the women’s bathroom on this floor was typically empty, just the way kianna liked it. she’d spent many an evening in there, hiding from the crowds when her husband was sitting on the bench, in between bouts on the field. it all got to be a bit overwhelming. in years prior, her role had been lowly wag, a direct reflection of his second string quarterback status on the team. now, the other ladies seemed to turn to her for direction, even if it was something as simple as what hairstyles they were going to be wearing (though she appreciated that they bought out her bundle line for the superbowl). when everyone chirped in her ears for too long, ki would excuse herself and spend ten minutes hiding out in the two stall bathroom, sitting on the counter scrolling through twitter or tiktok for a respite.

it was the beginning of the second quarter, the score was tied 18-18, and she had dipped out for a quick bathroom break in order to calm her nerves. she was actually using the bathroom this time when she heard the door swing open and heels clacking on the linoleum. she didn’t think anything of it, maybe a little annoyed that someone had discovered her hiding spot, but she finished her business and exited the stall all the same. her steps only stuttered slightly when she came face to face with the wife of the opposing team’s quarterback.

a pain in her ass. a bully. an aggravating force that kianna could not stand. the two years she had spent going to team events, sitting rows behind her, letting her eye twitch at the microaggressions and slick comments made toward her by the bleach blonde with the bad eyebrows. if she wasn’t so damn mean, ki would’ve offered her a free session at one of her six salons, one of which was still in their old city.

“oh, hi kianna.” blondie plastered on a saccharine smile, pretending to act shocked to see the other woman in there. “wow, have you gotten taller?”

dig. her height had been something that had been brought up, making little remarks that she was practically as tall and big as the o-line men. 

“it’s the heels.” ki twisted her ankle and lifted the leg of her skintight leather pants to flash the ysl opyum sandals with the gold heel. her all black outfit and gold accessories an ode to the saints, her husband’s team, her home team. “shouldn’t you be watching the game?”

“i just wanted to see you. come a long way, huh? from sitting behind me to sitting all the way across the stadium. movin’ on up girl!” the overdone southern drawl she put on still grated on ki’s nerves. she did it to appeal to her fanbase, whoever the fuck they were.

“i’m not your girl.” ki deadpanned. the smile twitched on blondie’s face. “and i been up.”

“yeah, well, one of us in here is the wife of a champ and the other one is ... well, you.” she let out a loud cackle and tilted her head. 

“game’s tied, baby, i could be the wife of champion yet.” her ancient nola accent slipped out a bit, something she’d spent years trying to hide but when ki felt the rage in her bubbling up, it did tend to make its reappearance. 

blondie snorted. “right. sure. we’ll see about that. maybe your man will actually be able to earn his ring this time.”

dig. three years on the other team, three years on the bench, waiting for blondie’s husband to call out sick or need a break or anything so he could step foot onto the field, all while facing ridicule from mr. qb. calvin knew it was insecurities, knowing that should the other man fumble even a little bit, cal would be right there to pick up the ball. but he took it in stride until his agent was able to get the saints to step up. they signed him to a bigger deal, guaranteed field time as the new quarterback, and it would make him a hometown hero. almost felt too good to be true. the ring he would win tonight would be because he played his heart out, not just because he happened to be on the team.

“and maybe your man will actually go back home with you instead of one of the numerous gorgeous dancers my lovely city has to offer him.” ki washed her hands in the sink, drying them off with a paper towel and bumping blondie’s shoulder as she moved to the door. “actually, yours sounds more realistic than mine.”

not giving the other woman a chance to respond, ki walked back to the box especially reserved for cal’s friends and family. sitting down between his mom and her dad, she was the only one not fully decked out in saints gear. her finger did trace over the number thirteen tattooed on the inside of her wrist.

his jersey number since high school, the date of when they first met in middle school, her birthday, their wedding anniversary. thirteen was everywhere for them. her eyes were trained on the thirteen emblazoned in gold on his back as he had returned to the field and threw the ball repeatedly.

by halftime, ki knew something was up with him. they were 24 and 27, the saints falling behind only by three but she knew cal was downstairs stressing out over those measly points. he wasn’t all in it, she could see it whenever the camera zoomed in on his face. by the time the halftime show performer exited the field and the teams returned, ki knew she had to talk to him. the other team had the ball, she had maybe ten minutes, tops.

there was an office down the hall, with a perfect view of the field and a phone line. she had used it twice before since arriving back in new orleans, both for this same purpose. ki knew she was abusing her power a bit but fuck it, she was gonna talk to her husband. try and stop her, go ahead!

she dialed the number for the sideline phone, which she knew by heart at this point, and waited for elijah to answer it. he was one of the assistant coaches and when ki had first called cal mid-game, she had watched on the screen in the office as elijah’s eyes bugged out. he’d complained about this being completely inappropriate and not at all the norm. once he was done ranting, ki had kindly asked to speak to cal again. after a brief conversation with her, elijah had watched as number thirteen took his place back on the field and won the team three more touchdowns. it was only the second game of the season but he had known in that moment that he would always answer that damn phone.

“mrs. xavier, i don’t know what the - pardon my french - fuck he is doing out here.” elijah commented as soon as he answered, not even bothering to say hello.

“me either, eli. put him on for me.” there was a bit of rustling on the other end, the chatter of the sidelines coming through, and then cal was on the phone. 

“hello?” his voice was gruff, tired. she could see him the on the screen, his head down in his hand.

“sit up.” she watched as he did. “are we done?” he stared off into space. “calvin, are we done? is this game done? because i can go back over to the box, gather up all my shit, and go wait for you in the truck if that’s the case. you know me, i love to leave.”

a small smirk graced his full lips and she smiled back, like he could see her. he covered his mouth as he spoke into the phone. “nah, baby, i ain’t done yet.”

“oh, okay, good. because i thought when we moved back down here, it was to win. that’s what you said right? ‘we winning this shit’. you remember that?” he bit his lip and she could see his eyes getting glassy. “these people made a fool outta you, played in yo’ motherfuckin’ face and they let you come to the saints because they thought they could afford to lose you. so, are you going to show them that they made a mistake? or you gonna keep sitting there and let that fuckin’ muppet be right about you?”

it was like he knew exactly what camera to look into because cal damn near made eye contact with her through the screen. 

“this is your house. these are your people. don’t let them run in yo’ shit, do you hear me?”

“i hear you loud and clear, baby.”

“then get up and do this shit. then you come home and fuck me with that superbowl ring on. the one you earned.” he slammed the phone down on screen, grabbing his helmet, and walking with a newfound determination to speak to the coach. ki exited the office, returning to the box once more, sitting almost directly opposite blondie.

the next hour passed by in a blur. it may have surprised everyone else but when they were five minutes away from the end of the game, the saints winning 54 to 32, ki wasn’t shocked in the least. she sat legs crossed, hands in folded in her lap and waited to make direct eye contact with the other woman from across the stadium. once they did, she held up her right ring finger, where she would gladly be sporting the superbowl ring he had just earned. she could practically feel the red hot rage coming off of her. it kept her warm enough that she didn’t even have to put on her coat as she made her way down to the field with their families.

with less than a minute left in the game, the crowd on the sidelines rushed the field and ki let everyone settle a bit before she did too. cal was smiling wide with joy, dapping up other players as his eyes darted over the crowd until they landed on her. they were beelining for each other, only interrupted when the other qb approached him for the customary handshake. ki, at this point a near expert in all things calvin, could read his lips as he whispered in his ear. she chuckled and moved to catch him once the men pulled away.

immediately, his lips connected with hers and he lifted her up, spinning her around, his hands splayed on her ass. the moment would go on to be one of the most retweeted photos on twitter,  a pinterest board staple, the background in many a green screen video where somebody would be answering “who is the wife of superbowl champ calvin brentwood?”. but in his arms, with the confetti falling around them, his black rubber wedding band rubbing against her bare arms after he had but her down, ki didn’t care one damn bit what the cameras were catching. her smile nearly broke her face when they pulled away from one another, the stripes on his cheeks nearly rubbed completely off, tears in both of their eyes. 

“i did that shit baby.”

“i knew you could.”

“not without you, i couldn’t. i love you girl.”

