roar. "Tell me what it was like! Tell me how you walked into that clinic alone! Tell me how you lay down on that table and let them... and let them..." He couldn't finish the sentence, the words catching in his throat, strangling him.

"It was the hardest thing I've ever done," she sobbed, her body wracked with tremors. "I cried the whole time. I thought about you, about us, about what could have been. But I did it because I love you! Because I couldn't watch this life destroy you, and I couldn't bring a child into it knowing that might happen!"

"You didn't give me a choice!" he bellowed, his fists clenching at his sides, the need to hit something, to break something, overwhelming him. "You didn't trust me enough to let me be part of that decision! You didn't trust me enough to believe that I could protect you, that I could protect us!"

"I was trying to protect you!"

"By lying to me? By keeping this from me? By letting me walk around here like an idiot, talking about the future, talking about 'we' and 'us' when there was no 'us' anymore? When you'd already chosen to end it?"

"I was going to tell you!" she cried. "I was! I just... I needed time. I needed to process it. I needed to figure out how to tell you without breaking you."

"Breaking me?" he laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Paris, you already broke me. You took something from me, something I didn't even know I had, and you ripped it away. You took my choice, my voice, my child. You took it all."

He turned away from her then, unable to look at her face another second. He walked to the window, staring out at the black water, at the city lights that had once seemed like a promise but now felt like a mockery. Everything they had, everything they were, was built on a foundation of lies. Or maybe just one lie. One big, devastating lie that had hollowed out their relationship from the inside out.

"I can't," he said, his voice low, rough. "I can't even look at you right now."

"Smoke, please," she begged, her voice ragged with tears. "Please try to understand."

"I understand," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "I understand that you didn't trust me. I understand that you didn't think I was strong enough to handle it. I understand that when faced with the biggest decision of our lives, you chose to face it alone. I understand all of that, Paris. And it's killing me."

He rested his forehead against the cool glass, his eyes closing, the image of her in that clinic, alone and afraid, burned into his brain. He should have been there. He should have known. He should have seen the signs, felt the shift in her, sensed the secret she was carrying. But he hadn't. He'd been too wrapped up in his own world, too focused on the money, the power, the game, to see that the woman he loved more than life itself was drowning right in front of him.

"When?" he asked, his voice muffled by the glass. "When did you do it?"

"Two weeks ago," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The day after I bought the test. I went in that afternoon."

Two weeks. For two weeks, she'd been walking around with this secret, with this pain, with the ghost of their child, and he hadn't known. He hadn't seen a thing.

He turned back to face her then. "There's nothing to fix," he said, his voice breaking on the last word. "It's already done. It's already broken."

He didn't say another word. He didn't look at her again. He just turned, his movements stiff, robotic, and walked toward the door. He grabbed his leather jacket from the chair, his keys from the bowl, his movements devoid of their usual fluid grace. He was a man acting on instinct, a man running from a pain so profound it threatened to swallow him whole.

"Smoke, where are you going?" she cried, her voice ragged with tears. "Don't leave. Please don't leave like this."

He didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat was tight, his tongue thick and useless. Words were meaningless now. Everything was meaningless.

He opened the front door, stepping out into the cool night air, leaving her standing in the middle of their living room, a lone figure bathed in moonlight and heartbreak.

And then he was gone.

The click of the door echoed in the vast, empty spaces of their home, the sound of it sealing her in, sealing him out. Alone in the silence, with nothing but the ghost of a child she'd never know and the devastating weight of a choice made in fear. 

The pier stretched out into the black water of the Gulf, a skeletal finger of wood and light pointing at a moonless sky. Elijah walked it like a man condemned, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, the night air cool against his face. He'd been walking for hours, ever since he'd fled the condo, the roar of the ocean a poor substitute for the silence that had followed Paris's confession.

He stopped at the end of the pier, leaning against the weathered railing, staring out at the endless dark. The waves crashed against the pilings below, a rhythmic, percussive sound that usually calmed him, but tonight it just sounded like chaos. Like the chaos in his head.

Her words echoed there, a relentless refrain. I was pregnant. I did it. I was trying to protect you.

He closed his eyes, the image of her face streaked with tears, burned into his brain. The way she'd flinched when he'd asked if she'd killed his baby. The raw, gut-wrenching pain in her voice when she'd admitted it. The fear. Always the fear.

He'd been so focused on his own anger, his own sense of betrayal, that he hadn't really seen hers. Not until it was too late. Not until he'd already unleashed the cruelest words he could think of, words designed to wound, to punish, to make her feel even a fraction of the pain he was feeling.

Did you kill my baby, Paris?

The words came back to him now, ugly and vicious, and he flinched, a wave of shame washing over him. That wasn't him. That wasn't them. They didn't do that. They didn't weaponize their pain, not against each other. But tonight... tonight he'd been a different man. A man driven by a hurt so profound it had stripped him of his reason, his compassion, his love.

He thought about the life she'd been carrying. Their life. A child with her smile and his eyes. A little girl or a little boy who would have grown up in that condo, who would have run barefoot on the beach, who would have known the sound of the waves as their lullaby. A child he hadn't even known existed until it was already gone.

And she'd faced it alone.

That was the part that kept coming back to him, the part that lodged in his throat like a fish bone. She'd walked into that clinic alone, had faced that decision alone, had endured that procedure alone, all while he was out there playing kingpin, moving product, collecting debts, living a life that had ultimately cost them everything.

He'd failed her. Not just as a partner, but as a man. He'd been so caught up in the game, in the money, in the power, that he hadn't seen what was right in front of him. He hadn't seen the fear in her eyes, the distance in her touch, the subtle shifts in her behavior that screamed that something was wrong. He'd seen it, but he hadn't seen it. Not until it was too late.

He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over her name. He wanted to call her, to hear her voice, to tell her he was sorry, that he was coming home. But he couldn't. He didn't know how. How do you come back from something like this? How do you rebuild a foundation that's been so thoroughly shattered?

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, his gaze drifting back to the condo. It was a dark silhouette against the lighter sky, a monument to a life that no longer existed. A life he'd taken for granted, a love he'd assumed would always be there, waiting for him when he came home.

But not tonight. Tonight, there was no one waiting for him. No warm embrace, no soft kiss, no whispered "I love you." Just an empty house, a broken heart, and the devastating weight of a choice made in fear.

Back in the condo, Paris sat on the floor in the middle of the living room, her knees pulled up to her chest, her body wracked with tremors. The moonlight streamed through the large windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the room, shadows that seemed to mock her, to mirror the darkness in her own soul.

She'd been sitting there for hours, ever since he'd left, ever since the click of the door had sealed her in, sealed him out. She'd cried until there were no tears left, until her eyes were dry and burning, until her throat was raw from the force of her sobs. But the pain remained, a dull, persistent ache that radiated through her entire body, a constant reminder of what she'd done, what she'd lost.

She thought about the baby. Their baby. A tiny, perfect life that had existed for a brief, shining moment, a life she had ended. She'd tried to tell herself it was for the best, that she was protecting them, protecting him, from the harsh realities of their world. But in the quiet of the night, with only the sound of her own ragged breathing for company, the excuses rang hollow.

She'd been scared. Not just of the life they were living, not just of the danger that followed them, but of him. Of his reaction. Of the possibility that he wouldn't want this, wouldn't want them, wouldn't want the complication of a child in the middle of their dangerously volatile world.

She'd seen the way he was with kids, the way he softened, the way his whole demeanor changed. She knew he'd be a good father, a great father. But she also knew the life he'd chosen, the risks he took, the enemies he made. And she couldn't bear the thought of bringing a child into that, of loving something that much only to lose it, of facing a future without him because his past had finally caught up with him.

So she'd made the choice. The hardest choice of her life. She'd chosen him over their child, chosen their present over a future that might never exist. And in doing so, she had destroyed the very thing she was trying to protect.

She thought about his face when he'd found out, the way the color had drained from his skin, the way his eyes had darkened with pain, and how it had taken her breath away. She'd expected anger, disappointment, even resentment. But she hadn't expected... devastation. She hadn't expected the look of a man who'd lost everything, a man who'd been betrayed by the one person he'd trusted above all others.

And the words he'd said... Did you kill my baby, Paris? They echoed in her mind, a vicious, cruel refrain that made her shrink even now. He'd been trying to hurt her, to punish her, and he'd succeeded. He'd succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

But she understood. She understood the pain, the sense of betrayal, the feeling of being shut out, of not being trusted enough to be part of such a monumental decision. She'd taken that from him, taken his voice, his choice, his right to be a part of it. And she could never, ever get that back.

She rose slowly, her body stiff and sore, and walked to the window, staring out at the dark water. She wondered where he was, if he was okay, if he was thinking of her. She hoped he was. She hoped he was hurting as much as she was, not out of spite, but out of a desperate, selfish need to know that she wasn't alone in this pain, that this loss, this devastation, was something they shared, even in their separation.

The first hint of dawn was just beginning to paint the eastern sky, a soft, pale pink that promised a new day, a new beginning. But for Paris, there was no beginning, only an endless, aching middle. A long, dark night of the soul with no end in sight.

The sun was just beginning to rise when Elijah pulled his car into the underground garage, the engine's low rumble echoing in the concrete cavern. He'd slept in the driver's seat, his body cramped and stiff, his mind a jumble of fragmented thoughts and painful memories. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, hadn't meant to stay away all night, but the exhaustion had been too much, the weight of his grief too heavy to bear.

He rode the elevator up to their floor, his heart pounding with a mixture of dread and anticipation. He didn't know what he would find when he opened that door, didn't know how she would react, how he would react. All he knew was that they couldn't go on like this. They couldn't live in this silence, this separation, this brokenness.

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out, his footsteps soft on the plush carpet. He approached the door, his hand hovering over the keypad, his breath catching in his throat. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and keyed in the code.

The door swung open, and the first thing he saw was her.

She was sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room, exactly where he'd left her, her knees pulled up to her chest, her face tear-streaked in the early morning light. She looked up as he entered, her eyes wide, uncertain, a flicker of hope warring with the fear in their depths.

He closed the door softly behind him, the click of the lock echoing in the vast, empty spaces of their home. He didn't say anything, just stood there for a moment, his eyes taking in every detail of her face, every line of pain and exhaustion, every shadow of regret.

Then he crossed the room, his movements slow, deliberate, and knelt in front of her, his hands resting on his knees. He didn't touch her, not yet. He just looked at her, really looked at her, and in that moment, he saw everything. The fear, the pain, the regret, the love. He saw it all.

"I'm not mad about the choice," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I'm devastated that you didn't trust me enough to share it."

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't look away. "I was scared," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I was so scared, Smoke. Not just of the life, not just of the danger... but of you. Of your reaction. Of the possibility that you wouldn't want this, that you wouldn't want us, that you'd see it as a complication, a problem to be solved."

He shook his head, his heart aching with the weight of her fear. "Never," he said, his voice firm, intense. "I would never have seen you or our child as a problem. I would have seen it as a blessing. As a reason to change, to be better, to be the man you already believed I was."

"I didn't know that," she cried, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. "I couldn't know that. All I could see was the risk, the danger, the possibility of losing you. I couldn't... I couldn't build a life without you. I couldn't raise a child without its father."

"And you thought I would let that happen?" he asked, his voice gentle now, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You thought I wouldn't do whatever it took to protect you, to protect our family?"

"I didn't know," she repeated, her voice barely a whisper. "I was so lost in my own fear that I couldn't see anything else."

He reached out then, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin, wiping away her tears. She leaned into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips, the first sound of peace she'd made all night.

"We're a family, Paris," he said, his voice low, intense. "Whatever we face, we face together. That's the deal. That's what we signed up for. You don't get to make decisions like this alone. You don't get to carry burdens like this by yourself. You don't get to protect me by hurting us."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her eyes closing, her body relaxing into his touch. "I'm so sorry, Smoke."

"I know," he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. "I know you are. And I'm sorry too. Sorry for the things I said, for the way I reacted. I was hurt, and I lashed out, and I said things I can never take back."

"We can get past this," she said, her eyes opening, a flicker of hope in their depths. "We can fix this."

"We can," he agreed, his thumb still stroking her cheek. "But it's gonna take time. It's gonna take work. It's gonna take a level of honesty and communication we've never had before. You gotta promise me you'll never do something like this again. You gotta promise me you'll trust me enough to let me in, no matter how scared you are."

"I promise," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I promise I'll try."

"That's all I can ask," he said, leaning in to press another soft kiss to her lips, a gentle, reassuring touch that spoke of forgiveness, of healing, of a future they would build together, one painful, honest step at a time.

He helped her to her feet, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her close. She rested her head on his chest, her arms circling his waist, her body fitting against his like it was made to be there. They stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other's arms, the early morning light streaming through the windows, bathing them in its soft, golden glow.

The path forward wouldn't be easy. There would be more tears, more pain, more difficult conversations. But they would face it together. As a team. As partners. As the two halves of a whole that had been shattered but could, with time and love and trust, be made whole again.

The bass from the club downstairs vibrated through the floorboards of the VIP lounge, a deep thump that matched the frantic rhythm of Elias "Stack" Moore's heart. He was sprawled on a velvet couch, one arm draped along the back, the other wrapped possessively around Gia's waist. She was curled into him, laughing at something his boy Ace had just said, her head thrown back, her throat long and brown and perfect. The strobe lights painted her in flashes of neon—pink, then blue, then green—making her look like a goddess in a technicolor dream.

This was their life. Loud. Chaotic. Unapologetic. Two years of this shit, and Stack still woke up every morning feeling like he'd won the fucking lottery. Gia was his match in every way, wild as hell, loyal to a fault, and just as reckless as he was. She didn't try to tame him. She ran with him, her hand in his, her middle finger raised to the world.

"Aight, aight, enough of that shit," Stack growled, pulling her closer, his lips brushing against her ear. "You laugh too hard at another nigga's jokes, I'mma start thinking you wanna leave a real one."

Gia rolled her eyes, but she was grinning. "Please, Stack. You know I only got eyes for your ugly ass."

"That's what I'm talking 'bout," he said, his voice thick with pride and liquor. He grabbed her chin, turning her face to his, and kissed her hard, a messy, possessive kiss that tasted of Hennessy and want. She kissed him back just as hard, her hands tangling in the thick gold chain around his neck, her body arching against his in a way that promised the night was far from over.

They were the king and queen of their fucked-up little kingdom, he and his twin brother Smoke. While Smoke was the calm, calculating force behind their operation, Stack was the wild, unpredictable energy that kept things interesting. He was the face, the muscle, the one who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty, to fuck someone up just for looking at him wrong. He wore his reputation like a badge of honor, a heavy gold chain that announced his presence before he even stepped into a room.

But lately, things had been... different. Not bad, just different. Smoke and Paris were going through some shit, some quiet, heavy thing that had settled over them like a cloud. They were still together, still solid, but the easy laughter had been replaced by long, meaningful glances, the playful banter by soft, whispered conversations. They were healing; Stack knew that, but healing was boring. Healing was quiet. Healing was the opposite of everything he and Gia were.

"You good?" Gia asked, pulling back from the kiss, her dark eyes searching his. "You been spacey all night."

"I'm good," he said, forcing a grin. "Just thinking 'bout all this money we 'bout to make."

"Is that all you ever think about?" she teased, but there was an edge to her voice, a flicker of something he couldn't quite read.

"Nah," he said, his hand sliding down from her waist to cup her ass, squeezing it hard. "I think about this too. All the damn time."

She laughed, but it was a little too loud, a little too bright. "You're so full of shit."

"And you love it," he shot back, his grin widening. "Now, you wanna get out of here? I'm tryna see what that mouth do when it ain't running."

"Stack," she said, swatting at his chest, but she was already standing up, grabbing her purse from the table. "You're so romantic."

"I'm romantic as hell," he called after her as she walked away, his eyes fixed on the sway of her hips, the way her dress clung to her curves. "Romantic enough to give you this dick till you can't walk straight!"

She flipped him off over her shoulder, but she was smiling, and that was all that mattered. As long as she was smiling, everything was good. As long as she was his, everything was right with the world.

One week later, they were sitting in a booth at the back of a hole-in-the-wall Italian place, the air thick with the smell of garlic and bread and secrets. Paris was across from her, pushing a meatball around her plate with a fork, her eyes shadowed with a pain she was still trying to hide.

"You sure you're good?" Gia asked, her voice softer than it usually was. "You been MIA for a minute."

"I'm good," Paris said, but they both knew it was a lie. She and Smoke were trying, Gia knew that, but trying was hard. Trying was messy. Trying left scars. "Just... taking it one day at a time, you know?"

Gia nodded. She didn't know, not really. She and Stack didn't do "one day at a time." They did "one night at a time," one party, one high, one fuck at a time. They did fast and loud and messy, and they'd been doing it for two years without any signs of slowing down.

But something had been slowing her down. Something had been weighing on her, a secret so heavy it was starting to crush her from the inside out. She looked at Paris, at the fragile strength in her eyes, the quiet determination in her posture, and she knew she had to tell someone. She had to say it out loud before it ate her alive.

"I'm late," she said, the words barely a whisper.

Paris's fork clattered against her plate. "Late how?"

"Late late," Gia said, her heart pounding in her chest. "Like, two weeks late. And I've been sick every morning. And my boobs hurt like a motherfucker."

Paris's eyes widened, her fork forgotten. "Gia... are you...?"

"I don't know," Gia said, her voice trembling. "I haven't taken a test yet. I'm scared to."

"Scared of what?" Paris asked, her voice gentle, understanding. "Scared of what Stack will say?"

Gia laughed, but it was a harsh, bitter sound. "Hell no. I'm not scared of what Stack will say. I'm scared of what he'll do."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Stack's a child, Paris," Gia said, her voice rising with a frustration that had been building for months. "A big, loud, reckless child who thinks the world revolves around his dick. He can't even handle his own life, let alone be responsible for another one. You think he's gonna give up the clubs, the parties, the random strippers he swears he doesn't fuck anymore? You think he's gonna suddenly grow up and be a father just 'cause I'm pregnant?"

She thought about the last time she'd found lipstick on his collar, the faint scent of cheap perfume clinging to his clothes. She thought about the lies he told so easily, the way he twisted the truth to fit his narrative, the way he made her feel like she was crazy for questioning him, for wanting more, for wanting better.

"He loves you," Paris said softly.

"He loves the idea of me," Gia countered. "He loves having someone to come home to, someone to warm his bed, someone who looks good on his arm. But he doesn't love me. Not enough. Not enough to change. Not enough to be the man I need him to be."

She thought about the life they were living, the danger that followed them, the constant, low-grade fear that lived in the back of her mind. She thought about bringing a child into that world, a child who would have Stack for a father, a child who would grow up watching his mother's heart break over and over again.

"I can't do it," she whispered, the tears she'd been fighting back for weeks finally spilling over. "I can't bring a baby into this. I can't let him be a father. I can't let myself be a mother in a world like this."

Paris reached across the table, her hand covering Gia's. "I understand," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "More than you know."

Gia looked up, her eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

Paris took a deep breath, her gaze dropping to their joined hands. "Smoke and I... we were pregnant too."

Gia's breath caught in her throat. "What? When?"

"About a month ago," Paris said, her voice barely audible. "I found out the morning he left for that run with Stack. I went to the doctor. I was eight weeks along."

"Oh my god," Gia breathed, her mind reeling. "Paris... what did you do?"

What she didn't say was, I did it too. What she didn't say was, I know exactly how you feel. What she didn't say was, It's the hardest thing you'll ever do, but sometimes it's the only thing you can do.

But Gia heard it all. She heard it in the tremor of Paris's voice, in the shadows in her eyes, in the way her hand tightened around hers, a silent acknowledgment of a shared pain, a shared secret, a shared choice.

"I'm so sorry," Gia whispered, her own tears falling now. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Me too," Paris said, her voice cracking. "But we made the right choice. For us. For them. We have to believe that."

And in that moment, Gia did believe it. She believed it, and that quieted the fear in her heart, that gave her the strength she needed to do what she knew she had to do.

The clinic was colder than she'd expected, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and regret. Gia sat in the waiting room. The other women in the room kept their eyes down, their bodies hunched in on themselves as if to make themselves smaller, less noticeable. 

A nurse in bright yellow scrubs, her name tag reading 'CHLOE,' popped her head into the crowded waiting room. "Gia Martinez?" Her voice was too cheerful for the grim reality of the place.

Gia shot up from her chair, a jolt of adrenaline making her heart hammer against her ribs. She didn't look at the other women, didn't need to. She could feel their collective sigh, their shared understanding. This wasn't a place of judgment; it was a place of consequence. And she was here to face hers.

The hallway was a blur of beige walls and motivational posters that felt like a sick joke. Chloe led her to a small, sterile room and handed her a paper gown and a plastic cup. "The doctor will be in shortly. Just need you to pee in this for a quick confirmation test first."

The bathroom was tiny, the fan humming loudly, doing nothing to drown out the sound of her own ragged breathing. She stared at the plastic cup in her hand, her stomach churning. She'd known. She'd known. But a part of her, a stupid, hopeful part, had prayed for a false alarm, for a miracle, for anything but this. She sat on the toilet, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold the cup, and when she was done, she placed it on the little shelf outside the door like it was a bomb.

Back in the room, she sat on the edge of the examination table, the paper crinkling beneath her, loud in the silence. She didn't lie down. She couldn't. She felt like she needed to be ready to run, to fight, to do something. But there was nothing to do. Nothing but wait.

The doctor who came in was young, no older than thirty, with a kind smile and tired eyes. "Gia? I'm Dr. Evans. We got the results back, and... it's positive. So we need to talk about your options."

Gia just nodded, her throat tight. She'd already made her choice. The rest of this was just... procedure.

"Have you considered what you'd like to do?" Dr. Evans asked, her voice gentle.

"I want it gone," Gia said, the words harsh, blunt, final. "Today. If you can do it today."

Dr. Evans just nodded, her expression empathetic. "Okay. We can do that. I'm going to have you take this pill now, and then you'll come back tomorrow for the second part of the process. It's called a medical abortion. It's less invasive than a surgical procedure, but it will be... intense. You'll experience cramping and bleeding, similar to a heavy period. You'll want to be somewhere comfortable, somewhere you can rest."

She handed Gia a small white pill and a cup of water. Gia stared at it, her mind racing. This was it. The point of no return. She thought about Stack, about his loud laugh and his reckless charm, about the way he looked at her, like she was the only thing in his world that mattered. She thought about the life growing inside her, a life that would have had his wild, untamable spirit. A life she was ending with a single swallow.

She popped the pill into her mouth, chasing it with a sip of water, the pill feeling like a stone in her throat. "Now what?" she asked, her voice rough.

"Now you go home," Dr. Evans said, her voice soft. "And you rest. And you come back tomorrow at the same time. We'll take care of the rest."

The drive home was a blur. The sun was high in the sky, the Florida heat oppressive, but Gia felt cold, a deep, bone-chilling cold that had nothing to do with the air conditioning blasting in her car. She stopped at a red light, her hands gripping the steering wheel, and watched a young mother push a stroller across the crosswalk, the baby inside cooing and kicking its little feet. A wave of nausea washed over her, and she had to fight the urge to throw up.

When she got back to their apartment, the silence was deafening. It was usually never this quiet. Usually, there was music blasting from the speakers, or the TV was on, or Stack was on the phone, his loud, boisterous voice echoing through the rooms. But today, there was nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic, frantic beating of her own heart.

She walked into their bedroom, stripping off her clothes as she went, leaving a trail of discarded garments on the floor. She pulled on one of Stack's oversized hoodies, the fabric soft and worn, his scent clinging to it—cologne and weed. She buried her face in the hood, inhaling deeply, a sob catching in her throat.

She crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin, and closed her eyes. She tried to sleep, to escape into the oblivion of unconsciousness, but sleep wouldn't come. Her mind was racing, replaying every conversation, every fight, every moment of their two years together. She thought about the good times—the laughter, the adventures, the mind-blowing sex, the way he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world. And she thought about the bad times—the lies, the cheating, the broken promises, the way he made her feel like she was crazy for wanting more, for wanting better.

The cramps started around midnight, a dull ache in her lower back that gradually intensified into sharp, stabbing pains that stole her breath. She curled into a ball, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her face pressed into the pillow to muffle her cries. It was worse than she'd imagined, a physical manifestation of the emotional pain that had been consuming her for weeks.

She thought about calling Paris, about reaching out to the one person who understood, but she couldn't. She didn't want to burden her, didn't want to be the reason Paris's own fragile peace was shattered. So she suffered alone, in the dark, her body wracked with tremors, her heart broken into a million pieces.

When it was finally over, she lay there in a pool of her own blood and tears, her body aching, her soul hollowed out. She stared at the ceiling, at the shadows dancing in the dim light, and she knew that she had made the right choice. But knowing it was right didn't make it hurt any less. It didn't make the emptiness go away. It didn't make the fear of telling him, of facing his reaction, any less terrifying.

The bass from Stack's new subs hit Gia right in the chest, a physical assault that made her already tender uterus clench in protest. He burst through the door of their apartment, his energy a chaotic whirlwind of expensive cologne, weed smoke, and ego. Fresh pair of black and red Jordans, baggy denim shorts hanging low enough to show the band of his Calvin Kleins, and a white tee that stretched tight across his chest. His gold Cuban link swung against his sternum, catching the light from the city skyline visible through their large seamless windows.

"Gia! Where you at, girl?" he boomed, kicking off his kicks and leaving them in the middle of the floor like he always did. "Brought you back some of that good-good from that new spot downtown. That pineapple express got my dick hard as a motherfucker."

He found her curled up on the couch, a throw blanket wrapped around her despite the Florida heat, staring at some reality TV show with the volume turned down low. She didn't turn, didn't even flinch at his entrance.

"The fuck?" he muttered, his good mood starting to curdle. He plopped down on the couch beside her, making the cushions dip, and slung his arm around her shoulders. "Aight, what's wrong with you? You ain't even happy to see daddy."

"I'm tired, Stack."

"Tired? You been 'tired' for two days," he said, his voice losing its playful edge. He tried to pull her closer, to nuzzle her neck like he usually did, but she stiffened, pulling away just enough to create a sliver of space between them. "You mad at me or something? 'Cause I swear to God, if this 'bout them hoes at the club last night, I ain't even do nothin'. I was just talking."

"I'm not mad," she said, her voice flat, monotone. "I just don't feel good."

"You been saying that," he pressed, his brow furrowing. He leaned in, trying to catch her eye, but she kept her gaze fixed on the TV. "What's wrong with you? You sick or something?"

"It's just cramps," she mumbled, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.

"Cramps?" he scoffed, sitting back, his arm dropping from her shoulders. "Man, you been on your period for a week. That shit ain't normal."

And it wasn't. Gia's cycle was usually as regular as clockwork, a three-day affair of mild bitchiness and a surprisingly high sex drive. But this... this was different. She'd been quiet, withdrawn, her appetite nonexistent. She'd snapped at him that morning for leaving a wet towel on the bed, a transgression she usually ignored or at most rolled her eyes at. She was a ghost in their apartment, a pale imitation of the vibrant, fiery woman he'd been living with for two years.

He watched her, his eyes taking in every detail. The dark circles under her eyes, the way her skin seemed to have a grayish cast to it, the faint tremor in her hands as she reached for her glass of water on the coffee table. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

"You ain't been eaten shit all day," he said, his voice low, concerned. "I brought you back some tacos from that place you like. You want one?"

She shook her head, her eyes still glued to the screen. "Not hungry."

"Gia," he said, his voice firm now, a warning. "Look at me."

Slowly, she turned her head, her eyes meeting his. And what he saw in them made his stomach clench. They were dull, lifeless, the fire he loved, the spark that made her her, extinguished. They were the eyes of a stranger.

"What?" she asked, her voice defensive. "What do you want, Stack?"

"I want you to tell me what the fuck is wrong with you," he shot back, his frustration rising. "You been acting weird for days. You ain't laughing, you ain't fucking, you ain't even talking to me. What's up?"

"Nothing," she said, turning back to the TV. "I just need some space."

"Space?" he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. "We live in a two-bedroom apartment with a balcony overlooking the whole damn city. How much more space you need?"

She didn't answer, just stared at the TV, her jaw tight. He could feel the anger radiating off her, a cold, silent fury that was more terrifying than any of their usual blow-out fights. At least with those, he knew what he was dealing with. This... this was unknown territory.

He stood up, running a hand over his low fade, his mind racing. He thought about the last time they'd had sex, a week ago. It had been good, great even, but there had been a distance to her, a sadness in her eyes that he'd dismissed as her being in her feelings about something or other. He thought about the last time they'd really talked, really connected, and he couldn't remember. It had been too long.

"Where's your purse?" he asked, his voice casual, but his eyes were sharp, calculating.

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm looking for my damn keys," he lied, his eyes scanning the room. "I think I left 'em in here somewhere."

She pointed toward the kitchen, her movements stiff. "On the counter."

He walked into the kitchen, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew her purse was on the counter. He'd seen it when he came in. But he needed to know. He needed to see if his suspicions were right, if the fear that had been gnawing at him for the last two days was founded in reality.

He found her purse, a big, black leather tote with gold hardware. He unzipped it slowly, his hands shaking slightly, his breath caught in his throat. He didn't know what he was looking for, not exactly. A receipt? A text message? A note from another man? He didn't know, but he knew he'd know it when he saw it.

He rummaged through her purse, his fingers brushing against her wallet, her keys, a half-empty pack of gum. And then he felt it. A small, stiff piece of cardboard, tucked into a side pocket. He pulled it out, his heart seizing in his chest.

It was a clinic card. Not just any clinic, but a women's health clinic. The name was printed in a soothing, feminine font—"Women's Wellness Center of Tampa Bay." Underneath the name was a list of services: OB/GYN, Prenatal Care, Family Planning, Termination Services.

Termination Services.

The words hit him, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at the card, his mind reeling, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of fear and confusion and a dawning, horrifying realization.

Termination Services.

What the fuck did that mean? Was she sick? Did she have cancer? Some kind of female shit he didn't even know about? Or... or was it something else? Something worse?

His mind raced, leaping to the most paranoid, the most painful conclusion. She'd been cheating on him. That had to be it. She'd been fucking some other nigga, gotten pregnant, and gone to this clinic to take care of it. To get rid of the evidence. That's why she'd been so distant, so defensive. That's why she wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't touch him. She was hiding something. Hiding someone.

He felt a surge of hot rage; he was seeing red, and that made him want to punch a hole in the wall. But underneath the rage was betrayal.

He walked back into the living room, the card clutched in his hand, his face a mask of confusion and growing anger. She was still on the couch, still staring at the TV, but he could feel her awareness of him, the tension in her shoulders, the way she was holding her breath.

"Gia," he said, his voice low, dangerous.

She turned slowly, her eyes widening as they landed on the card in his hand. He saw the panic flash across her face. He knew whatever it was, it was bad.

"What's this?" he asked, holding up the card, his voice tight with emotion. "What the fuck is this, Gia?"

The card trembled in Stack's hand, a flimsy piece of cardboard that suddenly felt heavier than a block of gold. His eyes darted from the soothing blue font to Gia's face, which had gone from pale to ashen. The panic in her eyes was all the confirmation he needed. This wasn't about a yeast infection. This was about something else. Something worse.

"What. Is. This?" he repeated, his voice dropping to a low. He took a step closer. "You been cheating on me? That what this is? You out there fucking some other nigga, get knocked up, and decide to handle it on the low? Is that the kind of bitch you are?"

Gia stiffened. "No! Stack, it's not like that—"

"Then what is it like?" he roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He threw the card at her, it fluttering to the floor between them like a dying bird. "'Family Planning'? 'Termination Services'? What the fuck you terminating, Gia? Your conscience? Or the evidence?"

"It's not what you think!" she cried, scrambling to her feet, the blanket pooling around her ankles. She looked small, fragile, compared to the fiery woman who'd been cursing him out just last week for leaving the toilet seat up.

"Then tell me what to think!" he shot back, his hands flying up in exasperation. "I come home, try to show my girl a good time, and you sitting here looking like you just seen a ghost. You ain't touched me in a week. You ain't ate in two days. And now I find this shit in your purse? What the fuck am I supposed to think?"

He was in her face now, his tall frame towering over her, his presence overwhelming. He could smell the fear on her, sharp and acrid, and it only fueled his rage. He felt trapped, cornered, and his instinct was to lash out, to hurt before he could be hurt.

"You trying to get back at me?" he accused, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Is that what this is? 'Cause of them strippers? I told you that shit was nothing! I told you I was just out there having fun with my brothers! You gonna kill my baby 'cause your feelings got hurt?"

Gia's head snapped up, her eyes blazing with a fire he hadn't seen in days. "Don't you dare," she hissed, her voice shaking with rage. "Don't you dare stand there and make this about your ego. This ain't about you or your strippers or your fun. This is about me. This is about my body. My choice."

"Your choice?" he scoffed, his laugh harsh and bitter. "What about my choice? What about our choice? We a team, Gia! Or at least, I thought we was. But you been keeping secrets. You been making decisions that affect both of us without even saying a word!"

"I was scared!" she cried, tears of frustration and anger welling in her eyes. "I was scared of what you would do! I was scared of how you would react! I was scared of you!"

The words hung in the air between them, a confession and an accusation all at once. And they hit him harder than any punch, sharper than any knife. He, who had sworn to protect her, to provide for her, to be her rock, was the thing she feared most.

"Scared of me?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "Why you scared of me, Gia? I never put my hands on you. I never..."

"It's not that," she interrupted, her voice cracking. "It's... everything. Your temper. Your recklessness. The way you live your life like there's no tomorrow. The way you can't see past your own dick. I'm scared of bringing a child into that, Stack. I'm scared of having a baby with a man who's still a boy himself."

The accusation was a low blow, a direct hit to the heart of his insecurities. He'd always known he was the wild twin, the reckless one, the one who acted first and thought later. But to hear her say it, to hear her use it as a reason to... to what? To kill his child? It was unforgivable.

"So that's it?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "You decided I wasn't good enough to be a father, so you just... what? You took care of it? You erased me? Erased us?"

"I didn't erase you," she sobbed, her shoulders shaking. "I was trying to protect you! From me! From a life you're not ready for!"

"I'm not ready?" he roared, his control finally snapping. He grabbed her by the arms, his fingers digging into her skin, shaking her hard. "I'm out here risking my life every fucking day to provide for you! To give you this life! This apartment, these cars, these clothes! And you're gonna stand there and tell me I'm not ready to be a father? I'm more man than any of these other niggas out here, and you know it!"

"Let go of me!" she cried, trying to pull away from his grip.

"Not until you tell me the truth!" he demanded, his face inches from hers. "You went to that clinic, didn't you? You went there, and you... you did something. What did you do, Gia? What did you do to my baby?"

The question hung in the air. And in that moment, she saw the hurt beneath the anger, the vulnerability beneath the bravado. She saw the man she loved, the man she'd been trying to protect, the man she'd just destroyed.

And she broke.

"I did it," she whispered, "Stack... I did it. I had the abortion."

The world stopped. The air left his lungs. His grip on her arms loosened, his hands dropping to his sides as if they'd been severed from his body. He stared at her, his mind refusing to process the words, his heart refusing to accept the truth.

"No," he said, his voice flat, dead. "No, you didn't."

"I did," she sobbed, her body collapsing in on itself. "I went yesterday. I took the pills. It's... it's gone."

The cramps. The blood. It all clicked into place, a horrifying, heartbreaking puzzle. He'd been so wrapped up in his own world, his own ego, his own suspicions, that he hadn't even seen. He hadn't even known.

"You... you killed my baby," he said, his voice a choked whisper. "You killed my kid without even talking to me? Without even giving me a chance? What kind of cold-hearted bitch does that?"

"I didn't know how to tell you!" she cried. "I didn't know what to say!"

"You could have said something!" he roared, his rage returning with a vengeance, hotter and more destructive than before. "You could have said, 'Hey Stack, I'm pregnant.' You could have said, 'Hey Stack, I'm scared.' You could have said, 'Hey Stack, I need you.' But you didn't! You just... you just made a choice. You took my child, my future, my everything, and you threw it away like it was nothing!"

He was in her face again, his hands balled into fists at his sides, his body vibrating with a rage so pure, so potent, it scared him. He wanted to hit something, to break something, to hurt her the way she'd hurt him, to make her feel the emptiness, the devastation, the soul-crushing loss that was consuming him.

"I hate you," he whispered, his voice thick with venom. "I swear to god, Gia, I hate you."

And then he turned and walked away. He didn't look back. He didn't say another word. He just walked to the door, his hand closing around the knob, his heart shattered into a million pieces.

"Stack, please," she begged, her voice ragged with tears. "Please don't leave. Not like this."

But he didn't listen. He couldn't. He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, leaving her standing in the middle of their living room.

The bass from the strip club's sound system was a deep, gut-rattling thump that Stack welcomed like an old friend. He was three bottles of Dom deep, his vision blurry, his anger a hot, simmering stew of betrayal and pain. He threw a wad of cash at the stage, the bills raining down on a dancer whose name he didn't know and wouldn't remember. Her ass was fat, her smile was fake, and for a moment, for a brief, blissful second, she was enough to make him forget.