“i love you too.”

and they were kissing again, tears streaming down both of their cheeks, her body shaking with his excitement against him. 

the locker room had been a mess by the time calvin finally left it, the last one to exit his home away from home. laughter echoed down the halls and he grinned as he sauntered past some of his teammates and their adoring families. his mom and siblings had congratulated him on the field and assured him that they’d be at his place for brunch the next day, catered! his wife, gorgeous as she was, stood at the end of the hall. she watched him watch her, his eyes tracing her curve of her body.

“excuse me ma’am, i’m a superbowl champ, can i take you home tonight?” he grinned cockily at her. a roll of her eyes, a tilt of her head. calvin knew exactly how to make his wife smile. it was his favorite thing to do, neck and neck with playing football, actually.

“you think i’m that easy? all you gotta do is flex that little ring and imma bend over for you?” ki crossed her arms, arching a brow at him.

“bend over, get on your knees, fold up them legs, choke and gag and moan and groan - all that shit.” he dropped his louis duffel on the cement ground, let his large hands wrap around her waist and pull ki into his arms again. naturally, like second nature, her arms came up around his neck.

“you tryna kill me?” he shook his head, biting his lips, eyes hooded.

“i’m tryna put a superbowl baby in you.” he smirked. her jaw dropped. “so that when i get my second ring next year, it’s with you and little calvin jr by my side.”

ki looked into eyes for a moment before a smirk of her own crossed her lips. her voice dropped to a whisper, her body pressed tightly to his. “then take me home big daddy. i’ll get on my hands and knees at the front door.”

you know, she was actually starting to regret that statement. they’d raced in nola celebratory traffic, which made what should’ve been a ten minute drive a thirty minute one. ki had occupied herself, instead, with running a long nail across the bulge in calvin’s pants.

“if you ain’t suckin’ it baby, stop playing wit’ it.” he’d gritted out while at a red light. she shrugged, undid her belt, and got her knees as she unzipped his pants. her spit acted as a lubricant on him, glistening under the now green light and fitting deliciously large in her mouth. the groan that reverberated from above her was only more motivation. what her mouth couldn’t fit, her hands worked. her tongue flattened so she could slap his dick against it, before she slurped on the tip.

“mmmmm” ki moaned, letting the sound vibrate against his shaft. his free hand, the one not holding the wheel as tightly as humanely possible, came down to grip the back of her head, guiding her up and down on him. his bottom lip stuck in his teeth, trying his hardest on making the correct turn onto their street so he could get the absolute fuck out of this car.

“baby, sit up. i’m pulling up the gate.” the gate attendant for their community was a nice young man, fresh outta high school, big calvin brentwood fan. ki was gargling around his dick, making a delicious mess and as much as he didn’t want her to stop, he didn’t need that kid seeing this shit. no one else was ever going to see her in action.

she ignored him, working him further down her throat, gagging as she did. she’d heard him loud and clear. she also found his frustration mixed with horniness hilarious. he kept repeating himself, “baby, baby, baby”, getting closer to the gate and she kept pretending she didn’t hear him. finally, though, he’d had enough. his hand that was gripping the back of her head, slid slightly to her neck and pulled her completely off of him. suddenly she was sitting up in her own seat again, as he leaned forward to hide his exposed dick and greet the gate boy.

he was congratulating him on a great game, raving about watching it from the booth, waving hello at a slightly disheveled and unbuckled ki, who simply waved back. eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, he opened the gate for them and calvin turned to give her a strong look. one that she recognized all too well. it was already midnight. she was gonna be late for brunch tomorrow and it was in her own damn kitchen.

fast forward to her foyer, where her skintight leather pants had all been ripped off and ki had been on her hands & knees, as promised. his tongue found sweet purchase deep inside her dripping pussy. he lapped at her like an ice cream cone, like he was trying to find the center of a fuckin’ tootsie pop. when she came with a shout and a shudder, calvin had gently pushed on her upper back, putting her in position for her incredible arch, and pushed himself in. he even had some of her lip gloss still around the base of his dick.

he’d fucked her to completion twice right there, the third time she came that evening involving her squirting all over his very expensive shirt. he’d pulled it over his head and used it to wipe up the fluids on the ground after he pulled out of her, his cum mixing with her cream while she lay on the cool tile.

if she had thought that would be enough, she was dead wrong. he transported her to the kitchen next, fucking her bent over the counter with one of her legs bent up. then they were in the living room, where he ate her out again while looking her dead in the eyes, legs bent up so her knees were practically touching her ears. then he’d rammed into her, slow, deep strokes, that had her eyes rolling to the back of her head when they both came together.

just when she thought it was over, that’d he played in the fucking superbowl today so he had to be done (right?) and he had already exceeded expectations, he’d picked her up, still buried inside her, and carried her up their grand staircase to their large bedroom. partially it was because he wanted all his cum to stay inside. partially it was because he was ninety percent sure she couldn’t even walk if she had tried.

now here she lay, on her back, covered in sweat and cum and tears, his dick growing hard inside of her again. he was lavishing her brown nipples, running his sinful tongue across the peaks, using his other hand to massage her breast, tweaking the tips and drawing moans from her dry lips.

“one more baby. just one more.”

she moaned as he rolled his hips, bringing her leg up to wrap around his waist while her other met it, locking him in place. her words came out as a whisper. “fuck me, champ. make love to me. put a baby in me.”

their eyes met and his waist worked his dick into her, sliding through her wet, gummy walls with precision and expertise that comes from knowing your wife since y’all were nineteen. he knew that he could stimulate her clit his ground his pelvis just right, which he did. he knew that she loved when he kissed her during sex, their tongues slapping against each other while he drove into her. he knew she’d let him take both their hands and meeting them above their heads, pulling away from the kiss so they could resume eye contact while he fucked her. he shook his head when her walls contracted around him, slowing him down a bit as he took one hand out of hers to rest of the back of her neck, his thumb tracing her jaw.

“nah baby, open them beautiful eyes. i wanna see ‘em when we come together. c’mon na’.” he smiled when she let them open, and she couldn’t help but smile back up at him. when she looked back at this moment in couple of months, the only thing she’d regret is not feeling the cool gold of his superbowl ring on her hot neck but that would change come june.

“i love you calvin. you’re my champion, my champion ...” she repeated those words in his ears over and over again, a mantra, drilling it into his head. he was her champion, like she always knew he would be.

“you’re my heart baby, i love you so much.” his words were quick, tone clipped and she couldn’t tell if it was because he was getting emotional or because he was on the verge of cumming again. regardless, she rested her hand to his lower back, letting her other run her nails into his shoulder blade, pressing their bodies even closer together if it was possible. calvin pistoned into her a couple more times, reaching his hand down to rub gentle circles around her clit as they came together, mouths open in silent moans.

His deep timbre voice was always comforting, mused at your excitement within his southern drawl.

He greeted, “Hey, my pretty ass baby. Look at you,” His eyes flickered over your face, breasts, and your swollen belly, making your thighs press together, “How you feelin’?”

“I’m okay,” you sigh, tugging a curl of your hair through bent fingers, “You’ like my dress? ‘Bought it a couple days ago.” 

Your voice was soft, more unsure in your own comfortability. You’d cried as your body changed in the earlier months.

Onyankopon smirks, shifting on the chair where his knees spread, “Pretty as fuck, Mama. Bout’ to bust that shit open with allat’ ass,” he grunts, which makes you giggle as he continues, “I’m missin’ you.”

“I miss you more, baby.”

You give another exhale, trying not to make yourself upset—you press on, “You need to come home soon. Your big ass wolves that you call dogs are scarin’ your momma.”

“Oh? Now they’ my dogs. You ain’t say allat’ when you wanted them,” he retorts, licking over his lips.

Your eyes follow the movement of his tongue as you shift on the chair. He looked handsome as ever. You can’t help but stare at his full lips, the small dimple in his cheek, and the dark hue of his eyes as he leans towards the computer desk, pulling out rolling paper as he prepares to roll a blunt. You weren’t sure why, but it was always the sexiest thing to watch.

You flutter your lashes through the screen, “They’ ain’t drug testing y’all?”

Onyankopon mumurs, “It’s preseason, Baby,” as he begins to break down the tree on the rolling paper, “Besides, all I’m doing is smokin’. That ain’t so bad.”

“Mhm,” you roll your eyes, “You better cut that ain’t so bad habit before our little Pumpkin comes.”

Your eyes run across his mouth as he licks over the joint, sealing the end, “Don’t call him that shit. That’s my son,” he grabs for his lighter, “Don’t start drawlin’ on a nigga. My lil’ man been kickin’?”

“Your lil’ football player has been punting in my damn stomach,” you blow out a breath, “‘Doctor said he’s moving down to my bladder. If he shifts anymore, imma’ need a walker.”

Your fingers grip around the cross hanging between your breasts, voice soft as you then say,  “…You’re my Pumpkin too, y’know.”

A chuckle leaves Onyankopon. He brings his freshly lit joint to his lips, inhaling as he holds off the urge to laugh even more. A cloud of gray leaves his lips as he blows. 

“He gon’ have my long ass legs.” 

His eyes flicker up momentarily from the screen, making it fog, “You’ my pumpkin, too,” he reiterates, exhaling into the camera. 

You didn’t want to interrupt as you watched him—the haze of his red eyes was already becoming apparent, and it made him even more sexy. Fuck. Your fingers absentmindedly trail along your belly once more, feeling your cheeks become warm as you bring your eyes down. 

You ask softer, “How was practice?”

"We got a new offense—nigga think he somebody ‘cause he seventy feet tall— besides that, same ol'. Just drills and shit,” He rambles, shifting forward in his chair. 

“You’ got a big head too, Quarterback,” you reminded, “Don’t be actin’ like you’re so humble.” 

Onyankopon narrows his low eyes through the screen. He takes another slow drag of his blunt, exhaling with a smirk that makes your thighs press tighter together even more. 

"Who said anything 'bout bein' humble, huh?" His deep voice rumbles as he leans closer to the camera, tattoos flexing along his neck, “I know who I am. A nigga MVP material. Just like how I know my wife sittin’ over there lookin’ all sweet, tryna’ pretend she ain’t gettin' wet watchin’ me smoke this shit."  

The brown of your skin finds itself to be flushed in your cheeks, hating how he easily reads through you.   

“Onyankopon.” 

“Nah,” Onyankopon leans back in his chair, spreading his thick thighs wider as amusement dances in those dark eyes, “I know. You got that lil’ crease between yo’ eyebrows right now—the one you get when you’ frustrated.”

You watch him with curious eyes when he gives you a groan—the only thing you could see was his face, shoulders, chest and what you could assume to be his stomach. He wears a white long sleeve, clinging to his muscular frame. You knew all the tattoos that hid under his top. But something you missed more was seated below the table. 

You give him a soft, awkward smile. You know how he got when he was high. This was your husband, yet he made you nervous like a schoolgirl. 

“Oh!” 

You stand as you suddenly begin to search for your purse, ass cheeks jiggling directly within the camera, “I got the ultrasound photos, baby! Wanna see?”

Your husband hums, low and deep as he says back to you, “Mhm,” You feel his lustful eyes on the screen, “‘Come show me.” 

Your hands tremble as you search, excited for him to see the photos. Or maybe you were just nervous—again. 

You drop the brown Telfar on the side of the desk, it only takes you three steps to be in front of the computer again, holding the black and white printout up to the screen. 

You can hear a faint laugh. Onyankopon murmurs, “Bring it closer, girl.”

You fully sit down, leaning forward as you point your French tip against the sonogram, “See, that’s his little toesss, and that’s his little fingers!” you giggle, “You see?”

Onyankopon’s face breaks out into a smile as he groans slightly, “Goddamn. I lied, he got my fingers. Musta’ got your toes, Mama. Can’t see ‘em too good.”

You hum, “Guess he won’t be too good for basketball then,” you tease.

“You tryna’ be funny,” Onyankopon shakes his head, “Basketball she says— You know what? Just ‘cause you said that, he’s not playin’ no sport. Imma’ get lil’ man his own studio.”

You giggle a bit at that, “My child won’t be doing any kind of rapping. You can kill that thought.”

“That’s ‘cause he’s gon’ be a singer. Got your pretty ass voice, I know it.”

You roll your eyes, “You’ just flirting, boy. Cut it out.”

Onyankopon chuckles at that, but he doesn’t deny it. His eyes fall back to that serious gaze he had before, a soft tint of red within them.

“You got me thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

His voice, it’s almost like it’s own way of peer pressure. Your hands run over your belly anxiously as you blink, “Me?”

"Yeah,” Your husband draws out, eyes flickering up and down the screen in anticipation, “Don't play all shy.”

He expands the position of his lap to spread more, as if he’s waiting. 

Here was the thing. Before he was signed, you and Onyankopon had sex almost every other day. You couldn’t get enough of each other ; it was a cupcake phase in years of being together, and without that usual release of dopamine, you yearned for one another. When your mind flashed through those memories, your thighs rubbed together. It made you want to open them and—

“Hey, mon chèri, you alright in here? I just made you a bowl of Yaki Mein—“

Your mother in law had interrupted those thoughts. She pauses, gray curls bouncing as she looks over her son on the camera. Her eyes immediately narrowed, speaking her native tongue his way, “Mwen konnen ou pi byen mete jwente sa a.”

Onyankopon groans as his mother comes into view, “Fót mwen,” he coughs, hovering a fist over his mouth. His mother was very stringent from her Haitian background, so he always stood straight when she was around. You can see some movement under the table, which you assumed was Onyankopon putting the blunt away.

“Why’ the hell do you think it’s a good time to be smoking, Onyankopon? They don’t drug test y’all?”

Oh god. You knew your mother-in-law could easily begin complaining, and you wish she’d walked in at any other time. You placed a calming palm against her arm.

“Ma’—Momma. I’m in the preseason. Ain’t got no games for a couple days, they ain’t doin’ that, they ain’t doin’ all that.”

“Preseason? The ‘hell does that mean? Are y’all playing or not? If you’re not playing, then why can't you come back home to check on your mother and your pregnant wife?” 

Onyankopon groans again as he leans back in the chair, “Momma, I’m not finna’ get into it with you again. You and Baby know. You jus’ gon’ talk over me if I start speakin’ anyway.”

“Are you at least eating? Did you get the care package I sent you? I got all your soaps, and that little teddy bear you had as a baby—you never went anywhere without Mr. Snuffles—“

His eyes go a little wide, “Ou ap fè twòp…I’m good, Momma. Got yo’ care packages. Lawd. Stop with allat’…” 

“Thank you for the bowl, Momma,” you give her a smile, politely trying to shoo her away, “I’m not super hungry at the moment— do you mind leavin’ it in the microwave?”

Onyankopon’s mom gives a smile back, “Of course. I’m actually gonna head back home for the night, do you need anything else, baby girl?” 

You shake your head, “I’m perfect. Just gonna’ keep talking to Ony for a little while longer.”

Onyankopon sighs as his mother says her goodbyes, exiting out of the room. Now, you notice his eyes flickering up and down your curves, which makes you squirm under the spotlight.

 “I miss you bad as fuck, girl. You miss me?”

You hate yourself for the emotions that produce randomly at times. The conversation between your mother-in-law and Onyankopon, the way he made you easily giggle, the imagery of his warmth surrounding you but not actually being there—it didn’t feel the best with his absence. 

The dark fluff of your  lash extensions flutter as you nod your head, using your knuckles to lightly swipe your watery eyes, “I miss you so much, Ony…”

Your husband’s face softens. He can tell you’ve grown emotional, knowing his absence had been difficult on you. But you always supported his dreams and wanted to build the perfect life for your baby boy, so you stuck through. It made him feel guilty.

He murmurs, “C’mon, baby. Stop allat’ cryin’. Wipe ya’ face, you know I’ll be back.“

The dim hotel room seems even more desolate compared to the comfort of your shared home. Seeing you like this made him miss you even more, his heart feeling heavy in his chest that he couldn't be there to console you.

You shakily sigh, nodding your head as you kneel your face down to let the tears fall that way, “I—I know, it’s just hard sleepin’ without you,” you sniffle, “Lil’ Pumpkin likes when you rub my stomach to sleep…”

Onyankopon sighs, “I know that, sweet girl. I love rubbin’ yo’ stomach too, baby.” 