"Another round!" he roared at the waitress, his voice slurred, his arm slung around the shoulders of a bottle-blonde bimbo who'd been grinding on him for the last hour. Her name was... something. Candy? Candi? It didn't matter. All that mattered was the warmth of her body against his, the way she laughed at his jokes, the way she looked at him like he was a king.

He was trying to forget. Trying to forget the look on Gia's face when he'd called her a cold-hearted bitch. Trying to forget the way his heart had seized in his chest when she'd said the words, "I had the abortion." Trying to forget the emptiness, the hollow ache in his gut that felt like he'd swallowed a hole.

"You okay, baby?" Candi-Whatever asked, her hand sliding up his thigh, her voice a syrupy-sweet purr in his ear.

"I'm great," he lied. "I'm better than great."

He led her out of the club, into the cool night air, his arm around her waist, his body moving with the liquid confidence of a man who had nothing left to lose. They ended up at his place, their place, the apartment he shared with Gia. The thought of her, of what he was about to do, flickered through his drug-and-booze-addled brain, but he pushed it aside. She'd done it first. She'd killed his baby. She'd broken his heart. This was just... payback. This was just... consequence.

He fucked Candi-Whatever on their couch, the same couch where he and Gia had curled up and watched movies a hundred times. He fucked her from behind, his eyes squeezed shut, pretending she was someone else, anyone else, a warm body to sink into, a temporary distraction from the pain that threatened to swallow him whole. He didn't kiss her. He didn't say her name. He just took what he wanted, a selfish, soulless act that left him feeling more empty than before.

When it was over, he sent her away with a wad of cash and a dismissive wave of his hand. He stumbled into their bedroom, the smell of Gia's perfume still clinging to the pillows, and passed out, a drunk, angry, broken man in a bed that was no longer his.

The sun was just beginning to rise when he woke up, his head pounding, his mouth dry, his body aching. He was alone. The apartment was quiet, too quiet. He sat up, his eyes scanning the room, his heart sinking when he saw her suitcase by the door, packed and ready.

She was gone.

He stumbled out of bed, his bare feet sticking to the hardwood floor, and walked into the living room. She was there, sitting on the couch, fully dressed, her purse in her lap. She looked like she hadn't slept, her eyes red and swollen, her face pale and drawn.

"You came back," he said, his voice rough with sleep and hangover.

"I was waiting for you," she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" he repeated, his brow furrowing. "What you talking 'bout? You ain't going nowhere."

"Yes, I am," she said, standing up. "I can't... I can't do this anymore, Stack. I can't be here. I can't look at you. I can't... I just can't."

She took a step toward him, and he saw it then. The way her nose wrinkled in disgust, the way her eyes narrowed, the way she flinched away from him as if he'd struck her. He looked down at himself, at the hickeys on his chest, the faint scent of another woman's perfume clinging to his skin.

"You smell like a stripper," she said, her voice laced with fury. "And cheap liquor. And regret."

He didn't deny it. He couldn't. He just stood there, his head held high, his jaw tight, a silent admission of his guilt.

"I hope she was worth it," she said, her voice cracking. "I hope she was worth throwing away everything we had."

"She was," he lied, his voice hard, defensive. "She was worth more than you, apparently. At least she didn't kill my fucking kid."

The words were a vicious, cruel attack designed to inflict maximum pain. And they did.

"You're a monster," she whispered, her eyes wide with a dawning, horrifying realization. "You're not just a boy, Stack. You're a monster."

"I'm a monster?" he shot back, his voice rising with a self-righteous fury that was as transparent as it was pathetic. "You're the one who went behind my back, who made a choice that affected both of us without even saying a word! You're the one who killed my baby! And I'm the monster?"

"You're the one who cheated on me!" she screamed, her composure finally shattering. "You're the one who came home smelling like another woman after I told you the most painful thing I've ever had to say! You're the one who proved me right! You proved I was right to be scared, right to not trust you, right to not want to bring a child into this world with you!"

"It's not the same!" he roared, his fists clenching at his sides. "It's not the fucking same!"

"It is!" she cried, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. "It's exactly the same! It's you being selfish! It's you thinking only about yourself! It's you destroying everything good in your life because you're too scared, too immature, too fucking broken to handle it!"

He wanted to argue, to deny it, to defend himself, but he couldn't. Because she was right. He was selfish. He was immature. He was broken. And he had destroyed everything good in his life.

"I'm done," she said, her voice quiet now, resigned. "I'm done with you. I'm done with this life. I'm done with all of it."

She picked up her suitcase and walked to the door, her steps heavy, final. He wanted to stop her, to beg her to stay, to promise her he'd change, he'd be better, he'd be the man she needed him to be. But the words wouldn't come. The pride, the ego, the stubborn refusal to admit he was wrong, it was all too strong.

She paused at the door, her hand on the knob, and turned back to look at him. For a moment, he saw it all—the love, the pain, the regret, the life they could have had, the future they'd just thrown away.

"I loved you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I really, really loved you."

And then she was gone.

He stood there for a long time, staring at the closed door, his mind reeling, his heart shattered into a million pieces. He was alone. Truly, completely, utterly alone.

He sank to the floor, his back against the wall, his head in his hands. The tears he'd been fighting back all night finally broke free, hot and heavy, streaming down his face. He cried for the baby he'd never know, for the woman he'd just lost, for the man he knew he'd never be.

He was so lost in his own grief, so consumed by his own pain, that he almost didn't hear it. The buzz of his phone on the coffee table, a frantic, insistent sound that cut through the silence. He wiped his eyes, his hands shaking as he reached for the phone, his heart pounding in his chest.

It was a text message. From a number he didn't recognize. But he knew who it was. The girl from down the hall from Smoke and Paris. The one he'd been fucking on and off for the last six months. The one he'd forgotten about in the chaos of the last few days.

The message was short, simple, and utterly devastating.

We need to talk. I'm pregnant.

He stared at the words, his mind refusing to process them, his heart refusing to accept them. Not again. Not this. Anything but this.

He threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that was more sob than smile. It was a joke. A cosmic, cruel joke. And he was the punchline. Alone in his empty apartment, with a broken heart and a shattered future, and the ghost of a second chance he knew he didn't deserve.

She dried her hands on the small towel hanging next to her, grinning up at his scrumptious reflection. “You missed me?”

“Mhm. So bad, baby.”

A bigger smile was creeping onto her face as he sat his cap and glasses down by the sink, but then she realized something. Her brows scrunched in confusion. “Why are we talking so low?”

“Tink is sleep.”

“Oh, ok. That must’ve just happened.”

“Which means we got 'bout fifteen minutes, give or take,” he said, hurrying out of his t-shirt and tossing it to the floor.

Her head jerked forward, lips pursed, but she was only partially confused now. “Um, to do what?”

Ignoring her completely, he curved his arms around her waist and licked his lips, trailing wet kisses at the crook of her neck.

“Nope.” She whipped around to face him, throwing her hands up to his bare chest before he could wrap her up too tightly. Or get her too loose.

“Why not?”

He was frowning like she was the one not making any sense. So, naturally, she frowned back, aware that he was the actual crazy person.

“Baby, what if she wakes up? What if she walks in here?”

He shrugged. “Lock the door.”

“But, then, what if she needs one of us and we’re in here with the door locked? Being nasty.”

“Baby, I need you.”

“Mike, you gotta focus, boo,” she instructed, snapping her fingers near his face. “Focus.”

He sighed and dropped his head in defeat. He knew she was right, but his hunger was outpacing all of his good sense right now. “If she needs one of us, I can move quickly.”

“Ok, but she’s right in our bed. What if she hears something? She could be scarred for the rest of her little life.”

“Simple. You the loud one. Just be quiet.”

Her eyes widened as her jaw fell slack, into a smile. “Not ‘Mr. huff and puff, moan and groan’ tryna play me--” They both ducked into near-silent laughter, throwing their hands up to catch the noise before it could go too far. “You be quiet, too, shit.”

“Ok, ok. I will. So, come ooon.” He pressed his body against her plushness, allowing her to feel all the frustration he'd been carrying around with him. Her stomach did a violent flip.

“Mike… I don’t know about this.” She bit her bottom lip, carefully sliding her hands down to his abs, knowing she was very close to giving in. He knew it, too.

“Mama… please," he whispered right against her ear, grazing it lightly with his soft lips. "You know you love the way I make you feel.”

He raised one of her legs and pushed himself even closer, sinking his starving fingers into the suppleness of her thigh. The desperation in his words as well as his unsteady movements had her soaking her panties.

“Baby,” she released a frustrated sigh, “...we can’t. Not while Tink’s in here.”

“But she’s asleep, Crys. Come on, we wastin' precious time.”

She stared at him for a second, just to see how serious he was. He stared back with the eyes of a man who didn’t have a playing bone in his body. Without warning, he grabbed her waist and lifted her up onto the sink, sending more than a few of her products tumbling. One even rolled onto the floor.

“Michael!” she whispered, intensely.

“Just let me…” he begged, going straight for her lips. She dodged his kiss, but his hand was caressing her thigh and slowly creeping up her shorts. “Let me make that pussy feel good.”

She gasped when his lips touched her neck right as those filthy words entered her ears. He was talking to her like their baby wasn’t right in the next room. His brain wasn’t in full control and hers was about to follow, her glossy walls clenching around nothing, begging to be touched. 

"But, babe, you know it's just a cat nap. She ain't even sleep for real," she breathed, eyes closed, neck stretched out and giving him more space.

"We got 'bout ten minutes now."

He was relentless. In the moment, there was only one logical thing she could think to do. She knew she would pay handsomely for it later, but that was a problem for future Crystal. “…Tink, baby, daddy’s home!” she suddenly yelled, covering her face right after.

She watched through her fingers as he backed away, blinking slowly, eyes wide. “Crys…” he whispered. She licked her tongue out at him, laughing uncontrollably at the genuine shock in his expression. He shook his head, unable to hold his laughs seeing her lose it. "I can't believe you, girl.”

"I'm sorryyyy! I didn't know what else to doooo!"

His head slumped back and he huffed toward the ceiling, so dramatically. Of course, she just laughed harder. About two seconds later, Tink ran into the bathroom with a huge smile, rubbing the residual sleep from her eyes. “Daddyyyy!”

“Tiiiiiink!” He scooped his baby girl up, peppering kisses onto her cute little face through her giggles. Then he turned back to Crys swinging her legs up on the sink, and cupped his hand over Tink's ear. “That ass gettin' put smoove through the mattress tonight. Believe that.” Crys' mouth dropped. He'd spoken softly, but he didn't want that to curb the severity of his statement. “And I'm not playin'.”

"Oop!" She pulled her lips in and bit them, letting her head fall. She knew she was in trouble, but it was undoubtedly her favorite kind. She couldn't wait for the sun to go down. "Well, put me through it then."

He chuckled, nodding his head. "...Aight."

@blackerthings @judymfmoody @lyrarodriguez @fendionmyfeet @fadingbelieverexpert @chaneajoyyy @astoldbychae @hotgrlcece @daddiespamm @lovethecheri @xo-goldengirl @miyuhpapayuh @silkhoneyy @jiminie-08 @queengodiva619 @soufcakmistress @shiania @motheroffae @savagemickey03 @bigjh @infinity2 @uhhh-nunyabidniz-heaux @deepinmydaydream @queenofklonnie22 @irefusetobeacasualty @honestlyurslol @margepimpson -taglist-

Y/N and Erik took their fucking and sucking to her dorm room whenever Brandy was away with Erik’s friend. She complained to him about how small her bed was for them to fuck and sleep on but Erik didn’t care. They were both on their way back from grabbing a quick meal through a drive-thru. Still slurping up his lemonade, Erik stood behind Y/N with her book bag slung over his shoulder and his eyes staring at her ass. She had on these high waisted jeans with a butt rip under her right ass cheek. Those fucking jeans hugged so tight they looked painted on. Looking like a goddamn canvas.

“Lil mama, if you don’t open this fucking door up.” He could not look away from her ass. Then she had the nerve to wear one of those tiny ass shirts again. The front read Trap and Sex in hot pink lettering and the rest of the shirt was colored white.

“Daddy, my keys are twisted in my earphones,” she was struggling with the iPhone earphones tangled in the chains and key links of her unnecessarily heavy keys.

“You want me to get you some AirPods?”

Y/N beamed up at Erik with her pretty white smile, “You would actually do that for me?”

“Yes,” Erik grabs her keys, “Which one?”

“The silver one with the orange sticker on it,” she pointed at it with her long coffin-shaped gel acrylic nails painted this pretty salmon pink color. Each key for every dorm had a designated sticker. Her dorm complex all had orange stickers. While Erik fumbles with the door, Y/N takes his cup to drink the rest of his lemonade. She only got one suck in before it was all gone. Kissing her teeth, she pulled the top off and started eating his ice. Her glossy lips smacked and her teeth crunched as she chewed.

Erik held the door open for Lil Mama while she easily walked in from under his outstretched arm. She was 5’ 5 so it was a breeze. Her door clicked shut softly and now they were inside of her warm dorm room. Erik sat Y/N’s book bag down on the small black suede couch bed before kicking off his Nike VaporMax Plus with a black, white, and grey colorway. Y/N tried to clean up the living room a bit but Erik was already used to seeing Y/N and Brandy’s mess. Wigs with mannequin heads, Sephora make up bags, unopened packages, heels, textbooks, and an assortment of PS4 video games.

“Y’all some fucking slobs,” Erik unzipped his black Nike Therma training vest revealing a white Henley long sleeve top underneath that bunched around his biceps and pectorals.

“This space is so small our storage bins can’t hold everything, Erik,” Y/N grabbed the freshly washed wigs and mannequins to place in a corner behind a stack of storage bins to make space.

“All this time you’ve been staying here and you didn’t get a dresser?”

“I have one,” she said while smoothing down a pink wig in her hand, “it’s too damn full.”

“So, you basically brought your whole bedroom to campus?” He chuckles, “you’re silly, ma.”

“Leave me alone,” she pouted like a baby.

Erik mocked her pout making his eyes soft and blinking his long lashes. She giggled at him before turning around to put the wig away.

“Brandy not coming back tonight, right?” Erik pulls out a blunt that he had rolled nice and tight for tonight.

“Nah, she’s with your friend, remember?”

Erik puffed out smoke, “So that means I can be in that pussy all over this dorm room?”

“Yes.” She answered without hesitation. This was her Daddy. He could fuck her anywhere. If that nigga said to drop to your knees in public she would drop to her knees. If he told her to give that pussy up she would bend over in half for him and not think twice about the people around them. She’s been craving his big dick all day during classes. He had her so wet and sticky that she had to make a stop in the women’s bathroom during her free period to rub her clit into a squirting orgasm. She wished he could have seen the mess she made on that floor. Y/N always squirted when she had her clit rubbed or sucked on.

“Yes what, Lil Mama?”

“Yes, Big Daddy.” She spoke with the sweetest voice. It almost made Erik’s tooth hurt with how sweet and angelic she sounded.

“You’re such a good girl for me all the time. So submissive for Daddy, ain’t that right, Lil Mama?”

“Mhm, yes.” Y/N was obsessed with the dick and all of Erik honestly. He didn’t even have to fuck her to have her hooked. She wouldn’t know what to do with herself if her Daddy left her.

“Girl,” He shook his head before resting it back against the couch, blowing his smoke into the air, “I’m about to punish that pussy…I’m dead fucking serious.”

Y/N closed her eyes in bliss while nibbling on her bottom lip.

“Keep biting on that lip ima bite it myself.” Oh, she needed a reminder. Erik already had her ass in the car.

Erik tongued Y/N’s mouth down in that drive-thru making the people behind them honk their horns and yell. He was practically sucking and fucking her face. She was squirming in that seat with her legs up and hands gripping the seat belt. His tongue was so damn good in her mouth. Her head fell lazily back and off to the side like she was fainting from the way he kissed her. Erik then grabbed her neck to hold her still before removing his tongue from her throat, a long trail of spit connecting with hers. She had to reward him with her hand in his sweats using her thumb to stroke the tip of his dick.

“Think I’m playing, Y/N, I will tear your little ass up in here.”

Y/N’s lip slowly released from between her teeth. It was swollen and blushed from how much she chewed on the pouty flesh. She rubbed her glossy lips together before giving Erik an innocent smile.

“I was just saying how much of a good girl you are but you must want daddy to punish you, huh?”

His head fell back against the couch again, Erik widening his legs to invite her over to him. He had those sexy deep brown eyes on her and his full bottom lip between his teeth.

“C’mere,” He said with a suppressed voice. Erik took both of his thumbs to pull back the waistband of his sweats and briefs. Erik’s groomed pubic hair was revealed to her lustful eyes and with one thrust of his hips, both pieces of fabric came down and rested under his muscular ass while his moisturized, lengthy, girthy, and magnificent black dick popped out and swung up and down like a pendulum. He jerked his hips and made his dick jump. Y/N loves it when he makes his dick jump. Lifting up the sleeves to his Henley, Erik takes his left hand to grab the base of his dick. She could hear the skin move up and down and she could see the veins of his shaft rolling each time his wrist covered with a Piaget watch twisted expertly to give himself the perfect stroke.

“C’mere.” He scrunched his face while biting the corner of his bottom lip, “you know what Daddy likes. Come suck me, Lil Mama.”

Y/N got down on her hands and knees and crawled to Erik. Once there, she squeezed herself between his legs and the coffee table in the dorm room. Now that she was on her knees between his legs, Y/N picked Erik’s dick up with her small hand, giving it a nice squeeze. Erik’s eyes rolled shut and his bottom lip poked out showing Y/N his gold canines. Using her slender pink tongue, Y/N licked from Erik’s delicious sack, the smooth base of his dick, up his length, and to that pre-cum oozing tip.

“Ooo,” she moaned before making a hissing sound with her teeth. She squeezed her Daddy’s big dick again and more of that syrupy goodness seeped out. That same pink tongue licked around the head of his thickness before her soft and unyielding lips cloaked him.

“Damn, Lil Mama. You can suck some dick, girl. Look at your little freaky ass. Suck this Daddy dick, cutie pie.”

Y/N inhaled Erik’s dick with no hands.

“Oh, shit,” Erik chuckles, “look at that pretty mouth on you.”

With her round eyes on him, Y/N made her jaws extra tight, breathing through her nose, and pulling all of him into her mouth. Erik’s hand came up to grab her puff, using the curly strands to pull her mouth off his dick. Erik stuck his tongue out at her, flicking it. Y/N leans forward, Erik’s hand around her neck, bringing her in to flick his tongue with hers. After a rather nasty tongue thrash that had Y/N’s lip dripping with Erik’s spit, he playfully slaps her face causing her to gasp.

“Throat deeper than a motherfucker,” He places two of his fingers into her mouth, “You can fit all of Daddy’s big dick in that nasty mouth.”

Y/N gags around Erik’s fingers. He takes them out slowly, rubbing it down the length of her tongue then over her bottom lip.

“Shit, look at what you got my dick doing.”

Each time his dick bobbled up and down his balls would jump. Still covered with spit and still just as rock hard as before. Erik and Y/N glanced at each other before turning their attention back to his beautiful cum stick. Reaching his left hand up, Erik takes his pointer finger to circle his slit mixing the pre-cum with Y/N’s saliva. He lifted that finger and she could see a slimy string of pre-cum. Her tongue rolled out of her mouth. She let it stick out as far as it could go. Erik made her suck on his finger then with a forceful hand he grabs the back of her neck bringing her lips to his dick again for her to suck.

“Yeah, Lil Freak,” Erik widened his legs more, “Make Daddy cum…shit…why you sucking me like that? LOOK AT ME…why are you sucking my dick like that?” He playfully slaps her again, “why?”

“Because I want Daddy to cum for me.”

“That’s right. Good girl. Make Daddy’s big dick cum. Show me you worked so hard for that shit.”

“Like this,” she slurped him up causing Erik’s lips to part and his hands coming up to cover his eyes.

“Just like that,” he lifts his shirt up so she could have a view of his defined body that he worked so hard to achieve, “girl, you got my nuts in your mouth. Daddy ain’t even have to ask you. That’s what I’m talking about.”

He never had to ask her to suck him off because she loved that shit. His dick was so damn good in her mouth. She was moaning around a mouth full of dick.

“Damn, I’m keeping you…best believe I’m keeping you, Lil Mama.”

Yes, Daddy-“ she sucked.

“Daddy turned you out?” He gave her a coy smirk.

“Uh-Huh, Daddy-“ she sucked.

“Hmph- oh my God, girl-Ah-sh-shittttttt,” she felt his thick cum hit the back of her throat, “shitttt…shitttttt,” she kept her lips sealed around his dick, still sucking just as hard. Y/N was cum hungry, “oh yeah? Oh yeah? Keep sucking my shit keep-fuckkkkkkk,” Erik has more for her. Y/N graciously took it and slurped it down with no problem, “FUCK YES.”

Finally finished drinking his cum, Y/N slowly pulled her lips off but not before French kissing his thick head. The leering expression on his face and the way he shook his head made Y/N want to suck his dick again just because of his reaction.”

“Turn around and bend over for Daddy to see.”

Y/N got up, bending over the coffee table to show how her tight jeans stretched out over her ass and that rip under her right ass cheek separating even more. She looked back at him with a pout of her lips and blinking patient eyes. She started rolling her hips for him in slow motion. Erik reaches out and pops her ass so intensely that Y/N yelps. Erik takes his fingers, pulling on that rip and distressing her jeans even more. Now she has a big ass hole there with some of the jean material hanging.

“Daddy-“

“Girl, I don’t give a fuck about these jeans. Take all this shit off now.”

Y/N stands up, undoing her jeans and pulling them down. She bends over to get her feet out and now Erik could see her bright yellow thong.

“You so damn thick, Lil Mama, damn,” He smacks both her ass cheeks, “Daddy love all this,” Erik squeezes her ass, then both his hands came out to jiggle her prominent flesh, “Put my face in this ass and eat it the fuck up, ma.”

She felt heat prickle her skin.

“Yes, eat this ass and phat pussy, Daddy,” She encouraged him, “here,” she spread her cheeks showing him exactly what he wanted to see, “this ass and phat pussy, yeah?”

“All that ass and phat fucking pussy, bitch,” He rubs her asshole with his finger, “You hella tight back here…can’t even fit my fucking finger in.”

“This a virgin ass, Daddy. Ain’t no dick been in there,” she laughs. Y/N used small butt plugs before but that was it. She never thought about trying anal for herself because she was too chicken to do it but now, she could try it out for her Daddy.

“No dick been in here?” Erik asks with a low tone.

“Nope, none, Daddy.”

“So what does that mean for me?” He was rubbing her pussy lips now, squeezing them, and spreading them.

“You can take my ass if you want.”

“You sure?” Now he was thumbing her labia, “I got a big dick on me, Ma, it’s too much to handle.”

“I’ll be a good girl…” he was teasing her clit now.

“Be a good girl and give this ass up? If you say yes that means I get to take that ass and you can’t stop me. Once I’m in there I’m gon’ beat that tight ass up.”

Y/N knew how long and girthy Erik was but she wanted to try his big dick in her ass. Y/N wanted to see if she could handle him.

“I promise I’ll let you beat it up just like this pussy.”

“Oh…you getting it tonight, fuck that.”

Erik stood up, grabbing Y/N and throwing her over his shoulder so he could play with her ass cheeks. They walked into her shared dorm room that was just as messy as her mini living room. He was gonna make her clean up but first, he needed his dick wet. He tossed her down to her bed, pulling her Trap and Sex shirt off and then her bra.

“Trap and Sex?” He sucked on her nipples, “That means you like fucking to trap music, Lil Mama? Pop that pussy and twerk that big ass on the dick? Fuck this pink puss to the beat?”

“Mmmm, baybee,” Erik motorboated her breasts causing her to giggle. She opens her legs for him so he could play all in her wet pussy and suck her titties at the same time.

“Got the pussy all open and shit,” Erik didn’t waste no time taking his three fingers, curling them, and fucking her pussy all the way down to the base of his fingers. She gushed and slushed all over him. It was so easy for him to slide his fingers in and out. He was still sucking her nipples and biting them. Y/N used all the strength in her thighs to keep them spread open and raised up while she sat on the edge of the bed.

“I see you, pretty girl, I see you opening them legs to give Daddy more of that phat pussy.”

Her head fell back and her left hand came down to rub circles on her clit. She was creaming all the way down to her asshole. Bed sheets stained too.

“Got all this phat puss and ass. This shit is mine. Daddy only fucking you. You better not give this pussy to none of them little niggas or I’m punishing you. You hear me?”

“Yes! Oh, God, Erik-“

“Come correct, ma, it’s Daddy.”

Her puffy inner folds and clit were so warm and swollen from how fast she rubbed.

“Move your fucking hands. Keeping that juicy clit away from me. You tryna be stingy?”

“N-no,” she opened her pussy lips, “here you go, Daddy. It’s all yours…mmm…it’s all yours.”

“All this pink sweet pussy?” Erik stuck his tongue way out and thrashed it under the hood of her clit all over that shit. He got every single inch of her and now she was leaking for him. He always had her cumming fast with that mouth of his.

“Daddy, my clit is so hard…” She looked at him with defeated eyes.

“I know, that’s why I’m about to suck on it for you. Got my dick down here hurting for some of this good puss.” Erik wraps his lips around her clit and labia with those pussy riding lips he got. He was making her precious pussy cum. Her Daddy always gave her good licks and sucks.

“This pussy talking to me, Lil Mama, she wants me to put this dick in,” Erik stood up, pulling his sweats and briefs off uncaring about his shirt, “I’m fucking you just like this.”

His mouth-watering dick bounced as he positioned himself over her. He was so rough with the way he pulled her legs apart and back to her ears. Erik gripped the bottom of her bare feet firmly while using the power of his hips to drill into her pussy. That phat puss was happy to be taking some of him again. Every time felt like the first time with Erik. She was outrageously wet. His mature and violent strokes inside her once innocent pussy has Y/N talking in tongues.

“You like giving this pussy up to Daddy.”

“Yes!” She grabs Erik’s chain around his neck.

“You tryna choke Daddy out?” He spoke in a harsh tone that had her shivering.

“Mhm,” she tightened the chain causing it to cut into his skin, “choke Daddy back just like I fuck Daddy back.”

She could see his skin bruising from how tight she had his chain around his neck. Erik slowed down his strokes, his eyes hard and nostrils flared. Y/N let his chain go and used her own hand to grab his neck. She pulled Erik down to her mouth where she tongued his lips and sucked on them. He swiveled his hips inside of her and just allowed her wetness to hug him while they kissed. He was moaning in her mouth. No grunts or groans, straight moans. The tighter she made her hands the more he moaned while they kissed. Erik sounded so damn sexy moaning.

Ahhhh… *hisses* ahhhh… *hisses* ahhhh

He said that over and over with his raspy tone of voice. It was beautiful to hear a man moan and not be afraid to. When she let his neck go he gave her a deep desirable look that had her reaching out for his neck again.

“Ooooohmmm,” he moaned with his eyes on her, “Yeah, Lil Mama, choke me out like that.”

“Daddy I want you to moan for me, please?”

“I gotchu, ma,” Erik sucked on her fingers, “Ima moan while I fuck this pussy.”

“Fuck, yeah, Daddy.” Y/N lifts Erik’s shirt from his body, tossing it on the floor. He stroked her with his head hanging low to watch the way he dicked her down.

“Ain’t gon’ find dick like this again,” Erik watched his balls slap her ass with each stroke and his dick stretching her out, “Got me over here taking this wet wet showing you how a real nigga fuck some pussy.”

“Daddy-“

“You ain’t even gotta tell me, ma, I know this pussy ready to bust all over me. Cum on this daddy dick… you keeping it away from me?” He tilted his head down at her while his dick murdered her slit, “gimmie that shit…mhmm, mhmm…cum-on-this-dick.”

“Shittttttttt, baybeeeee,” She shook under him as she released on his dick. Erik smiles at her while Y/N’s eyes rolled shut. He pulls his dick out for her to see what she’d done. Creamy and dripping wet.

“Lick me up,” He ordered.

Y/N licked him like an ice cream cone, cleaning him all off.

“You got some lube, ma?”

“Yeah,” She got up on wobbly legs, walking over to her dresser. Erik sits down on the edge of the bed to remove his socks before falling back with his hand around his dick, jerking it. In Y/N’s periphery, she could see her Daddy’s balls jump and his hand twist and pull on himself. She moved her ankle socks and panties to the side to reveal a bottle of grape-flavored lube she received in a goodie bag from her other campus friend Morgan’s toy party. They were gonna need the whole bottle with how big his pipe is and how tight her asshole is. She walked back over to him, sitting the lube on the bed and as if compelled, sucked the tip of his dick while he jerked his stiffness.

“Can’t keep this dick out your mouth for nothing,” Erik laughs before grunting deep, “look at you tryna suck me like a straw, Lil nasty ass. I like that shit. C’mon, I’m tryna cum in your ass.”

Y/N’s mouth popped off and Erik stood up from the bed to stand behind her.

“You know how I like it. Face down, ass up.”

Y/N got into position. She felt his dick hit the back of her thigh. All that thick meat was about to enter her ass. She shivered from how nervous she was. Erik got down on his knees while his right hand pumped his dick. He puts his tongue in her ass and the second she felt that snake-like tongue wiggle and that spit drizzle down to her pussy she let out a sharp moan. She couldn’t see his face since he was all between her cheeks but damn she wanted him to see her expression. Her eyes watered and her mouth was wide with pure shock. His wet tongue was stabbing at her asshole. She reached back to hold her cheeks open. Erik mumbled something but he was too busy eating her booty she couldn’t understand a word he said.

He finally resurfaced with a shiny face, “Damn, I could feel that ass clenching around my tongue,” Erik opened her pussy wide, “all my spit just chilling in this creamy shit,” he leaned in to suck her clit slowly before letting go with a pop of his lips, “Y/N…I swear to God, ma…pass a nigga that lube!”

She quickly handed it over to him. Erik popped the cap on it, squeezing out so much of it to slather over his dick. Y/N could smell the grape flavoring of the lube. Erik was drenched in that shit. He takes some from his dick, bringing it to Y/N’s virgin ass to finger her there with it. She was gripping his fingers. Every time his knuckle would enter her she clenched around him.

“You gotta relax, ma,” Erik instructed, “I know you can’t help it but relaxing is the only way I can fuck this ass, you hear me?”

“Yes, sorry,” she breathed evenly to steady herself.

“Good girl. You ready?” Erik stood behind Y/N.

“Please,” That was enough of a response for him. Lil Mama just didn’t know what she was getting herself into with Erik. He fucked ass just like he fucked pussy. Had chicks crying. But the pussy still came so they ended up asking for more. His good girl could take some dick like a champ though. He wanted to see if she could hold her record.

Erik instructed for Y/N to grip the sheets. Erik began to ease his large member into her tight, bubbling ass. Y/N closed her eyes and tightened her fists around the sheets to distract herself when Erik entered her. She couldn’t believe how much pressure and pain she was feeling. Y/N tried to breathe slowly and steadily to calm herself as he penetrated deeper into her ass.

“Oh my God,” Erik slaps her ass, “Baby, this ass is so tight on my dick. You’re pulling on my dick right now.”

Erik eased out and went back into her even further than before. Y/N gasped and inhaled as she felt the pressure from him reentering her.

“Lil Mama, I’m done teasing you I’m ready to fuck this ass, you good?” He was desperate.

“Y-yes,” she spoke with her face in the sheets.

Erik grabbed Y/N by the waist and slammed into her.

Y/N screamed, “Daddy!!!!!” She reaches back to push at his chest, “Daddy, nooooo, Not yet! Slow down!”

Erik wasn’t listening; the feeling had overtaken him and he was in the zone. Erik slammed into her, then out, then bam! Back in. Y/N’s legs were weakening and she could barely keep her back arched to take all of his daddy dick. Every time she would move Erik would fix her arch as he rammed into her.

Y/N pleaded, “Daddy! Please cum! I can’t handle you! Please cum! Please!”

Erik was enjoying this. Hearing her beg him with a weakened tone and deep throaty moans made his dick even harder.

Erik answered, “This is what you wanted, remember? Shut up and let me slam in this ass real good!” He pulled all the way out to the tip. All that lube was needed because his dick went right back in like it never left. She compressed him tighter than that pussy. Erik’s eyes rolled with pleasure each time she clenched him.

“Daddy,” she spoke with a raw throat, “I wanna take Daddy’s dick, I really do, but it hurts.”

Erik groaned, “I’ll go slow to stretch it and you let me know when I can go faster, aight?”

“Okay,” she looked back at him with her watery eyes, “Daddy you really like my ass. You were fucking it so hard,” she spoke with a whisper.

“Your shit is too tight, Lil Mama,” Erik stares down at his lube covered dick stretching her ass out. She gasps each time he hit her deep with the tip of his dick. He had Lil Mama groaning with his dick all in her ass.

“Daddy fucking this ass real good ain’t he.”

“Yeah,” She was starting to get used to the feeling of being stuffed back there, “It’s starting to feel a little better…”

“So, can Daddy go faster?”

She chewed her lip nervously, “Kay.”

“If you want Daddy to cum in you I’m gonna have to slam a little harder than I am to get it out.”

She melted at his words. Erik was so persuasive.

“I understand, Daddy.”

Erik began to beat her ass up harder and faster. Y/N was reminded of the pain yet again but it was subtle and the pleasure was more pronounced. She closed her eyes and allowed her body to accept the way her ass wrapped around Erik and the pressure she could feel in her lower belly. She could understand why people enjoyed anal but damn you had to be a G to take it like this.

As Y/N began to relax she started pumping back onto Erik. This caused Erik to thrust harder into her tightness surrounding him. He held onto Y/N as he fucked her. She was helping him by pushing back against him and saying, “Daddy you’re so full in my ass, you’re fucking the shit outta me!”

“Hmph! Love my dick throbbing in this ass, yes…just bend over for Daddy.”

“Fuck,” Y/N was being trained well to take his big black dick. She rubbed her wet pussy all over and even stuck three fingers in. She finger fucked her juicy box while Erik beat her ass up like fight night.

“Put that work in for Daddy! Good girls take it deep and hard in the ass!”

“YES!” Her ass stung from how hard she clapped back on him. “Yes! Yes! Oh shit, yeah, baby, work this ass! That’s right, fuck the shit outta me!”

“Open that ass up for me-“

“Like this, Daddy,” she spread her cheeks.

“That’s a good girl, let Daddy fill this ass up.”

Erik pounded away until he could no longer hold it. Erik banged his dick in her ass while his balls slapped her clit. The way his dick throbbed had Y/N gasping for air. He gave her one final hard thrust before his load filled her ass up to the brim. Y/N was worn-out from the ass whipping she had endured. Erik was even out of breath and weak.

His dick slid out causing both of them to moan. She rolled over onto her back gently. She looked up at Erik’s drenched body as he stares down at his still hard dick.

“You good, pretty girl?” Erik walked up to sit on the bed next to her. He turned Y/N over onto her back and rubbed her ass. She gave him a weak smile but as soon he opened her ass cheeks to see her lubed up asshole she let out a whimper. She clenched her cheeks but Erik’s grip on her was so firm she couldn’t fight him.

“I got you good, didn’t I?” His voice got deeper and huskier.

“Yes, Daddy,” Y/N said while looking into his dark eyes. They tended to get darker when he was really horny.

“Daddy…I need a break,” Y/N gave him an innocent look that always worked, “Please, Daddy?”

His jaw clenched but then a smirk appeared in his lips, “Aight, Lil Mama. We can take a shower and then I’ll run you a bubble bath, okay?”

She felt so relieved. If she didn’t plead with him to give her a break Erik would be fucking her ass again. That was a lot to handle. Y/N finally stood up from the bed with wobbly ankles. Erik helped her out by carrying her. Y/N didn’t think she would be able to take more dick tonight but knowing Erik he wouldn’t allow that for too long.

———————-

“Oh, you’re a nasty bitch, Y/N.”

Brandy came home the next day around late afternoon with her overnight bag and a bonnet on her head. The place was clean since Y/N had nothing else to do since Erik left. He had plans that evening to meet up with some friends. Y/N was currently filling her friend in on how much sex she’d been having with Erik.

“How big is he?” Brandy asked while studying for her intro to cybersecurity course.

“I don’t know, maybe 9 or 10 inches. And thick girl, whew.”

“And you can take all that now? Erik changed my girl,” Brandy joked.

“I thank you for introducing us.” If it wasn’t for Brandy Y/N wouldn’t have known Erik.

“Nah, it wasn’t me. Erik has been wanting your ass! He asked about you and I just passed on the word that’s all.”

“I miss him,” she pouts, “I won’t see him until tomorrow night.”

“Girl, give your pussy a break!” Brandy shouted playfully.

“I just love fucking with him, Brandy. He makes my body feel so good.”

“So…is he more than a fuck buddy?” Brandy questions.

“I don’t know about all that right now. We like where we are and I don’t wanna push it too far and fuck up our connection.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“Only the basic stuff like where he is originally from and what he’s going to school for and what his interests are. Just the first base stuff.”

Brandy placed her highlighter in the middle of her textbook, “I’m only asking because I can tell that you like him more than just wanting to hop on the dick. You should talk to him, see if he feels the same way.”

“I will,” Y/N spoke softly, “I just don’t want to scare him away.”

“I doubt that,” Brandy giggles, “He is pussy-whipped.”