He then says, “‘Soon as I get back, we gon’ sleep for a whole week. Ain’t nobody gonna’ bother us. I’m all yours.”

Your heartbeat increases with his words—Onyankopon always had a way to make you emotional without even being near. It made you excited, giggly, a crybaby—but now? It made you horny. 

“Don’t think I ain’t missin’ you like crazy. I miss yo’ voice, I miss yo’ smell. I miss yo’ pu—“ 

Then, he cuts himself off. The words he speaks nearly has him grunt to himself, “I just miss you.”

You watch as he brings the blunt back up to the camera, pulling another drag of smoke, the move always so efficient as if it was nothing. His eyes are back to being low—it makes you shift your legs again. He cuts on low background music to play, and a familiar song catches your ears, Make Me Proud, by Drake. 

You take a moment to recall why the song gave you such a sense of Deja Vu. But as you remember, you halt. It was a foggy night, one you’d had when first being together in college. A night of studying for exams had both of you exhausted, smoking a familiar hobby you shared before you’d gotten married. You remember the giggles from your lips as you sat against his lap, grinding your hips to the song—the way he glared at you as your body moved above him, the smacks he gave your ass for it. 

But then, your brain just… resurfaces more of that night.

It takes you deeper—your moans, your whimpers. His grunts into your mouth, his voice in your ear as you whined. The song has you becoming hot and bothered, your hands trembling, your thighs quaking. You were supposed to be happy at the moment, being told of how your husband missed you. But your mind didn’t listen to your rationality, instead drifting back into those memories even further. How you would beg for him. The sound of your skin clapping together, your legs trapped over his shoulders—

You’re hit with the reality of your husband's eyes on you. Your hand had somehow made its way to your breasts, clutching your pendant again. 

“Mama.”

Onyankopon murmurs this pet name, “‘Got me thinkin’ about you bad as fuck.” 

Your eyes run over his large silhouette, head tilting back as he watches you. Your mind wanders again, back to that song—back to that night. Your mind can’t stop. Your head is spinning with the memories, it physically makes you whimper, tugging your pendant fully in response. 

Your husband’s gaze grows into full lust. He finds your attention, “Talk to me. Whatchu’ thinkin’ about?”

The hand clutched around your pendant squeezes a bit tighter as you glance towards the camera, “The song…makes me think ‘bout a night with you…” 

 He hears you. A stream of clouds leaves his lips, “You missin’ that night?”

You nod your head, your entire body now fully hot. You could feel your nipples poking through your top again, aching in a way that almost becomes painful. Your thighs are so tightly together, as you adjust the seating position, you grind your clit against the material—it makes the tiniest gasp pull from your lips.

Onyankopon groans through the screen, and you can hear his voice say, “You’ in our bedroom?” 

That patience he had? Was never there in these times. 

"Go to it. Onna’ bed," he murmurs, "Hurry up.”

“Too far from you, Ony,” you pout, bringing your hands against your breast, giving a squeeze to them again, trying to relive how full they feel.

There's a pause before a deep exhale leaves his lips. His tone goes deep again, "Go."

The monitor seems to follow you, giving him a full view of that dress hiking up your swollen thighs—His eyes are flickering downward, watching you slide across the silk comforter against your king sized bed. 

“You gon’ do what I say?”

You nod your head, lightly dragging your teeth against the pink of your puffy lips.

“Always listen to you, Ony…”

Your husband growls, “That’s right, ‘cause you good. You gon’ be good for me?”

Your hands squeeze the flesh of your breast once more, your nipples never being this sensitive before your pregnancy. You gasp in a soft tone, but the sound is heavier. You nod your head, “‘Bought somethin’ I wanna show you…”

You hear the roughness in his voice, “Yeah? Gon’ head and show me,” he murmurs, “You look so muhfuckin’ good right now, baby.”

You reach beneath your pillow—it’s pink, silicone, almost looking translucent. Big, just as big as him. 

“Pretty like you, Papa…”

"Look at that.”

You hear a deep grunt escape his lips before there's a shuffling noise, you couldn't exactly make out what it was—then it was followed by another. This one you recognized; the strings of his sweatpants. His dark pink tip slaps along the sculpted muscle of his stomach, practically making your mouth water. 

“You like it?” Your voice is soft, almost too soft for him.

 You take the object and graze it lightly along your body, seating yourself fully along the bed. You’re at the most perfect angle to spread your legs.

“Yeah, baby,” he huffs, “Love it.” 

You pull at the string of your dress, letting the halter fall over the swell of your belly, material hanging in between your stomach and hips. Your brown nipples protrude, breasts fuller than they’d ever been before—you’re whimpering, “They’re starting to fill with milk, baby… sensitive…”

You can hear a deep, deep groan echo in the screen, almost sounding frustrated, “Fuck. You’ playin’ right now. Put that shit in yo’ mouth.”

You bring the toy up to your mouth, spreading your full lips apart as you let it slide on your tongue, coating it with your saliva. At the same time, you spread your legs, showing off the glistening arousal bedaubed on your pussy. You were wet. 

“Fuck, baby....” he growls in repetition, beginning to stroke the fat tip of his dick, “Pussy so pretty. I can feel that shit on my tongue. I’m just slurpin’ yo’ shit up, huh?” 

 His voice is rough with desire, each word punctuated by another squeeze of his own fist. He can see the way you shift, your breathing heavier than before, possibly from discomfort. 

“Getchu’ a pillow for yo’ lower back, baby. ‘Know it be hurtin’ sometimes.”

You listen, pulling the satin pillow behind you for a bit of support, feeling the small ache in your back beginning to decrease. 

“You’ comfortable, Mama? Use them’ words.”

You nod, “‘Comfortable, baby. Thank you.”

His sweet voice drops, grunting now, “Good. Rub that dick all over yo’ clit.”

Your eyes flutter shut. You imagine his lips dropping kisses against your clit, going from your inner thighs, teasing you. He’d watch as you’d squirm with every suckle of your skin, your entire body shuddering as his hot breath fanned over the hood covering the pink nub, being pulled up by his lips, being kissed by his tongue. You brush the toy against your clit that throbs, spreading your legs a little more as you whimper, lightly dragging the tip in circles on your upper pussy. The sound it makes, your pussy keens.

His hand begins to pick up speed as he pumps through his fist, “You like that, huh? Rubbing this big ass dick all over yo’ clit?” He rasps, his voice strained with pleasure, “Slap that shit on yo’ pussy. Get them’ pretty ass eyes rollin’ back."

He knew everything about your body. Including the way you’d spasm at this action, so you listened, slapping the heavy toy against your clit, your legs trembling in response, eyes rolling to the back of your head. You groan a bit, head falling back, eyes fluttering as you watch the arousal coat along your thighs, spreading your legs wider to show the gummier pink of your pussy. 

The anticipation builds as you tease yourself, circling your clit with the toy, dipping it inside your folds just enough before withdrawing again. It schlucks in return. 

“Why that shit so fuckin’ wet already?” His jaw clenches, dragging his fingers down the lengthy inches of himself. 

Your folds wrap around the toy every millisecond as you slide the outsides of it against your opening, teasing so much that your eyes haven’t stopped rolling back since he commanded them to. Your hips roll forward with a tremble, a whine parting your lips—you pout, “Ony…” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he grunts, “Ain’t even put that shit in forreal’. Where’ my lil’ nasty bitch at? She would’ve been droolin’, dropping herself all on my dick. Just drenching my shit. Quit playin’.”

“Right here,” you whimper, nodding your head, digging your teeth back into the plump of your lips. Instead of dipping the toy in to tease yourself, you take a palm to pull one of your legs up in the air, using your other hand to drag the toy towards your opening, separating the aching stretch of your folds as you begin sinking it’s tip inside. 

You’re gasping as you watch it go in through the camera— you feel every inch swelling your walls, disappearing under the sight of your large belly in a pleasured discomfort. 

You mewl, “It’s in there, baby.” 

"Get it all the way in, baby. Bury that shit deep," he dominates, pumping faster now, his breathing ragged. You’re dropping it in, inch by inch, your inhale deep as you pull it halfway out, toes curling as you sink it back in, an air pocket gushing as your arousal sops around the pink toy. 