Y/N couldn’t disagree. Erik would call and text her phone throughout the day just to get a response from her if he couldn’t see her and if he could see Y/N she was always at his place. He even cleared out a top drawer for her things. If she didn’t answer his calls or texts he would be so damn mad and when they finally meet up her pussy was his for the taking.

Disrespectful, bitch. Don’t you ever ignore me again, you hear me, girl? Got me in here fucking the shit out this phat puss. Say sorry to Daddy, bitch, you owe me.

And then she was right on her knees or opening her legs for him.

A slut for this Daddy dick.

No. He didn’t text or call her since he left. What was he up to? She knew he was busy with school as well but damn, he could have at least sent a quick text with kissy-face and tongue emojis. While Brandy studies, Y/N picked up here phone to text Erik.

-Daddy I miss you 😽

She saw his text bubbles and then his message showed up.

-Daddy miss you too.

-how much?

Erik sent her a photo. It was him smiling in a black beanie with his jeans unzipped and that dick long and thick. He took really good dick pics. She loved the fact that he smiled at her like that. He made her melt. She wanted to melt in his mouth.

-Omg Daddy! come here, please 🤗

-can’t, Lil Mama. I’m about to have some company.

-I wanna cuddle with you and sit on your lap🥺

-that’s all? LOL I know that ain’t the only thing you want. Look at that pic again.

-okay, I want some dick too so? Lol. You fucked me so good last night I want some more 😋

-Can’t tonight, I told your ass that. I gotchu tomorrow, don’t worry. I’ll fuck you from the living room to the bed I promise.

-☹️

-fix your fucking face.

- *sigh* okay.

-good girl. Let me hit you back later I gotta make some moves. Be good, Lil Mama 😚

-I will Daddy, TTYL 🥰

——————-

Later came around and sitting in her dorm watching Hulu was a drag. Brandy was busy doing her classmates’ hair in the living room. She slept on and off and studied the entire day. After showering, Y/N put on a pair of panties and a band tee to get in bed to be even lazier. It was around 9:30 pm when she had just about enough. Not being wrapped around Erik had her going insane. Then, there was the fact that her mind replayed all of their nasty sex. She was sloppy wet. Y/N pulled her covers back, sitting up on her elbows, and spreading her legs to see her pussy. She fingered her folds to gather some of her wetness. Y/N brought her fingers to her mouth, sucked her essence off, and without a care, she started running circles into her clit.

She edged herself in that bed. Each time she was ready to cum, Y/N would stop. This always gave her the best orgasms. Erik’s name spilled from her mouth as her fingers rubbed and rubbed until she was cumming. She felt her sheets dampen under her ass from squirting. Y/N grabs her phone from her pillow, swiping left to pull up her camera. She put her flash on and started recording a video of her wet cum stained pussy. After that, she sent it off to Erik so he could see what he was missing right now

-Fucking really, Y/N?

-😛

-that little creamy pussy is soaked. You sample my pussy after you came Lil Mama?

-it was so tasty 😋

-Now I really gotta tear that ass up. Chilling with my friends and my dick hard.

-fuck me…

-drive over here right fucking now.

She was up out that bed real quick.

———————

Y/N pulled up in her leggings and a crop top and ugg slippers. She made it into Erik’s apartment building rapidly. The minute she knocked on that door one of Erik’s friends answered.

“Damn, shorty? Who you here to see?” He bit his lip at Y/N. She could hear talking in the back.

“Erik.” Y/N spoke softly.

“Okay, sweetie. Yo E!”

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him walk up to the door. She was craving him in all her holes. Her mouth, ass, and pussy were lonely and ready to be filled.

“Hey, E.”

“Who?” Erik asked while his friend watched. Y/N looked over at Erik’s friend then back at him with timid eyes.

“Don’t be shy, Lil Mama. What I say about all that shy shit? Now, what’s my name?”

“Daddy.” She blushed with embarrassment. Erik leaned forward, grabbing the side of Y/N’s neck softly to tongue her down briefly. 

“Damn,” Erik’s friend clapped Erik on the back, “that’s my nigga, Erik.”

Both men allowed her to step inside and Y/N was surrounded by nothing but weed smoke and loud trap music. Roddy Ricch was playing from Erik’s beats Pill. There were at least seven guys there plus Erik included. Some smoking and drinking, Erik playing the game since he had a controller in his hand.

“Aye!” Erik yelled over the loud music, “this is Y/N.”

“Hi,” she waved shyly with a smile.”

They all said their hellos. Some lingering on her with interest while the others returned to whatever they were doing.

“Damn, you came by yourself? No friends for us?” The guy in question was rolling up some weed. He was tall and muscular with a full beard.

“Sorry, I just came to see my Daddy,” she placed her hand on Erik’s chest while he leaned down to wrap his arm around her waist. She was so small that he had to bend down to grab her. Some of his friends gave each other looks and she was sure they were going to ask Erik about how good Y/N’s pussy is. Erik has a way of affecting you without doing much except for existing. The evil glint in his eyes was enough to let his friends know that Y/N was his and only his.

“Here TJ,” Erik passes his controller over to whoever TJ was, “I’ll be back, gotta handle something with Lil Mama real quick.”

“Go handle that,” The friend that opened the door joked.

“Nigga shut the fuck up. I don’t need you talking on my behalf I got this.”

Y/N glanced at his friend. He could see the embarrassment on his face. He was a grown-ass man and he allowed Erik to shut him up. His homeboys joked in the background but something told Y/N that all of them knew not to fuck with Erik.

After Erik checked his friend, Erik kept his hand around Y/N’s waist as they walked to the back where his room was. The anticipation to fuck him was killing her. His fingertips stroked her spine at first but as soon as they walked past his doorway Erik seized the back of Y/N’s neck before slamming his door shut. The loud rap music vibrated his bedroom walls. Y/N turned around to look at Erik. Her terror-stricken face didn’t do anything to calm his rage. Erik folded his arms across his chest and widened his stance before he began to speak.

“You sent that video to get back at me or something?”

“No…” she spoke slowly.

“Nah, you had to because I sent you that picture of me holding my dick,” He narrows his eyes at her, “my dick is hard as a motherfucker right now.”

“Lemme see,” she went to grab his crotch but Erik smacked her hand away. Hard.

With an alarming look on her face, she stroked her sore hand. Erik didn’t seem to care about her pain. He was too busy worried about his hard dick.

“You owe me an apology.”

“Why?!” She didn’t understand why he was so damn upset about this.

“Because I told you I was busy-“

“You sent me that pic and I was a horny fucking mess, Erik. I had to make myself cum because of you. Don’t stand there and do that.”

“Y/N,” Erik closed his eyes, “Who the fuck is in charge? If I send you a pic, Lil Mama, I expect you to rub that pussy. Don’t send me shit back to turn me on when I’m with my boys. My dick is hard as fuck, Y/N, you don’t understand what I’m telling you? My-shit-is-hard.”

He grabbed his dick and Y/N wished it was her hand.

“So, I can’t send you nothing back without permission?” She asked with caution.

“Not when I’m around my niggas. My phone was out in the open, baby girl. What if they saw that puss? It’s mine. You got amnesia or something?”

Daddy, no. I didn’t think about that.” She fiddled with her fingers. 

“Just shut the fuck up and come suck my dick,” Erik spoke hastily. 

Erik started undoing his button and zipper. His jeans and briefs dropped down and around his ankles. His dick was so hard it poked straight out at her. Daddy was right. All that hard dick tucked away in his pants. She could understand his anger. That shit was probably pulsating and thumping like a heartbeat in his jeans. Y/N took long strides from where his bed was to get to his dick. She got down on her knees, grabbed his whopping erection, and guzzled that dick. 

“Damn,” Erik hissed before letting out a deep moan, “Suck my dick, bitch. Suck me good.” Y/N was loving on Erik’s juicy meat each time she drew it into her mouth. Down in a squat and using only her mouth to suck his dick, Y/N started moving her hips to the music. She was enjoying herself why not dance a little? Erik lifted his shirt to rest under his chin and then he took both his hands to grab her face and fuck her mouth. Her head rocked back and the gagging she did was drowned out by the music. He was so big that he stabbed the back of her throat. She was losing her balance from how intense he fed her some dick. 

“Fucking bitch.” He was vicious. Y/N was ready for him to cum because of his assault on her mouth. She smacked his thighs hard snapping Erik out of it so she could take a breath. 

“D-Daddy,” Her throat felt raw, “I’m sorry, I really am, I can’t take it.” 

“But you always take this dick like a good girl,” Erik rubbed the tip of his dick on her lips, “I think you know not to play with me like that again.”

Y/N nodded her head swiftly, “Yes, Daddy. Can I suck your dick again, please? I’m ready. I wanna swallow your cum, Daddy,” Y/N grabbed his dick and started planting delicate kisses along his shaft, “Pretty please, Daddy? then you can fuck my pussy,” She pats her pussy, “I want you inside me,” She whispered seductively.

“Fuck…Girl,” Erik grabbed his dick, “Here, just take it from me since you so damn greedy for this Daddy dick!”

“Thank you, Daddy,” She sucked him up damn near making her delirious. 

“You really love sucking this Daddy dick, Lil Mama.”

Y/N focused all her love and affection on the tip of his pipe. Her tongue would flick the underside of his head while her lips twirled around it like she was sucking on a lollipop or a popsicle. 

“Ohhhhh shit, get that shit, girl!”

The more she sucked the more Erik cheered her on. His member became thicker in her mouth and now she was drooling down her chin and her shirt. 

“Fuck, Lil Mama, you making me cum,” His face scrunched up and after his dick pulsated in her mouth a few times Erik’s tasty cum oozed out the sides of her mouth. She couldn’t stop sucking his dick. Erik had to grab her hair and pull her mouth off to stop her. Y/N’s chin and neck was covered with the cum that spilled from her mouth. She tried putting him back in her mouth leading Erik to playfully slap her face. 

“Stop it, girl. I want some pussy now.” Y/N raised her body from the floor. Erik started undressing her, yanking on her clothes with his thick fingers. Now that she was fully undressed, Erik lifts Y/N from the floor to wrap her legs around his waist. She grabbed his shoulders and pressed her cum covered face into his neck. Y/N breathed in his scent and kissed him with her wet lips. 

“mmmm,” His dick smacked her in the pussy, “I can’t wait anymore I’m getting in this pussy.”

Using all his strength, Erik spread Y/N’s legs, using his hips to stretch her pussy open. He started rocking into her at a speedy pace like he was fucking her to the beat of the trap music. The drumming of his walls mixed with the way Y/N moaned was euphoria. Her moisture made squelching noises as it saturated Erik’s dick. She was so wet Erik’s dick kept slipping out. He was literally drenched from the tip of his dick to his balls. Her pussy sheathed his dick like a flesh-eating piranha. 

“This phat pussy on you ain’t no joke, girl.” 

Her ass and thighs ricocheted off of him as he pounded her pussy. Y/N couldn’t control her cries for more. The vision of Erik staring intently into her eyes as he took control of her body.

“Dayum, I feel that pussy gripping. I stay digging in yo’ shit don’t I?”

“YES! fuck-YES.”

Erik walked while still pumping his dick in Y/N until her back touched the bed. Erik pinned her down and stuffed her tight little pussy until it started talking back. That pussy was making a lot of noise whenever Erik dropped all that dick, balls deep, in that pussy. Erik watched the way he pounded her wetness. 

“Damn, that’s a beautiful pink pussy. It makes me wanna eat it for hours.”

“Please do Daddy- OH FUCK!” Her eyes rolled back, “I love Daddy dick!”

“Daddy fucking this pussy, girl. I gotchu. You getting this pussy fucked.”

He was so calm with his words but that dick was a monster. Y/N gladly gave her pussy up. 

“Take as much dick as you want, Lil Mama. Let Daddy make that pussy feel good. Let Daddy eat that pussy and ass. Let Daddy finger that pussy anywhere-”

“BAYBEEEEEE!!!!!” 

She yelled at the top of her lungs while cumming on Erik’s dick. They both hadn’t noticed that the music stopped playing. Her moans and the sound of their skin slapping seeped through those thin walls. Erik didn’t give two fucks at that point. His only care was to make Y/N’s pussy cum so she could squeeze his thick dick and milk him dry. 

“Open that pussy baby, I’m so close,” Erik whispered. Her weak legs went up and over his shoulder. Y/N’s sweet voice and soft moans in his ear weakened him further. his balls were so tight and ready to empty all his cum. Erik sucked on her nipples while he stroked. He was pulling on her clit with his veiny shaft.

“Yes,” Erik started looking distressed in the face. He reached his hand out to grab her neck provoking Y/N to grab his neck in return. Erik was defeated when her little hand wrapped around his neck. The feeling of her warm fingers and coffin-shaped nails sinking into the skin on the back of his neck made Erik shoot his load in spurts. Each time he pumped a thick stream of cum would erupt from his slit. 

“Cum for me, Daddy.”

Erik slipped out of her slowly, grunting when he saw his cum drip from her pussy and onto his bed. Y/N kept her legs wide open and killed him with those big innocent eyes. 

“All that wet ass pussy.”

She bit her lip while her hips moved in slow circles. 

“You ain’t bring no clothes did you?”

She smiles, “I did, and my books.”

The sun baked the golden dome of the palace in Birnin Zana, but by nightfall, the capital city transformed into something else entirely. Something wilder. Something that belonged to Erik Killmonger.

By day, Wakanda remained what it had always been, gleaming spires of vibranium-infused architecture piercing the clouds, maglev trains gliding silently between floating platforms, holographic displays advertising everything from traditional textiles to the latest in biotech. The citizens moved with purpose, their colorful traditional garments mingling with sleek, modern attire. A perfect fusion of past and future.

But night? Night was when the kingdom revealed its true self under Erik's rule.

Neon lights in pulsating purples, electric blues, and blood-reds bathed the streets in otherworldly glows. The royal palace—once a beacon of dignified tradition—now pulsed with life, its exterior transformed into a massive canvas for holographic displays that shifted between Wakandan patterns and imagery more reminiscent of Oakland street art. The soundscape changed too, the gentle hum of advanced technology now joined by the deep bass of music that vibrated through the very foundations of the city.

Inside the throne room, Erik Killmonger—King of Wakanda, Black Panther, the man they called "The Mad King"- sat upon the throne that had once belonged to his cousin. His body sprawled with arrogant ownership across the ornate seat of panther-shaped vibranium, one leg draped over the armrest, the other planted firmly on the ground. At thirty-three, he embodied a contradiction that had become the new normal in Wakanda: traditional royal attire merged with unmistakable elements of his Oakland upbringing. The ceremonial kimoyo beads around his wrist coexisted with a thick gold chain that disappeared beneath the open collar of his royal tunic. His locs, some threaded with gold, fell across his shoulders, partially obscuring the scars that marked his skin like a map of his journey from Oakland street kid to Wakandan king.

Erik's fingers drummed against the armrest, the sound absorbed by the vibranium as his gaze swept across the throne room. His advisors stood at a respectful distance, their discomfort palpable. They hadn't yet learned to navigate the moods of their new king—how his calm could be more dangerous than rage, how his laughter often preceded destruction.

"Your Majesty," one ventured cautiously, "the tribal leaders have begun to arrive for the council meeting."

Erik's lips curved into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Let 'em wait."

The advisor swallowed nervously. "But tradition dictates—"

"Fuck tradition," Erik cut him off, his voice a low growl that carried easily through the cavernous room. "Tradition got my people hiding while the world burned. Tradition had my uncle killing my father and leaving me to rot in Oakland. Tradition can kiss my royal black ass."

He shifted on the throne, the movement fluid and predatory despite his relaxed posture. The memories came unbidden, the ritual combat that had changed everything. The taste of blood in his mouth, the shock in T'Challa's eyes as Erik's blade found its mark. The way the heart-shaped herb had surged through his veins, connecting him to every Black Panther who had come before, even as he rejected everything they stood for.

You are not fit to be king! T'Challa had gasped, clutching the wound in his chest.

The fuck I'm not, Erik had responded, standing over him with the royal ring now on his finger. This kingdom's been asleep too long. Time to wake up.

The exile had been swift. T'Challa, stripped of the Black Panther's power but not his life, had been escorted to the border with his mother and sister. Erik had made sure they left with enough resources to live comfortably; his revenge was against the throne, not the man. Not completely anyway.

"Your Majesty?" the advisor prompted again, more cautiously this time.

Erik's focus returned to the present, the ghost of his cousin's disappointment replaced by the thrill of his new reality. "The council meeting. What's on the agenda?"

"Several matters require your attention, Your Majesty. There's been an increase in crime in the outer districts since you implemented the new trade policies. The River Tribe is concerned about—"

"The River Tribe's always concerned about something," Erik interrupted with a wave of his hand. "They've been sitting pretty by the water for centuries while the Mining Tribe breaks their backs digging up vibranium. Time they learned to adapt."

He rose from the throne, his movements surprisingly graceful for a man of his height and muscular build. The ceremonial cloak—rich purple fabric trimmed with gold, swirled around him as he walked toward the massive window that overlooked the city.

"Crime goes up when people have money to spend and new shit to want. That's not a problem. That's progress." He paused, his reflection appearing in the glass: dark skin, tribal scars, the gold chain glinting at his throat. A king who looked nothing like what Wakanda expected. "What else?"

The advisor consulted his kimoyo beads. "The Border Tribe reports increased activity along the perimeter. They believe other nations are becoming suspicious of our new openness."

Erik laughed, a harsh sound that echoed in the throne room. "Let 'em look. Let 'em wonder. We've been hiding behind that farmer bullshit for too long. Wakanda's got a responsibility to the world, and it ain't selling them vegetables."

He turned from the window, his expression unreadable. "And the Jabari? M'Baku still got his panties in a bunch about me being king?"

"Chief M'Baku has... reservations," the advisor chose his words carefully. "He questions whether someone raised outside Wakanda can truly understand and respect our ways."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "M'Baku can kiss my ass too. Sitting up in his mountains with his gorilla god, acting like he's the only one who keeps it real. I'll show him what real is."

The advisor wisely changed subjects. "There is one other matter, Your Majesty. The citizens have taken to calling you... well, they have a nickname."

Erik's interest piqued. "Yeah? What they calling me?"

"The Mad King," the advisor admitted reluctantly.

A slow grin spread across Erik's face, genuine this time. "The Mad King." He tested the words, savoring them. "Shit, I like that. Let 'em talk. Let 'em whisper about the crazy motherfucker from Oakland who took their precious kingdom and turned it upside down."

He moved back toward the throne, his swagger more pronounced now. "Mad King Killmonger. Got a ring to it, don't it?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty."

Erik sank onto the throne again, this time leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Call the council. Let's get this shit over with."

As the advisor scurried away to summon the tribal leaders, Erik allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. They called him mad because they couldn't understand him. Because he refused to be molded into the shape of kings past. Because he looked at their perfect isolation and saw a prison rather than a paradise.

Let them call him mad. Let them fear him. Let them whisper about the king who wore gold chains with his royal robes, who spoke like a street hustler but strategized like an MIT graduate, who had the blood of a royal line running through his veins but the heart of a revolutionary.

The doors to the throne room opened, and the first of the tribal leaders began to enter. Erik watched them approach, his expression carefully neutral. The River Tribe elders in their green robes, the Mining Tribe representatives with traces of vibranium dust still on their clothing, the Merchant Tribe in their distinctive attire, the Border Tribe trying to look inconspicuous despite their obvious importance.

And then came the Jabari delegation, led by M'Baku himself. A massive man with a presence that filled the room. But it wasn't the chief who captured Erik's attention.

It was the woman beside him.

Khamari.

At twenty-nine, she moved with a grace that belied her years, her short natural hair styled in a sleek cut that framed her face perfectly. Gold jewelry adorned her neck, arms, and ankles, catching the light with every movement. Tattoos decorated her skin—script on one arm, small symbols scattered across her body like constellations. Her eyes, dark and elegant, swept the room before coming to rest on the throne.

On him.

Erik felt something long-dormant awaken, a recognition that went beyond physical attraction. This was a woman who understood power, who carried herself with the confidence of someone who had earned her place in the world. A woman who stood beside a man like M'Baku not as property, but as an equal.

The Mad King found himself leaning forward, his interest suddenly piqued by something other than strategy or revenge.

As the tribal leaders took their positions, Erik's gaze remained fixed on Khamari. The council meeting could wait. The concerns about crime and border security could wait.

For the first time since claiming the throne, Erik had found something that truly captured his attention.

And what the Mad King wanted, the Mad King inevitably took.

The thought brought a smile to his lips as he prepared to address his council. This meeting had just become a hell of a lot more interesting.

The council chamber was a testament to Wakanda's paradoxical nature under Erik's rule. Ancient stone pillars, carved with the histories of the Golden Tribe, soared toward a ceiling that projected a real-time holographic map of the city. The traditional circular table where tribal leaders had convened for centuries remained, but now each seat was equipped with interactive kimoyo interfaces that glowed with soft blue light. Windows of transparent vibranium offered a panoramic view of the cyberpunk nightscape outside, where neon rivers flowed between buildings that seemed to defy gravity.

As the tribal leaders took their positions, the contrast between old and new became starkly apparent. The Border Tribe representatives, still maintaining their disguise of simple farmers, sat uncomfortably in their rough-spun garments, their hands calloused from work they no longer needed to do. The River Tribe elders, draped in flowing green robes adorned with crocodile symbols, arranged themselves with practiced dignity, their faces masks of disapproval as they surveyed the chamber's technological additions.

The Mining Tribe leaders, shoulders dusted with the distinctive silver-blue shimmer of vibranium, nodded respectfully to Erik before taking their seats. They, at least, seemed to appreciate the changes he'd implemented—higher wages, better safety protocols, and a greater share of the profits from the vibranium trade. The Merchant Tribe representatives, a mix of seasoned veterans and younger members, watched Erik with open admiration. Their distinctive attire, a vibrant fusion of traditional patterns and modern fabrics, seemed to embody the very fusion Erik was creating in Wakanda.

And then there was the Jabari delegation. M'Baku filled his chair with an authority that transcended mere physical presence. His traditional white fur vest contrasted sharply with the sleek surroundings, a deliberate statement of his tribe's rejection of modern technology. Beside him, Khamari sat with an elegance that drew the eye despite herself. She carried herself with the poise of a queen, though she wore no crown. Her short natural hair seemed to absorb the chamber's ambient light.

Erik watched them all from his throne, his expression unreadable as he cataloged their reactions. The younger members of the Merchant Tribe practically vibrated with excitement, their eyes bright with the possibilities Erik represented. They saw a future where Wakanda's wealth and technology could be leveraged on a global scale, where their skills as traders and diplomats would finally be utilized to their full potential.

The River Tribe elders, on the other hand, regarded him with thinly veiled hostility. Their fingers, adorned with rings of carved wood and river stones, tapped restlessly against the table's surface. They saw a king who disrespected everything they held sacred—tradition, isolation, the careful balance of power that had maintained Wakanda's security for generations.

"Welcome," Erik said, his voice carrying easily through the chamber. He didn't bother to rise or gesture formally. Instead, he leaned back on the throne, one leg draped over the armrest in a posture of deliberate disrespect. "Let's get this shit started. I got places to be."

A ripple of discomfort passed through the council members, though the Merchant representatives tried to hide their smiles. The River Tribe elder nearest to Erik—Chief Amara, a woman whose age showed in the wisdom of her eyes rather than the wrinkles on her face, raised her hand slowly.

"Your Majesty," she began, her voice steady despite her obvious disapproval, "traditionally, the council begins with a blessing from the priests of Bast and a moment of reflection on the responsibilities we carry as leaders of our people."

Erik's laugh was short and sharp. "Traditionally, we also sat on our asses while the rest of the world suffered. Tradition got us here, but it ain't getting us where we need to go. So let's skip the blessings and get to the problems."

He shifted his gaze to the Mining Tribe representatives. "Y'all been having issues with the new extraction protocols?"

The chief miner, a man named T'Chaka—no relation to the former king—nodded enthusiastically. "The new sonic resonators are working well. We've increased output by thirty percent with minimal environmental impact. The workers appreciate the improved safety measures and higher compensation."

"See?" Erik gestured expansively. "Progress. That's what we're about now." His eyes slid to the River Tribe elders. "Maybe y'all could learn something from the miners. Instead of worrying about blessings, figure out how to get more water to the farming districts without using half the damn vibranium in the kingdom."

Chief Amara's jaw tightened, but she maintained her composure. "The river systems are delicate. They require balance, not brute force. We have maintained these waters for generations—"

"And while you were maintaining, people were thirsty," Erik cut in. "Find a better way. Or I'll find someone who can."

His attention moved to the Border Tribe representatives. "How's our little farmer act holding up? Anyone getting suspicious?"

The border chief, a woman named Zola with weathered features and eyes that missed nothing, shrugged. "The Americans have increased satellite surveillance. They think we're hiding something, but they can't figure out what. Our agricultural cover story still holds."

"Good," Erik nodded. "Keep up the good work. Maybe next year we can actually start growing some food instead of just pretending to. Real farmers grow shit, you know?"

The Border representatives exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing in response.

Erik's gaze drifted back to the Jabari delegation, specifically to Khamari, who had been watching the exchange with an unreadable expression. He found himself momentarily distracted by the way the chamber's light caught the gold hoops in her ears, how they framed her face and drew attention to the elegant column of her neck. She shifted in her seat, as if feeling his attention, and met his eyes directly. No fear, no deference, just calm, steady regard that acknowledged his power without submitting to it.

Something stirred in Erik's chest, an interest that had nothing to do with politics or strategy.

M'Baku, noticing the exchange, moved subtly to block Erik's view of his wife. "Your Majesty," he said, his deep voice filling the chamber, "the Jabari Tribe has concerns about your leadership."

Erik's focus snapped back to the council business, though his awareness of Khamari remained like a low hum beneath his skin. "Yeah? What's the problem, Big Man? Don't like my style?"

M'Baku's massive hands rested on the table, fingers splayed like an animal preparing to strike. "Your style disregards centuries of tradition. Your policies expose Wakanda to dangers we have successfully avoided for generations. Your approach to leadership..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It lacks wisdom."

The chamber grew silent as all eyes turned to the Jabari chief. Defying the king was one thing; questioning his wisdom was another entirely.

Erik's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Wisdom? You want to talk to me about wisdom? You sit up in your mountains with your gorilla god, pretending the world doesn't exist. You reject the technology that could feed your people, heal your sick, protect your borders. You call that wisdom? I call it willful ignorance."

He rose from the throne, moving slowly around the council table. The tribal leaders watched him approach, some with fear, others with defiance. He stopped behind the Jabari delegation, close enough that M'Baku's shoulders tensed.

"Wisdom is knowing when to change," Erik continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "Wisdom is recognizing that isolation isn't strength, it's weakness. Wisdom is understanding that power unused is power wasted."

His eyes found Khamari again, who hadn't flinched despite his proximity. Instead, she watched him with an intensity that matched his own, her eyes seeming to look right through him, to see the man beneath the crown.

"But what would you know about that?" Erik asked M'Baku, though his gaze remained fixed on Khamari. "You've never had to fight for anything. You were born chief of your little mountain club. I had to fight for every damn thing I ever got."

M'Baku started to rise, but Khamari's hand on his arm stopped him. It was a subtle gesture, but one that spoke volumes about their relationship, about her influence, her ability to temper his warrior's rage with something more strategic.

"The Jabari have fought for their independence for centuries," M'Baku said, his voice carefully controlled. "We have preserved our ways, our beliefs, our honor. That is a fight you cannot understand, King of Strays."

"King of Strays," Erik repeated, testing the words. A slow grin spread across his face. "I like that almost as much as Mad King." He leaned closer to Khamari, deliberately invading her personal space. "What about you, Queen of the Mountain? You think I'm a stray? Or do you see something else when you look at me?"

Khamari didn't look away. Instead, she met his challenge directly, her voice clear and steady. "I see a man who wears a crown that doesn't quite fit. A man who confuses noise with power, disruption with progress. A man who has much to learn about the weight of his position."

The chamber was so silent Erik could hear his own blood pounding in his ears. No one had spoken to him like that before, not since he'd taken the throne. No one had dared.

And damn if it didn't turn him on.

"Is that right?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft. "And what makes you such an expert on the weight of positions? You just the wife of a chief, or you something more?"

"Enough," M'Baku growled, rising to his full height, which was considerable even compared to Erik's muscular frame. "She is the Queen of the Jabari, and you will address her with respect."

Erik's laugh was genuine this time, a sound of pure amusement that seemed to startle everyone in the room. "Queen of the Jabari? That's cute. Y'all make up titles for yourselves up in the mountains?" He circled back to his throne, but his eyes never left Khamari. "Let me tell you something about respect. Respect is earned, not given. And right now, the only thing y'all have earned is my attention."

He sank onto the throne, sprawling with insolence. "Now, unless anyone else has opinions about my fitness to rule, let's get back to the actual problems we need to solve. The Border Tribe needs better surveillance tech. The Mining Tribe needs more workers. The River Tribe needs to get their heads out of their asses and figure out irrigation. And the Merchant Tribe..." He paused, smiling at the eager young representatives. "The Merchant Tribe needs to start making us some real money on the global market."

As the council members scrambled to respond to his directives, Erik found his attention drifting back to Khamari. She was watching him again, her expression thoughtful rather than hostile. There was no fear in her eyes, no deference, just calm assessment, as if she were trying to figure out exactly what kind of man he was.

And wasn't that the question of the day?

The Mad King. King of Strays. A man who wore a crown that didn't quite fit.

Erik Killmonger had faced down armies, outsmarted intelligence agencies, and defeated his own cousin in ritual combat. But as he sat on his throne, watching the woman who had dared to speak truth to power, he felt something he hadn't experienced in years.

The thrill of a challenge.

And he had never, ever been one to walk away from a challenge.

The council meeting continued, but Erik's mind was already working, planning, strategizing. The problems of Wakanda could wait. There was a more immediate problem that required his attention.

A queen who didn't know her place.

Yet.

And the Mad King was just the man to teach her.

The council meeting dragged on for another hour, but Erik had checked out. His body remained on the throne, a picture of insolent authority, but his mind was elsewhere, circling back to the woman with the steady gaze and the unshakeable presence. Khamari. Queen of the Jabari, like that was a real thing.

As the tribal leaders filed out, their expressions ranging from defiant to deferential, Erik remained seated, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He watched them go, his eyes narrowed, his mind already working.

She looked at me like she knew me. Like she saw the kid from Oakland hiding under the crown. Nobody's seen that kid since I was twelve years old, burying my father in a city that didn't give a damn about either of us.

The memory surfaced unbidden, his mother's hands on his face, her voice low and urgent as she packed their meager belongings into trash bags.

"Never ask for anything in this world, baby," she had said, her eyes burning with a fierce light that had both terrified and inspired him. "The world wasn't made for us. It was made to take from us. So you take back. You see something you want? You figure out how to get it. You see something they say you can't have? You make damn sure you can."

And I wanted everything. I wanted the vibranium they kept hidden while our people suffered. I wanted the throne they said wasn't mine by blood. I wanted the power they said I wasn't fit to wield.

His father's death had cemented that philosophy. N'Jobu, killed by his own brother for trying to help their people. Left to die in a foreign land, his son to grow up fatherless in a system designed to break him. Every accomplishment since then—MIT, where he'd outsmarted professors who saw a hood rat and missed a strategic mind; the SEALs, where he'd pushed his body past limits others couldn't imagine; the mercenary work, where he'd honed his skills in the real world—all of it had been about proving them wrong. About taking what he was denied.

"Your Majesty?"

Erik looked up to find his advisors lingering near the door, their expressions uncertain. He waved them forward, watching as they approached with caution.

"First thing first," Erik said, his voice low and gravelly. "This 'Your Majesty' shit is for T'Challa. You call me King. Or My King. But none of that Majesty bullshit. We clear?"

The advisors exchanged glances before nodding. "Yes, My King."

"Good." Erik leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. "Now, tell me everything you know about the Jabari chief's wife."

The advisors blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. "Queen Khamari, My King?" ventured the eldest advisor, a man named Okoye—no relation to the general of the Dora Milaje, but just as traditional in his thinking.

"Queen," Erik scoffed. "Right. I want her history. Where she came from, how she ended up with the Jabari, what she likes, what she hates. I want to know the last book she read, the last meal she ate, the last person who pissed her off. I want to know her better than she knows herself."

The advisors shifted uncomfortably. "My King, if I may ask, why this sudden interest in Chief M'Baku's wife?"

Erik's eyes narrowed. "You may not. You may, however, do as I command without questioning my motives. Or you can find yourself cleaning vibranium toilets in the Mining Tribe district. Your choice."

The threat hung in the air, sharp and undeniable. "Of course, My King," the advisor hastened to say. "We will gather the information immediately."

"See that you do." Erik rose from the throne, stretching his shoulders. "And while you're at it, find out everything about M'Baku too. Weaknesses. Enemies. Anything I can use."

As his advisors scrambled to carry out his orders, Erik moved to the window, looking out over the cityscape. The neon lights painted his face in shifting colors, turning his scars into rivers of darkness and light.

They think I'm just some thug who got lucky. They don't see the MIT education, the strategic thinking, the years of training to anticipate every move, every counter-move. They see a man who speaks like he's from the streets and miss the mind that graduated top of my class while planning my revenge. They see the muscles and miss the mind that moves them.

Hours later, Erik sat in his private chambers, a glass of imported Hennessy in hand as he reviewed the information his advisors had gathered. The room was a fusion of Wakandan luxury and Oakland edge, traditional tapestries hung alongside street art, ornate furniture shared space with state-of-the-art technology.

He read through the reports on Khamari, his interest sharpening with each detail.

Born in the River Tribe. Orphaned at seven when her parents died in a mining accident. Shuffled between relatives until she was twelve, when she ran away rather than be married off to a man three times her age. Found by a Jabari hunting party and taken in by M'Baku's family. Educated alongside the Jabari children, trained in their ways, eventually becoming M'Baku's advisor and, at twenty-two, his wife.

Not born Jabari. Not born royal. Made herself both. A survivor. A fighter.

Erik's lips curved into a smile. This was better than he could have imagined. She wasn't just some mountain princess born to her position. She was a woman who had carved out her place through sheer force of will. A woman who understood what it meant to take what you wanted.

The reports on M'Baku were less interesting—standard Jabari propaganda about his strength, his wisdom, his devotion to his people. But some details caught Erik's attention—old rivalries with other tribes, disputes over territory, a tendency to let anger cloud his judgment when his pride was wounded.

Pride. That's a weakness I can use. Pride makes you predictable. Pride makes you stupid.

Erik set down the reports and picked up his kimoyo beads, accessing the palace's security systems. It took him less than five minutes to hack into the Jabari delegation's private communications, another skill they underestimated in him. He listened to their conversations, watched their movements through the palace cameras.

He found Khamari in the royal gardens, alone, her fingers trailing along the petals of a rare moon orchid. The camera zoomed in, capturing the thoughtful expression on her face, the way her brow furrowed slightly as if considering some complex problem. She was beautiful, yes, but it was her mind that truly captivated Erik—the intelligence in her eyes.

She's not like the others. Not like the tribal elders who fear change, not like the young merchants who see me as a path to wealth. She sees me. And she's not afraid.

The thought sent a surge of adrenaline through him. He hadn't felt this way since... well, since never. Not really. He'd wanted women before, taken them when it suited him, but this was different. This was a conquest that mattered.

His plan began to form, piece by piece, like a strategic map unfolding in his mind. He couldn't just take her—not yet. That would be too simple, too crude. M'Baku would fight, the Jabari would rebel, and while Erik knew he could win any physical confrontation, he wanted more than that. He wanted her to choose him. Or at least, he wanted to create the illusion of choice before taking what he wanted anyway.

First, I'll isolate her. Show her the limitations of her mountain life, the narrowness of her world. Then I'll demonstrate the possibilities of mine. The power, the influence, the ability to shape not just a tribe but an entire nation. I'll make her see that standing beside me is greater than standing behind him.

He rose from his chair and moved to the window, looking out at the city that had become his kingdom. The nightscape pulsed with life and possibility, a reflection of his own vision for Wakanda.

They call me the Mad King because they don't understand what I'm building. They don't see the future I'm creating. But she will. She'll see it because she's not trapped by the past like the others. She's a survivor, just like me. And survivors recognize opportunity when they see it.

Erik's reflection in the window showed a man confident in his power, certain of his ability to get what he wanted. But beneath the surface, something stirred—a recognition of an equal, a counterpart. A woman who might just be his match in every way that mattered.

Let them call me mad. Let them whisper about the king who wants another man's wife. They don't understand that this isn't about desire. This is about destiny.

He turned from the window, his mind made up, his plan forming with the precision of a military operation.

"She had her chance to choose her path once before," Erik murmured to himself, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Let's see how she handles being given another one."

The Mad King was on the hunt.

The royal gardens of Birnin Zana were a masterpiece of engineered nature—bioluminescent flowers that pulsed with soft light, trees whose branches formed intricate patterns against the holographic sky, water features that defied gravity as they flowed upward in shimmering spirals. It was here that Erik found Khamari three days after the council meeting, her fingers tracing the edge of a moon orchid as its petals unfurled in response to her touch.