Your eyes are fluttering chaotically as you shudder, “Fuck,  unh—“ you don’t stop, the balls of your toy brushing over your clit as you’re dropping it down into you, making it all the more stimulating.

He’s talking, "You remember when we first met? ‘Couldn’t even handle my fingers. Now look at you,” A low chuckle escapes him, "Now I got you stretchin’ that pussy out. Dick just drop, drop, droppin’ in that shit…”

His words trail off into a grunt as he quickens his strokes, “You my lil’ freaky ass bitch, huh?”

You nod again, frowning at the way your pussy cries its tears, sobbing out in waves of arousal that pool each time you pull the toy out, painting the pink silicone white. You squeal lightly as its balls slap against the outside of your pussy, the fleshy sound splattering up more of your wetness as you petulantly whine, “Yeah, Ony…”

"That's right, baby. Take that shit like a good lil' slut," he growls, voice dripping with lust as he watches you work the toy deep inside yourself, “Rubbing that pretty ass clit while you’ stuffed. Fuck, you look so damn good."

He picks up pace, stroking harder and faster as he nears his own climax, “Gonna give you all this fuckin’ nut. You want it?”

“Want it,” you tremble, in and out, the toy’s just going in you at this point, disappearing without a trace, lost in your pussy. You’re just gushing. The sound is like a mouth blowing raspberries into one’s palm, fleshy, nasty, frothing. 

“Can’t cum without you,” you pout, “Need you….I need you,” you’re opening your mouth, the sob coming deep from your chest, fucking yourself even harder, one leg shaking violently as it’s held in the air, eyes possessed as they’re rotating. You loved these moments—but they were never enough. Not even for him. 

Day one of your argument you stayed strong and moved through the house like a queen in a castle that had been overrun by a jealous beast.

Your skincare routine? Luxurious.

Your work calls? On point.

Your outfit? A soft two-piece lounge set that hugged every curve like it missed you.

When dinner came, you threw yourself into it like you were being judged on Top Chef. You marinated lamb chops for hours. Cooked up homemade honey butter biscuits with a dash of cayenne in the butter… just the way… he… liked it. But you made it very clear: that plate was yours and yours alone.

As you cooked, Smoke lingered around the kitchen and his massive frame leaned against the fridge while watching you plate your meal like a hawk. His nostrils flared as his eyes burned holes into your skin. He couldn’t believe his woman wasn’t offering him a plate of food, but he also wasn’t a man who would beg.

While completely ignoring his existence, you sat at the dining table with your legs crossed, lips glistening with lamb jus and smirking between each bite like you were daring him to say something. He didn’t. But oh, the look he gave you… Girl run

When Saturday rolled in the silence started to feel dangerous. This was the one day out of the week when Smoke would usually hit the gym with Stack, run errands he couldn’t get to during the week and any other ‘man shit’ that you didn’t care to know about. But not today. Today, that man made it a point to stay his ass at home. All. Damn. Day. And worse? He did it wearing only grey sweatpants and no shirt.

Every inch of Smoke was carved out of marble by God. Smooth brown skin stretched over thick muscle and broad shoulders. His gold chains swung low, catching the light every time he reached for something. And those damn sweatpants? They hung low. Way too damn low while leaving nothing to the imagination.

You were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, but your eyes kept sliding up catching every stretch, every shift, and every flex Smoke would make.

When he purposefully reached his arm up to stretch, that’s when he caught you. “Fuck you staring at?” His voice was deep and sharp. His lips curled into a smirk even as his eyes narrowed, knowing exactly what you were doing.

Your mouth went dry but you sucked your teeth and rolled your eyes before firing back just as sharp. “Ain’t nobody looking at you, nigga.” You turned your head fast, placed a nearby throw blanket onto your lap, and squeezed your thighs shut like you weren’t damn near vibrating with need.

Smoke let out a scoff and dropped onto the armchair across from you, legs spread wide, one hand rubbing the scruff along his jaw, the other dragging down his thigh like he didn’t know what that did to you. But he knew. Of course he knew. Because he’s a SLUT. Smoke was a man born with sin in his bloodstream and you were his favorite outlet.

“You real bold when your pussy hungry,” he goaded without looking at you, just low enough to make your stomach flip. “Real fuckin’ bold.”

You didn’t respond. Your throat tightened and your fingers curled into the blanket as heat spread between your thighs like wildfire. You hated how your body betrayed you. How your nipples perked beneath your tank top just from hearing his voice like that. How your lower belly tightened at the memory of his mouth, his hands, his— Stop. You weren’t going to fold. Not this time. No. This time you had a point to prove… So you stayed quiet.

Smoke leaned forward then, his forearms braced on his knees, honey brown eyes finally locking with yours. He was so beautiful it made your chest hurt. That hard jaw. That slow burn in his stare. The way his gold tooth caught the light when he smirked.

“You gon’ act like you don’t hear me? I said…” he repeated, his voice dropping lower, rougher, “… you real bold when your pussy hungry.”

You tossed the blanket off your lap like a challenge and stood up, storming past him toward the kitchen. But before you could make it, his hand snatched your wrist. “Don’t touch me,” you snapped.

“I ain’t touchin’ you,” he said coolly, pulling you gently, slow and patient, until you were standing right between his legs. “I’m remindin’ you. That mouth? That attitude? That little fake-ass silent treatment you think you givin’? That shit don’t work on me, pretty girl.”

He looked up at you like you were the last good thing in a ruined world. And then his eyes dropped trailing slowly down your body, soaking in every soft curve, every part of you he knew like scripture. “Go on. Keep walkin’ away,” he muttered, voice like hardened steel. “But I know damn well you miss how it feel when I grab the back of that neck and tell you to hush while I—”

“Don’t.” You said it too fast. Too breathless.

He grinned. That arrogant grin that made your knees weak and your pride falter. “You really mad?” he asked quietly, now wrapping a hand around your thigh and easing you a fraction closer. “Or you just don’t wanna admit that I had a reason to knock that pretty boy barista out his damn shoes?”

You sarcastically laughed at Smoke’s audacity. “That man smiled. That’s it. You almost went to jail over a smile.”

“Don’t care.” He leaned forward, nose brushing against your lower belly, breath warm through the cotton of your tank. “Anyone smile at you like that again, I’ll put him in the dirt.”

You stared down at him, your fingers twitching by your sides. “You’re a damn lunatic.”

“Yup.” His eyes lifted, black and unrepentant. “Your lunatic.”

You wanted to slap him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to scream and bite and ride and cry and maybe all at once. But instead, you turned your head, stared at the wall, and whispered, “Don’t talk to me.”

Smoke scoffed and his grip tightened before he kissed the inside of your thigh, right on that special spot that always makes you forget how to think straight. The kiss was gentle… dangerous… knowing “Aight, baby,” his voice muffled against your skin. “I won’t say a word.” But the fire in those orbs told a different story.

When you finally pulled away, storming back into the kitchen to cool down, you could feel his stare trailing behind you like a shadow with claws. You stood next to the kitchen island hoping for a moment of peace but instead your heart rattled like a stray bullet in your chest. The room felt too hot, too still… way too still, like the moment right before a thunderstorm when all the air gets sucked out of the sky and the ground doesn’t know whether to shake or stay still.

You ran your hands through your hair and let out a frustrated sigh. After 24 hours of being strong, you couldn’t let yourself fold from a little thigh kiss. You weren’t even hungry, but your hands moved on autopilot, opening the fridge, grabbing things, pretending like your body wasn’t still humming from the feel of his mouth on your thigh.

Smoke wasn’t slick and you weren’t safe. Not from him and not from the heat building up under your skin like it was trying to boil you alive. Behind you, the sound of the armchair creaking and his footsteps thumping across the hardwood made you hold your breath. You didn’t bother turning, you already knew the look on his face was smug and cocky like he was just biding time until your pride finally tapped out.

“You heavy-footed on purpose?” you muttered without looking at him. “Or you tryna make sure I know you comin’ so I don’t swing a skillet at your head?”