He approached silently, his footsteps muffled by the moss-like ground covering that absorbed sound. She didn't startle when he spoke, which told him volumes about her awareness.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" Erik said, his voice low and smooth. "Genetically engineered to bloom only at night. Kinda like me—come alive when the sun goes down."

Khamari turned slowly, her expression unreadable but not hostile. "My King," she acknowledged with a slight nod. "I wasn't expecting to find you here."

Erik smirked, leaning against a nearby tree. "I own the place, remember? I go where I want." He gestured to the orchid. "You know what they say about flowers like this? They only flourish in darkness. Some things need the night to truly show their beauty."

Her eyes met his. "Is that what this is, My King? A demonstration of your beauty in darkness?"

The challenge in her voice sent a thrill through him. She wasn't playing coy or simpering like most women who found themselves alone with the king. She was meeting him head-on, word for word.

"I'm just saying that people aren't always what they seem in the light," Erik replied, pushing off from the tree to close the distance between them. "Sometimes the most interesting things happen when no one's watching."

He watched her throat work as she swallowed, the gold hoops in her ears catching the garden's ambient light. She was affected by his presence, but she wasn't letting it show beyond the subtle tells he'd been trained to recognize.

"My husband will be looking for me," Khamari said, though she made no move to leave.

"Let him look," Erik countered softly. "A man should never worry about his wife wandering off unless he's given her reason to." He reached out, not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the heat of his hand near her arm. "M'Baku seems like a good man. A strong man. But strength without vision... that's just muscle with no purpose."

Khamari's chin lifted slightly. "The Jabari have purpose. We preserve what others would discard."

"Preserve or stagnate?" Erik challenged, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "There's an old proverb: 'When the roots are deep, there is no reason to fear the wind.' But what happens when the wind becomes a hurricane? What happens when the world changes so much that preservation becomes extinction?"

He saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes and knew he'd found a crack in her armor. Not much, but enough.

"My King," she began, but was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.

M'Baku appeared between the trees, his massive frame seeming even larger in the enclosed space of the garden. His eyes immediately went to Erik, then to Khamari, then back to Erik. The protective instinct was palpable, a territorial display that would have been obvious to anyone, let alone a man trained to read body language.

"There you are," M'Baku said to Khamari, though his gaze remained fixed on Erik. "I was wondering where you had disappeared to."

"Just enjoying the gardens," Khamari replied smoothly, stepping away from Erik as she did. "The King was kind enough to join me."

Erik's smile was all teeth. "We were just discussing the nature of preservation versus evolution. Your wife has some interesting perspectives on the matter."

"I'm sure she does," M'Baku rumbled, extending a hand to Khamari. "But we have preparations to make for our return journey."

As they walked away, Erik called after them, "A proverb for you, Chief: 'The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The second best time is now.' Think about it."

He watched them go, his mind already working on the next phase of his plan. The subtle approach had been tested, and while it hadn't failed, it hadn't succeeded either. Time to escalate.

Three days later, Erik made his move. During another council meeting, this one focused on trade agreements with outside nations, he announced a new initiative.

"The Jabari Tribe has been isolated for too long," Erik declared from his throne, ignoring the shocked expressions around the table. "As part of my commitment to uniting all Wakandans, I'm allocating resources to develop the Jabari region."

M'Baku, who had been slouched in his chair with barely-concealed boredom, sat up straight. "We need no development from you. The Jabari are self-sufficient."

"Are you?" Erik countered, leaning forward. "I've seen the reports. Child mortality rates higher than any other tribe. Limited access to advanced medical treatments. No educational resources beyond what your own people can provide." He paused, letting his words sink in. "That's not self-sufficiency. That's neglect."

He activated the holographic display in the center of the table, showing images of the Jabari mountainside villages. "I'm sending medical teams. Educational resources. Agricultural technology that can triple your food production without compromising your values. You can accept it as the gift it is, or you can explain to your people why you're letting them suffer for the sake of tradition."

M'Baku's face was a thundercloud of fury. "You dare insult my leadership? My people?"

"I'm offering you help," Erik corrected smoothly. "Help you can't provide on your own." His eyes found Khamari, who was watching him with an expression he couldn't read—part anger, part curiosity. "Unless, of course, you think your wife would prefer to watch children die rather than accept help from the Mad King."

The challenge hung in the air, sharp and dangerous. Erik had deliberately put Khamari in the middle, forcing M'Baku to either accept the offer or appear to care more about tradition than his people's lives.

"We will consider your... offer," M'Baku managed through gritted teeth.

"Good," Erik nodded. "Consider it accepted. The teams leave tomorrow."

As the meeting adjourned, Erik caught Khamari's eye. She held his gaze for a moment before looking away, but not before he saw the conflict in her expression. She was torn between loyalty to her husband and the undeniable truth of his people's needs.

That night, Erik walked through the streets of Birnin Zana, making his customary unannounced inspections of the city. He liked to see firsthand how his changes were affecting the citizens, to hear their unfiltered opinions when they didn't know the king was listening.

He found what he was looking for in a plaza where young people had gathered around holographic displays, their excited conversations carrying on the night air.

"King Erik is changing everything," a young woman with elaborate braids said to her friends. "My brother's studying engineering now—something he never could have done under the old regime."

"My cousin joined the Border Tribe," another added. "She always wanted to see the world, but T'Challa would never allow it. King Erik's sending ambassadors to twelve countries next month."

"He's not like the other kings," a young man with glowing tattoos on his arms said. "He talks like us, thinks like us. He understands that Wakanda can't stay hidden forever."

Erik smiled to himself, moving deeper into the shadows. These were his people, the ones who saw the future he was building, who understood that isolation was a cage, not protection. They were the foundation of his new Wakanda.

As he continued his walk, his mind returned to Khamari. He could feel her resistance, her loyalty to M'Baku and the Jabari way of life. But he could also sense her curiosity, her intelligence, the part of her that recognized the truth in his words.

She's fighting it because she thinks she has to, Erik thought. Because her loyalty demands it. But loyalty without question is just weakness in disguise.

He stopped at a vendor selling traditional Wakandan street food, buying a portion of grilled fish spiced with herbs from the River Tribe region. As he ate, he watched a group of children playing with a new type of toy—small drones that could be programmed to form shapes and patterns in the air. One of the children, no older than six, was directing them, her fingers moving across the control panel with natural ease.

This is the future I'm building. A future where children from any tribe can become anything they want. Where tradition doesn't hold them back, but gives them a foundation to build upon.

The thought solidified his resolve. Khamari wasn't just a woman he wanted. She was a symbol—a bridge between the old Wakanda and the new one he was creating. If he could win her, he could win anyone.

There's another proverb, he thought, finishing his food and tossing the wrapper into a recycling chute. 'A single bracelet does not jingle.' But a queen who stands with me? We'll make enough noise to shake the foundations of this kingdom.

The next phase of his plan was already taking shape in his mind. The public display of favor toward the Jabari had been step one. Step two would require something more personal. Something that would force Khamari to see him not just as a king, but as a man.

The journey back to the Jabari mountains was made in tense silence. M'Baku drove their armored vehicle—a rugged, heavily modified transport that looked ancient compared to the sleek maglevs of Birnin Zana but could handle the treacherous mountain terrain with ease. Khamari sat beside him, watching the landscape change from the futuristic cityscape to the wild, untamed beauty of the mountains.

The vehicle's interior was spare but functional, leather seats worn smooth with age, the dashboard a mix of analog gauges and minimal kimoyo technology that M'Baku tolerated only when necessary. Outside, the sky darkened as they climbed higher, the neon glow of the capital giving way to the natural light of stars and moon.

"He's dangerous," M'Baku said suddenly, breaking the silence. His hands gripped the steering wheel. "More than I anticipated."

Khamari turned from the window, studying her husband's profile. The tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow—all signs of his agitation. "He's also strategic. The MIT education wasn't just for show."

M'Baku scoffed. "A degree means nothing when it comes to wisdom. The man has no respect for tradition, for balance, for the ways that have kept Wakanda safe for generations."

"He has a vision," Khamari countered softly, though she knew her words would only fuel M'Baku's anger. "A different one, perhaps, but a vision nonetheless."

"A vision that puts his own desires above the good of the kingdom," M'Baku retorted. "Did you see how he looked at you? Like you were a prize to be won, another conquest for the Mad King?"

Khamari's fingers tightened on the hem of her tunic—a simple garment of deep blue wool, trimmed with fur at the collar and cuffs, practical for mountain life but still elegant. "I saw how he looks at many things. With hunger. With determination."

"And you find that admirable?" M'Baku's voice was dangerously low. "You find the way he disrupted the council, the way he dismissed our traditions, the way he threatened to expose our people's suffering to get his way... you find that admirable?"

"I find it honest," Khamari replied, choosing her words carefully. "He doesn't hide his ambitions behind pleasantries. He doesn't pretend to be something he's not."

"Unlike some?" M'Baku's glance at her was sharp. "Is that what this is about? You're drawn to his honesty because you feel you've been living a lie?"

The accusation hung between them, heavy and painful. Khamari looked away, back to the mountains rising outside the window. "I have never lied to you, M'Baku. Not about who I am or what I believe."

"Then why do I feel you slipping away?" His voice softened slightly, the anger giving way to something more vulnerable. "Why do I feel him pulling at you like a tide?"

Khamari didn't have an answer, or perhaps she had too many. The truth was complicated, a tangled web of loyalty, curiosity, and a dangerous attraction she couldn't deny.

As they rounded a bend in the mountain road, the Jabari stronghold came into view. Carved directly into the mountainside, the settlement was a testament to the tribe's philosophy of living in harmony with nature rather than seeking to dominate it. Structures of wood and stone blended seamlessly with the landscape, their design both functional and beautiful. No vibranium gleamed here, no holographic displays or advanced technology. The only lights were torches and lanterns, their warm glow compared to the neon of Birnin Zana.

At the center of the settlement stood the temple to Hanuman, its massive wooden doors carved with scenes from Jabari mythology. The scent of pine and wood smoke filled the air, mingling with the cold, crisp mountain breeze. This was home, the place that had taken her in when she had nowhere else to go, the place where she had become more than an orphan, more than a refugee.

M'Baku parked the vehicle outside their dwelling, a spacious structure built into the mountainside, with thick walls to ward off the mountain chill and windows that offered a breathtaking view of the valley below. Inside, the interior was a blend of rugged practicality and surprising comfort. Furs covered the stone floors, woven tapestries depicting Jabari history adorned the walls, and a massive fireplace dominated the main living area.

"I need to speak with the council," M'Baku said, his earlier anger replaced by the weary resolve of a leader facing crisis. "Erik's 'gift' cannot be refused without appearing to care more about tradition than our people's lives, but neither can it be accepted without weakening our position."

"What will you do?" Khamari asked, helping him remove his heavy fur cloak.

"I will accept," M'Baku replied, his voice heavy with resignation. "But on our terms. The medical teams will be monitored at all times. The educational resources will be reviewed before implementation. The agricultural technology will be tested on a small scale before widespread use." He turned to face her, his expression serious. "We will take what we need, but we will not become dependent on his charity."

Khamari nodded, though she wondered if such a delicate balance was possible. Erik didn't seem like a man who accepted half-measures.

As M'Baku left for the council meeting, Khamari moved to their bedroom, a space that reflected both of them. His weapons and tribal regalia shared space with her collection of books and maps. His massive fur-covered bed dominated the room, but her small desk by the window was cluttered with papers and writing implements.

She changed out of her travel clothes, donning a simple tunic of soft wool and leather leggings. The cool mountain air felt good against her skin after the artificial climate control of the capital. For a moment, she considered meditating, seeking clarity in the rhythms of Hanuman's worship, but her mind was too restless.

Instead, she found herself standing before the full-length mirror, studying her reflection. The gold jewelry she always wore seemed to catch the light, even in the dim room. The tattoos on her arms, symbols of her journey from orphan to queen, stood out against her dark skin. She saw a woman caught between worlds, between loyalties, between desires she couldn't easily name.

What does he see when he looks at me? she wondered. Does he see a challenge? A conquest? Or does he see something more?

The thought was dangerous, she knew. Erik was not a man to be trifled with, not a man whose attention was easily escaped. But part of her, a part she tried to suppress, was intrigued by the challenge he represented, by the vision of Wakanda he was building, even as she feared what it might cost her people.

Meanwhile, in Birnin Zana, Erik stood before a holographic map of Wakanda, his advisors arrayed behind him. The map showed the Jabari mountains in detail, with the positions of M'Baku's forces marked in red.

"He'll accept," Erik said, his confidence absolute. "He has no choice. But he'll try to control the situation, to limit our influence."

"Then we must be prepared to escalate," replied one of his military advisors, a former Border Tribe commander who had embraced Erik's vision with enthusiasm. "The Border Tribe stands ready. Our warriors are equipped with the latest vibranium-woven armor and weapons. We can be at the mountains' base within hours."

Erik nodded, his eyes fixed on the map. "And the Dora Milaje?"

"General Okoye remains... conflicted," another advisor admitted. "But many of the younger Dora have been inspired by your approach. They see the wisdom in preparing Wakanda for the world rather than hiding from it."

"Good," Erik said. "Prepare the forces. I don't anticipate open conflict—M'Baku's not stupid enough to start a war he can't win—but I want us ready for any eventuality."

As his advisors dispersed to carry out his orders, Erik remained before the map, his mind already calculating the next move. The medical teams and educational resources were just the beginning—a way in, a foothold in the Jabari territory. The real prize was still Khamari, still the challenge she represented.

That night, as Erik stood on his balcony. Below, citizens moved through the streets, their lives already changing in response to his leadership.

They call me the Mad King, he thought, but I'm the only one who sees clearly. The only one willing to do what's necessary to secure our future.

His thoughts returned to Khamari, to the conflict he could see warring within her. He had seen it in her eyes at the council meeting, in the way she defended her husband's position even as she acknowledged the truth of Erik's words.

She's fighting it because she thinks she must, he thought, because loyalty demands it. But even loyalty has its limits, and I'm a man who enjoys testing limits.

High in the mountains, Khamari stood before the window of her bedroom, looking out at the same moon that illuminated Erik's balcony. The mountain air was cold against her skin, but inside, a different kind of coldness was taking hold—the chill of uncertainty, of desire warring with duty.

M'Baku would return soon from his council meeting, his resolve strengthened, his position clear. He would fight to the death to protect their way of life, to resist Erik's influence. And she should stand with him—her husband, her king, the man who had given her a home and a position when she had nothing.

But as she looked at the moonlight on the snow-capped mountains, she couldn't help but wonder what the future held. Couldn't help but wonder about the man who saw Wakanda not as it had been, but as it could be.

And couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to stand with him instead.

The thought was dangerous, she knew. But some dangers were too compelling to resist.

The sound of the royal transport touching down in the Jabari valley was like an insult to the mountain silence. It was a sleek, black vessel of vibranium and advanced technology, its presence in the rugged landscape as jarring as a drop of blood on snow. When the ramp lowered, only one figure emerged.

Erik Killmonger.

He wore no royal robes, no crown. Just black tactical pants, heavy combat boots, and a simple black T-shirt that did little to hide the muscular physique beneath. A thick gold chain rested against his chest, disappearing between his pecs, a small piece of Oakland in the heart of traditional Wakanda. His locs were pulled back from his face. He was alone. Unarmed. Unprotected.

The Jabari warriors who spotted him first moved with the practiced efficiency of mountain hunters, spreading out, surrounding him, their spears and traditional weapons at the ready. They were big men, accustomed to the harsh mountain life, but even they seemed to pause at the sight of him. There was something about Erik's stillness that was more menacing than any weapon.

"Chief M'Baku is expecting no one," one of the warriors said, his voice rough as granite.

"I'm not 'no one'," Erik replied, his voice calm but carrying an edge of danger. "I'm your fucking King. Now take me to him."

The word spread through the stronghold like wildfire. By the time Erik reached the central dwelling, M'Baku was waiting for him outside, his massive frame seeming to block the entire doorway. He wore only a pair of loose-fitting pants, his broad chest bare, the muscles of his arms and shoulders tensed for battle.

"You have no right here," M'Baku rumbled, his voice low with fury. "No right to bring your machines, your disrespect, your presence to our sacred land."

"I have every right," Erik countered, stopping a few feet from M'Baku. "I'm the King of Wakanda. That includes your precious mountains, your gorilla god, and your wife."

The last words hung in the cold mountain air, a deliberate provocation. M'Baku's hands clenched into fists.

"You come to my home, you threaten my wife, and you expect me to bow?" M'Baku took a step forward, his bare feet planted firmly on the stone ground. "You are not my king. You are a pretender, a thug with a crown you didn't earn."

Erik's laugh was short and sharp. "Didn't earn it? I beat your boy T'Challa fair and square in ritual combat. That's how it works, right? Or does that only count when your side wins?" He circled slightly, the two alpha males sizing each other up. "I came to talk, but if you want to throw down, we can do that too. Just know that I've been killing motherfuckers since before I could shave."

"Your arrogance will be your downfall," M'Baku growled, his eyes narrowing.

"Maybe," Erik acknowledged with a shrug. "But not today." He turned his gaze to the dwelling behind M'Baku, where Khamari had appeared in the doorway. Even in the traditional Jabari clothing, she stood out—regal, poised, her eyes watching the confrontation with an intensity that Erik found both irritating and captivating.

"Khamari," Erik said, his voice changing slightly, becoming smoother. "We need to talk."

"There is nothing to discuss," M'Baku said, moving to block Erik's line of sight. "She is my wife. The Queen of the Jabari. You will not address her."

"I'll address whoever the fuck I want," Erik shot back, his patience wearing thin. "I'm trying to be civil here, Big Man. Don't make me get ugly."

"The only ugliness here is your presence," M'Baku retorted, taking another step forward. "You bring your Western corruption, your disrespect, your hunger for what doesn't belong to you. This is our land. Our ways. Our queen."

Erik's eyes flickered to Khamari, who hadn't moved from the doorway. "Is that what you want, Khamari? To spend your life in these mountains, playing queen to a man who thinks the world ends at his doorstep? Or do you want something more?"

He took a step toward her, ignoring M'Baku's warning growl. "I can give you the world, not just this mountain. Power, influence, the chance to shape Wakanda's future instead of just preserving its past. Stand with me, and you'll have more than you ever dreamed possible. Stand with me, and you'll be a true queen, not just the wife of some mountain chief."

Khamari's response was neither acceptance nor rejection. "My place is with my people," she said, her voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air. "With my husband."

"Is that your place, or is that just where you've ended up?" Erik challenged. "There's a difference."

The words struck home; Erik could see it in the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the slight tightening of her jaw. She was considering it. Considering him.

That was all M'Baku needed to see.

With a roar of fury, the Jabari chief charged. He moved with surprising speed for a man of his size, his massive fists aimed at Erik's head.

"I warned you," Erik said, his voice dangerously calm as he sidestepped the attack.

M'Baku's momentum carried him past Erik, who pivoted with the fluid grace of a predator. The first strike was a knife-hand blow to M'Baku's kidney, followed immediately by an elbow to the back of his knee. The Jabari chief stumbled but didn't go down, turning with another roar, his face contorted with rage.

"You dare strike me in my own home?" M'Baku lunged again, this time more cautiously, his movements those of a trained warrior rather than just an angry man.

"I'll strike you anywhere I damn well please," Erik replied, his movements economical and precise. This was the years of combat experience that M'Baku had underestimated. He wasn't just a thug with a crown; he was a weapon that had been honed to deadly perfection.

The fight was brutal but brief. M'Baku had strength and fury, but Erik had technique and cold calculation. He used M'Baku's own momentum against him, redirecting attacks, finding openings, exploiting weaknesses with ruthless efficiency. A palm strike to the nose, followed by a knee to the solar plexus, then a sweeping kick that took M'Baku's legs out from under him.

The Jabari chief went down hard, his head cracking against the stone ground. He struggled to rise, but Erik was already there, his foot planted firmly on M'Baku's chest, the blade of a knife he'd produced from nowhere pressed against his throat.

"I could have killed you," Erik said, his voice low and dangerous. "I could have ended you right here, right now. But that's not why I came." He removed his foot, stepping back but keeping the knife ready. "I came to offer your wife a choice. Something you've never given her."

M'Baku coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "She has made her choice."

"Has she?" Erik looked at Khamari, who still stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. "The offer stands. Think about it."

With that, Erik turned and walked away, leaving M'Baku bleeding on the ground, and Khamari caught between duty and desire.

As Erik descended the mountain path, he found his elite guard waiting for him—twenty warriors in black vibranium armor, their weapons ready, their expressions murderous at the sight of blood on their king.

"My King," the commander said, her eyes fixed on the cut on Erik's cheek. "He dared to attack you? Give the order, and we will take this mountain. We will drag him before you in chains."

Erik wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. "Stand down. This isn't how it plays out."

"But he attacked the king," the commander protested. "The penalty for such treason is death."

"He's a stupid motherfucker who let his pride get the better of him," Erik replied, his voice calm. "Killing him makes him a martyr. Letting him live with the humiliation of being beaten by the 'thug from Oakland'? That's a punishment that keeps on giving."

He looked back up at the mountain stronghold, where he could see Khamari watching from the doorway. "This isn't about him anymore. It's about her."

The commander nodded reluctantly, though her expression remained grim. "As you command, My King."

As they boarded the transport, Erik allowed himself a small smile. The confrontation had gone exactly as planned, establishing his dominance, demonstrating his capabilities, and planting a seed of doubt in Khamari's mind.

There's a proverb for this, he thought as the transport lifted off, leaving the mountains behind. 'The lion does not turn around when a small dog barks.' But even lions need to remind the dogs who's in charge sometimes.

Back in the palace, Erik retreated to his private chambers—not the formal rooms of state, but a smaller space he'd claimed for himself. It was part sanctuary, part command center, with walls of smart glass that could display information or become transparent to reveal the city beyond. Comfortable seating was arranged around a central table where holographic displays could be summoned with a gesture.

He poured himself a glass of imported liquor, the amber liquid catching the light from the city below. The cut on his cheek stung, but it was a good pain—a reminder that he was alive, that he was fighting for what he wanted.

"She felt it," he murmured to himself. "When I had him on the ground, she felt the power shift. She knows who's really in charge now."

He accessed the security feeds, watching as M'Baku was helped inside by his warriors, as Khamari tended to his wounds. There was tenderness in her actions, but also something else—a distance, a contemplation that hadn't been there before.

The seed is planted, Erik thought with satisfaction. Now I just have to water it and watch it grow.

He took another sip, his mind already working on the next move. The direct approach had its uses, but subtlety could be just as effective—especially when dealing with a woman like Khamari. A woman who valued strength but respected intelligence, who was drawn to power but understood responsibility.

"She'll come around," he said to the empty room. "They always do."

And if she didn't? Well, he had other methods. Other ways to get what he wanted. The Mad King was nothing if not persistent.

The silence in M'Baku and Khamari's chambers was heavy enough to suffocate. M'Baku sat on the edge of their bed, his massive frame hunched over as Khamari gently cleaned the blood from his face. The cut on his face wasn't deep, but the humiliation behind it was a wound far more damaging.

"I should have killed him," M'Baku growled, his voice low with fury. "I should have torn him limb from limb for daring to step foot on our sacred land."

"And died for it?" Khamari countered softly, dabbing at the split in his lip with a cloth soaked in herbal antiseptic. "He moves like a panther, M'Baku. All fluid grace and lethal precision. You've never fought anyone like him."

"I have fought warriors my entire life," M'Baku insisted, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. "I am the strongest in the Jabari tribe. I am—"

"You are proud," Khamari interrupted gently. "And your pride made you predictable. He used it against you."

The truth of her words stung. M'Baku had always relied on his strength, on his reputation as the most formidable warrior in the Jabari tribe. But Erik had fought differently—not with brute force, but with the cold precision of a trained killer.

"His offer..." M'Baku began, then stopped, unable to finish the thought.

"Was tempting," Khamari finished for him, her hands stilling on his face. "Was honest. Was everything we're not."

She moved away, putting space between them as she cleaned the medical supplies. The room felt smaller suddenly, the walls of their home feeling more like a cage than a sanctuary.

"He would give me the world," Khamari said, more to herself than to M'Baku. "Power beyond this mountain, influence that could shape not just the Jabari but all of Wakanda. He sees me as an equal, not just a wife."

"You are my equal," M'Baku protested, rising from the bed. "You are my queen, my advisor, the heart of our tribe."

"Am I?" Khamari turned to face him, her expression unreadable. "Or am I the orphan your family took in, the girl you trained to be your perfect queen, the woman who has never known a life beyond what you've given her?"

The question hung between them, sharp and painful. M'Baku had never seen it that way—he had seen himself as her savior, giving her a home, a position, a purpose when she had nothing. But now he wondered if he had also given her a prison.

"You have a choice to make," M'Baku said, his voice heavy with resignation. "And whatever you choose, I will respect it."

Khamari's eyes widened slightly. She had expected anger, demands, threats—not acceptance.

"You would let me go?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"If that is what you truly want," M'Baku replied, though the words clearly cost him. "But I hope you will stay. I hope you will see that what we have here is real, not just... convenient."

Before Khamari could respond, a voice echoed through the chamber—a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"Hope is a fool's game, Big Man."

Erik.

Khamari spun around, searching for the source of the voice, but the room was empty. Then she noticed it, the faint shimmer in the air near the window, the distortion that revealed a holographic projection.

Erik stood there, life-sized and three-dimensional, his image so clear it seemed he could step right through the window into their room. He was still in the black tactical clothes he'd worn to the mountain, still had the cut on his cheek, but his expression was one of supreme confidence.

"Privacy means nothing when you're the king," Erik said, his smirk evident even in holographic form. "I can see you, hear you, be anywhere I want to be. Something to think about when you're making your decision."

M'Baku roared with fury, grabbing a spear from the wall and lunging at the hologram. He passed through it harmlessly, stumbling slightly before turning to face it again.

"Coward!" M'Baku spat. "Face me in person if you dare."

"I already faced you, remember?" Erik's hologram replied, completely unfazed by M'Baku's rage. "And we both know how that ended." His attention shifted to Khamari. "Time's up, beautiful. You need to make a choice."

"What choice?" Khamari asked, her voice steady despite the surreal situation. "Stay with my husband or become your property?"

"Property?" Erik's laugh was harsh. "Nah, I don't want property. Property is boring. I want a partner. Someone who can stand with me, not behind me. Someone who understands that Wakanda's future is bigger than one mountain, one tribe, one tradition."

He took a step closer to her, or rather, his hologram did, the image moving with fluid realism. "Stay here, and you'll always be the Jabari queen, the wife of Chief M'Baku. You'll have respect, tradition, a place in your little mountain society. But you'll never have more. Never be more."

"And with you?" Khamari challenged. "What would I be with you?"

"With me?" Erik's expression intensified, his eyes seeming to burn with an inner fire. "With me, you'd be the true queen of all Wakanda. You'd have power beyond imagination, the ability to shape not just our people but the world. You'd stand at my side as we drag this kingdom out of the past and into the future. You'd be feared, respected, worshipped."

He paused, letting his words sink in. "But mostly, you'd be mine. And I'd be yours. Completely. No fucking games, no half-measures. All in."

The offer hung in the air, tempting and terrifying in equal measure. Khamari felt pulled in two directions—her loyalty to M'Baku, to the life they had built together, warring with the undeniable attraction she felt to Erik's vision, to the power he represented.

"She has made her choice," M'Baku said, though his voice lacked conviction.

"Has she?" Erik's hologram turned its full attention to Khamari. "Let's be clear about what you're choosing. You choose him, you choose this mountain, this isolation, this slow death by tradition. You choose me, you choose the world."

Khamari's mind raced, weighing the options, considering the implications of her decision not just for herself but for all of Wakanda. To choose Erik was to choose change, disruption, a future that was both exciting and terrifying. To choose M'Baku was to choose stability, tradition, a future that was safe but limiting.

"I need time," she said finally.

"You've had time," Erik countered. "Your whole life has been preparation for this moment. The question is, are you brave enough to take what you want, or will you let fear keep you in this comfortable little cage?"

M'Baku watched them, his expression a mixture of anger and fear. He could feel her slipping away, could sense the pull of Erik's vision, the lure of power beyond anything he could offer. He had always been proud of her intelligence, of her strength, but now those same qualities might be what led her away from him.

"Khamari," he said, his voice soft with pleading. "Remember who you were when we found you. Remember what we built together."

"I remember," Khamari replied, her eyes never leaving Erik's holographic image. "But I also remember the girl who dreamed of more than just survival. The girl who wanted to see the world, to make a difference, to be more than just an orphan who got lucky."

Erik's smirk widened. "There she is. The girl I've been waiting to meet. The one who knows she deserves better than this mountain can offer."

Khamari's internal struggle was evident in her expression, in the way her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. She was at a crossroads, her decision not just about which man to choose but about which version of herself to become.

"I choose..." she began, then stopped, taking a deep breath. "I choose my people. I choose my husband. I choose the Jabari."

The words hung in the air, final and undeniable. Erik's hologram stood silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. M'Baku released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, relief flooding through him.

"Wrong choice," Erik said finally, his voice cold and hard. "But it's your choice to make. For now."

The hologram flickered and disappeared, leaving the room in silence once more. Khamari stood trembling slightly, the weight of her decision settling over her. She had chosen loyalty over ambition, stability over change, the familiar over the unknown.

But as she looked at M'Baku, at the relief on his face, at the love in his eyes, she couldn't help but wonder if she had just made the biggest mistake of her life.

"You chose well," M'Baku said, moving to embrace her.

Khamari allowed herself to be held, to take comfort in his strength, in the familiarity of his touch. But as she rested her head against his chest, her eyes drifted to the window where Erik's hologram had stood, and she wondered if she would ever stop wondering what might have been.

In the palace, Erik stood before the holographic display, his expression unreadable as he watched Khamari and M'Baku embrace. He had expected her rejection, had anticipated her loyalty, but that didn't make it any less frustrating.

"She'll come around," he said to the empty room. "They always do."

But even as he spoke the words, he knew this time was different. Khamari wasn't like the others—she wasn't swayed by power alone, wasn't intimidated by his threats. She had principles, a sense of loyalty that was both admirable and annoying.

"Then we'll make her regret her choice," Erik murmured, his mind already working on a new plan.

He accessed the palace's systems, pulling up information on ancient Wakandan laws, on forgotten traditions that might give him an advantage. There had to be something—some loophole, some precedent he could use to get what he wanted.

Because Erik Killmonger didn't accept rejection. He didn't take no for an answer. And he certainly didn't let a little thing like a woman's loyalty stand in his way.

The royal med-bay was a sterile white box of advanced technology, in contrast to the organic, earthy feel of the Jabari mountains. Erik sat shirtless on an examination table, a medical drone hovering over his face, using precise beams of light to knit the cut on his cheek back together with minimal scarring. The faint smell of antiseptic hung in the air, mixing with the scent of Erik's own sweat and the expensive leather of his pants.

"His Highness should avoid direct combat for the next seventy-two hours," the drone's synthesized voice recommended. "Tissue regeneration is optimal, but repeated trauma could result in permanent scarring."

Erik waved the drone away impatiently. "Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don't know." He slid off the table, grabbing a black silk robe from a nearby chair and shrugging it on. The cool fabric felt good against his heated skin, a small comfort in the midst of his simmering frustration.

He walked through the palace corridors, his footsteps echoing on the polished floors. The building was quiet at this hour; most of the staff had retired, leaving Erik to his thoughts. Dangerous territory, especially now.

She fucking chose him. Chose that big-ass motherfucker over me. Me.

The thought kept circling in his mind, a shark in the water of his consciousness. He wasn't just angry; he was insulted. Deeply, profoundly insulted. He had offered her the world, and she had chosen a mountain. He had offered her power, and she had chosen tradition. He had offered her himself, and she had chosen... less.

This ain't even about wanting her anymore, Erik realized, stopping before a window that overlooked the city. This is about the fact that she dared to say no to me. To the King.

The rejection had transformed something in him, turning desire into obsession, want into need. It wasn't about Khamari anymore, not really. It was about proving that no one—no one—said no to Erik Killmonger and got away with it.

He continued to his private chambers, the rooms he had claimed for himself rather than using the formal king's quarters. They were a reflection of his dual nature—part Wakandan, part Oakland. The walls were smart glass that could display information or become transparent to reveal the city beyond. Comfortable seating was arranged around a central table where holographic displays could be summoned with a gesture. But there were also touches of his past—a framed photo of his mother, a collection of hip-hop vinyl from his youth, a shelf of worn paper books alongside advanced kimoyo tablets.

Erik poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the light from the city below. He needed to think, to plan, to find a way around this obstacle. Because that's what Khamari had become—an obstacle to his will, and Erik had never met an obstacle he couldn't overcome.

There's always a way. Always a loophole. Always some forgotten law or tradition that can be twisted to serve my purpose.

He accessed the palace's historical archives, his fingers moving across the holographic interface with practiced ease. The royal library was digitized, every scroll, every text, every legal precedent from Wakanda's long history available at his command. Most kings would have delegated this task to their advisors, but Erik wasn't most kings. He didn't trust anyone else to find what he was looking for—not when it mattered this much.

He searched for hours, his glass slowly emptying as he delved deeper into Wakanda's legal history. Marriage laws, succession protocols, tribal customs—anything that might give him an advantage. Most of it was useless, outdated traditions that had no relevance to his situation.

Until he found it.

Buried in a section on ancient royal prerogatives, in a text that hadn't been referenced in over two centuries, was a law that made Erik's lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile.

The Right of Reparation.

According to the text, established during the reign of King Azzuri in the 18th century, if a tribal leader publicly challenged the king's fitness to rule, the king gained the right to invoke the Right of Reparation. This gave him the authority to claim any member of the challenger's tribe as compensation for the insult to the crown—land, resources, or even people.

Holy shit, Erik thought, his heart pounding with excitement. This is it. This is the loophole.

He read further, his mind racing with possibilities. The law had been intended to prevent tribal leaders from making frivolous challenges to the king's authority, a way to maintain the balance of power in a time when Wakanda's internal stability was constantly threatened. It hadn't been invoked in over two hundred years, which meant it was still technically valid—no one had ever seen fit to repeal it.

And M'Baku publicly challenged my fitness to rule, Erik remembered with satisfaction. In front of the entire council. He basically handed me this shit on a silver platter.

The law was specific about what could be claimed and how. The king had to formally declare his intention to invoke the Right of Reparation within one lunar cycle of the challenge. The claim had to be of equivalent value to the perceived insult—land for land, resources for resources, or in this case, a person for a person.

Not just any person, Erik realized, his excitement growing. The law specifies that the claim must be of equal or greater status to the challenger. Since M'Baku is chief, I can claim someone of equal or greater status within his tribe.

Khamari.

As Queen of the Jabari, she was the only person who met those criteria. The law practically demanded he claim her.

"This is fucking perfect," Erik said aloud, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. "This is destiny right here."

He could already see how it would play out. He would announce his intention to invoke the Right of Reparation at the next council meeting. There would be outrage, of course—protests from the traditionalists, threats from the Jabari. But the law was clear. It was his right as king.

And then Khamari would have to choose again. But this time, there would be no ambiguity, no room for personal preference. This time, her choice would be between honoring an ancient law that upheld the very fabric of Wakandan society, or rebelling against the king and risking civil war.

Let's see how loyal she is when it's not just about her feelings, but about the stability of the entire kingdom, Erik thought with satisfaction. Let's see how committed she is to her mountain man when she has to choose between him and the law itself.

He was so absorbed in his plan that he didn't hear the soft chime that announced someone at his door. It wasn't until the door slid open that he looked up, his annoyance quickly replaced by curiosity.

It was Zola, the Border Tribe chief, along with two younger members of the Merchant Tribe. All three were supporters of his vision, but they looked nervous now, their expressions a mixture of concern and determination.

"My King," Zola began, her voice respectful but firm. "We hope we're not disturbing you."

Erik waved them in, his mind already shifting gears. "Not at all. What's on your minds?"

The younger merchant, a woman named Amara with intricate braids and intelligent eyes, spoke first. "We're concerned about your... interest in Chief M'Baku's wife."

Erik's expression hardened. "My interests are my own business."

"Normally, yes," Amara continued bravely. "But when those interests start to affect your judgment, when they start to distract you from the important work you're doing for Wakanda... then they become everyone's business."

Zola nodded in agreement. "The changes you've made—the openness, the trade agreements, the technological advancements—they're transforming our kingdom for the better. But some of us worry that you're losing focus, that you're letting personal desires interfere with your responsibilities as king."

Erik considered their words, part of him annoyed by their presumption, another part grudgingly respecting their courage. Most people were too intimidated by him to speak so frankly.

"I appreciate your concern," he said finally, his voice measured. "But I assure you, my focus is exactly where it needs to be."

"Is it?" the other merchant, a man named Kael with sharp eyes and an even sharper mind, challenged gently. "Because from where we're standing, it looks like you're about to start a war with the Jabari over a woman. A war that could undo all the progress you've made, that could set Wakanda back decades."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "You think I'm that stupid? That I'd risk everything for a piece of ass?"

"We think you're a man," Zola replied diplomatically. "A man who has been rejected, and who doesn't handle rejection well. We think you're letting pride cloud your judgment."

Erik stood up, moving to the window and looking out at the city lights. "What if I told you I had a way to get what I want without starting a war? A perfectly legal way, that's supported by ancient Wakandan law?"

The three exchanged glances. "We'd be interested to hear more," Amara said cautiously.

Erik smiled, though they couldn't see it from where they stood. "Let's just say that the Jabari chief made a mistake when he challenged my fitness to rule. A mistake that's about to cost him something very precious."

He turned back to face them, his expression confident. "Trust me when I say that I know exactly what I'm doing. This isn't about pride or rejection anymore. This is about establishing once and for all who the fuck is in charge in this kingdom."

The three visitors seemed to relax slightly, their concern giving way to curiosity. "You have a plan," Kael stated.

"I always have a plan," Erik replied. "And this one's foolproof. By the time I'm done, Khamari will be standing by my side as queen, and M'Baku will have learned a valuable lesson about challenging the Mad King."

As his visitors left, reassured but still somewhat uneasy, Erik returned to his holographic display, his mind already working out the details of his announcement. He would need to time it perfectly, to present it in a way that made it seem like a reasonable response to M'Baku's challenge rather than a personal vendetta.

They think I'm letting my dick do the thinking, he thought with amusement. They have no idea this is about so much more than that.

This was about power. About respect. About establishing his authority in a way that no one could ever question again. Khamari was the prize, yes, but she was also the message, the message that Erik Killmonger always got what he wanted, one way or another.

Accessing the database of traditional sayings he'd been studying. 'When the king is good, the chiefs are quiet. When the king is bad, the chiefs become loud.' M'Baku had been loud. Now it was time to make him quiet.

Erik poured himself one more glass of whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. Tomorrow, he would set his plan in motion. Tomorrow, he would claim what was his.

And the best part? The absolute fucking cherry on top? He wouldn't even have to fight for it this time. The law would do the fighting for him.

"Checkmate, motherfucker," Erik murmured to the empty room, his smile widening. "Game, set, and match."

The training grounds of the Dora Milaje were a symphony of controlled violence. Under the harsh glare of the morning sun, dozens of warriors moved in perfect synchronization, their bodies flowing through combat forms that had been perfected over generations. The air was thick with the sounds of exertion—grunts of effort, the slap of bare feet on the practice mats, the sharp clang of vibranium spears striking against one another.

Erik watched from the elevated observation platform, his forearms resting on the metal railing. He wore a simple black tank top and tactical pants, his muscular arms on display. The cut on his cheek was already healing, leaving only a faint pink line that would soon disappear entirely.

"Her form is exceptional," Erik noted, his voice low as he watched one particular warrior—a young woman with fierce concentration and movements so fluid they seemed almost preternatural. "What's her name?"

"General Okoye's protégé, My King," replied Zola, who stood beside him. "Ayo. They say she's the most talented warrior the Dora have produced in a generation."

Erik nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Ayo. "She fights like she's got something to prove. Like she's angry."

"Her village was destroyed in a border skirmish with the Azanian empire," Zola explained. "She was the only survivor. Okoye found her and brought her here."

"Survivors make the best warriors," Erik commented. "They know what they're fighting for." He turned from the railing, his expression unreadable. "Gather the advisors. I want them in the war room in thirty minutes."

As Zola hurried to carry out his command, Erik watched the training for a few more moments, his mind already working on the coming confrontation. The Dora Milaje were the elite royal guard, the most formidable warriors in Wakanda. Under his leadership, they had become something more—a symbol of the new Wakanda he was building, a blend of tradition and innovation, of ancient warrior codes and modern combat techniques.

They'll be needed soon, he thought. When I claim what's mine, there will be resistance. And resistance must be crushed.

 Gone were the open skies and living greenery. In their place stood polished vibranium, glowing displays, and sharp geometric lines. It was a circular chamber with walls of smart glass that could display tactical information, become transparent to reveal the palace grounds, or turn opaque for privacy. In the center of the room stood a massive holographic table capable of projecting detailed maps and strategic simulations.

Erik's advisors were already assembled when he entered—six of the most powerful and influential people in Wakanda, each representing a different aspect of his administration. Zola of the Border Tribe, Okoye of the Dora Milaje, T'Chaka of the Mining Tribe, Amara and Kael of the Merchant Tribe, and Nakai, the head of the Hatut Zeraze, Wakanda's covert intelligence agency.

They watched him with varying expressions—curiosity, concern, respect, and in Okoye's case, barely concealed disapproval. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her posture rigid, her face a mask of professional courtesy that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Thank you for coming," Erik began, his voice calm as he moved to stand before the holographic table. "I know you're all anxious to know what I've been planning since the... incident with the Jabari chief."

He activated the table, projecting a detailed map of the Jabari mountains, with M'Baku's stronghold highlighted in red. The advisors leaned in, their expressions intense.

"I've found a solution," Erik continued, his fingers moving across the table's interface. "A way to resolve this situation without bloodshed, without civil war, without compromising the stability of the kingdom."

He projected the text of the ancient law he had discovered, the words floating in the air above the table. "The Right of Reparation. Established during the reign of King Azzuri in the 18th century."

The advisors read the text, their reactions varying from confusion to dawning comprehension. It was Nakai who spoke first, his voice sharp with intelligence.

"This law hasn't been invoked in over two hundred years," he noted. "There's no precedent for how it would be applied in modern Wakanda."

"There's a precedent for everything if you know where to look," Erik countered smoothly. "And the precedent here is clear. When a tribal leader publicly challenges the king's fitness to rule, the king gains the right to invoke the Right of Reparation."

He looked around the table, making eye contact with each advisor in turn. "M'Baku publicly challenged my fitness to rule in front of the entire council. He gave me this right. I'm just choosing to exercise it."

Okoye stepped forward, her expression troubled. "And what exactly do you plan to claim as reparation, My King? Land? Resources? The vibranium deposits in the Jabari territory?"

Erik's smile was slow and dangerous. "I'm claiming something much more valuable. I'm claiming his queen."

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. The advisors stared at him, their expressions a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"You can't be serious," Amara breathed, her eyes wide. "You want to invoke an ancient law to... to kidnap another man's wife?"

"It's not kidnapping if it's legal," Erik corrected, his tone casual. "And according to this law, it's perfectly legal. The claim must be of equal or greater status to the challenger. Since M'Baku is chief, I'm claiming someone of equal status within his tribe—Khamari, as Queen of the Jabari."

"This is madness," Okoye protested, her composure finally cracking. "It will provoke a war with the Jabari. The other tribes will revolt. You'll tear Wakanda apart over a personal vendetta."

"Will they?" Erik challenged, turning to face her. "Or will they respect the law? The very foundation of our society is the rule of law, the principle that no one—not even the king—is above it. But also that no one, not even a tribal chief—is beyond it."

He looked around the table again, his gaze intense. "This isn't a personal vendetta. It's a test. A test of whether Wakanda is truly a nation of laws, or just a collection of tribes bound by tradition. A test of whether the king's authority is absolute, or subject to the whims of those who would challenge it."

Nakai nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "From a strategic standpoint, it's brilliant. You're forcing M'Baku to either accept the law and lose his wife, or reject the law and be branded a traitor to Wakanda itself."

"Exactly," Erik confirmed. "He's trapped either way. And so is she."

"But the human cost," T'Chaka protested, his face troubled. "This woman—Khamari—she becomes a pawn in your political game. Is that right?"

"Right and wrong have nothing to do with it," Erik replied coldly. "This is about power. About establishing once and for all that the king's word is law. That challenges to my authority will be met with consequences."

He turned to Okoye, his expression hardening. "I need the Dora Milaje ready to move at a moment's notice. Not to fight the Jabari, unless it becomes necessary, but to enforce the law. To escort Khamari to the capital if M'Baku refuses to comply."

Okoye's jaw tightened, but she nodded reluctantly. "As you command, My King."

"And the Hatut Zeraze," Erik continued, turning to Nakai. "I need you to monitor the situation in the Jabari mountains. I want to know every move M'Baku makes, every conversation he has with his advisors, every whisper of rebellion among his people."

"Already done," Nakai confirmed. "We have operatives in place. You'll know what he's thinking before he does."

Erik nodded, satisfied. "The Merchant Tribe will handle the economic aspects of this. If M'Baku resists, I want sanctions imposed. No trade, no travel, no access to the markets. Let's see how long his people support him when they're starving."

Amara and Kael exchanged uneasy glances but nodded their agreement. "It will be done, My King."

As the meeting adjourned, the advisors dispersing to carry out their orders, Erik remained before the holographic table, his mind already working through the details of his plan. He could feel the pieces falling into place, the inevitable conclusion drawing nearer.

That night, Erik stood on the balcony of his private chambers, looking out over the cityscape of Birnin Zana. The lights pulsed with life and energy. Below him, the city moved with purpose, its citizens embracing the changes he had implemented, the future he was creating.

But his thoughts were far away, in the Jabari mountains, with a woman who had dared to say no to him. A woman who would soon learn that rejection was not an option when it came to Erik Killmonger.

"She had her chance to choose," he murmured to himself, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. "She had her chance to choose freely, without pressure, without consequence. She made the wrong choice."

"Now I'll make the choice for both of us."

The thought brought a smile to his lips. Tomorrow, he would announce his intention to invoke the Right of Reparation. Tomorrow, he would set in motion the events that would bring Khamari to his side, whether she wanted to be there or not.

'The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.' They had never embraced him, never accepted him as one of their own. Now they would learn the consequences of that rejection.

The Mad King was coming for his queen.

And nothing—not tradition, not loyalty, not love itself—would stand in his way.

——————

You lie flat on your stomach across your bed, your feet swinging in the air with your brown eyes glued to the television screen, engrossed in an episode of Law, and Order SVU, as Olivia Benson commits to solving the case, trash-talking the evil-doers, and a pink bowl of candy in front. You threw a few sweet gummy worms in your mouth, and your teeth dug into the sugary softness.

Your locs, freshly retwisted as you carefully took off the small rubber bands. Unraveling the twisted locs with a careful pace, tongue sticking out, resting against your lip. Focused.

“Welp, there goes another cliffhanger,” you mumbled, chuckling lightly.

You heard a chime from your Ring camera door on your phone, as you smacked your lips, irritated. Your eyes flickered toward the vibrant screen, irritation prickling at you.

You weren't expecting any visitors at 9:50 at night in the comfort of your home. Your curled locs pooled in front of your face, and you were in an oversized black tee shirt of your favorite artist, no bra and no panties on.

That was until you peeked at your phone to see who was at your door. Elias Moore, better known by his moniker, Stack. The younger brother of Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore. Mischievous. Reckless. A sliver tongue. Rough around the edges. His Mississippi accent was thick, and potent.

The blazing fire to Smoke’s still waters, as the two of them combined would create a scorching steam engulfing the air, Smoke was the calm after storms of his own.

You often felt like people misjudged him, merely because of how he acted, and spoke to folks. Sure, Elias was wild, but he had a heart in there.

Stack found himself ruminating over the possible scenarios of what he could have been like, if all of that hadn't happened.

Maybe if he hadn't been so reckless as a child, and his father hadn't beaten him down often, then he would've been different, right?

Different in a good way. But you reassured Elias that he was perfect, the way he was. Despite the constant brotherly bickering with Smoke, and his big brother did it all with love, and protection for his baby brother.

Stack has been behaving oddly recently. Aloof. It all started when you were with his big brother, Smoke. Stack saw you two chatting, while walking out of a cafe and it seemed like you were in love with each other.

Stack assumed that you were dating Smoke from his view, the way you smiled with him, and Smoke smiled back at you, his arm linked over your shoulder as if you were Smoke’s girl. *His. Smoke’s girl.

Stack was infuriated, brimming with jealousy. Stack had you first before Smoke, his eye on you to be exact. He knew that women loved the strong, silent type, but not from his perspective. You? Yes.

You weren't impressed by his whiskey-aged smooth talk. Not his smug little grin, but he was a very fine man. You knew why women flocked to his way, and Smoke’s way. It was obvious.*

Smoke doesn't show that kind of joy for just anyone, unless he feels that strongly. He cared for you, and you cared for him, but it was a friendship. Platonic.

Stack needed an answer from you. Not from his twin brother, just so Smoke could silently taunt him, possibly talk shit. Rub it in his face.

There he stood on the porch stairs of your home, sporting an oversized grey hoodie and matching sweatpants, leaning against the railing. A pair of beige Timberlands, hood over his head. A grin of mischief flashed his new gold fronts across his teeth.

Who was he looking fine for? Your breath hitched. Your thighs pressed together, pussy clenching around nothing desperately at the live video of him on your Ring Camera.

You reached for a pair of shorts, sliding them up before trotting through the hallway, and made a right turn, made a beeline for the front door. You sighed dramatically, reaching for the door knob.

You swung the door open, and Stack had the audacity to step through your threshold, without introducing, or announcing himself. Your face turned sour, lips stuck in a tight line.

“What the hell is wrong with you, nigga? It’s almost 10:00 at night.” You say nonchalantly, gesturing to the time on your phone screen.

Stack didn’t say anything, he only scrapes the flat soles of his shoes across your doormat, and kicking them off into the shoe basket. You closed the screen door, twisting the locks, as you did the same for the front door with ease.

Stack simply stood there, jaw tightened, arms crossed as if he was ready to blow a fuse. Hell, whatever brought in anger for Stack must've been serious.

“Hello? Earth to ‘Lias, E! Smokey Bear’s evil twin?” You called out, your tone was short, abrupt, sharp through his earshot. Your hand waving dismissively in front of his face.

Stack’s head snapped in your direction, narrowing at your height, his jaw clenching tighter, gritting his teeth.

“That’s yo’ nickname for him?” Stack asked, his voice gravelly, deeper, real mean.

Your arms crossed, dismissing his question. Batting your eyelashes, masking your innocence, as your grin almost widened. “Yes. I think it’s cute.”

“You don’t have a nickname for me?” Stack asked, his hand over his muscular chest.

Somehow, you managed to snap him out of his trace, but his voice came out softer, yet the twang of that Mississippi accent, that rasp deepening sent a pang of arousal through your body, betraying you in the worst way. Shorts, wet.

You grinned evilly. “Nothing goes with Stack…there is wac—“ “Don’t finish that fuckin’ sentence, girl.”

Your hand ran over your face, dragging out a sigh. Wondering why you let this man in without announcing. Stack was a piece of work.

“What’s wrong? Did Elijah say something to you?” You asked him, concerned and confused.

Stack moved a bit closer, looming over you even though you were tall, with his hands tucked into the front pocket. Jaw still clenched at the mention of his brother’s name.

Smoke can always to get a rise out of Stack without him around. It was fun to Smoke, often. Stack could hear the dark chuckle from his brother right now.

"You Smoke's girl?” He asked, his voice deepened to a possessive tone, controlled.

Ahh, now you know. Smoke, you & jealousy from him. You wanted to mess with Stack for a little while. The glint of mischief in your eye, and he caught it.

“No, I’m not. Where did you—” You paused before thinking back to the time you, and Smoke spent time together.

“Big Papa Smoke got you acting jealous, Stack?” You asked coyly.

Stack flinched. He was beyond the grappling emotion. His finger lifted your chin, forcing your gaze. Your composure remained still, holding his gaze without flinching.

“I ain’t jealous..I had a feelin’ anyway,” Stack shrugged, his voice held a forced toughness as if he knew about it.

“Nigga, please. You came barging in here like I stole something. Smoke peeped it too. I told him not to, but he’s messy..” You explained, shrugging.

Stack grimaces, biting his tongue. Anger simmering in his chest. “Seriously?”

“Aww, ‘Lias. You’ve gone soft on little ol’ me? You're so cutee!” You exclaimed, your fingers pinched at his cheeks. Once you stop, the pad of your thumb presses against his dimple.

Stack’s lips fell in a tight line, slightly parted without a single sound uttered. Was it bad enough that he liked it when you touched him? He was too stubborn to admit it though.

“I ain’t gone soft, Y/n..” Stack shook his head, cutting his eyes at you. Bore through your soul.

“Yes, you are! It’s cute. Tough guy like you has a heart in there?” You teased, your hand resting over his chest.

Little did you know, his dick was already hard, jumping in his boxers just from on a touch, a smile, a laugh. He couldn’t resist you.

“Yeah I do. But that lil fuckin’ game ain’t just on Smoke, it’s on you too,” Stack warned, his voice smooth like velvet, and rough.

The warning hung in the air between the two of them caught your attention. You swallowed hard before keeping yourself together, but on the inside, heat flowing through you like a tidal wave, quick, and unexpected.

Stack leaned in, his cologne invading your senses, cinnamon, a hint of vanilla bean, citrus, something spicy to kick in. You could hear the soft jiggle of his gold herringbone chain against his collarbone. “You like seein’ a nigga angry, huh? You gon’ play wit’ my feelings like that.”

You objected. “Ay, that was Smoke playing with your feelings, not me.”

Stack’s hand wrapped around your neck, fingering curling tight to apply pressure, his thumb resting against your neck vein. Your pulse quickened so loud that you could hear it in your ears.

You bite back. “Elias…shouldn’t you be mad at your brother instead?”

That made Stack flinched slightly, slowly unraveling over you. He sucked in a breath, before exhaling as if he was blowing smoke from a lit blunt.

He released your neck from his grasp, leaving you breathless. Stack gave your desired space, yet close to you, almost inches apart.

“You right. But I did come all this way for you, and just the thought of Smoke havin’ you all to himself drove me crazy.” Stack confessed softly, his voice still raspy, torn with emotion.

“I don’t like that you gave him a nickname, and Smoke played me like that. He got to hold yo’ hand before me.” Stack went on, his voice softer, more potent.

“Elijah—-“ “Don’t say his name, say mine…”

Stack’s mischievous grin spread across his face again, unforgiving. Your hands snaked below the waistband of his sweatpants yet you stopped. “Can I touch you?”

“Am I yours, Y/n?” “Of course, you are…”

With a nod of his consent, your hands rubbed up, and down just to tease the man. His whole jaw flexing tight, his stomach doing flips, and clenching tight. His dick throbbing against the fabric of his boxers, your palm, warm, heavy and swollen in your hand.

“Feel that? That’s what you do to me, baby.” He confessed again, voice audible, measured.

Stack was melting slowly, softly at the touch of you. You ruined him from a distance, and up close, personal. Hot, and bothered like a sinner sweating in church.

“Take me to the bedroom..”

By your command, his hand latched around your waist, while hefting you under his buff arm, resting you over his shoulder. Carrying you through the halls, and made a beeline for the bedroom, as he laid you on the edge of the mattress.

His clothes thrown across the floor, while you stripped out of yours. But Stack ripped your panties off, eliciting a sharp tear of fabric. His hands on the blanket, as his eyes flickered down at you for consent.

“Yes, you can fuck me..”

His hand latched around his dick, heavy, hung low. Curving to the right just a tad. The intricate veins wrapped up, and down, the head protruding with desperate need.

His muscular body in all its glory, defined, soft, and smooth. Brown skin from his head to his toes. You couldn’t wait.

Elias’s eyes locked in a devoted gaze, lovingly like he couldn’t hide it. He couldn’t. Your hand wrapped around his dick, pumping it slowly. He hissed softly, dragging out a raspy groan.

“You know that I don’t like to wait, baby..” You sang playfully, your tongue glided across your lip.

Stack chuckled off a groan, stifling the sound in his throat. “S-says the one is teasin her damn self. Makin me wait…”

“If you can fuck me right, Elias..” “A’ight then..”

Stack pushed himself in, inch by inch, as his tip nudged your folds apart. The sudden sensation made you moan desperately like you haven’t had it in a while. Needy. Filled. The stretch of your walls around his dick, encircling to his shape. Your eyelids closed shut, as his thumb pressed on your clit. He groaned like he was drunk, as his tip strikes your spot. “Elias!”

“Now, that’s the only name I wanna hear, baby…” he rasped, his hands on your waist, as his hips pushing in deep, thrusts rough and soft. You were panting heavily, speechless. He wasn’t too sloppy. No brute force. Switching the pace, his own movements made your hips push with his, screaming like you were in pleasure, and pain.

You watched his dick go deeper inside you, the white essence all over thickening, gushing, creaming again, again. The few raspy rumbling in his throat made you wetter. He gave you every inch of him just as he was yours. His thrusts were reckless, precise and pleasurable. Driving you crazy. “Soo..goood!” You released raspy cries, calling out to him like a life line. “Yeah, that’s it…feel me..” he whispered, biting his lip. His moans were heavy, raspier, and he didn’t hold back.

Stack wanted you to hear him. His hips crashing into yours, with the curve of that dick hitting a spot in an endless loop, bruising your cervix like he hated you. Real mean.

“You'll feel this dick for days without me…shit..like this? I'll still feel that pussy..” He pants heavily, his eyes were still half- lidded. Watching you down below, the way his dick disappeared inside you. Fuck, that mouth of his. You whimpered pathetically underneath him, your brows furrowing in focus.

Yet Stack flipped both of you, while he wasn’t too sloppy on his back, and you on top of him. His jaw tight. Bouncing with lethal power, your hands resting on his chest, raising underneath. “You feel good..” he groans lowly, his head thrown back. Nails dug deep. He had a great view of you hovering an over him, burning the sight into his brain. “I know I do…” you bragged, your lips parted. A slow grind here, and a plethora of bouncing there. He loved it.

The swell of him enlarged inside you, as bite off a moan. His hand snaked to your throat, and his fingers curling around tight. His curve hitting that spot. You screamed. You gasped for air, yet he pulled you down, crashing your lips onto his. “You don’t fuck too pretty, you fuck real good. You mean wit’ it..” Stack groans, his eyes stayed at you. His muscles taut. Your pussy squeezes between his dragged out strokes, walls fluttering softly, gripping like a vice. Sucking him in, stretching you open. “You love it..Elias..” you moaned softly, eyes rolled back.

“This dick is all mine, baby. Don’t you forget that. This pussy clenching around you tight like it’s yours..” You pants, grinding still with brute force. He fucked you like his life depends on it. As if he were wither away, die without you. He would have in a heartbeat. Stack bites back. “It is mine..” he could feel it from every flutter, heartbeat and clench.

“This pussy right here? Moldin’ into the shape of my dick. I can feel it…fuckk..baby. That lil heartbeat? That’s how I know..” Stack says lovingly, his hands latched onto your waist tighter. You fucked him back, with everything in you. Pressed your chest against his, you weight on him. “Stack…you’re twitching…” you murmured in his ear. Hands beside his head. His dick twitching inside, begging for a release. You gushed, creamed, and cummed hard, as if it was a tsunami, flooding him completely. Milking him dry.

Stack flipped both of you, yet this time you were your back while he hovering above you. “Is my pussy killing you?” You teased, nails clawing at him. Moaning like a madwoman. Legs shaking between his waist, bunched up against his side. He fucked you through the mattress, and plunged without mercy. His face softening, scrunched up. “ You killin’ me like this..” Stack groaned deeply, his head craned back. Body shaking in desperation. Wet.

With a plethora of thrusts shoving you across the bed, and the swirl of his pelvis against your clit. You whined pathetically, eyelids shutting softly. The coil in your stomach began to tighten, as you came undone again. Stack’s thrusts turned slower, passionate. craved for you to be close, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His teeth sank on your skin, your melanated skin with hickeys.

His hand on the headboard, vice grip tightened while his hips pushed forward, animalistically. The bed creaks underneath their weight, his raspy, deep groans echoing with your wild moans. Obscene. Unhinged.

With that, his release caught up to him. Yours followed suit. His thick, warm cum spilling into you, again, and again. You screamed for your life, your back arched, as his fingers played with your clit. You whined softly, as you felt everything from him. Your hand rubbed his back, as his face remained buried in your neck before pulling away.

“Damn, I love you.” He says randomly, but he means it.

“Aww, you've gone soft on me, ‘Lias. I love you too!”

He pulled out of you slowly, just to see his fat dick inch out of your swollen pussy, his tongue gliding across his lip. His half- lidded eyes squinted a bit, the white mingling with the pink and deep brown of your folds, parting again. His cum oozing out. The soft gushing. You squirted on his abdomen, without shame. His mouth on you, slurping it.

“Can I get a taste, sweetheart?” Stack asked with mischief, a faint grin on his face. His southern drawl spilled over.

You chuckled softly, with a lazy smile on your beautiful face. Nodding weakly, your chest falling and rising. Pent up exhaustion. “Yeah, eat..” you spoke, your voice still audible.

Your legs parted for him, as his hands rested underneath your knees, resting them on his shoulders before burying his face against your pussy lips, lapping his tongue across your swollen folds, his mouth closed, and opened frantically as he swallowed the cum hard. Your hand atop his head, pushing him deep. “Swallow it—fuckk!” His throat flexing, raspy rumble in his mouth. Humming deliciously just so you could hear him, the loud slurping. This man was a big ol’ freak. Greedy.

After Stack ate you out for hours, he tidied up the place, and replaced them with clean sheets. Stack prepared a soothing bubble bath for you and joined in to help wash you.

He took care of you, helped you in your pajamas, and stayed with you all night long, sleeping peacefully in your arms. He was yours. All yours.

The first time she came back, Stack knew before she even stepped through the front door.

Not because of the envelope tucked beneath her arm.

Not because of the money.

Because she'd changed.

Only a little.

Enough that someone else would've missed it.

She walked straighter.

Her shoulders weren't as tense.

She'd learned how to command a room without raising her voice.

She wasn't pretending anymore.

She was working.

The women in the house greeted her with quiet smiles, some teasing her about finally "earning her stripes." She laughed, slipping off her coat before placing her envelope on the dining table where Stack always counted the night's earnings.

He looked at it.

Then at her.

"You eat?"

She nodded.

"You?"

"I'm askin' you."

"I did."

"Good."

That was all.

He never asked about the client.

Never asked what happened behind closed doors.

Never asked if she cried.

Or laughed.

Or hated it.

Those weren't his questions to ask.

And she respected him for that.

Weeks settled into routine.

She learned names.

Faces.

How to read a man before he opened his mouth.

Who tipped well.

Who lied.

Who drank too much.

Who wasn't worth the trouble.

She adapted quicker than anyone expected.

Sometimes she'd come home exhausted.

Sometimes amused.

Sometimes carrying stories she never shared.

Stack never pressed.

Instead, he'd count the money.

Slide her cut across the table.

"Good work."

Simple.

Professional.

Exactly the way he'd designed it.

Until one night...

He found himself wondering.

He hated wondering.

He hated wondering what some rich businessman had said to make her laugh.

He hated wondering if she'd smiled because she wanted to...

...or because she'd learned smiles were profitable.

He hated imagining another man's hand lingering too long on hers.

He hated it most because she always came home untouched in spirit.

She never looked broken.

She looked...

stronger.

That should've made him proud.

Instead—

It made something ugly bloom beneath his ribs.

Jealousy.

Quiet.

Embarrassing.

Possessive in ways he despised.

He caught himself watching her from across rooms.

Listening for her laugh.

Checking the clock whenever she was running late.

He'd built this business on discipline.

Now he couldn't keep his own mind in line.

"You've been starin'."

Her voice startled him.

She stood in the kitchen doorway, mug of tea warming her hands.

He looked away.

"I wasn't."

She smiled knowingly.

"Liar."

He chuckled despite himself.

"You countin' how many times I blink?"

"Nah."

She leaned against the doorway.

"I'm countin' how many times you forget I notice things."

Silence.

Then—

"You been hovering."

"I've been managing."

"You been checking every room I walk into."

"I'm checking everybody."

"No."

She smiled softly.

"Just me."

That landed.

He had no answer.

Because she was right.

He didn't understand it.

He'd met beautiful women.

Confident women.

Dangerous women.

He'd worked beside them.

Protected them.

Buried some of them.

He never crossed the line.

Never even looked at it.

So why...

Why did the thought of someone else looking at her too long make his jaw tighten?

Why did every successful night feel like victory...

...and loss?

He couldn't explain it.

He only knew that somewhere between teaching her the rules...

She'd quietly rewritten his.

It happened on a Thursday.

The client had been vetted.

Old money.

Regular.

Never caused trouble.

Until he did.

Stack had barely made it down the hallway before he heard furniture scrape across hardwood.

Then—

"No."

Her voice.

Firm.

Again—

"I said no."

The sound changed.

A struggle.

A crash.

Stack didn't think.

The door burst inward so hard it slammed against the wall.

The man barely had time to turn before Stack crossed the room.

One punch.

Another.

The client stumbled backward, cursing, reaching for anything he could grab.

Wrong choice.

Stack caught him by the collar and drove him against the wall.

"You forgot the first rule."

The man's eyes widened.

"W-what rule—"

"When she says no..."

His grip tightened.

"...the conversation's over."

The room fell silent except for the man's ragged breathing.

Stack's voice never rose.

It didn't have to.

"You don't touch what's unwilling."

The client swung wildly.

Stack stepped aside.

The punch missed.

His answer didn't.

The man collapsed to the floor, groaning.

Security, alerted by the commotion, rushed in.

Stack looked at them once.

"Get him out."

No one argued.

Only then did he remember she was still there.

She'd backed herself into the far corner of the room, wrapped around herself, breathing hard.

Fear lingered in her eyes—not because of him.

Because she'd been reminded how quickly safety could disappear.

Stack looked away first.

He removed his suit jacket from the coat rack by the door.

Walked over slowly.

Held it out.

No sudden movements.

No assumptions.

She looked from the jacket...

...to him.

"You alright?"

She nodded once.

A lie.

He draped the jacket over her shoulders anyway, careful not to touch more than necessary.

"It ain't your fault," he said quietly.

Her fingers clutched the lapels of his coat.

For a brief second...

She looked at him as though she'd never truly seen him before.

Not as the man with rules.

Not as the man with money.

But as the man who stepped between her and danger without asking what it might cost him.

"Let's go home."

She nodded.

The house had gone quiet by midnight.

The other women slept upstairs.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

Stack sat in the living room with a glass of untouched whiskey.

He hadn't taken a sip.

She found him there.

"You mind?"

He gestured toward the opposite end of the leather couch.

She sat.

Neither spoke for a while.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable.

Just tired.

"You okay?" he finally asked.

She looked down at the sleeves of his jacket, still wrapped around her.

"I will be."

He nodded.

"I'm glad."

She looked over.

Only then did she notice the split in his lip.

"You got hit."

"It's nothin'."

"It doesn't look like nothin'."

Before he could protest again, she stood and crossed to the bookshelf, retrieving the small first-aid kit tucked behind a row of worn novels.

Stack sighed.

"I said I'm fine."

"You say that too much."

She returned and sat beside him.

Closer this time.

She opened the kit, dampened a cloth, and gently lifted his chin.

He stayed still.

Not because he had to.

Because he wanted to.

Her touch was careful.

Unhurried.

She dabbed away the dried blood, apologizing quietly whenever he winced.

"You don't have to apologize," he murmured.

"I know."

"Then why do it?"

"'Cause I don't like seeing people I care about hurt."

The words settled between them.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them looked away.

For a fleeting moment, the room felt impossibly small.

He reached up instinctively, covering her hand with his.

Their eyes met.

He leaned forward just enough to brush a gentle kiss against her forehead.

It lingered for only a heartbeat.

Then reality rushed back in.

Stack stood abruptly.

Too fast.

He cleared his throat, straightening the front of his vest as though fixing the wrinkles might somehow settle the storm inside him.

"You should get some sleep."

She blinked.

"What?"

"It's late."

"Stack..."

He couldn't look at her.

"Goodnight."

She rose halfway from the couch, confused.

"Did I do something?"

"No."

His answer came immediately.

Too immediately.

"You didn't do a damn thing."

He walked toward the hallway.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

She watched him disappear behind the corner, questions lingering in the silence he'd left behind.

Sleep never came.

Stack stood alone in his office, looking over the ledger he'd read three times without seeing a single number.

He'd built rules for a reason.

Rules protected everyone.

Rules kept business clean.

Rules kept hearts out of places they had no business being.

He looked toward the hallway where her room sat in the darkness.

For the first time in years...

He questioned his own system.

Keeping her close meant she stayed under his protection.

Letting her stay meant every feeling he refused to name would keep growing.

And feelings...

Feelings got people hurt.

He stared out the rain-speckled window as dawn threatened the horizon.

He had built every rule to keep his heart out of it.

He never imagined she would become the one thing capable of breaking every last one.

Morning came slow.

Not bright—not clean—just a gray kind of daylight that pressed itself through the curtains like it wasn’t fully sure it belonged there.

The house was quieter than usual.

Even the floorboards felt like they were trying not to speak too loudly.

Stack was already awake.

Had been for hours.

He stood in the kitchen in a white undershirt and slacks, sleeves pushed up, coffee going cold in his hand. He hadn’t touched it in a while. Just held it like it gave him something to do with his thoughts.

Sleep hadn’t come.

Not really.

Just fragments of it. Half-dreams. Half-regret.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her in corners of rooms she didn’t belong in—until she did.

That was the part that bothered him most.

Not that she was there.

That she was adapting.

Becoming familiar with a world that was never supposed to feel familiar.

He set the mug down.

Then picked it back up.

Then set it down again, like he couldn’t decide whether stillness meant peace… or consequence.

From upstairs came the soft sound of movement.

A door opening.

Light footsteps.

Barely there.

He didn’t turn around right away.

He already knew.

She came down the stairs slowly, wrapped in one of his jackets again—different one this time. Hair slightly undone, face bare, no performance, no armor. Just her. The version of her that existed before the world asked her to be anything else.

She paused when she saw him.

“You been up all night,” she said softly.

It wasn’t a question.

He finally looked at her.

“I been thinkin’.”

That made her stop on the last step.

“That don’t sound like you.”

A faint breath left him that almost resembled a laugh.

“Yeah. That’s the problem.”

Silence stretched between them again, but it wasn’t empty.

It was full of everything neither of them had said the night before.

She walked into the kitchen slowly, like she was giving him space to change his mind about whatever version of him was standing there.

“You still mad?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then what?”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Like he was weighing something he couldn’t afford to drop.

“I don’t like what I’m startin’ to feel,” he admitted finally.

Her expression shifted—just slightly. Not fear. Not surprise.

Understanding.

“That why you been actin’ funny?”

He nodded once.

“I built this whole thing so I wouldn’t get attached to it.”

She leaned against the counter across from him.

“And now?”

His jaw tightened.

“Now I can’t tell if I’m protectin’ you… or keepin’ you close ‘cause I want to.”

That honesty sat heavy in the room.

Neither of them rushed to fill it.

She studied him for a while.

Not the way clients did.

Not the way the world did.

But like she was reading the parts of him he didn’t present on purpose.

Then she spoke, calm as ever.

“You know I’m still me, right?”

He looked up.

“I’m not yours, Stack.”

That word—yours—didn’t land like a warning.

It landed like a boundary drawn carefully, without anger.

“I know,” he said immediately.

“I’m still leavin’ when I want to.”

“I know that too.”

“I still got choices.”

“I never took ‘em from you.”

A pause.

Then she nodded once.

“Good.”

Another silence.

But this one was different.

Less tension.

More truth.

She stepped closer—not enough to close the space fully, just enough that the air between them changed.

“I ain’t scared of you,” she said quietly.

His eyes held hers.

“I know.”

“But I am scared of what you think you gotta be to keep me safe.”

That hit deeper than anything else that night.

His gaze dropped for a second.

Because she was right.

He didn’t trust softness.

Didn’t trust wanting.

Didn’t trust the way something in him had started to shift without permission.

When he looked back up, his voice was quieter.

“I don’t know how to do this part.”

“Then don’t overthink it,” she said simply. “Just don’t lie to me. And don’t turn me into somethin’ you think you gotta control to keep me alive.”

That word again—control.

He exhaled through his nose, slow.

“I never wanted that.”

“I know.”

She reached for his mug, took it, and finally drank it herself like it belonged in her hands just as much as his.

“You just scared,” she added.

He didn’t argue.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

Somewhere upstairs, a door opened again.

A woman called out sleepily.

Life moving forward around them like nothing had changed.

But something had.

It just hadn’t fully decided what shape it would take yet.

Stack watched her set his mug back down carefully.

“You still comin’ back?” he asked.

She smiled faintly.

“Depends if you still runnin’ things like a man or startin’ to feel like one.”

A beat.

Then—

“I’ll be back,” she said. “On my terms.”

He nodded.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She headed toward the door.

Then paused.

Looked back at him.

“Stack?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t gotta choose between protectin’ me and feelin’ somethin’.”

That lingered.

Then she was gone.

The door clicked shut softly behind her.

Stack stayed where he was.

Still.

Quiet.

The house breathed around him again, same as always.

But nothing in him did.

Because for the first time since this whole thing started…

He understood the real risk wasn’t losing control of the business.

It was realizing he never had control of himself to begin with.

And now that he’d felt it—

He couldn’t unfeel it.

He looked down at the empty mug in his hand.

Then toward the door she’d just walked through.

And for the first time…

he didn’t know if keeping her safe meant keeping her close…

or letting her decide when to walk away.

And that uncertainty—

was the most dangerous rule he’d ever broken.

-𝕾𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙 𝕭𝖆𝖇𝖎𝖊𝖘-

Erik sucked his teeth, sat up a little more, thighs tensing beneath her hands. He looked down at her with her messy hair, and need all over her face and reached out to grab her jaw with one hand, thumb sliding across her lips. 

“You wanna ride me?” 