Smoke didn’t say a word but you heard the slow grind of his teeth and a slight click when his tongue hit the back of them. Then, the fridge door beside you opened. His arm brushed yours with intent and his skin was as hot as a stovetop. He reached in and grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and took a long, long drink like he had been parched since war-time.

You still didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him. Instead you stopped fiddling with the random assortment of ingredients and crossed your arms under your chest so tightly your hands started going numb. But none of that mattered. Smoke was standing so close now with his presence wrapping around you like a weighted blanket made of lustful desire, silently daring you to keep dismissing him.

“You really don’t want me talkin’ to you?” he asked finally with his tone full of challenge. “Even though your thighs damn near gave up and invited me in just now?”

You turned your head and squinted your eyes at him. “You punched an innocent man for smiling at me!”

“And I said a barista don’t need to be starin’ at what’s mine like he got a fuckin’ chance!”

“You don’t own me, Elijah,” you mumbled.

That was the first time you’d said his real name in days. And you had the nerve to use it while telling him that he doesn’t own you.

Smoke’s jaw ticked. His nostrils flared. And then he laughed like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with you right now. “I don’t own you?” he repeated, stepping in now, cornering you against the counter. “You right… You right, you grown, huh? Real grown. Is that why you been sittin’ in this house clenching your lil thighs every time I so much as stretch?”

“Back up,” you whispered. It didn’t sound as strong as you wanted it to. Not when your back hit the cold of the cabinet and your front was all warm-blooded temptation and hard muscle.

Smoke leaned in like a snake slithering across grass before striking its prey. His lips brushed your ear, and his voice dropped to a place that made your belly twist. “Tell me to back up one more time, baby,” he taunted, “and mean it.”

You swallowed thickly, chest rising fast beneath your thin top.

His hand settled on the counter beside your hip, the other drifting ever so gently down the side of your arm, brushing like a warning. “Say it,” he taunted again. “Or let me remind you why you don’t ever sleep right unless I’m wrapped around you.”

Now it was your turn to clench your jaw but your breath betrayed you. Your thighs pressed together again, heat rushing back like a tidal wave. “Why you always gotta be like this?” you breathed, voice barely holding on.

He chuckled darkly. “Because I know what’s mine.” His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers brushing the dip of your waist. “And I know when she lyin’… putting on a front.” He kissed your neck just once to test the waters. It was soft but full of possession.

And when you didn’t stop him, when you didn’t shove him away, he nipped your collarbone and muttered, “You gon’ keep fightin’ me or you gon’ let Daddy fix this?”

“I’m still mad at you,” you said, even as your fingers gripped his sweatpants.

“Stay mad then,” he growled, lifting you up onto the counter like you weighed nothing. “But don’t pretend you don’t need me.”

It took all your might to not whimper when his hand slid between your thighs, the heat of his palm making your eyes roll back. “I told… you not… to talk to me,” you gasped.

Smoke smirked against your throat. “Then put that pretty lil pussy in my face and shut me up.”

Your eyes squinted into a glare and heat rushed up your neck as your lips parted in disbelief. Your body wanted him. Badly. But your mind… that damn stubborn, bratty, prideful-ass mind was not about to let him win this round so easily.

And so… you did what any unhinged woman dating Elijah Moore would do and shoved a hand into his perfect face… and mushed him. What color roses do you want at your funeral? You pushed his cocky expression away like you were slapping a mosquito. The suddenness made him take a step back, just long enough for you to hop down from the counter in one quick motion and scurry away like a rabbit setting itself free from a snare.

“I said don’t talk to me, nigga!” you yelled, snatching your composure back like a silk robe off the floor.

You stormed out the kitchen, and tossed a middle finger over your shoulder. “And put some damn clothes on! Walkin’ ‘round this house like I could buy you for the night with two dollars and a half-stick of gum!”

Smoke stood still like a statue and for a second he didn't know if he was dreaming or if his woman was truly out of her damn mind. Then that low, dangerous laugh rolled from his chest like thunder over wet concrete. It was a sound that did nothing but pour gasoline on the flames already licking between your thighs. He loved when you got like this, wild-eyed, stubborn-lipped, and sass pouring from your throat like it was made of honey and broken glass.

He knew you’d fold. And when you did… he’d be the one to catch you.

The rest of the day you avoided Smoke like the floor was lava and he was the devil waiting at the bottom. You locked yourself in your shared bedroom and buried yourself in the sheets like they could protect you from the walking sin on the other side of the door. You distracted yourself for hours. Scrolled through your phone. Scrolled again. Played lo-fi beats. Switched to gospel. Thought about cooking. Decided not to because that would involve you leaving your sanctuary. Thought about apologizing. Decided not to because it would be a cold day in hell before you apologize to him. Thought about touching yourself… Absolutely did not… yet.

Eventually, your body gave in to exhaustion. The softness of the pillows, the hum of the AC in the background and the scent of Smoke lingering on the sheets rocked you into a tense, twitchy sleep. And then your mind betrayed you.

Of course your unconscious mind decided to betray you as you went off into dreamland. Dream-Smoke had his mouth everywhere on your body. On your neck. Down your chest. Between your thighs. This version of Smoke was utterly ruthless. He said your name like it was a threat and a prayer. His hands gripped your legs like he was holding onto the only thing that made sense in this godforsaken world.

“Open up, baby. Yeah, just like that…”

Your body arched in your sleep, your mouth parted, a soft moan fluttering against the dark. And right when you were about to reach that shimmering edge, Dream-Smoke pulled back and taunted in your ear, “Shouldn’t’ve told me not to talk, huh?”

You gasped yourself awake and the bedroom was cloaked in darkness, only a soft sliver of moonlight slipped between the curtains. Your chest heaved and your pajama shorts were damn near soaked through. The cotton stuck to your core like it had a vendetta. A frown pulled at your lips and a tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it.

You turned your head to look at the blinking alarm clock through wet eyes and frowned again. It was currently 2:03 AM and you couldn’t believe you somehow slept the entire the day away.

Peaking over your shoulder you let out a disgruntled sigh. Smoke was laid out like he didn’t have a care in the world. One arm slung behind his head, chest rising and falling with calm, heavy breaths. That same damn pair of grey sweatpants still clung to his hips. He looked peaceful. Angelic even. You wanted to punch him and make him suffer for what Dream-Smoke started but didn’t finish. But since you already got away with mushing him in the face you didn’t want to test your luck and simply whined.

A shaky, bratty, needy whimper left your throat as you wiped your still falling tears and leaned over, gently nudging Smoke's shoulder. He grunted and cracked one eye open. “What, baby?” His voice was sleep-worn and you tried not to focus on what hearing it was doing to your already wounded up body.

You pouted in the dark, nose wrinkled, lips trembling. “This is ALL your fault.”

Raising your voice early in the morning got Smoke’s full attention and he blinked slowly, as the remnants of sleep cleared from his face like a curtain lifting. His eyes found you in the moonlit darkness. You looked so adorable to him, pouty-lipped, flushed cheeks, and thighs pressed tightly together under the covers.

“The fuck you yellin’ at me for and cryin’ this early in the morning?” he asked, now fully awake, his tone clipped with concern and confusion.

You sniffled. “I… I need… I want… I want… to touch myself,” you admitted, lip quivering dramatically. “And since I’m still mad at you… I need you to leave the bed.”

Smoke blinked once at you and then again into the darkness like he was on an episode of The Office. He didn’t expect to be so entertained by your antics today and he started to chuckle to himself. This wasn’t a typical ‘I love how bratty my girl is acting’ type of laugh. No, this was a dark, ‘this girl done lost her fuckin’ mind’ laugh.

“You woke me up,” he said slowly, to make sure he got all the details correct, “to tell me that you’re horny… and I need to leave our bed… so you can touch what belongs to me?”

Your throat tightened. When Smoke repeated everything out loud it did sound kind of insane but that was besides the point. “You heard me,” you said, lifting your chin and pointing it to the door. “Now go.”

Smoke let out a final chuckle and didn’t move. He leaned back on one elbow, eyes gleaming in the dark like he could see the mess you’d become under those covers. “You really out here throwin’ tantrums at two in the morning ‘cause you can’t handle how badly you want me to fuck that attitude out of you?” he teased.