Sanaa nodded, lips parting around his thumb. She sucked it slow with her eyes locked on his. 

“Erik let out a low breath, nostrils flaring. His dick twitched hard in her hand. “Aight then,” he said. “Get up here.” 

The way he said it wasn’t a request. Sanaa didn’t hesitate. She threw her leg over and straddled him, hands planted on his chest for balance. Erik leaned back on his elbows, watching her like a man possessed, eyes dragging from the sway of her hips to the heavy breath in her chest. He reached down, wrapped that big hand around his dick, and held it steady, thick and gleaming, the tip pulsing. 

“Come get it.” He said with a low rasp.

Sanaa lifted just right, body knowing what to do like this wasn’t her first time begging for it. She lined herself up with the head, hips hovering, teasing his tip with slick little circles. Just working it in slowly, letting that first stretch send a shiver through both of them. Sanaa moaned airy and breathless, rolling her hips while Erik was only halfway inside. Erik’s head tipped back, jaw tight, watching her get herself ready for the full thing. 

Then, she sank. 

Her breath caught as she sank down, thighs trembling while his dick pushed up through that tight, sloppy grip. Sanaa couldn’t help the way her mouth fell open, tongue peeking out against her top lip, eyes half-closed like she was somewhere between begging and backing out. She lifted, rolled her hips again, and slipped out with a slick sound that made her flinch. 

“Come on, ma,” Erik whispered, voice low and gritty, his hips flexing up. “Put that shit back in. Don’t play.” 

Sanaa reached behind her, fingers wet as she guided him back. His tip slipped past her folds, thick and glistening, dragging slick through her creamy pussy before sliding home again. Her back bowed, belly tensed, she took it inch by inch, breathing sharp through her nose like she was bracing for a stretch that hit deep every single time. Sanaa’s body paused like it was stunned by the depth, a little tremble shaking through her frame. But then, she started moving. 

“There you go,” Erik said, voice like gravel on velvet. “Keep that arch for me. Just like that. Let me open this lil’ pussy up.” 

She rode him like she was made for it. 

Slow motion. Rolling her hips, arching her back, catching that stroke right where it made her eyes flutter and her breath skip. Her ass popped on the up stroke, then clapped softly when she dropped back down, thick and perfect against his thighs. Every grind pulled a sound out of Erik, deep in his throat. Low curses. Grunts. Praise. 

Sanaa leaned forward, hands planted on his chest, his keloid scars slick beneath her palms. His pecs flexed under her touch like he was holding back from grabbing her and flipping the whole thing. 

Sanaa whimpered sweet and buried like she was tryna swallow it down. Her knees dug into the mattress, feet braced over his thighs, ass lifting just enough to let him drive up harder. Erik didn’t even need to thrust far. He had her right where he wanted her. Just enough space for that big dick to pull back, then stroke up slow, deep, and firm. No air between them. Just desire. A vice grip. The sound of his dick stirring through slick like a slow churn. 

Sanaa rocked and rode and lost herself in it, pausing only to lean down and kiss him slow and nasty, tongue sliding deep, lips parted like she needed his mouth to survive the high she was chasing. Then, she sat back up, arching again, going back to the motion. Deeper. 

The way she stared down at him? It was like she owned him. Sanaa bit down on her bottom lip harder, breathing ragged. Her body twitched when he spread her ass wider, one hand gripping a cheek, thumb resting where her back curved into the dip of her spine. The other hand slid between her thighs and tugged her folds open on one side, just enough to feel how fucking right of a squeeze it is to fit his dick in her. Just enough to feel the way she swallowed him each time he came back in. The flesh of her tight hole gliding smooth over veins and a thick pole. 

Erik…loved it. That thick dick throbbed inside her. The hand on her back slid up and down, gripping her waist, helping her pace. 

“Good girllll,” Erik praised, his voice deep and ragged. “Just like that pretty girl. This why you been actin’ up?” Erik whispered. “This what you needed? You needed daddy to fuck you quiet like this?” 

Sanaa’s head dropped, her breath catching in her throat. She nodded, still rocking soft but getting fucked harder than she meant to. Each time Erik asked her ‘this what you needed?’ The tempo increased. That dick curved up right into her, hitting that spot that made her legs shake and her face twist up. She didn’t mean to roll her hips like that or let the creamy mess between them get louder. It was as if her body didn’t belong to her anymore. An object to be fucked by Killmonger like and asked for.

And this wasn’t even his final form. 

Erik’s palms slid over her ass and held her open while he kept stroking. Sanaa’s body jolted every time his tip kissed the back of her pussy. It felt like pressure and a tickle all at once. Skipping out, sliding back in. Circling on the up stroke, sliding out slowly on the down stroke. Cream clinging to him. Her walls tightening to keep in him. But Erik’s dick is so thick. Long. And her pussy couldn’t help but give him room. 

It shocked her. Sanaa was a brilliant girl but it never crossed her mind that a dick that’s equal parts thick and long could open her pussy up like this. Penetrate her and make her pussy cream and flutter like it had its own heartbeat. 

“I should keep you up all night doin’ this shit. Fuckin’ you ‘til that walk change.” 

“Daddy—”

“Shhh. Shut the fuck up. The only talkin’ I wanna hear is this pussy.” 

Erik pressed his lips to her temple. His hands made its way to her waist, holding her still. Steady. On that dick. His hips drove up with a slow torture, punishing strokes and heavy weight like he was tryna leave the shape of his dick in her forever. 

“You tryna wake her up?” Erik warned with a threatening whisper. “You tryna let her know how nasty you been behind her back?” 

“No—no, I’m not—”

L5$3! Shut that shit up and ride this dick like you supposed to.” Erik spoke rough in her ear. So low it sent shivers down her spine. 

And she gave it to him. All of it. 

Sanaa bit the corner of her lip again, trembling, eyes almost rolling up. His dick stroked through the grip of her pussy with steady weight, gliding smooth and tight, dragging against her walls. The sound was slick and wet, sticky and clinging, layered with the subtle knock of his heavy balls brushing her ass when he dropped her down just right. Sanaa’s toes curled against his thighs. Her belly fluttered. She could feel him in her gut. Sanaa dragged her nails down his pecs and tried to lift her hips a little but Erik is stronger. 

“Feel all that up in you, huh?” Erik said. “That’s what you was fiendin’ for, baby? Fat dick pressin’ your stomach? Stretchin’ your shit out. Don’t you move, now.”

Erik’s hands slid down her waist, wide palms smoothing over the curve of her hips before gripping the underside of her ass. He let her work. Let her grind slow like she had all day. But he couldn’t stop himself from giving her something extra. After all, he’s extra. 

Pop. 

A gentle slap to her right cheek made her gasp and bounce a little harder. Then, he rubbed it, smoothed his hand over the sting. 

“Yeah,” Erik said low, looking up at her like she was art. “That’s it, baby. Ride that shit.” 

Sanaa was in another dimension. Dick drunk. Eyes low. Mouth slick and almost drooling, whispering nonsense that didn’t make full sense but still sounded sexy as hell. Sanaa’s hands went to fist the sheets. Her thighs spread over him. The stroke was making her dizzy. Erik slid both hands around her waist and pulled her flush against him, holding her in place while he started fucking up into her with slow, mean precision. Each thrust was full. The bed barely moved but the air between them thickened with sweat and secret moans and groans swallowing into the backs of throats. 

Erik bent his knees, driving up from the base, hips angled just right so his whole length stroked through the grip of her pussy like he was molding her insides with every pass. Sanaa’s breath stuttered. Her mouth hung open. She tried to hold it in. Tried to be good. But that shit felt so fucking good. 

“I—mmh—this dick feel so good,” she breathed, grinding with slow, wet rolls. “Might start crying on it…I’m not even playin’…”

Erik laughed but dropped off onto a groan when she clenched on him mid-roll. Erik gave her left cheek a light slap this, then grabbed it, pulling her down harder. 

“Don’t play then.” Erik warned. “Go head and cry.” 

Sanaa was in a zone. One hand drifted up his chest again, Palm gliding over his scars, fingertips teasing his nipple just to make him twitch. The other hand braced on his thigh behind her for balance. 

“I could live on this dick.” She whispered with a shaky laugh, voice floaty. 

“You already do.” Erik shot back. 

But Sanaa didn’t hear him. Or maybe she did and ignored it. Sanaa’s eyes fluttered shut. Her hips paused at the base of his stroke. Then…

She started bucking. 

No warning. No ease into it. She just popped her hips and that bubbly ass back and up, then dropped down on him with force. That wet clap echoed between them. 

“Shhhit—” Erik grunted, jaw locked. He sat up fast, his hand flying to her waist to ground her, but she was already in the zone. 

“Uh uh,” Sanaa panted, riding that dick like she had a point to prove. “Don’t stop me now, I’m on a mission, daddy.” 

Erik’s hands tried to slow her, but every time he gripped her waist, Sanaa twisted and bounced harder. Her ass smacked against his thighs, wild and filthy, her head thrown back as she whimpered with a bite of her lip softly and moaned out his name with an airy breath like it was her favorite song. 

“Sanaa—”

She reached up, palmed the back of his neck, and pulled his forehead to hers. “Loose control, daddy.” She breathed, voice wrecked but still taunting. “Come on. I want it.” 

That was her plan the whole time. To ride him until he couldn’t think straight. To fuck him until his voice broke and he forgot every rule he made about control. And judging by the way his fingers dug into her flesh and those muscles flexed…

It was working. 

Sanaa leaned her weight forward, kept that nasty dance, and added something new to it. Her hand—small, delicate, manicured fingers with her name on her gold necklace glinting between her tits—wrapped right around Erik’s throat. Just enough pressure to make his head tilt back and his eyes lock onto hers like she had him pinned in place. Like he belonged to her now. 

And then she rode him. 

From tip to base. Working every inch of that thick ass dick like it was hers to break in. Her body rolled in perfect time, ass popping up, then dropping back down to the back with a wet clap again and again. Sanaa stayed eye to eye with him the whole time. 

Erik’s mouth fell open. A low, guttural sound came from his chest, his hands gripping her thighs like he was hanging on for dear life. His nostrils flared, his gold canines flashed as his top lip curled to fight the urge to groan so loud he wakes the whole building up. His whole body tensed underneath her like he was fighting the urge to flip her over and wreck her. But he didn’t. He let her have it. Let her take that power. 

His expression was war. Tight jaw. Eyes dark and ablaze. Clenched abs. Fists flexing on her skin. Eyes damn near desperate. Breathing hard. 

“Sanaa…” Erik grunted, voice all gravel and restraint. “Fuck, baby.” 

Sanaa smiled. A slow, wicked, bratty smile. She rolled her hips in a circle while still sitting in him full. She was gon’ milk him good. Then, she leaned in close, mouth at his ear, whispering low, breathy, slick. 

“What’s wrong, Killmonger?” 

Erik twitched. His grip on her thighs got tighter. That name hit different coming from her mouth. Especially with her sitting on his fucking dick like that. Dripping and talking her shit. 

“You supped to be the big bad soldier, huh?” She panted, riding again, faster now, breath hitching between words. “Don’t tell me I got you foldin’…”

Erik growled low in his throat. His eyes snapped to hers, wide, wild, hungry. “You wanna play like that?” He said, voice hoarse. 

Sanaa kept bouncing. Let her hand tighten just a little more on his throat, thumb pressing under his jaw while her pussy clamped down and stroked him from base to tip like a goddamn vice. Like he was her personal toy. Her toy soldier. 

“Mmhm,” she whispered. “Killmonger can’t take it…”

And that was it.

Erik’s hand shot up, yanked her wrist off his neck, and pinned it to the bed beside him. His other arm wrapped around her back, locking her down. 

But Sanaa was still grinding. Still riding that big thing. Erik’s arms caged her in—thick, strong, immovable. Erik shifted under her, sitting up in one powerful motion, his chest pressed to hers, their breaths tangled. Sanaa barely had time to blink before his hands slid beneath her thighs, hooking her knees over his forearms, palming the underside of her ass with a grip that meant business.

Then he stood up. Taking back his power. Ain’t no way some lil’ girl was gonna grab him by the neck and ride his dick and talk shit in his ear like she in charge. Fuck that. 

That big dick never slipped out once. Erik rose with her still fully seated on him, buried to the base, his muscles flexing all down his back and arms. Sanaa gasped, arm’s flailing for his shoulders before clutching tight. He made that shit look so effortless. Erik adjusted his hold, tightening his grip on her thighs, locking her in against his chest. 

And then, he bounced her. 

Not wild. Not frantic. But deep. Firm.

Erik dropped her down on that dick, letting the full weight of his body take him. His grip under her ass controlled every motion like she was a workout, a blessing, and a punishment all rolled into one. Her pussy opened for him every time, swallowing that big dick whole, her walls fluttering with every single drop like that pussy was talking to him, begging Killmonger to murder her shit. 

Sanaa couldn’t catch a breath. Her body tensed and softened all at once—overwhelmed, overstimulated, taken. He was using her like she belonged in his arms getting fucked like this. She was made to be lifted and held and fucked. Her pretty head dropped back, those glossy lips parted, that tiny breath hitching. She had never been handled like this before. Ever. Then here comes this big, strong, soldier with scars and a lethal dick to rewrite everything the thought she knew about getting fucked. 

“Erik—”

Sanaa moaned his name once, sweet and quiet. But it turned to something else. Something filthier. More desperate. Like her body knew what she needed before her mind caught up. 

“…Monger…K-Kill…Killmonger…Kill…Killmonger, fuck…mm, Monnie…”

It spilled out of her in waves, soft, breathy, cracked around the edges. Her thighs trembled against his arms, her nails clawing at his back, and her pussy was dripping. Soaked and sucking him back in with every controlled thrust. When Sanaa caught their reflection, her eyes went round. Her small frame folded in the air around his big, muscled, scarred, tall body. She looked helpless, caged, locked. 

She just raised his number to 2,208. 

Pick yourself up Bri—oh, wait—you’re stuck in the air bitch how you gonna flip it on him again? 

Damn, he all up in this pussy.

Why he fucking me like this? 

Erik looked up at her face, lips swollen, hair clinging to her cheek, eyes fluttering with every drop. “You wanted it,” he said, low and steady, sweat beading on his neck. “Now take it.”

Then, he bounced her again, slow and punishing, that big thing pushing her to the brink.

All Sanaa could do was hang on. Fall apart. Moan his name. Her toes curled right in the air, ankles flexing with every drop. She was about to tap out. But that would make her look like a weak bitch. Her whole body tensed like a struck cord, arms wrapped tighter around Erik’s shoulders as she dropped her head to his neck. She pressed her nose into his skin, right where the warmth gathered, where his clean scent lived. Masculine mix of sweat, lotion, and something earthy that was just him. It made her dizzy. 

Erik was in it. He was bouncing her just right on that thick dick. He switched it up. Started feeding her. Rolling his hips upward as she came down. Rocking into her slow and deep, hitting that spot every single time. The control he had over his body was insane. Like he had power running through his veins. Inhuman. He adjusted mid-thrust, tilting her hips, locking her tighter against him so her clit dragged across his pelvis just right. 

She was unraveling from the inside out. 

“…Killmonger…yes…baby…”

The name barely left her lips before Erik’s jaw clenched. He adjusted his stance, braced one foot back to keep his balance, then slammed her down deeper, held her there, let her feel all of it.

“You wanted Killmonger?” he breathed against her ear, voice low and gritty, laced with dark amusement, “Huh?” He bounced her again, the sound of her moaning his name fed something carnal in him, “Say it again, Princess.” 

Sanaa shook her head, biting her lip, but her pussy clenched hard around him, giving her away.

“Nah,” Erik growled. “You been talkin’ all that shit now you gettin’ it.” Another thrust. Deep. He rocked up into her and held, “Say. That. Shit.”

Her breath caught, “…Killmonger…” Sanaa’s voice barely made it past her lips. “Don’t stop fucking your pussy, Killmonger…”

That was all Erik needed.

His arms flexed tighter beneath her knees, locking Sanaa in. Her back was flat against the wall now but her hips were tipped—cocked up perfect and wide. That pussy sat right on his dick like it was made to fit him and only him. Swallowing all that thick pressure with every pump of his hips. Erik didn’t slam into her, he stroked. Sanaa looked down and her breath hitched with surprise at how her hips jerked involuntarily every time he pushed in and how her hips chased the sensation again when he slides back out. 

“Mmm. There she go,” Erikk growled low against her throat, breathing in her scent, teeth grazing her skin, “You feel that? That stretch right there?” 

Sanaa nodded fast, lower lip trembling but the only sound she could make was a tight little gasp. Her acrylics dug onto his shoulders and her thighs quaked over his arms. 

Erik held her there and made her feel it. 

“Yeah.” he said, that voice low and deep, “That’s what I thought. Pussy talkin’ now.” 

And it was. 

Every time he rolled his hips forward, that slick, soaking grip of hers let out a wet little squelch. A pop as air got trapped and pushed back out. That tight little pussy started queefing loud and messy between them. Sanaa’s whole body tensed in embarrassment. She’d NEVER done that before. She shut her eyes and tilted her face away, trying to stop herself from doing it again but nope. It kept happening.

What the fuck? 

But Erik loved it.

“Nah, don’t hide,” he grunted, dragging his dick out slow until just the tip sat at her entrance, then pushed right back in with a deep, thick stroke that made her head knock against the wall with a soft thud, “Let it talk. Let me hear how tight that shit is.” 

“E—”

Sanaa was trying to hold it in, but Erik didn’t give her the chance. Erik snatched it from her chest with the next thrust. Smooth and deep again. Long strokes. Pussy gripped him so snug it felt like it was sucking him back in. Her arousal was dripping down his ball now. Every time he pulled out, his dick glistened with it, creamy at the base. Wet and shiny all the way up to the head. 

Then it happened. That change. That little flutter deep inside her. 

Sanaa’s walls started twitching like they were confused. Like her pussy didn’t know if it wanted to clench him or release. It pulsed around him, and she gasped again, harder this time. 

“Fuck—”

“Yeah…” Erik grunted, “she feelin’ it now.” 

Erik adjusted his stance. He took one small step forward so her back pressed tighter to the wall, and then he angled his hips downwards. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was chasing her spot now. And when he found it? Sanaa had to bite down on her bottom lip to stifle a loud moan. Her whole body jerked in his arms. Her mouth dropped open, closed in a pout, eyes crossing, breath catching. Her pussy squeezed so hard around his dick it made his knees buckle. 

“Damn, there she go. That’s what I wanted from that pussy.” 

Sanaa didn’t even know if she could ever speak again after that. But a sound came out of her. A mix of a cry and a moan and a choked little please. All the things he watched from her, every thrust hit that spot. She started having the most intense orgasm she’d ever had and she couldn’t run. She could feel it. A warm, milky wave gushing out of her, coating his dick, her thighs, dripping to the floor of. It made everything wetter. Nastier. Louder. Pussy slipping and gripping around him. Erik licked his lips as he watched her face twist up. 

“Creamin’ on this dick, baby?” Erik spoke soft, biting her earlobe, “That’s what happen when you fuck wit’ a grown ass man.”

Sanaa whimpered. Bit her lip.

His dick dragged through her like he was reminding her who owned that pussy. Like he knew it better than she did. Rubbing her walls raw in the best way. Grinding into that tender, aching spot inside her that had her leaking again.

Do that again, Daddy that feels so good, she thought. 

His voice was a low growl now, filthy, dark, right in her ear.

“You gon’ take this dick. Just like that. That’s what you wanted, ain’t it? That what you beggin’ for?”

Erik snapped his hips into her so deep her eyes rolled. 

She was cumming again. Not from clit play. Not from fingers.

From dick.

Thick, deep, grown man dick.

Sanaa moaned—low-pitched, pretty, almost sobbing—and Erik smiled against her neck. 

“Uh huh…that’s right,” he said, “Let me hear it.”

He rolled his hips again, just right. And again. Stroking deep and smooth. Not stopping. Her walls squeezed so tight around him he could barely move. 

“Damn, baby…this pussy tryna keep me in…” His voice dropped even lower. “You want me to cum in it, don’t you?”

Her body jumped.

Sanaa shook her head weakly, but he saw the way her pussy clenched again. She couldn’t even lie. 

Erik laughed under his breath, “You came beggin’ for this dick again I don’t know, Bri. Might not get this nut tonight.”

Then he did something that wrecked her.

He leaned back just enough to look at her.

Held her up, eyes locked to hers, and gave her one… slow…deep grind.

His dick dragged against every inch of her walls. Pressed to her spot. Stretched her from the inside until her whole body arched and her face twisted in pure pleasure. 

“Ain’t nobody ever fucked you like this…made you cream like this…” He kissed her jaw, “Nah…they was playin’ wit’ it, wasn’t they baby? Huh? Daddy got you…”

Another thrust. Another cry. Sanaa’s head hit the wall again. Her nails scratched down his back. She was shaking so bad he had to grip her tighter. 

He groaned through gritted teeth, “Keep moaning like that and I’ma fuck around and nut in this tight little pussy…just might give you your present.” 

She just nodded, moaned, and melted around him—completely fucked. Her walls fluttered again, and he knew…

She was about to cum AGAIN. 

Erik rolled his hips again, one long, smooth stroke that had her gasping into his neck. Her body arched. Her pussy clenched. Her thighs twitched where they were locked over his arms.  Erik could feel how open she was now. How she’d molded to him. Wrapped around him so tight and juicy and so fucking wet, it sounded like syrup every time he sank back in.

Slrp…squelch…slrp…

“Shhhhit,” he groaned, dragging his lips across her cheek, breath hot. “That sound makin’ me crazy…”

He shifted just slightly, angled deeper. Lower. Found that spot again.

Sanaa opened her mouth but no sound came out. Then, her head dropped back and her face…

So damn pretty.

Lips parted. Brows pinched. Skin flushed and glistening. She looked like she didn’t know whether to moan or cry.

Erik watched her, mesmerized, “Look at you…” he muttered, eyes dropping to her mouth. “So fuckin’ pretty when you cum.”

She bit her lip, hard. Her fingers clawed into his back. Erik pulled her away from the wall. He grunted, bounced her again, then rolled his hips so perfect her eyes damn near crossed. Sanaa pressed her lips to the curve of his neck, panting softly, her nose buried in his scent. Her body was wrung out, pussy soaked and fluttering around him, but she gave him what he wanted. 

His grip on her thighs tightened, “Yeah,” he said, rocking up into her again, slow and deliberate, “you wanted Killmonger…”

Erik fed it to her just like that. Deep strokes that made her press her forehead to his jaw, made her toes curl again in the air. Erik backed towards the bed, still holding her while deep inside, until the backs of his legs hit the edge. Then, he eased down, his arms guiding her down with him like she was something precious. He settled back against the pillows, legs spread wide, hands gripping beneath her thighs while she adjusted. 

Sanaa didn’t waste time.

She rose up into a squat, planted her feet firm on either side of his thighs, and lifted herself until just the tip of that thick dick stayed inside. Then, she dropped. The sound it made—the wetness, the weight of her ass clapping down, the deep breath Erik took through his nose—fills the room. 

Sanaa did it again and again. Her curls fell into her face, sticking to her cheeks and neck, sweat rolling down her chest as her body took over. She was on a mission now. Squatting low, bouncing on him with that juicy grip, swallowing every inch. Her thighs flexed, that ass jiggled with each drop, and her moans came out like breathy spells. 

“Mm…fuck, it’s too deep…I can’t even breathe right…you feel that? You feel that, daddy?” 

Erik didn’t answer. He leaned in, mouth hungry, and caught her nipple between his lips, sucked it, tongue circling the tip before letting it pop free. Then, he moved to the other, licking and teasing until her back arched and her pussy pulsed hard around him. 

Sanaa’s hand went to the back of his neck, pulling him in closer, grounding herself against the flood of pleasure. She didn’t wanna stop riding. She didn’t wanna stop grinding. She started rolling her hips, slow figure eights while still deep in that squat, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted around a soft moan, chest heaving. 

It was a sight.

Her curls framed her face wild and damp. Nipples hard and pointed. Mouth glossy with spit. That slim-thick body was glistening everywhere—down her neck, across her stomach, where Erik’s hands slid to grab her waist. Every bounce, every grind, made her gasp. Made her sigh. Made her shine. 

Erik breathed heavy, eyes locked on the way she moved, “Fuckin’ beautiful…”

His thighs were tight, muscles straining as he held himself back, eyes locked on the sight above him. Sanaa’s hips were working overtime, slow then fast, smooth then nasty. She was riding him like it meant something. Like she needed that dick to breathe. Her palms braced against his chest as she worked her body over his big dick, up and down, clenching him so tight he could barely think. Erik’s hands had nowhere to go but up—one locked around her waist, the other scrubbed up her stomach, over the curve of her breast, and finally up to her face. His thumb traced along her jaw before sliding to her cheek. He was stuck. Couldn’t stop looking at her. That lil’ face twisted in ecstasy, mouth open, eyes fluttering every time she sank down on him and took it all like a good girl. 

“Give it to me…” she begged, voice sugar-slick and whimpering, “Give it to me, please.”

Erik grunted low, chest heaving, lips parted like the air got caught in his throat. He could feel it rising, the rush, the heat in his spine, the clench in his gut. Her pussy was too tight. Too wet. She gripped him and made a mess on him every time she bounced. 

“I’m bein’ good,” she said through breathy moans, her ass slapping against his thighs. “I’m riding daddy’s dick good.”

He could barely hold on. His head dropped back against the pillow, jaw tight, sweat slicking the cut of his collarbones. “Fuck, lil’ mama…”

Her lips curled into a wicked little smile. She wanted all of him. And she was gonna get it. Sanaa dropped her hips faster, harder, like she knew he was right on the edge. 

“Fill me up.”

Erik looked up at her like she was unreal. A fantasy he accidentally pulled out of his dreams. Her titties bouncing with every move. The roll of her hips was deadly. The wet sounds between them only made it filthier. She arched her back, leaned forward, and started grinding instead of bouncing. That roll she did with her hips? That shit broke him. 

“Unh…yes,” she panted, nails digging into his chest. “Give me that Killmonger dick.”

Erik growled, deep and guttural, reaching ip and grabbing the back of her neck, dragging her face close to his. His eyes were heavy, bloodshot, lost in her, “You gon’ make me bust up in this pussy, girl…”

“That’s what I want,” she said, breath all over his lips. “I want it. I want you to nut in this pussy. I been so good. Look how I take it. Look at me…”

Erik looked. Couldn’t not look. Her pussy was swallowing him. Gripping every inch like it was molded for him. 

Taking every inch of his daddy dick like her little pussy was made to do it. The way her body arched, the curve of her back, the wet slap of her ass meeting his lap—it was obscene, nasty, and perfect. And every time she rode down, her breasts bounced like they were cheering her on. 

She put her hands on his chest, leaned forward just enough to whisper in his ear, “Look how I ride it, Daddy,” she panted, voice low and slick, “Look how I take it in my little pussy like a big girl supposed to.”

Erik’s eyes snapped open. That shit hit him like a shot to the chest. His nostrils flared. It was the kind of reaction a man had when he was trying not to bust too soon. Erik frowned hard at her, like her words had personally disrespected him. 

Sanaa smirked, proud of herself. She swiveled her hips slow, teasing him with it, making sure he could feel every slick roll of her walls dragging over him.

“Oh yeah…mmm…” she moaned, drawing out the sound like it was syrup on her tongue. Her hands slid up his shoulders, “Such a big dick. You handsome and your thing big. So disrespectful.”

Erik’s hands flew to her ass, palms spread wide as he cupped her cheeks and started bouncing her harder. Sanaa gasped, lost her groove for a second as he took over. Her hands gripped his shoulders tight, nails pressing into his skin. Sanaa looked down at him and the way he stared up at her—eyes dark, lips parted, sweat on his temples—she knew. 

He was about to lose it.

That’s right Bri. Bury that nigga. 

“Shit,” Erik growled low, his voice breaking apart from how deep it hit. His hands dragged her down and lifted her up, over and over, using her body like it was his personal addiction. His grip got tighter, more demanding, like he needed her to keep going, to stay right there.

Their eyes locked. Sanaa’s mouth parted. She could see it in his face, all over it. That look. That edge. He was right there. Right on the fucking edge of letting go.

His chest rose quick, muscles flexing. His brows pulled in tight and his gold slugs flashed beneath clenched teeth. His hips stuttered, bucking up into her, and he let out this low, primal sound like he was trying to hold back a flood.

Sanaa was taking that dick like she owned it—slow and deep, then fast and filthy, grinding into Erik’s lap with that little arch in her back that always made him twitch. His hands were locked on her ass, pulling her down, forcing her to take all of him. His mouth hung open as he breathed through it, face twisted up like he was trying not to explode.

But Sanaa wasn’t done.

“Say my name,” she whispered.

Erik grunted, trying to hold himself back, but his body was betraying him. Thighs flexing. Chest rising. That big dick of his twitching so deep inside her, begging for release.

“Whose big dick is this?” she asked, breath sweet and soft but commanding as hell, “Who’s big dick this belong to?”

He almost choked on his own spit. His grip on her ass tightened, fingers digging into the flesh like he was trying to keep her there. “It’s yours,” he rasped. “Fuck, it’s yours—”

She tilted her head.

“It’s mine? Huh, Killmonger?”

His whole body jerked. He stilled. He was about to fill her up. He wanted to. Needed to. He was locked in, ready to drown in her.

“Shit—” he breathed, jaw locked, legs tense as hell, “Take this nut, daddy’s girl—”

And that’s when she did it.

Sanaa hopped off. Quick and clean.

Erik let out a deep, wrecked growl as his big dick bounced up, angry and wet, pulsing without a home. His eyes went wide, stunned, and before he could get his bearings, it was already happening. That first thick spurt shot up and landed hot on his lower abs. Another followed, streaking his thighs. His hips bucked helplessly as more of his nut spilled out, messy and hot, painting his skin. He looked down at himself, then back up at her, brows drawn in deep like did you really just hop off my dick?

Sanaa stood at the edge of the bed like a goddess fresh off her throne. Her body glistened in the dim light, skin warm, inner thighs shiny with her own climax. She took her time picking up her T-shirt from the floor, slipping it back over her head like nothing happened. Just tits swaying soft beneath cotton. Then she stepped in front of his full-length mirror and fluffed her curls, satisfied.

Erik watched, still leaking, dick twitching on his stomach, mind blank.

Sanaa giggled to herself, caught his reflection behind her in the mirror, then turned and faced him.

“Now lay in it.”

She blew him a kiss, walked to the door, and slipped out without another word.

And Erik—naked, breathless, covered in his own nut—could only lay there. Speechless. Destroyed. Worshipping her with his eyes while she took all the power with her.

______

Erik stayed frozen. His chest heaved and his lungs burned as he fought for air. The silence that followed Sanaa’s exit was deafening, leaving him stranded in the wreckage of a ruined orgasm. He was vibrating, every muscle in his large, scarred frame coiled tight, trapped in that agonizing limbo between peak pleasure and a sudden, jarring stop. 

He looked down at himself, his gaze heavy and dark. His abs were slick, coated in a sheen of chaotic mess that consisted of her juices and the cum he’d leaked while she’d been grinding her pussy on his dick. It was a smeared, translucent map of her greed and her cruelty. Erik reached down, his thick fingers dragging through the wetness on his stomach, swirling her cream into his skin. Erik didn’t wipe it away. He smeared it, feeling the tacky mess against his keloid scars, the scent of her pussy filling his nostrils and fueling the fire in his gut. 

Erik’s mind was a loop of the last twenty minutes. He could still feel the exact pressure of her thighs gripping his waist, the way her soft curves collided with his hard muscle. He replayed every bratty, teasing thing she’d whispered in his ear, the way she’d looked down at him with that confident, challenging smirk while she rode him. Like he didn’t fold her little ass in half against the wall. She had known exactly what she was doing. Pushing him to the very edge, making him ache, making him crave the release that only she could trigger, and then simply sliding off right before the explosion. 

Erik looked at his dick. It was half-hard, a thick, vein-riven, pole that refused to fully go soft. It was twitching. Pulsing with a frustrated dance. A thick, pearly bead of cum leaked from the tip, dripping onto his thigh. It was the seed that should have been buried deep inside her. The load he had been ready to pump into her until she was overflowing. Right up against the posterior fornix. Seeing it waste away on his own skin made his jaw clench so hard his teeth groaned. 

The frustration wasn’t a clean anger. It was a dark, suffocating obsession. He felt a possessive hunger clawing at his insides, a need to reclaim the control she’d snatched away. He stared at the door she’d walked through, his eyes narrowing. The fact that she could leave him like this—wrecked, leaking—didn’t make him want to pull away. It made him want to hunt her down, pin her to the nearest surface, and fuck the bratty attitude right out of her. 

Erik touched the leaking tip of his dick, smearing the wasted cum across his thigh, breath hitching. He wasn’t just horny. He was consumed. He wanted to feel her clench around him again. To feel her shake as he finally took what was his. Leave her just as ruined as he was right now.

His mind was a storm. Racing with a volatility that usually only surface in the heat of a kill zone. He was Erik N’Jadaka Stevens. He was a mercenary nicknamed Killmonger. He was a ghost. A weapon. A man who had navigated the darkest corners of the globe as a Navy SEAL and a Black Operative. HALO jumped from war planes. Witnessed the unthinkable. Looked death in the eye and didn’t blink. He had a tally of 2,207 lives extinguished by his own hand. Each one a testament to his precision, his ruthlessness, and his absolute control over every environment he entered. 

Erik almost dismantled an entire empire, fought his way through his bloodline and walked away from it all because he was the only one strong enough to do so. He was a man who commanded respect through fear and dominance. He wasn’t someone to be played with, let alone fucked with. 

And yet, here he was.

He stared at the ceiling, jaw locked, feeling the phantom weight of Sanaa pressing into him. The sheer audacity of it burned in his chest. This little brat—this slim-thick, espresso brown, teasing woman—had just flipped the script on him. She had ridden him with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, pushing him to the absolute precipice of his sanity, and then she simply vanished. She had left him stranded in the wreckage of his own desire, lying in the ruins of a ruined orgasm. 

How? The question echoed in his head, fueling a dark possessive fire. How was it possible that Sanaa held this much power over him? He was the one with the muscle, the experience, the sheer physical presence that could crush her. He was the one who should be dictating the terms of their surrender. But in her absence, he felt the weight of her influence like a collar around his neck. She didn’t need a weapon to disarm him. She just needed to know exactly where his breaking point was and then step away from it. 

Her thighs. Thick, soft, warm…grown-woman thighs. That’s the part that hits him in the chest. She sits on the sofa with them pressed together and he can’t stop looking. She walks around the apartment in those tiny shorts and his mouth goes dry. She crosses her legs slow and he feels that twitch in his sweats every damn time. 

Her taste. Erik knew she’d be sweet. He knew it. But he didn’t expect that. That flavor. That warmth. That addictive, met-on-his-tongue sweetness that ruins men. She tastes like warm skin, slick heat, something naturally sweet, something that coats his tongue and stays there. Something he wants more of every second. He became obsessed with it. So much so that it started haunting him. He’ll be sitting in the kitchen with a glass of water, thinking about the taste between her thighs. He’ll be trying to sleep but he keeps remembering the way his mouth got messy on her. He’ll be in the shower, jaw clenched, palm on the tile, replaying the sound she made when he spread her open with his thumbs and dragged his tongue across all that wetness. Her taste is the reason he stops pretending she don’t got a hold on him. Because once he found out what that pussy tasted like…

He can’t not want it again. And again. And again. He’s calling her greedy but ain’t no way her greed matches his. Erik is hungry for that pussy. Possessive over that pussy. 

Sweetest pussy I ever had. You know I’m comin’ back for that. Don’t give that flavor to nobody else….

How tight her pussy is. When he slid in the first time? Erik damn near forgot his own name. She’s so goddamn right he gotta breathe through it. Gotta hold still. Gotta grip her hips and talk her through opening up because if he move too fast, too soon, he gon’ bust right there. That warm clench around him…the way she hugs every inch…how her pussy tries to pull him deeper…how her walls flutter when she moans…how she get tighter when she says his name. That’s why he gotta fuck her lil’ ass slow sometimes. 

The breathy moans. Oh my god. The softness…the shaky ‘mmm’ when he moves just right. The whisper of ‘Erik” when she’s tryna hold on but can’t. Erik could write whole chapters about that sound. Soft. Breathy. Pretty. Innocent but filthy underneath. The sound of a good girl losing her mind for a grown man. That’s what makes him nuts. That innocence melting. And every time she let out one of those little whimpers? He feels it in his spine. In his chest. In his dick. Her moans are what make him emotional about the sex. The thing he didn’t plan on. The part that binds him to her. That’s why he keeps coming back. Why he can’t leave it alone. Because her body talks to him. Her thighs…her taste…her tightness…her voice. And every part says the same thing.

It’s yours.

Erik’s gaze dropped back down to his lap. His dick was a thick, pulsing column again. Just the thought of her got him standing at attention again. He reached down, his massive, calloused hand wrapping around the girth. He could feel a pulse against the pad of his fingers as he pumped the veiny, rock-hard muscle. He watched the way the skin stretched over the thick veins. With every squeeze, more of that wasted seed spilled out. Thick, pearly ropes of cum leaking from the tip, coating his fingers and smearing across his palm. It was a lot of cum. A heavy load that had been built up through minutes of agonizing torture. 

Erik gripped himself tighter, a low growl vibrating in his throat. This shit should have been buried inside her. He should have pinned her legs back and sat this dick right against the bottom of her pussy, pumping every single drop of this wasted nut with a pulse of his groin until she was overflowing. Hear those pretty little whimpers as he stuffed her full. 

Instead, he was cleaning himself up. 

Erik didn’t just want her back. He wanted to reclaim the dominance she had stolen. He pumped his dick one last time, smearing the excess cum over his tip in. Rough, frustrated motion. He wasn’t just horny. He was hunting. 

The soldier in him had taken over, and Sanaa had just become the most high-priority target of his life. 

5:18 A.M.

The gym lived in a different world before sunrise. No conversations. No crowds. Just steel, rubber flooring, and the steady percussion of plates crashing against barbells. Fluorescent lights reflected off rows of mirrors while the smell of chalk and disinfectant lingered beneath the sharper bite of sweat. 

Erik preferred it this way. 

Nobody asked questions. Nobody recognized him. Nobody expecting anything except another man putting in work. 

He stood at the squat rack rolling his shoulders beneath a fitted black compression shirt that clung to every line across his chest and arms. Dark charcoal shorts stopped just above his knees, revealing powerful quadriceps crisscrossed with veins before the workout had even begun. Black crew socks disappeared into worn training shoes that had seen enough miles to mold themselves around his feet. His locs were pulled back into a low ponytail, thick ropes hanging between his shoulder blades with a few shorter pieces escaping near his temples. Sweat had begun to gather along his hairline despite the hour. 

Erik’s headphones sealed the world away. 

Mona Lisa.

Lil Wayne’s voice filled his ears. 

Erik ducked beneath the loaded barbell and settled it across his back. Four plates. The weight felt familiar. Comfortable. He stepped back, braced, then dropped. The squat was deep enough that his hips disappeared below parallel before he exploded upward again. One. Again. Two. Again. Three. Every rep clean. Every rep angry. Every rep supposed to empty his head. Instead…

Sanaa. 

The first time she says his name. Her scent after a shower. Her laugh. Her eyes rolling whenever he said something she ain’t like. The way she’d glance at him before pretending she hadn’t. Those glasses. The bow-legged walk she does with the little switch in her hips.This the same girl that used to sleep over in Aaliyah’s room? The one that would eat cereal cross-legged in the living room? The shy girl that could barely look at him? 

“Damn.” 

Erik racked the weight harder than necessary. 

She had Jim tripping. Actually tripping. 

Erik pulled one side of his headphones back long enough to catch his own breathing before shoving it into place again. His thumb pressed the volume buttons. 

Louder. Wayne. Kendrick. 

The bass vibrated against his skull. 

It didn’t matter. She was still there. 

Erik walked toward the leg press, loading plate after plate until most people would’ve needed help moving the sled. But Erik was a different breed. His knees folded toward his chest. 

Push. 

The sled climbed. 

Lower. Push. Again. Again. Again. 

His thighs burned. 

Good. 

Maybe pain would do what music couldn’t. Maybe exhaustion would finally knock her loose.

Nope. 

Because there she was again. In her oversized t-shirts she’d somehow managed to make look better than anything designed by a fashion house. With those glossy lips looking at him because she knew the effect she had. Staring at him like she wasn’t scared of him. That sas the dangerous part. Most people kept a healthy distance, but Sanaa kept getting closer. 

Erik finished the set until his legs trembled, then sat forward with his forearms resting on his thighs, breathing through his nose. 

You gotta get it together, he thought. 

Erik stood before he could think too hard about the words. 

Walking lunges came next. Heavy dumbbells. Eighty pounds in each hand. 

Step. Lower. Drive through the heel. Step. Lower. Drive. 

His forearms tightened around the knurled handles while every muscle below his waist demanded mercy. Erik welcomed it. The mirror caught him halfway across the turf. Broad shoulders. Compression shift darkened by sweat, revealing the raised scars along his torso and arms. Gold chain tucked beneath the collar. Locs swinging lightly with every stride. A man who looked completely in control. 

Only he knew better. Because everytime his mind cleared…there she was. Her voice. Her smile. The little crease beside her nose whenever she tried not to laugh. 

This don’t make no damn sense. 

Romanian deadlifts. Hamstring curls. Bulgarian split squats. Calf raises until his calves cramped beneath his own bodyweight. An hour became an hour and a half. Then two hours. His legs felt like concrete. His shirt clung to him like a second layer of skin. Sweat traced the tattooed landscape of his arms before disappearing beneath the compression fabric. 

His phone vibrated inside his gym bag as he reached for his towel. 

One notification. 

Aaliyah: Can you be our designated driver tomorrow night big bro? The girlies wanna hit these D.C streets and drinks will be in rotation so I’m tryna be responsible. Please and thank youuuuuuu ☺️ 

His heartbeat had betrayed him before he looked and realized it was his little sister. For one ridiculous second, he hoped it was her. 

Erik shook his head at himself, grabbed the phone. And laughed under his breath. 

Damn, lil’ mama. What you doin’ to me? 

Erik slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the locker room. 

Erik: Aight 🙄

______

Sanaa stirred in her bed, sheets twisted around her legs, body aching deep, thighs trembling as she moved. A whimper slipped out before she could catch it. She blinked awake, the soreness hitting her all at once. Her hips. Her ass. The tender spots between her legs that pulsed from the night before. She lifted the hem of her oversized tee with shaky fingers, marks blooming across the curve of her waist, dark little reminders pressed into her skin. She traced one with her thumb, biting her lip when the pressure made her thighs twitch again. 

Killmonger had her going stupid on the dick last night. 

Flashes of memory shown behind her closed lids. 

Her bouncing. Him picking her up in the air to drop her down in his dick. The slow grind-thrust he did that made her dizzy. How she came more than three times and still had the drive to ride him. Not once. Twice. The look of defeat in his eyes. The way he said her name all weak and pussy-drunk. How his big, strong hands gripped, pinned, caressed, and stilled her body. It was addictive fucking Erik. 

Sanaa rolled over until her feet dangled over the side of her bed. She braced herself before pushing off, knees weak. She needed to stretch. There was no was she would be going out tonight in heels and twerking if she couldn’t even stand on two feet. She walked over to her walk-in closet and grabbed her yoga mat. She got into her first position. Her elbows pressed gently against the insides of her knees, easing them apart while she rocked from side to side, loosening joints that still carried last night’s workout.

She flowed into a ninety-ninety hip stretch next, one leg folded in front of her, the other tucked behind. Her fingertips rested lightly on the mat as she leaned forward until she felt the stretch bloom through her glutes and hips. She lingered there, breathing evenly before switching sides. Cat-cows followed, her spine rolling one vertebra at a time, then slow world’s greatest stretches that opened her hip flexors, hamstrings, and thoracic spine all at once.

By the time she finished with a few kneeling ankle rocks and controlled knee-over-toe lunges, warmth had replaced stiffness. Her hips felt lighter. Her knees tracked smoothly. She rose from the mat with an easy smile, bouncing once on the balls of her feet feeling stronger than she had fifteen minutes before. 

Sanaa could almost see him. The massive, scarred warrior reduced to a shaking mess. The memory of it sent a fresh throb between her thighs.  She had ridden him. Every inch of that thick, veiny dick stretching her open, pushing her to the brink. She had felt his control slipping, heard the way his breath hitched and his voice grew ragged. Begging to fill her pussy up. And then, at the absolute peak, when he was practically sobbing for it, she had simply slid off him. 

Sanaa remembered the look of sheer, stunned betrayal on his face as she stood up, leaving him stranded. He had cum so hard just from the sudden loss of her gushy pussy, his nut erupting in thick, wasted ropes that coated his own stomach and thighs. He had been left to drown in his own cum, a ruined man, while Sanaa fluffed her hair and walked away without a backward glance. And she was glad she didn’t. Because she may have caved. 

In that moment, Sanaa had felt an intoxicating surge of power. It wasn’t just about the sex. It was the psychological victory. She was a petite woman. A slim-thick frame that he could practically snap in half if he wanted to, yet she had brought him to his knees without lifting a finger—well she did lift that pussy up and down his dick. She had made a man of his stature, a ruthless killer and a dominant force of nature crumble. It made her feel like a goddess. A true woman who knew exactly how to wield her sexuality as a weapon. The contrast—his raw, masculine aggression versus her soft, bratty rigor—had been the ultimate aphrodisiac. 

The triumph began to morph into a delectable, trembling anticipation. 

Sanaa knew Erik. She knew that a man like him didn’t just take a loss. He planned a counter-attack. By leaving him like that, she hadn’t just won a round. She had issued a challenge. She could almost feel his possessive rage simmering. The dark, hungry fire that would be waiting for her the next time they were in the same room. 

Her thoughts went from ‘that dick is the reason I keep playing with myself’ to ‘that dick is the reason I’m scared to let him fuck me’ to ‘that dick is the reason I keep letting him fuck me.’ 

A shiver ran down her spine, her pussy quivering instinctively. Sanaa was practically craving the moment he would decide he’d had enough of her games. She imagined his massive hand wrapping around her throat, pinning her down with a full weight of his muscular body, his voice a low, dangerous growl in her ear telling her exactly how he was going to punish her for her audacity. She wanted him to tame her. She wanted to feel that dominance return with a vengeance. To be stuffed full of his cum. To be gagged by his dick. A physical reminder that while she could play with fire, he was the one who owned the flame. The thought of being completely overwhelmed by him, of having her bratty confidence crushed under all that muscle, those scars, those tattoos, made her ache. 

She was just about to go and take a shower when a knock hit the door. Before she could answer, Aaliyah pushed it open and stepped inside. 

“Gurl. You still sleep? It’s almost twelve in the afternoon, sis.” 

“I could have been in here flicking my bean.” Sanaa throws back, rolling her eyes. 

Aaliyah flopped down at the foot of the bed, phone in her hand. 

“Jordan been blowing me up all morning talkin’ ‘bout he sorry. I got his ass blocked so fast he prolly still typing. I ain’t got time for that nigga and his weak-ass bars or that dusty podcast he keep pushin’. He can keep that energy over there.” 

“For how long before you end up taking him back, Liyah?” Sanaa replied with amusement. 

“I swear I’m not this time. Plus, I’m leaving for my fellowship in three days. I wanna turn up and forget his ass. Maybe I’ll run into a new man and have a little fun. Who knows.” 

Aliyah poked her tongue out. Sanaa laughed. 

“Naima coming over to stay the night. The other girlies will be here tomorrow. And I texted Erik to ask if he can be our bodyguard for the night. He said aight.” 

Sanaa had a visceral reaction to the sound of his name. She played it off with a chuckle and a shoulder shrug.

“That was sweet of him. Maybe he can have some fun instead of staying cooped up in here.” 

“Gurl, I can say the same for you.”

“What?” Sanaa looked over at Aaliyah. 

“Nothing.” 

Aaliyah stretched out, back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Sanaa pretended to scroll through her planner on her iPad, but every slight movement of her weight sent a fresh ache rolling through her pussy. She pressed her knees together under the desk, trying to breath steady. 

Aaliyah’s silence made Sanaa glance over to her best friend. She had this look on her face. Her usual chattiness halted.

“You good, Liyah?” 

“Yeah,” Aaliyah said, but her voice dragged a little. She looked like she had more sitting on her tongue, something heavy, but she just sat up instead. “I gotta get ready anyway.” 

She stood, crossing the room, and reached out to squeeze Sanaa’s shoulder—hard. The way she always did when she was feeling playful. Sanaa shoved her in return. 

“Don’t be all day in here, bitch. I ordered us breakfast from that corner bakery we like. And some macha!” 

11:08 A.M. 

Washington, D.C. 

Maple syrup. Butter. And fresh matcha. 

Aaliyah had ordered breakfast from the little bakery around the corner that everyone on campus swore by. Empty brown paper bags sat folded on the kitchen island beside two half-finished iced matches, their cups beaded with condensation. Flaky crumbs from croissant breakfast sandwiches littered white napkins, evidence that neither woman had been particularly concerned with eating neatly. Sanaa leaned against the island, one hip resting against the quartz countertop while she absently stirred the last bit of ice in her drink. 

Fresh out of the shower, she looked nothing like the woman she’d become once makeup and a dress entered the equation. Her dark curls were piled into a messy bun high on her head, loose ringlets escaping around her temples and the back of her neck. Gold hoops decorated her ears. A pair of turquoise tortoise shell glasses rested low on her nose while she scrolled through her phone. She wore charcoal yoga leggings that hugged her hips down to her calves, igniting her curves, a matching sports bra, and soft cream house slippers. Her lips glistened with caramel gloss and her skin still carried that fresh-out-the-shower glow because of the shower oil she’d used. Saltwater Vanilla. Comfort looked dangerously good on her.

Across from her, Aaliyah looked equally at home. She’d pulled on an oversized Howard University T-shirt that swallowed her frame and. Pair of black biker shorts. White crew socks disappeared into fuzzy tan slippers, and her hair had been gathered into a sleek puff. Her face was completely bare except for mascara and lip balm, making her look younger than twenty-two. She took another sip of her macha and sighed dramatically. 

“I don’t even wanna get dressed.” 

Sanaa laughed without looking up. “You literally planned this.” 

“I know.” Aaliyah frowned into her cup. “Planning it and participating are two different things.” 

“You got a whole fellowship to celebrate, sis. Then, you graduate. Be happy.” 

“I know.” Aaliyah said. 

“You begged us to come.” 

“I know, bitch.” Aaliyah said.

“So…”

“I still don’t wanna put on lashes.” 

Sanaa shook her head. “You don’t wanna sit and get your lashes done. And you don’t wanna put on the strip. Lazy.” 

“I’m preserving my energy.”

Sanaa scuffed. “You sound eighty.” 

“I feel eighty.” 

A knock sounded through the apartment. Three quick raps. Before either woman could move, Erik stepped into the hallway. 

He’d already showered too, but it seems he forgot to put on a shirt. And why are his athletic shorts dangerously low on his waist like that? The locs gathered up into a messy bun? A silver cross sitting between his pecs? 

What the fuck? 

“I got it.” He said. 

He started toward the front door. Then, he looked up. 

His eyes landed on Sanaa. 

Everything inside him stalled for half a heartbeat. She wasn’t dressed up. She wasn’t even trying. She was standing there with messy hair, glasses, slippers, and gloss, lazily drinking matcha while sunlight poured across her skin. 

Cute. Comfy. Entirely too familiar. 

His gaze lingered just long enough for her to notice. She looked up over the rim of her glasses. Their eyes met. The corner of her mouth threatened to lift. Just a little. 

He recovered first. 

“I’ll get the door.” 

His voice sounded perfectly normal. 

Erik turned the handle. A delivery driver stood outside holding an oversized edible arrangement. 

“Delivery for…Sanaa Carter?” 

“Yeah. Thanks homie.” 

The driver handed it over, offered a quick you’re welcome, and disappeared down the hallway. Erik nudged the door shut with his foot while balancing the arrangement in one hand. Chocolate covered strawberries. Pineapple flowers. Melon. Grapes. The whole thing sat in a decorative brown container wrapped with a bright green bow. As he walked toward the dining table, he spotted the small white envelope tucked between the fruit. 

He pulled it free. Read it. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. 

“Hm.” 

He set the arrangement down. 

Both women immediately wandered over. 

“Oooo,” Aaliyah sang. “Who got an Edible Arrangement?!” 

Sanaa laughed. “Jordan with his sympathy gift.” 

Erik looked at her. Then at the card. Then back at her. He held the card out. A slight curl of his plush top lip. 

“It’s for you, Bri.” 

Sanaa accepted it. Her brow lifted as she read it allowed.

“A sweet bouquet for a sweet girl. I hope this brightens your day, beautiful. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Signed…Nathan.” 

She smiled. Just a little. “Oh.” 

Aaliyah gasped so dramatically she nearly dropped her drink. “Oooooooooooh!!!”

Sanaa rolled her eyes. “Girl.” 

“No.” Aaliyah pointed at the arrangement. “Not him sending you and Edible Arrangement, bitch!” 

Sanaa laughed. “He’s thoughtful.” 

“He tryna say you edible, sis.” 

Sanaa burst into laughter, nudging Aaliyah out of the way with her hip. “Aaliyah!”

“I’m serious! What he tryna say you taste like pineapples?” 

She leaned closer to inspect one of the chocolate-covered strawberries. “Mhmmmm. You left your mark on him, Bri.” 

Wanna shook her head, unable to stop smiling. “It is kinda sweet.” 

“It is sweet. Thoughtful.” Aaliyah said. 

She carefully lifted one of the pineapple flowers by the stem, admiring how it had been carved. “This is actually really pretty.” 

Across the table, Erik stared at the arrangement like it had personally offended him. There was silence. Long silence. Then…

“…Fruit look old.” 

The women turned toward him. Sanaa blinked. Aaliyah fought back a laugh. 

“What?” Sanaa said.

Erik pointed. “That grape wrinkled.” 

“It is not.” 

“It definitely is. You got glasses in you can’t see that?” 

Aaliyah squinted. “It kinda…” 

Sanaa immediately defended the fruit. “It is not wrinkled.” 

“It look tired.” Erik said. 

Aaliyah giggled, staring between them. 

Sanaa had to laugh herself. “Fruit get tired, E?” 

Erik put his hands up, biceps flexing in a way that almost broke Sanaa’s composure. 

“I’m just tellin’ you what I’m seein’.” He leaned slightly closer. “And then flowers…”

“What flowers?” 

“The pineapple.”

Sanaa looked. “They’re cute.” 

“They look like they wiltin’.” 

Aaliyah turned away laughing quietly to herself. 

“It’s carved fruit.”

“Mm.” Erik nodded once. “Cheap-ass edible plant.” 

Sanaa folded her arms. “You a haterrr.”

“I ain’t hatin’.”

“You absolutely hatin’. On fruit though? If you wanted some all you had to do was ask, E.” 

Aaliyah laughed so hard she grabbed the counter. “Oh my God.” She dabbed her eyes. “Whew! Ya’ll funny!”

Erik continued studying it with the same expression someone might reserve for a suspicious car engine. 

“I’ve seen better strawberries.”

“You are ridiculous.” 

“I’m honest.” 

Sanaa picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry and held it toward him. “You want one, meany?” 

“Nah.” 

“You sure?” 

“I’m positive, B–” he caught himself. “Bri.” 

“You don’t even know if it’s good and you judging.” 

“I know enough.” 

Sanaa took a bite instead. The chocolate cracked softly. Her eyes widened. 

“Mmmm.” 

Aaliyah immediately reached for one too. She took a bite, eyes widening. “Oh, that’s good! Fruit taste fresh to me.” 

Erik watched both of them eating. Still unimpressed. 

“…chocolate doin’ all the work—”

Sanaa laughed so hard she nearly choked. “You are a professional hater.” 

“I call shit like I see it.” Erik fired back. 

“You jealous of fruit, big bro?” Aaliyah teased.

“I ain’t jealous of shit. Give me a reason to be.” 

“You sound jealous, E.” Sanaa said.

Erik looked at the arrangement one last time before shaking his head. “Hope the nigga kept the receipt.” 

With that, he turned and walked into the living room as if the conversation had exhausted him. Behind him, the girls dissolved into another fit of laughter. From the sofa, Erik could see Sanaa on her phone. She brought it to her ear, and the minute she spoke Nathan’s name Erik’s jaw ticked.

He leaned back, picked up the TV remote, and stared at the blank screen without turning it on. 

An Edible Arrangement? Out of everything that man could’ve sent…fruit. 

Erik rubbed a hand over his beard.

Ain’t even send her flowers. 

His eyes drifted toward the dining room where Sanaa was still smiling with the phone pressed to her ear while Aaliyah teased her. 

His mouth flattened. 

Cheap-ass fruit.

Another knock echoed through the apartment. Aaliyah looked up from the edible arrangement and grinned.

“That gotta be Naima.”

She hurried to the front door and pulled it open. Naima stepped inside with an overnight bag slung over one shoulder, dressed in an oversized white linen button-down over black slim-fit jeans and clean white sneakers. Her twist-out framed her face perfectly, her large almond eyes immediately finding the people gathered around the dining table.

“There she is,” Aaliyah said, wrapping her in a quick hug.

“Congratulations again, Fellowship Girl.”

“You gon’ make me cry.”

Naima smiled before making her rounds. She hugged Sanaa tightly.

“Hey, pretty.”

“Hey, Nai.”

She lifted a hand toward Erik. “Hey, Erik.”

He nodded once. “Naima.”

Her attention drifted to the centerpiece on the table.

“…Hold on.” She leaned in. “Who sent that?”

Aaliyah didn’t even give Sanaa a chance to answer. “Nathan.”

Naima’s eyebrows climbed. “Oh, he trying.”

Sanaa laughed, turning the little card over in her fingers. “I told you he’s sweet.”

“Mmm.” Naima examined one of the chocolate-covered strawberries. “He definitely scored some points.”

Aaliyah sighed dramatically, the smile slipping from her face.

“Meanwhile…” She folded her arms. “I’m officially done with Jordan.”

Naima’s expression softened immediately. Without saying a word, she rubbed slow circles across Aaliyah’s back.

“I know.”

Aaliyah let out a long breath. “I’m over it.”

“You keep saying that.”

“This time I mean it.”

Naima studied her for a second before hooking an arm through hers. “C’mon.”

“Where we going?”

“I need details.”

Aaliyah groaned. “I knew you was gon’ interrogate me.”

“Damn right.”

The two disappeared down the hallway toward Aaliyah’s bedroom, their voices fading behind a closing door. Sanaa watched them go with an amused smile before reaching for another chocolate-covered strawberry. From the living room, Erik glanced toward the edible arrangement again.

He still looked unconvinced.

______

Sanaa was sitting at the dining table, talking to Nathan on the phone. She had it on speaker, completely aware of Erik sitting in the living room. This felt like déjà vu. The last time she was talking on the phone with Nathan, she had a mouth full of Erik’s dick.

“Mhm. I wanted to tell you thank you. It was really sweet.”

“I’m glad it made it.”

“It definitely did.” Sanaa walked over and plucked a chocolate-covered strawberry from the arrangement. “Aaliyah and I have already been picking at it.”

“So it passed inspection?”

“It passed with flying colors.”

She bit into the chocolate strawberry, eyes flicking over to Erik. He sat back, legs wide and swinging, eyeing her with an unblinking stare that did the opposite of what he intended it to do. It only made her pussy wet. When will he realize that those looks don’t get the reaction he’s looking for? 

“I was hoping you’d like it.”

“I do. I really do.” Her voice softened. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I can’t stop thinking about you. Ya’ll going out tomorrow night right? For Aaliyah?”

Erik isn’t saying a word to her, but his eyes are locked on her, dark and tracking the way she smiles. The way she makes her voice all sweet. He grabs his phone beside him quick. 

Her phone buzzes in her hand.

Erik: Come here Miss Carter. 

Sanaa glances at him, a bratty smirk playing on her lips. She doesn’t move an inch, keeping her gaze fixed forward as she responds to Nathan. Sanaa smiled to herself before taking a bite of the strawberry.

“That’s dangerous.”

“What?”

“You getting thoughtful this early.”

Nathan laughed. “I didn’t realize kindness came with a waiting period.”

“I’m just saying…now you’re setting expectations.”

“I can live with that.”

She shook her head, smiling wider.

Buzz.

Erik: I ain’t gon ask you again. Get over here.

Sanaa bites her lip, feeling the heat radiating off him. She types back quickly, her thumb flying across the screen while Nathan continues to ramble. 

Sanaa: Sorry daddy. Aaliyah and Naima. We can’t do nothing 😔 

Erik’s expression doesn’t change, but his jaw tightens. He don’t give a fuck who in the apartment. The only thought running through his mind is her disobeying him. 

Erik: I don’t give a fuck about that, Bri. If you don’t move that ass over here right now, I’m a come get you. And I won’t be gentle about it.

Sanaa shivers, her pussy giving a sudden, wet throb. She can feel the weight of his gaze on her chest, imagining those huge, calloused hands gripping her waist and tossing her over his shoulder. 

Sanaa: You so damn dramatic lol. All because he sent me fruit 😂. Mad you got competition? 

Erik lets out a low, silent huff of a laugh. He shifts his weight, the fabric of his shorts straining against the thick, heavy length of his dick. He remembers last night clearly. The way she’d taken him, the raw, desperate energy of it. The bounce of that ass. The creamy mess. Nathan ain’t got shit on him. 

Erik: Since you wanna play...tell me something. Why you ride my dick like that last night? Huh? 

Sanaa’s breath hitches. She almost forgets to answer Nathan. 

“You know,” he continued, “I remembered you saying you liked fruit more than candy, so it seemed like an easy decision.”

“You remembered that?”

“Course I did.”

“See…” she teased. “Now you showing off.”

“Nah. I just pay attention.”

Sanaa: I don’t know what you’re talking about 😇 I’m innocent. 

Erik: Stop fucking playing. You was shaking. Taking every inch of this dick like you was starving for it. You rode me until I was seeing stars, then you just...left.

Sanaa: I didn't leave. I just finished.

Erik: Finished? You left me leaking all over myself. My chest, my stomach...just a fucking mess of cum cuz you decided you was done. 

Sanaa feels a surge of power, remembering the look on his face—the ruthless soldier reduced to a shaking, overstimulated mess because of her. She types back, her voice sounding breathy as she tells Nathan, “Well…thank you. Seriously. It made my day.”

Sanaa: You liked it. you loved how much of a mess I made of you. Let’s not play pretend Killmonger. 

Erik:Thing is I ain’t gotta pretend. I loved it. Now I wanna do it back. I wanna see you dripping. 

He watches her, his eyes dropping to her legs. He knows exactly what she’s wearing—or rather, what she isn’t. Them yoga pants and got no panties underneath. 

Erik: Stand up.

Sanaa: what? Nathan is still talking 😒

Erik: Fuck that nigga. Stand up and put some shorts on. 

Sanaa looked back at Erik. The risk of Aaliyah walking in is high, but the look in Erik’s eyes tells her that if she don’t obey, he’s going to stop texting and start taking.

Sanaa: you a menace. 😩

Erik: And that pussy wet. Now move.

Sanaa slipped into her room, her heart hammering against her ribs. She took off her yoga pants and grabbed a pair of thin, grey cotton shorts. Exactly what Erik wanted. Way too small, the fabric stretched tight over her curves and designed to ride up the second she moved. She slid them on, completely bottomless underneath. Waxed pussy lips against the crotch of the shorts. They clung to her hips and barely covered the swell of her bubble booty. 

On her way out of the room, she could have sworn she’d heard a sharp intake of breath coming from Aaliyah’s room. 

Sanaa brushed it off as she walked back out into the living area, her walk nothing but bow legs and cheeks swaying, knowing exactly how the fabric was hiking up. Erik was waiting, his massive frame lounging back, but his eyes were like lasers, tracking the way her cheeks peeked out from under the hem.

On the speakerphone, Nathan’s voice was smooth, oblivious. 

“So,” he asked, “does this mean I earned another date?”

She laughed. “You asking or assuming?”

“I’m asking. Confidently.”

“You coming out tomorrow, right?” 

“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” 

The moment the words “see you tonight” left Nathan’s mouth, Erik’s expression darkened. A flicker of pure, possessive rage crossed his face. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck cording. He didn’t like the idea of Nathan touching what belonged to him, especially not when he had her dripping and desperate right here. Wearing the shorts he told her to put on. Looking down at him like she knew who lap she was sitting in. 

Without a word, Erik reached out and gripped her hip, yanking her forward with a strength that left no room for argument. He guided her to straddle his right thigh. He was wearing loose athletic shorts, the fabric thin enough that she could feel the radiating heat of his skin and the rock-hard density of the muscle beneath. As she settled onto him, Erik ain’t waste a second. He brought both of his massive hands up, cupping the cheeks of her ass and squeezing the flesh with a bruising grip. He started to rub, his palms kneading her curves, pushing the thin fabric of her shorts deep into her crack. He was marking her, claiming every inch of her skin while another man’s voice filled the room.

"Sanaa? You still with me?" Nathan asked.

Sanaa gasped, her voice hitching. “Yeah...yeah, I–I’m here, Nathan.”

Erik leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear, then his tongue darted out to flick her earlobe, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that only she could feel. “Don’t let him hear you shake, you just might hurt his feelings, baby,” he whispered, the command cutting through her.

He shifted his grip. He took one large hand and pressed it firmly against the small of her lower back, pinning her against him. With the other hand, he kept a tight, controlling grip on her hip. He didn’t just want her to move, he wanted her to work for it.

“Roll your spine,” he breathed into her ear, his voice thick with authority. “Grind it. I wanna feel every bit of that wet pussy rubbing against me. Right fuckin’ now. Before I let your little nigga know his crush gettin’ slutted out by her best friend brother.” 

Chills.

Sanaa obeyed, her body trembling. She began to arch her back, rolling her hips in a slow, circular motion. Because he was wearing shorts, there was almost no barrier. The hard, ridged muscle of his quad pressed directly into her clit and the opening of her pussy. It felt like rubbing herself against a warm, living pillar of granite. Every time she rolled her hips, the friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core, making her internal muscles clench violently.

Erik watched her face with a sly smirk. The one with the single dimple peeking. The one that drove Sanaa crazy. He loved the way her eyes fluttered, the way she bit her lip to keep from moaning. But even in the height of the grind, the soldier in him remained vigilant. His eyes flicked toward the hallway, scanning for any sign of Aaliyah or Naima, his instincts honed for stealth and surveillance. The risk of being caught only added to the filth of it.

“Sanaa, you sound...distracted. Everything aight?” Nathan asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.

“I’m—I’m good. What were you saying?” 

“Nothing important, just saying shit. Hahaha…so uh…what you doin’?” 

Mm—uh, reading. Reading—uhhh, sorry the words are like bluring together right now I think I might need a nap.”

Erik quietly laughed, then whispered. “Nasty ass Edible Arrangement.” 

Sanaa’s giggle was muffled against Erik’s neck. 

“I don’t want you falling asleep on the phone, Sanaa. Get your beauty rest, baby girl.” 

Erik presses his lips to her ear. “Listen to him...talkin’ all that sweet shit. Does he know you shakin’ for me right now? Does he know how wet you are for a real man?” Erik kissed along her jaw. “Answer him, Sanaa. Tell him you’re ‘just relaxin’ While you grindin’ on my thigh...tell him how relaxed you are.”

“I’m just really relaxed right now.” Sanaa watched Erik’s hands smooth up her thighs to cup her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples through her sports bra. “Really…I…mmm.”

“Mmm? What type of relaxin’ you doin’, girl?”  Nathan chuckled. 

Erik’s hand on her back pressed harder, forcing her to grind deeper, more aggressively. He flexed his thigh muscle, the hard mass pulsing upward, driving directly into her sensitive spot. But right there. Beside his thigh. His dick that’s equal parts long and thick, pulsed and jumped. This lil’ freaky bitch get him so fired up. He flared his nostrils, eyes fixed on her with that low, hazy look, high off her body working his thigh. 

Sanaa looked down at his dick. Her breath hitched.

“Woah…Sanaa?”

“Mhm.” Sanaa buried her face in Erik’s neck. 

“Are you…I don’t wanna assume shit but uh…are you…touching yourself?” 

“Go ‘head, baby. Tell him you’re thinkin’ about him. Tell him while you feel my dick twitch against your leg...tell him he’s the only thing on your mind.”

He was really playing right now. Sanaa wasn’t about to back down. She licked her lips, her gaze locked with Erik’s while she spoke. 

 Sanaa bites her bottom lip. “You’re the only thing on my mind, Nathan…” her fingers crept down until they settled on the stiff pole sitting between his legs. He was hot to the touch. “I’m thinking about you…”

“Damn…really? And what are you doin’ that got you thinkin’ about me?” 

“You shakin’, lil’ mama. Is that for him? Or is it ‘cause you know I’m about to make you leak all over these floors the second you hang up?”

“Sanaa?” 

“Ride it for real,” Erik whispered, his breath hot against her neck. "Put your weight into it. Show me how much you want this. Who you think you is teasing me? Huh? Nah…you teasing him. Got him thinkin’ you touching yourself to thoughts of him…ttsk…such a bad girl, Sanaa…”

Sanaa let out a muffled whimper, her hips jumping in a desperate effort. She was riding his thigh like it was the only thing keeping her grounded, her pussy soaking the thin fabric of her shorts and moistening his thigh. The feeling was overwhelming. The combination of his commanding presence, the rough texture of the shorts, and the sheer power of his leg beneath her. She felt small, fragile, and completely dominated.

Sanaa tried to lean away for a second, her bratty instinct wanting to tease him, but Erik’s grip tightened, snapping her back against him. He placed both hands on her waist and repositioned her on his thigh. 

“I ain’t tell you to stop,” Erik growled softly, his voice a warning. “Keep grindin’. Every time he speaks, you move faster. You my little toy right now, and you gon’ do exactly what the fuck I say.”

“I’m thinkin’ about what I’d let you do to m–me when I see you.” Sanaa managed to stammer out to Nathan, her voice trembling.

As soon as the words left her mouth, Erik accelerated the pace, his thigh flexing upward in a punishing motion that forced her to bounce. She was jumping on his thigh now, her pussy slamming against the hard muscle with every movement. The friction was intense, bordering on too much pressure, but it was the kind of ache that made her crave him more.

She was right on the edge, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. She looked into Erik’s eyes and saw the absolute control he held over her. He wasn’t just fucking her with his leg. He was breaking her will, reminding her that no matter who she talked to or where she went, she belonged to the soldier.

Sanaa’s eyes flashed with a dangerous, bratty spark. She didn’t just want to be dominated. She wanted to push Erik until he snapped, to see that disciplined soldier persona crumble into raw, possessive rage. With a sudden, fluid movement, Sanaa lifted off his thigh and straddled his lap completely. She sat down heavy on him, her pussy pressing directly against the massive, rock-hard bulge stretching the fabric of his shorts. She leaned back slightly, her chest heaving, the phone pressed to her ear. Her voice changed. It became honeyed, dripping with a fake, innocent sweetness that was designed to drive Erik insane. 

“I can’t wait to get you back to my room. I really want to see what you’re working with…see if you can handle me.” 

As the words left her lips, Sanaa began to move. She didn’t just move, she started pressing her weight down, rotating her hips so that her clit rubbed directly against the thick, veined lengths of his dick through the cloth. She was grinding her pussy over his fat bulge, seeking every inch of that hard pipe, her eyes locked onto Erik’s. 

Erik went completely still. His body became a statue of coiled muscle, his hands gripping the edges of the seat so hard his knuckles bulged like they were trying to break skin. He didn’t move a muscle, but his eyes—dark, hooded, and burning—were fixed on her face. He watched her lips move, heard her offer herself to another man, all while she used his own dick as a rubbing post. The mixture of rage and arousal in Erik’s gaze was suffocating. He looked like he wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck her into a fucked-out coma right there. 

On the other end of the line, Nathan’s voice came through, sounding warm, eager, and completely oblivious to the filth happening on the other side. 

“You killin’ me, Sanaa,” Nathan chuckled, his tone respectful but clearly aroused. “Trust me, I can handle you. I’m gonna take my time with you…make sure you’re completely taken care of. I wanna make you feel everything.”

Sanaa let out a soft, shaky moan, one that sounded like it was for Nathan, but was actually a reaction to the way Erik’s dick twitched beneath her. She increased the pace, grinding harder, her hips snapping forward to rock her pussy against the tip of his dick. She was practically begging for him to break, her eyes challenging him, daring him to drop her or take her. 

“Mmm, you sound so confident,” Sanaa whispered into the phone, her voice breaking as she felt Erik’s hardness pulse against her. “I hope you can keep that same energy when I’m under you. I’m a lot to handle, Nathan…I don’t know if you’re ready for me.” 

Nathan let out a low, breathy laugh. “Try me. I’ll show you exactly what I’m capable of. I’m counting down the hours until I can get my hands on you.” 

Erik’s jaw clenched so tight a vein popped in his temple. He could smell that wet ass pussy leaking through her thin shorts and soaking into his own. The fact that she was using his dick to get herself off while promising herself to that little nigga was a level of disrespect that made his blood boil.

She was selling him a false story because ain’t no fucking way Nathan getting his hands on Sanaa. 

Erik’s hand suddenly shot up, his thick fingers wrapping firmly around the back of her neck. His grip was a silent command. He pulled her head back slightly, forcing her to look down at him while she continued to grind on his bulge. His eyes told her everything: you think this a game? You think you’re in control? Just wait until I get this phone out of your hand.

“I’m gon’ fuck the memory of that nigga right out your head. You won’t even remember how to spell his name by the time I’m done wit’ you.” Erik whispered.

On the other end of the line, Nathan was completely caught in her web, his voice thick with a hunger he didn’t realize was being fueled by another man’s dick. 

“Sanaa…damn, I can practically feel you, baby,” Nathan groaned, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m literally counting down the seconds. I’m gonna make you scream my name tomorrow night.” 

Sanaa let out a shaky, breathy laugh, her hips rolling in a slow, agonizing circle over Erik’s bulge. The sheer size of him stretching the material of his shorts. She looked Erik dead in the eyes, her expression a mix of bratty defiance and raw lust. 