“I am handling it,” you bit back. “I’m asking you to leave. Like a grown woman.”

His tongue slid along the inside of his cheek. Then he reached down, adjusted himself in those sweats just slightly, and let out a hum that made your thighs twitch. “You sure?” he asked gently, like he was talking to a skittish wild animal about to bolt. “You sure you want me to leave, baby?”

“Yes,” you whispered, even as your legs squirmed beneath the blanket. “I don’t need you. I can do it myself.”

“Mhm… is that right...”

Smoke sat up slowly before swinging his legs off the side of the bed. He stood to his full height and then without saying another word he discarded his sweatpants, letting the moonlight shine on his intimidating half-hard manhood. You sat in complete shock, unsure what to say or what to do. Your mouth stayed agape and you could’ve sworn you didn’t breathe for 2 minutes, Your whole body burned with need and you hated this feeling.

And he spoke again in a cruel velvet-slick tone, “Go on then.” He climbed back in bed and laid on his back with his hands behind his head like he didn’t just take his pants off. “Show me how you don’t need me.”

The silence that followed was so thick it felt like smoke itself. It crackled with the weight of what you wanted to do and what your pride wouldn’t allow. Your fingers trembled under the blanket. You hated him, yet you wanted him. And you hated how badly you wanted him. All of this only made the leaking faucet between your thighs turn into a full blown fire hose.

He bit his bottom lip before antagonizing you. “Might help if you stop cryin’, baby. You can’t see your lil fingers down there with all them tears foggin’ up your eyesight.”

Your fists balled with annoyance but your thighs began to slightly part. Smoke didn’t move or touch you. He didn’t even acknowledge the way he could smell your sweet aroma in the room. He just gave you a look that said, ‘You can play this game all night, pretty girl… I’ll be here when you break.’

And you were so, so close to shattering. You stared at him like he’d summoned a demon into the room and dared you to dance with it.

Smoke stretched his long body across the bed like he was on display. Like he wasn’t a man who just dropped his pants in the middle of a silent standoff and dared you to stay proud. With his arms folded beneath his head, the swell of his chest rose and fell as if he weren’t aware of the war going on inside your body. The tension. The hunger. The absolute need that clawed at your insides like a caged animal. His dick sat heavy between his thighs, thick and idle, like it had time to wait. Like it knew it would be fed eventually.

“You got five seconds before I close my eyes and go back to sleep,” he grumbled without looking at you. “So go ahead. Get to rubbin’. Let me hear how good you make yourself feel without my help.”

Your lip trembled. You weren’t crying anymore, not from frustration anyway. But your thighs were sticky, your panties were soaked through, and every nerve ending in your body was throbbing like you’d been edgewalking through purgatory. Still… you weren’t gonna give him the satisfaction of begging. So you huffed in a loud and obnoxious manner before wiping your cheeks like a toddler who just got scolded. You then yanked the covers off your body and laid flat on your back beside him, arms stiff at your sides.

Smoke turned his head slightly, one brow arched. “Thought you said you didn’t need me,” he said, tone sharp and mocking.

“I don’t,” you snapped. “I just need space.”

He smirked. “You sound stupid.”

You glared at the ceiling. “You look stupid.”

Another beat of silence. Then your hand slowly dragged beneath the waistband of your pajama shorts, and your breath hitched. You weren’t even doing anything yet, and your whole body tensed like you were about to commit a crime.

Smoke didn’t move but he watched from the corner of his eye. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, heavy and loaded. Like if he blinked, he might miss the exact moment you broke. Your fingers brushed against your panties and found them soaked, the cotton clinging to your folds like it was trying to apologize for being in the way. You let out a shaky breath and your fingers twitched as you slid them beneath the fabric and gently grazed your clit.

The behemoth of a man next to you exhaled through his nose but he didn’t say a word as he continued to observe. You rubbed slow circles, small and hesitant, still stubborn as hell and still trying to prove a point you were seconds from losing as a soft and breathy moan slipped out.

Smoke turned his head toward you fully now, his gaze dark and unreadable. “You always make yourself sound so pretty,” he said, voice lower now, rough and molten. “But it don’t hit the same, do it?”

You didn’t answer him but your hips rolled in response to his question. Your hand moved faster. Your breath stuttered. Your back arched. Still—not a word. You didn’t plead or cry for help. To prove your point you used your own hand and held back the silent scream in your throat. Then you finally felt it… that build. It climbed your spine and tingled through your limbs, coiling low and tight in your belly like lightning trapped behind your navel. But just as your toes curled and your moans grew louder… Smoke’s hand slammed down on your wrist and you yelped.

He was above you now, face inches from yours, his chest heaving, lips parted. “That’s enough,” he growled. “This little show? Over.”

“Wha—? I didn’t even—” you started, but he cut you.

“You really gon’ make yourself cum when I’m layin’ right here?” he snapped, pressing your wrist into the mattress with one hand while the other dragged your shorts down in one brutal yank. “Tryna act like you in control of somethin’ when this pussy don’t even belong to you no more?”

You whimpered as his mouth crashed into yours, all heat and dominance, devouring your lips like he was punishing you for breathing without permission. His tongue pushed into your mouth while his hips settled between your thighs, and you could feel all of him, heavy and hot, grinding against your bare heat.

“You should’ve just asked,” he murmured against your mouth, voice trembling with restraint.

You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. “Asked… what?”

“If I was done bein’ mad,” he answered, dragging his tip along your soaked entrance, teasing but never pushing in. “Cause I wasn’t. Not yet.” And with that he slid in excruciatingly slow. So slow you nearly blacked out.

“Now,” he growled, gripping your throat just enough to make your heart flutter, “you don’t talk to me.”

Your breath caught in your throat as he filled you inch by inch, until all nine inches of his rock hard flesh stretched you out causing your back arch off the bed. Once he was completely sheathed inside of your warm gummy walls Smoke didn’t move. Not yet. He held himself still with his hand still resting on your throat—not choking, just a firm reminder of who was in control. Of whose name was stitched into the folds of your body like ownership. Like scripture.

Your lashes fluttered as a soft, broken whimper escaped your lips.

“Yeah,” he hummed, watching your face intently. “That’s what I thought.”

The weight of him, the heat, the way his body caged yours like a storm rolling over weak land, every bit of it made your spine tremble. He didn’t have to say it, didn’t need to ask… he already knew. This wasn’t about sex anymore. This was about submission. About surrender. About you thinking you could ignore him, silence him, deny him, and still sleep soundly next to him every night.

His hips rolled meticulously and grinded so deep you swore you saw stars behind your eyes. His pace was punishing in its patience. Purposeful and steady. Like he wanted you to feel the agony he felt every second you ignored him. Every breath you wasted pretending you didn’t need him.

“You really thought you was gon’ touch yourself in this bed?” he grunted, lips ghosting over your jaw as he rocked into you again. “While I laid next to you? Like I ain’t the one that got this pussy cryin’ in the first place?”

You couldn’t even respond. Your mouth opened but no sound came out, just a sharp inhale, a choked moan, and the clenching of your legs around his hips.

He groaned low like he felt your apology in the way your walls pulled him in tighter.

“This one… if for every time you rolled your eyes at me,” THRUST.

“This one… is for every time you walked away from me,” THRUST.

“Fuck… and THIS one is for every time you told me not to talk to you,” SLAM.

You whimpered beneath him, nails digging into his arms as your pride cracked wide open and your body begged to be ruined. You couldn’t handle this torturous unhurried fuck session. You needed your walls plowed to smithereens and you needed it to happen right now. “I hate you,” you gasped.

“Shut up. You love me,” he corrected with a smirk, snapping his hips against yours harder now. “You love me when I got you stuffed full and dumb off my name.”

Your moans turned shameless… so soft, high, and desperate. Each slow thrust had you melting further, your bratty resolve unraveling like a ribbon. And Smoke? He watched the transformation like it was art. “There she go…” he whispered. “There’s my girl. Ain’t no talkin’ now, huh? Just that lil mouth open like you got somethin’ to say… but still don’t know how to say sorry.”

You finally met his gaze, eyes wide and glassy with need. “I’m—” you tried.