“Mmm, I wish I could stay on the phone, Nathan,” she whispered, her voice dripping with a fake regret that made Erik’s grip on her neck tighten. “But I gotta hang up now. I’ll see you later, okay?” 

“Already?” Nathan sounded genuinely bummed, his disappointment palpable. He was clearly hard as a rock on the other end, left hanging by the very woman who was currently using a soldier’s dick as a rubbing post for her kitty. “You’re killing me, Sanaa. Seriously.” He paused, his tone transitioning to something more possessive. “You owe me for this. Big time.” 

“I know I do,” Sanaa cooed, and then she clicked the phone off. 

Sanaa tossed her phone quick fast and with a renewed hunger she crushed her pussy against the thick ridge of his dick, tilting her pelvis so that her clit could get most of the friction. 

Erik’s voice came out as a low, dangerous growl, vibrating against her chest. “You a little liar, ain’t you?” He hissed. “Lying to that lil’ nigga, telling him you gin’ give him some pussy…knowing damn well you ain’t giving him a fucking drop of what belongs to me.” 

“Oh, so this pussy belongs to you now? Since when?” 

Erik brought his hand around to the front of her neck now. Sanaa gasped, her back arching as she rolled her hips, feeling the head of his dick press firmly against her clit each time she drew her hips back. The sensation was electric. 

“Tell me the truth, you fuckin’ brat,” Erik commanded, his other hand gripping her waist with a bruising force. He dug his fingers into her hip, anchoring her. “Who…” Erik rolled his hips up. “Pussy…” he did it again, his dick sliding between her pussy lips through her shorts. “Is…” when he did it again, Sanaa’s breath caught. “This…”

Sanaa bit her lip, eyes fluttering as she ground down harder, pussy clenching in a desperate need to be filled. “Yours,” she whimpered, the word barely a whisper. “It’s yours, Killmonger…”

His nervous system shifted to DEFCON without asking his permission. The sensation hit him the way a snapped tripwire hits a man who’s survived enough war to know the explosion always comes a heartbeat later. 

“That’s right,” he grunted, his voice getting nastier. “Grinding that lil’ pussy on this dick so good like that. Fuck…you ridin’ my lap like you need me to nut just like this…”

“You tryna stop me or you tryna fuck me, Mr. Killmonger?”

His dick was so hard. So hard. Erik couldn’t even remember being dry humped. But the way she was doing it…

“You talk tough but this pussy got you holdin’ your breath.” She leans in, tongue darting out to lick the side of his face, “This the part where you grip me, bend me, and fuck the brat outta me, right? You don’t gotta pull it out yet…let me tease it a little first…”

“You know what you doin’. That’s the part that fuck me up.” Erik whispered. 

Sanaa didn’t answer with words, she answered with a deep roll of her pelvis, sliding her wetness across the length of him. She could feel the way his dick jumped against her clit. 

Erik stared at her, his eyes a dark mixture of lust and genuine disbelief. “I don’t even know how the fuck you this fine.” He muttered, his voice raw. “It don’t make no fucking sense how you look this good while being this nasty.” 

Sanaa leaned in closer to his face, her lips almost brushing his, tilting her head with a slow blink and a bite of her lip. 

“I know I’m special…you remember how it sounded the first time I creamed on your dick, daddy?” 

Erik’s jaw flexed and his nostrils flared. “I laid your little ass out. That was supposed to be the only time you get this dick…” 

“If it was only supposed to be one time…why your dick tryna talk to me again?” 

Inside his own body, the pressure was building to a breaking point. Erik could feel the blood gorging his dick, making it feel oversized and tight, the skin stretched to its absolute limit. Every time she dipped her hips, pressing her weight down on him, he felt the blunt force of her pelvic bone hitting his pubic bone, a heavy thud that vibrated through his entire body. The stiffness was an ache, a demanding, throbbing need to burst through the barrier and bury himself deep in her little pussy. He felt pre-cum leaking from his tip, lubricating the friction, making the slide of her pussy against him feel smoother, filthier, and more urgent. 

Erik watched her face—the bratty, confident look she wore—and it only made his dick twitch harder. He could feel the pulsing of his own heartbeat in his dick, a heavy, thumping cadence that matched the pace of her grinding. The sensation of her radiating through the cloth, the way she seemed to mold herself perfectly to the curve of his dick, made him feel like he was being consumed.

“You feel that, daddy?” Sanaa whispered, her lips grazing his earlobe. “You feel how fucking wet I am for you? I want you to stretch me out again…say the word and I’ll slide this pussy on, daddy…real slow. Or you scared of it now?”

Erik’s eyes flicked toward the hall when he heard faint laughter coming from Aaliyah’s room. 

“Sanaa…you don’t want this smoke. Say one more thing, I swear to God—”

Sanaa spread her legs wider to get a deeper, more direct friction, her pussy gripping the bulge of his dick through the barrier of her shorts and his. She let out a soft, shaky moan, her eyes locking onto his with a bratty glint.

“Nathan thinks he’s getting this pussy tomorrow night,” she breathed, a cruel, sexy little smile playing on her lips. “He’s probably sitting there right now, thinking about my pussy… not knowing that it’s been stretched out by your dick. Not knowing that I’m grinding on you so hard I can feel your heart beating in your balls…” She rolled her hips in a tight circle, making sure he felt every inch of her soaking heat. She leaned back, her spine curving, her glossy lips parted as she looked down at him, her voice becoming a provocative command. “Tell me you love it. Tell me you love knowing that I’m lying to that nigga just so I can feel you inside me. You like knowing that I’d rather have this big, mean dick than anything he could ever give me, don’t you?”

Erik’s grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into her skin, but Sanaa didn’t flinch. She leaned back in, her voice dropping even lower, becoming a seductive poison.

“I can feel you shaking, Killmonger. You’re so fucking hard for me. Does it drive you crazy? Knowing that I’m your little slut, but right now…right now I’m the one ruining you? I’m the one making you lose your fucking mind while I just… slide…right…here.”

Erik grunts deep in his throat. She whispered against his skin, her voice thick with lust.

“You scared of gettin’ caught or you scared you’ll nut in your shorts? Don’t front, daddy. You need this more than I do.” She nipped at his earlobe, her breath erratic. “I’m such a little slut for you, aren’t I? Just a little wet, needy slut who needs her Daddy to take control and fuck the lie right out of her. Do it, Erik. Tell me how much you hate that I’m this fine. Tell me how much you want to punish me for teasing you. How much you wanna break this young pussy open—”

He couldn’t bring himself to lift her ass off his lap. He could have her on her back in seconds. Folded. Pinned. But he couldn’t move. Erik couldn’t. 

“Aw…Killmonger don’t talk now? This all that death name come with?”

Erik’s eyes were like missiles aimed at her. Dark pools of primal energy. But the way his brows pinched. The way his lips poked out. The shaky exhale. He was close. 

He stopped letting her do all the work. Erik moved, his powerful thighs flexing as he began to thrust upward, meeting her downward grinds with a punishing force. Now they were humping each other, a frantic collision of cloth and flesh. The friction was intense, the desire between them building into a fever pitch. 

Sanaa leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear, her breath hot and erratic. She let out a muffled moan, trying to stay quiet but failing as the pressure on her clit became unbearable. 

“Oh god, daddy…that big dick feel so fucking good against me,” she whimpered into his ear, her voice a seductive poison designed to ruin him. “I’m so happy…I finally have the dick I’ve always dreamed of. I don’t want that other shit. I want this…I want your big, thick dick stretching me out until I can’t walk.”

Erik let out a guttural grunt, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin. He was shaking, his muscles coiled like a spring, the sheer audacity of her words pushing him to the absolute edge. He gripped her waist even tighter, lifting her slightly so he could slam his bulge upward into her pussy with a heavy, calculated impact that made her vision blur. His face contorted into a mask of pure, unfiltered need. A look Sanaa began to crave ever since she rode his dick. Those lips parted. His eyes tracking every flicker of pleasure on her face. His locs framing his jaw, giving him a rugged look. Then he sank his teeth into his lower lip. 

The friction between them is pushed them both to the edge. Their mouths locked in a filthy, wet collision, tongues tangling and fighting for dominance as they kiss like freaks, swapping saliva and breath in a frantic battle. Every slide of their bodies, every press of cloth against cloth, only heightens the agony of the barrier between them.

Sanaa breaks the kiss just a fraction, her lips still brushing against his, her breath hitching. “Please...Killmonger," she whispers, her voice a broken, needy wreck. “Make me cum. Please make my pussy cum.”

Erik answers with force. His large, calloused hands snap shut around her hips, fingers digging into her skin to still her frantic movements. He takes total control, repositioning his weight to align his thick, stiff dick perfectly against her clit. He gives one heavy, punishing grind, the sheer size of his dick pressing through the fabric and crushing into her sensitive nub. The way his biceps flexed and his thick forearms corded with veins maneuvered and controlled Sanaa’s little frame over his dick made her feel small and fragile. She had no choice but to give in, bracing herself on his shoulders. 

Sanaa lets out a muffled cry, her face buried against his neck while he palms her ass cheeks, squeezing the flesh tight and forcing her to grind down hard against him. He’s not letting her just ride the wave, he’s driving her into it. He forces her hips to rotate, ensuring every inch of his length rubs against her, the friction creating a searing heat that makes her vision blur.

“That's it, lil’ freak bitch.” Erik groans, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as she buries her face in the crook of his neck, whimpering. “I’m a drag this pussy all on my dick…give you what you need…spread your legs…nah…spread ‘em…”

As he continues to grind her into him, Erik feels the pressure building in his gut, that familiar, lethal tension that signals the end. He’s too far gone, his own pleasure spiking into something aggressive and overwhelming. He leans in, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against her ear, telling her exactly what's happening.

“I’m ‘bout to bust, Sanaa. I’m right there,” he pants, his breath hot and ragged. “You makin’ me lose it. I’m ‘bout to nut all in these shorts...soak through everything just for you.” 

The verbal confirmation is the final trigger. Sanaa’s walls tighten, her pussy clenching violently as a massive, shaking orgasm rips through her. She collapses against him, her body vibrating in his lap, her moans turning into breathless whimpers as she peaks.

“Damn, girl—fuuck—”

The sight and feel of her cumming sends Erik over the cliff. He erupts. The orgasm is a violent, pulsing explosion that rocks his entire frame. As the first thick jet of cum slams into the fabric of his shorts, the intensity is so sharp, so overwhelming, that he instinctively snaps his jaw shut, biting down on the meat of her shoulder to stifle the guttural roar that threatens to tear from his throat.

He holds her there, pinned and shaking, his dick twitching against her as he pumps load after load of hot, sticky cum into his shorts, the fabric becoming heavy and soaked between them. He stays buried in her neck, teeth still grazing her skin, breathing like a wounded animal while the aftershocks of the nut leave them both completely wrecked.

The friction had been relentless, a grinding war of hips and heat that left them both breathless. For a few seconds, they just breathed, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Then, with a playful, feline smirk, Sanaa slid off him. She didn’t longer, she simply stepped back, the wetness between her legs clinging to her shorts, and started walking away down the hallway. 

Erik blinked, his chest heaving and his eyes tracking the sway of her hips. The sudden lack of her warm, wet pussy left him wired and agitated. 

“Where the fu k you going?” He called out, his voice commanding and laced with a hint of disbelief. 

Sanaa stopped and looked back over her shoulder, her eyes hooded and teasing, a bratty glint in her gaze. “To my room, Erik.” She answered simply, her voice a soft, provocative slur.

Erik stood and walked up on her in that hall. The tension snapped back into place instantly. 

“You got me doing risky shit. I don’t move like this.” Erik whispered, looming over her like the JSOC Ghost he is. 

“I’m a rare soul, Erik. You don’t just enter my life the same. That’s the kinda effect I have.” Sanaa cooed. 

Sanaa leaned against the wall, her gaze dropping to the front of his shorts.

“Let me see,” she whispered, her voice dripping with curiosity. 

Erik reached down, grabbing the waistband of his shorts and pulling them forward. The athletic fabric was drenched, a heavy stain of cum spreading across the inside crotch and clinging to the shape of his dick and the buzz cut of his pubic hair. Despite having just finished, he was still brick hard. A thick, veiny pipe straining against the wet fabric, twitching with a life of its own. 

Sanaa’s breath hitched. The sight of his masculine power, even in the aftermath, sent a fresh jolt of arousal straight to her pussy. 

“You do things to my body I can’t even shake,” Sanaa whispered with a soft sigh. 

Erik stepped into her space, his large frame looming over her, erasing the distance. He reached down, his hand sliding firmly down the front of her loose shorts. He didn’t tease, he pressed his palm flat against her pussy, rubbing her soaked folds and teasing her clit. He withdrew his hand, fingers glistening and dripping with her cream. Without breaking eye contact, Erik brought his fingers to his lips, slowly sucking the mess off them, his tongue swirling around his fingers so filthy. 

Sanaa whimpered, her legs turning to jelly. 

Erik leaned in, crashing his lips onto hers in a kiss that tasted like her pussy. His tongue invaded her mouth with the same aggression he used in every other part of their dynamic. 

Suddenly, the sound of loud laughter at the door to Aaliyah’s room broke them apart instantly, the spell shattered by the threat of discovery. Erik’s eyes darkened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face, but his instincts kicked in. He stepped back, glancing toward the bathroom. 

Go in your room.” He commanded in a low, urgent whisper. 

Sanaa slipped into her room, shutting the door behind her. Erik vanished into the bathroom, leaving the hallway empty just as the door to Aaliyah’s room swung open.

______

Aaliyah’s room was a scene of girly chaos. They’d set up a makeshift hairdresser. Hair serum, edge control, moose, brushes, and Bobby pins. It also gave the cluttered energy of a college dorm. Aaliyah was draped in an oversized Howard University sweatshirt that swallows her frame, paired with tiny sleep shorts and thick, fuzzy socks that keep her toes warm. She’s sitting on the floor between Naima’s legs, watching Dream Girls on her iPad while played in the background. Naima was focused and meticulous, wearing a pair of loose pajama pants and a tight baby tee. Her fingers are nimble, weaving and Styling Aaliyah’s hair into a sleek low bun for their night out tomorrow. 

The door creaks open and Sanaa slips in, radiating a fresh, clean scent. She needed another shower after cumming all in her shorts. Her skin is glowy and damp. She’s swallowed up by an oversized Mindless Behavior T-shirt that hits mid-thigh, her wilds curls gathered and held in place by a bright, hot pink claw clip. Her turquoise tortoise shell glasses are perched on the bridge of her nose, and her bare feet pad softly across the floor. She drops in the center of the room, crossing her arms and tilting her head with a look of playful suspicion. 

“What ya’ll plotting in here?” She asks, her voice teasing as if she knows there’s some secret being kept. 

Aaliyah laughs, glancing back at her in the mirror. “Girl, please. Naima is just trying to make sure I don’t look like a mess tomorrow. Come sit your ass down.”

Sanaa chuckles and drops onto the edge of the bed, kicking her feet back. The three of them settle into comfortable conversation, drifting through the usual chaos of campus drama—who was seen with who at the library, which professor is failing half the class, and the latest tea from the sorority row. The vibe is relaxed. That only comes with close friends.

Suddenly, the playlist on the speaker goes from soulful to ratchet. The heavy, distorted bass of “WAP” by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion kicks in, filling the room with its aggressive, explicit energy. Aaliyah doesn’t miss a beat. She starts rapping along, her voice getting louder and more confident as the lyrics get filthier. She’s leaning into it, using her hands to emphasize the lines about wet ass pussy and doing kegels while it’s inside, her energy matching the song’s unapologetic sexuality. Then a dance breaks out. And it’s nothing but ass shaking. Aaliyah on her knees popping booty while Naima stands with a brush in her hand and her tongue poked out, bending over to shake her little cheeks. 

Sanaa, seeing the opportunity for future blackmail, quietly pulls out her phone. She keeps it low, angled just right to capture Aaliyah’s passionate performance, a smirk playing on her lips as she records the whole thing.

As the song fades out, Naima looks over, noticing the phone in Sanaa's hand. “Wait, did you get that? Let me see!”

Sanaa, still riding the high of the song and not thinking twice, hands it over to Naima. Naima starts scrolling through the camera roll to find the video, but her thumb freezes. Her eyes widen, and she stops dead in her tracks. She ain’t looking at a video of Aaliyah rapping. 

On the screen is a crystal-clear, explicit video of Sanaa on her knees, her eyes staring up into the camera as she greedily sucks a thick, hard dick, her cheeks hollowing as she takes as much of the shaft as she can handle. Then there’s the voice of the man that carries all that dick coaching her in the back. 

Naima’s jaw drops, and she snaps her head up to look at Sanaa, her voice exploding in a mix of shock and hilarity.

“BITCH!” Naima screams, holding the phone up like a piece of evidence. “You got a video of you sucking dick in your phone?! You nasty bitch!”

 “WAP” suddenly didn’t matter anymore.

Naima is frozen, her eyes glued to the screen of Sanaa’s phone. On the display, the image is raw and unmistakable. Sanaa, her head tilted back, her eyes blinking in a trance of pure pleasure, her mouth stretched wide as she greedily takes a massive, vein-riven dick into her throat. The video captures the wet, sucking sound of her lips gliding over a spit-covered dick and the way her cheeks hollow out as she sucks the thick beast. 

Sanaa’s heart hammers against her ribs like a trapped bird. A cold spike of adrenaline shoots through her veins, turning her blood to ice. For a split second, she forgets where she is, her mind flashing back to the way Erik stretched her mouth for the first time. The panic hits her instantly—a visceral, choking wave. If Aaliyah sees this, it’s not just about the act; it’s about who it is. 

Sanaa lunges. It’s a blur of motion, the oversized Mindless Behavior shirt fluttering around her thighs as she dives across the bed. Her fingers scramble, clawing at Naima’s grip, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. 

“Give it back! Naima, give me my damn phone!” Sanaa hisses, her voice strained and bordering on a plea. She isn’t playing anymore; the playful suspicion from earlier is replaced by a genuine, wide-eyed terror. She can’t let Aaliyah see.  

Naima, caught up in the shock and the thrill of the find, holds the phone just out of reach, gawking at the screen one last time. She’s mesmerized by the filth of it, the raw sexuality of her friend being completely undone by a man’s dick. 

But Sanaa is faster. With a desperate swipe, she manages to snatch the device from Naima’s hand, clutching it to her chest as if it were a lifeline. She pulls back, her chest heaving, her turquoise glasses sliding slightly down her nose.

Aaliyah is sitting still on the floor, her expression unreadable. She didn’t seen the video, but she saw the reaction. She saw the panic in Sanaa’s eyes. A look that didn’t match the confidence Sanaa usually wore like armor. Aaliyah slowly turns her head, her gaze locking onto Sanaa.

“So…” Aaliyah starts, her voice low and calculating. “Nathan was over here then?”

There is a suspicion in Aaliyah’s eyes, a silent realization that there is a side to Sanaa’s life that is far more secretive and intense than a fintech worker from Bowie could ever provide. Sanaa doesn’t respond. She can’t. Her throat feels tight, her mind racing. She just stands there, the phone still pressed against her heart, the secret of Erik Killmonger burning a hole through the screen.

Naima, sensing the tension shifting from hilarity to something more serious, rolls her eyes and waves a hand dismissively. She leans back, trying to break the spell.

“Girl, please,”Naima says, glancing at Aaliyah. “It’s just a little dick sucking. Since when did we become the morality police? How many times have we exchanged photos asking if our nudes were sexy enough to send? We all get it in. Sanaa just happened to record the evidence.”

Naima laughs, trying to bring the vibe back to the casual, sisterly bond they shared minutes ago. Sanaa slowly exhales, but she doesn’t let go of the phone. 

Aaliyah giggles, the tension from a moment ago dissolving back into the easy, chaotic energy. She shakes her head, a playful smirk dancing on her lips as she watches Sanaa clutch the device. “You hanging on to that phone for dear life, girl,” Aaliyah jokes, her voice light but still carrying a hint of curiosity. “Is Nathan’s dick that big, sis?”

Naima bursts out laughing, the sound loud and unfiltered, and Aaliyah joins in, the two of them sharing a moment of sisterly mockery. 

Sanaa feels the adrenaline finally begin to recede, though her heart is still drumming a frantic beat against her ribs. She knows she’s walked a razor's edge, but she’s a master of the pivot. She lets out a forced but convincing laugh, leaning back and finally loosening her grip on the phone, though she keeps it firmly tucked away.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Sanaa quips, her voice regaining that bratty, confident edge.

Aaliyah’s eyes widen, her jaw nearly dropping. “SINCE WHEN?” she exclaims, leaning forward. “Since when did you become the vault? Give us the tea!”

Naima, ever the instigator and still buzzing from the visual she just witnessed on the screen, clears her throat loudly. She looks at Aaliyah with a look of pure revelation. “Well, if you must know, Liyah...the dick Sanaa was sucking is fucking HUGE—”

“Girl, hush!” Sanaa cuts her off sharply, her voice a mix of a laugh and a command. She can’t let Naima describe the sheer, vein-riven scale of Erik’s dick to his sister! No. No, no, no, no way. Quick as a flash, Sanaa scans the room for a distraction, her eyes landing on the nightstand. A mischievous glint enters her eyes as she spots a familiar shape and the crisp, fresh look of the bedding.

“Can we change the subject?” Sanaa asks, her tone shifting to one of playful accusation. “Like, why is your rose vibrator just sitting out in the open? And why the hell do I see brand new bed sheets?”

The room goes dead silent. The laughter vanishes instantly, replaced by a heavy, awkward stillness. Naima and Aaliyah freeze, exchanging a wide-eyed, look that speaks volumes. They don’t say a word, their silence acting as a loud, vibrating confession.

Sanaa looks between the two of them, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. She lets out a loud, knowing laugh, leaning in with a smirk. “It’s no secret y’all been bumping coochies—”

“SHUT UP, BRI!” Naima and Aaliyah scream in perfect unison, their faces flushing a deep shade of red.

The absurdity of the moment breaks the dam, and all three girls collapse into a fit of hysterical laughter, the secret of the video momentarily buried under the weight of the new, scandalous revelation. Sanaa laughs the hardest, feeling the thrill of the diversion, though in the back of her mind, she can still feel the ghost of Erik’s dominance, knowing that while she’s laughing with her friends, she belongs to a man who would ruin her for even thinking about sharing him.

The thoughts that ran through her mind…

“Just let him hit it once…just once…” “I bet he’d talk me through it…say all that nasty shit while I cum on him…” “He probably strokes slow, deep…makes you say thank you when he nut…” “That dick would make me cry…and I’d say thank you for it.” “Please, Erik…please fuck me…”

To actually live in that reality now was an understatement. 

The only thing missing…is “I wonder if he can make me squirt?” 

The sound of footsteps through the hallway immediately made Sanaa’s pulse spike.

Erik stepped into the doorway, filling the frame with his massive presence. He looked effortless but lethal, dressed in a matching grey hoodie and sweats that left the hard, expansive lines of his muscles to your imagination. His locs were tucked neatly beneath the hood, framing a face that looked tired but remained intensely focused. A black duffle bag was slung carelessly over one shoulder, his weight shifted onto one leg, sporting a fresh pair of Jordans.

“Ya’ll eat yet?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in Sanaa's chest. “Cuz I was thinkin’ ‘bout orderin’ in.”

“Yes! We got food already. Some pizza.” Aaliyah said. 

“I just ate that leftover chicken and rice we made earlier in the week.” Sanaa replied. 

“Bet,” Erik’s eyes scanned the room. “You don’t clean up in here at all, do you?” 

Sanaa was frozen, her turquoise glasses sliding slightly down her nose as her eyes dragged over him with hunger. She traced the breadth of his shoulders, the way the grey fabric stretched across his chest, and the sheer size of him compared to the room. She felt a familiar, hot ache bloom between her thighs, her pussy clenching just at the sight of him.

Naima, always the curious one, leaned forward, her eyes scanning the glimpses of rugged skin peeking from his collar. “Erik, what do those scars actually mean? Like, where’d they come from?”

Aaliyah let out a short, knowing laugh, leaning back against her pillows. “Don't bother, Nai. He won’t tell you. He’s too mysterious for his own good.”

Erik’s lips quirked into a sharp, knowing smirk. He didn’t even look at Naima, his gaze was locked onto Sanaa, pinning her in place. “What she said,” he spoke, his voice dripping with a playful, dangerous confidence.

He turned to leave, but he didn’t just walk away. He began backing down the hall, keeping his eyes locked on Sanaa’s. The moment he was far enough that the other girls weren’t focused on him, the energy changed from familial to filthy. 

Erik slowed his pace, his expression darkening. He slowly flicked his tongue over his top lip, a wet motion that told Sanaa exactly what he wanted to do to her. Then, with a slow, calculated movement, he reached down and gripped the hem of his grey hoodie.

He lifted the fabric, pulling it up high enough to reveal the sculpted, rock-hard terrain of his stomach and the deep, V-taper of his hips. The sight of his scarred skin and the power of his core made Sanaa gasp silently. Tucked firmly into the waistband of his sweats was the matte black grip of a pistol, the weapon adding a raw, dangerous edge to his sexuality that sent a shiver of pure arousal straight to her clit.

He held the pose for a heartbeat, letting her soak in the image of his strength and his lethality, before letting the hoodie drop. As he reached the corner of the hall, he didn't say a word. He simply mouthed two words, his eyes burning into hers:

“C’mere.”

Sanaa felt her heart hammering against her ribs. She wanted to bolt from the room, to throw herself onto him and feel that heavy weight pinning her down, but she was trapped between Naima and Aaliyah. 

Trembling, she grabbed her phone and shot him a quick text. 

Sanaa: why you always doing this to me 😩

A second later, she saw him stop. Erik looked at his phone, then looked back at her. He let out a sharp “tsk,” kissing his teeth in a gesture of pure, exaggerated annoyance. He gave her a look—one part disappointed daddy, one part ruthless conqueror—that was so intensely focused on her defiance that it almost made her laugh out loud.

Her phone buzzes.

Erik: Don’t think I ain’t see you come out that shower earlier without a bra. You do that shit on purpose, huh?

She bites her lip.

Sanaa: I’m cold. Maybe you should come warm me up.

Erik: I’d fuck the warmth back into you right now. Two fingers in while I suck on that pretty mouth. You’d try to keep quiet, wouldn’t you?

She exhales slow, adjusts her position.

Sanaa: Wouldn’t last a minute. I get loud for you. You know that.

Erik: That pussy get loud too. Keep talking and I’m a take my phone to the bathroom and beat this dick thinking about how you creamed on me earlier.

Her thighs press together. Her phone buzzes again.

Erik: You dripping right now? Tell me the truth.

Sanaa: Ruined my panties twenty minutes ago. Wanna see?

He shifts in the hallway. Back against the wall. Adjusts his joggers. Keeps a straight face. He didn’t argue. He just gave her one last, lingering look that promised a very heavy price for her disobedience before he disappeared into her room, leaving Sanaa drenched and anxious for the retaliation she knew was coming.

Sanaa lingered in Aaliyah’s room for a while longer. Every time she glanced down the hall, she could still feel the ghost of Erik’s gaze on her, the mental image of that matte black pistol against his skin and the way he’d flicked his tongue over his lip burned into her mind. Her pussy was throbbing, a heavy, insistent ache that made it hard to focus on whatever Naima was saying.

Eventually, the heat became too much to ignore. With a playful excuse about needing to wind down, Sanaa finally slid out of the room. As she walked down the hall, she passed the spot where Erik had stood, imagining the scent of him still clinging to the walls. Oud, clove, and something woodsy. Expensive and dark. He doesn’t spray it heavy but it lingers. On pillows. On shirts. 

Once inside her own room, she shut the door and leaned against it for a second, letting out a shaky breath. She stripped off her T-shirt  with hurried movements, her skin tingling. She slid into her bed, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to the feverish warmth of her body. She pulled on her silk bonnet, tucking her curls away, and sprawled out across the mattress.

She lay there in the silence, staring up at the ceiling, her mind racing. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his dominance, the way he’d mouthed “C’mere” with that look of absolute ownership. She rolled her hips, rubbing her thighs together, the friction sending a jolt of electricity straight to her clit. She was trapped in a state of agonizing anticipation, knowing that Erik was just a few walls away, likely thinking about exactly how he was going to punish her for saying I can’t.

There was a distinct click of a door closing. It was Aaliyah’s door. 

Sanaa froze, her breath hitching in her throat. The sound signaled that the coast was clear. The barrier between her and Erik had just vanished, and the sudden silence of the apartment felt like a countdown. 

Buzz buzz

Erik: You in your room?

She didn’t reply. Just smirked. Another buzz.

Erik: I’ma slide over

Then a soft knock. Real soft. 

Sanaa tiptoed to the door and cracked it, whispering, “Aaliyah still awake.”

“I know,” Erik said, already stepping in.

He didn’t push the door open hard, just eased through it like a shadow, shutting it with barely a click. The room was dark, save for the TV glow across her bed.

“Why you lookin’ like that?” he asked, eyes dragging over her titties and the peaks of her nipples. Then lower, to those cheeky, red panties that didn’t even pretend to cover her ass.

Sanaa curled her lip. “Like what?”

“Like you wanted me to see all that.”

She walked backward to the bed, slow. “Where you been at with a gun?” she teased.

He followed. “Out.”

“Why you can’t tell me?” Sanaa said with a pout. 

Erik exhaled, “Gun range. This…hidden spot I go to when I’m in town to get a few rounds in.” 

Sanaa smirks. “Can you take me next time?” 

Erik gives her a stern look. “No.” 

Sanaa rolls her eyes. “I been here thinking about how you made me cum in my shorts earlier.” 

“I see that,” he whispered, eyes dropping to her thighs. “You take that big ass T-shirt off ‘cause you knew I was coming over.”

She smirked, pulled one leg onto the bed. “So?”

Erik  just stared at her for a long moment. Then he crossed the room and leaned over her, both palms pressing into the mattress, caging her in. That scent hit her—cologne, leather, and a little sweat. His lips brushed hers. Then deeper. Tongue and spit. His kiss stole the air right out her lungs. A kiss that tasted like he missed her even if he just saw her minutes ago.

Erik pulled back just enough to whisper, “I came to taste somethin’ sweeter than attitude.”

Sanaa bit her lip, thighs squeezing together out of reflex.

“Get up,” he said low.

She blinked. “Huh?”

“Sit on the edge. Bring them knees up.”

The tone in his voice? Left no room for play.

Sanaa did what he said, backing up and sitting on the edge of her bed. She brought her feet up beside her, knees wide open. Those panties pulled tight, then gave way, pussy peeking through and sitting fat.

Erik sucked in a breath. “Damn, mama…”

He dropped to his knees like it was second nature. Big hands gripping her thighs, thumbs spreading her open like he’d done it a hundred times. He curled his fingers into the side of her panties and pulled them to the side. Her pussy lips slipped out with a jiggle. The amount of wet slick that clung to her fat lips and the crotch of her panties? 

Erik didn’t waste a fucking second. 

Sanaa gasped the second his mouth met her. Tongue warm. Wet. Slipping between those folds like he knew exactly where she needed it. Those lips?! 

Oh my Goddddddddddddd

“Oh—shit. Erik…” she whispered, hands gripping her sheets.

He groaned against her, licking deep, slow. Then fast. Then back slow again. That slurp and the smack of his lips filled the room, nasty beneath the TV noise. His hands hooked behind her thighs, holding them wide as he buried his mouth in her. Sucked on her clit until her whole body bucked.

“You hear me?” he growled against her pussy, lips wet with her. “Don’t make a fuckin’ sound.”

Her hand flew up, covering her mouth. She was shaking. Moaning behind her palm. Eyes rolling. Erik was sucking on her pussy like a hungry fucking beast. Sanaa didn’t know what felt so different this time around. But the sucking and licking had her feeling like she was gonna burst. Her stomach fluttered. 

But then it hit.

A tightness that started at the base of her spine. Crawled through her belly. Her thighs trembled.

“Erik—baby—wait—wait.”

“Nope,” he grunted, licking harder, faster. Sucking. 

She tried to close her legs. He shoved them back open.

“Don’t fight it,” he said, voice deep and ragged. “Let it go.”

Her stomach seized. Eyes squeezed shut. Her mouth opened in a silent cry behind her fingers as it happened. 

A rush. Warm and wet. A sudden gush that poured out of her, all over his mouth. Her thighs. The edge of the bed.

“Oh my God—” she gasped, embarrassed, stunned.

Erik didn’t stop. He licked her through it, eyes locked on her, tongue curling and dragging and sucking up everything she gave him. He loved that shit. Loved how she fell apart.

Loved how she tried to hold it in.

Sanaa was shaking when he finally slowed down, licking her clean with long, slow strokes. Her panties were ruined. Her bonnet was crooked. Her chest was heaving.

He kissed up the inside of her thigh and looked up, smirking. “Next time, don’t wait up for me,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Just lay here and get ready.”

Her eyes were glassy. Her legs still open.

“And Sanaa?”

“Yeah…?”

“You taste even better when you squirt.”

Erik left her sitting on the edge of the bed stunned.

1:35 A.M.

She couldn’t sleep.

The sheets were still damp at the edge. Her thighs sticky. Her pussy pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own. Every time she moved, she felt the aftershock of its that warm gush, that thick wet mess Erik pulled out of her like it was nothing. Like her body had always been capable of that, but nobody ever took the time to find it. Nobody ever made her feel that good. That open. Now? She wanted it again. Her pussy ached for it. Throbbed hot and twitching like it remembered his tongue and missed it bad. She pressed her hand between her legs, trying to soothe it, but it wasn’t the same. Her fingers weren’t wide enough, strong enough, dirty enough. Her mouth went dry thinking about how Erik looked after. Wet beard, greedy tongue, hands keeping her wide like she belonged to him.

Sanaa bit her lip and grabbed her phone.

Sanaa: You up?

She barely had time to blink before her door eased open.

Erik stepped in shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Heavy-shouldered. Locs loose and swinging with the motion of his body. 

“You text me like that,” he said, voice low and scratchy. “You already know what I’m comin’ in here for.”

She pulled the covers back, heart in her throat. Fresh pair of panties on but still no T-shirt. 

“I been thinkin’ about it,” she admitted, cheeks warm. “What you did to me.”

His eyes dropped between her legs. “You want it again.”

She nodded.

He stepped close, leaned down, lips grazing hers without kissing. “You gon’ stop runnin’ from it this time?”

“I ain’t run.”

He smirked, dimple peeking. “You tried.”

And before she could sass him again, he was pulling her new panties off—slick with fresh arousal—and crawling onto the bed like a man starved. She didn’t even have time to get nervous. To prepare for that feeling as if a pipe was set to burst behind her navel. He laid her flat, bent her knees, and pulled her thighs apart like pages in a book he already knew how to read. Then he started like he never stopped. 

Again.

Tongue warm. Mouth wide. Slurping. Sucking. Spelling his damn name in cursive across her pussy. Sanaa gasped, back arching, fingers smoothing down his keloid-laden arms, eyes focused on the top of his head. His cross chain was cold and tickling her ass from how low he was between her legs. 

Her pussy was soaked. Dripping. He loved that. Erik fucking loved it. 

“Yeah,” he groaned, lapping her up. “You already close, huh?”

She whined. “Erik, please—”

“You don’t need to beg,” he said, voice thick and sweet between licks. “Just don’t run from it this time.”

She tried to breathe. She tried to brace. But the pressure built faster now. Her body recognized it. Started chasing it before she even meant to.

“Ohmygod—Erik—I’m—wait—wait—”

He didn’t wait.

He locked his arms under her thighs, anchored her to his face and ate her like a goddamn meal. His mouth sealed around her clit and sucked. The way he sucked, it felt like he was drawing the liquid from her through a straw.

H-H-How is he d-d-doing that?

That was it.

Her stomach tightened. Her toes curled. And then—

Splash.

Another rush.

Thicker this time. Wetter. Her thighs shook hard as the gush poured out of her, soaking his face, the sheets, everything. She gasped, stunned. Whimpering. But Erik didn’t come up for air. He licked through it, drank it, then started again. And when he started again, he sank two thick fingers in her pussy and curled his finger tips upward. 

Squelchsquelchsquelchsquelch—

Sanaa tried to squirm.

“Stay still.”

“Erik—it’s too much—”

“You gon’ take it ‘til your body stop bein’ scared of how good this feel.”

And he kept going.

She whimpered—biting her pillow this time—pussy throbbing like it was addicted now. That orgasm came quicker, stronger. Another messy release that made her whimper and twitch.

He made her do it.

Again.

And again.

By the time he finally pulled back, Sanaa was breathless. Legs trembling. Sheets drenched. Her mouth open but no words coming out.

Erik kissed her thigh. Smirked. “You mine,” he said, voice hoarse, chin hair and mustache soaked. “Ain’t nobody ever gonna eat this pussy like I do. Especially not that lil’ nigga.” 

She nodded slow, dazed.

And in the back of her mind, she already knew. She’d be texting him tomorrow night.

And the night after that.

Because now she needed it.

That tongue. That grip. That splash.

Erik had turned her out.

Turned her into a squirter.

With nothing but his mouth.