He pressed his fingers against your lips. “Nope.” Another thrust. Brutal. Deep. You cried out. “Don’t say shit else to me... Just take it.”

He dipped his head, kissed the corner of your mouth with an intimacy that contrasted the way he was owning you from the inside out. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, hips rising to meet him while chasing the edge of pleasure like you’d die if you didn’t reach it soon.

“I got you,” he whispered, his breath warm and ragged against your ear. “Go on, baby. Let go. Let me take it.”

Your orgasm crept up your spine like a threat, your whole body tightening under him. “Smoke—” you breathed, one hand tangling in the bedsheets beneath you, the other clutching his shoulder like a lifeline.

“I know, I know. Shhh, baby,” he cooed. “Come on. I got you.” And when you finally shattered—mouth open, legs shaking, eyes rolling—he never let up. He kept fucking you through it, hips grinding, mouth pressing kisses to your throat and chest, whispering your name like prayer and punishment all at once.

You went limp beneath him and he pulled back just enough to look you in the face, brushing a lone tear from your cheek. “You still mad?”

You blinked up at him, dazed and ruined. He smirked again. That same crooked, devilish thing that started it all. “Yeah… you look like you still got a fuckin’ attitude.”

Your chest rose and fell in shallow waves with your skin covered in sweat as you lay there boneless and ruined beneath him.

Smoke hovered above you like a storm cloud that refused to pass. His body didn’t press down; he just hovered, solid and still, like a hunter watching his prey breathe after the first strike. His arms caged you on either side, head tilted slightly as his gold chain swung gently from his neck and tapped your collarbone. Your legs still trembled from the aftershock and your thighs involuntarily locked around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

But Smoke didn’t move, he was so deep inside of you that you could barely think. And instead of chasing his own pleasure like any other man might, he just stared and studied you like you were the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on. You felt the subtle twitch of him inside you, ready, but not rushing. Not desperate. Because Smoke wasn’t a man ruled by impulse. He was ruled by control. And he wielded it like a blade.

“You done squeezing my dick?” he asked quietly, voice low and relaxed, like he had nowhere else to be but right here. “Or you need a minute to remember where you at?”

You blinked slowly, lips still tingling from where he kissed you, still too blissed out to string a proper sentence together. But he waited—patient, immovable—as your brows knit together, that ache you just got rid of was already building again and you finally realized… he wasn’t finished. He still hadn’t moved. And now, you were too aware of it. Too aware of the way he filled you like he’d been carved just for you. Too aware of the steady rise and fall of his chest. Of how warm and thick and ready he still felt inside you.

“Smoke,” you whined, voice hoarse and fragile.

He cocked a brow, his gold tooth glinting in the dark. “Yeah, baby?”

Your thighs flexed around him again, a needy little roll of your hips that made you whimper even as you tried to hold your pride in place. His hand slid slowly up the side of your throat, fingers curling around the hinge of your jaw to tilt your face up toward his.

“You feel that?” he murmured.

You nodded weakly, lips parting.

“I been sittin’ still. Holdin’ back,” he whispered, each word slipping into your mouth like honey and heat. “You been cryin’, whinin’, beggin’ me to leave. But I ain’t goin’ nowhere, baby.”

He leaned down, forehead nearly touching yours. “I stay when you bratty. Stay when you act like you don’t want me. Stay when you try to punish me with silence.”

A soft, broken sound spilled from your lips.

“I stay… ‘cause you mine.” Then finally… he moved again. Just a slow roll of his hips. Barely there. Just enough to make you feel the stretch again. Just enough to remind your body that your first orgasm was nothing but the beginning. Your nails found his back again, dragging lightly over the skin of his shoulders as your breath caught.

“You thought I was gon’ break first,” he said, dragging himself out slowly before sinking back into you. “Didn’t you?”

You moaned, head tipping back, throat arching beneath his palm.

“You thought that lil attitude was enough to make me lose my cool.” Another thrust. Deep and slow. The kind that made your vision blur.

“But you forgot who you dealin’ with,” he grunted as his lips brushed your ear. “I can fuck this perfect pussy slow like this for hours and still not cum.”

You whimpered again, your hips twitching, your body betraying you as your heat reignited. He kissed the curve of your cheek, your jaw, your ear.

“You don’t get quick fucks when you act like you don’t need me.” His hand slid between your bodies, fingers slipping down until they found that tender, swollen bundle of nerves. “You get discipline.”And as his fingers began to move in calculated devastating circles, his hips continued their cruel rhythm and your body began to shake again.

You could barely breathe. Every inch of your body was coated in sweat, your skin fever-hot, while your senses flooded with overstimulation. Smoke hadn’t let up and he hadn’t sped up either. That was the worst part… or maybe the best. He moved with purpose and mastery. Every grind of his hips was deep, as he poured himself into you like he was trying to combine your souls into one. And his fingers… God. The pads of them circled your clit with such devastating precision, you swore you were unraveling on a molecular level. Like you were coming apart from the inside out.

You gripped at his shoulders, his back, his biceps, wherever you could reach… but you couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t change the pace. Couldn’t make him move faster no matter how much your legs shook or your voice cracked. “P-please,” you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for. Release? Mercy? More?

Smoke leaned down, brushing his lips against your cheek with a smug grin carved into his face. “Oh… You beggin’ now?” he asked. “Wasn’t too long ago you was flippin’ me off and actin’ like I was walkin’ around here like a cheap thrill.”

His voice vibrated against your neck, dragging goosebumps down your spine. “You wanna cum again, pretty girl?” he murmured, fingers pressing down just slightly harder, swirling against your clit like he was drawing a map to your breakdown. “Is that what all them little tears are for?”

You whined, nodding frantically, your thighs beginning to quake again. Smoke didn’t speed up. He didn’t need to. Your body was desperate for him and would greedily take whatever was given. He knew you so well he could fuck you out of a meltdown without ever changing rhythm.

“You don’t deserve to cum yet,” he said lowly, pulling his mouth back to hover just above yours. “But I’m gon’ let you anyway. Just so you remember who got you moaning so loud our neighbors might file a noise complaint tomorrow.”

He moved in again with one solid and controlled stroke that made your eyes roll and your nails dig so deep into his back you swore you could feel muscle give. Your body started to quiver. “No—no, wait—” you whimpered, because you felt it building too fast, the peak rising like a wave with nowhere to go.

“Shhh,” he whispered, voice laced with hunger now, though his pace never changed. “That’s it. Go on. Cum on my dick.”

He kissed you and swallowed your cries as your walls constricted around him and you came again, harder than before. Your body jerked beneath him as your second orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave smashing through a dam. You sobbed into his mouth, a mix of bliss and frustration and pure, helpless surrender. Your thighs shook uncontrollably and your nails dug into his flesh like he was the only thing keeping you from drifting away.

Smoke pulled back just enough to look at your face that was flushed and tear-streaked, while your mouth hung open in silent shock as you rode the aftershocks. “I don’t think that attitude is gone yet” he rasped, still deep inside you, still hard as stone. “You need another reminder. Don’t you, baby?”

You nodded weakly unable to form words.

Smoke slid his hand up your ribcage, slow and reverent, until he cupped the side of your face. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, tugging it gently. “I ain’t even started your real punishment yet.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Two days you gave me attitude,” he murmured, kissing your chin. “Two days you walked around this house actin’ like you forgot what my name felt like between your thighs… I'm nowhere near done with you yet.”

You gasped, your fingers twitched around his arms, already worn down and so full of him. You didn’t know if it was seconds or minutes or lifetimes that passed with him moving inside you like that—slow, deliberate, dominant. Your body felt swollen with sensation, soaked in the aftermath of two back-to-back orgasms that had left your breath scattered like glass shards across the mattress.

Your skin was hot to the touch, your muscles limp, your mind foggy with a heady mix of defiance and surrender. And through it all, Smoke hadn’t broken his rhythm. His stamina was inhuman, like he fed off control, fed off the way your body twitched and sobbed under his. The way you needed more and hated that it had to come from him.

But then… Something shifted. His eyes… those dark, obsidian things dragged across your face. He licked his lips, slow and thoughtful. Then he pulled back again. All the way out. You cried at the loss of fullness and rose your hips involuntarily trying to chase him. Smoke grinned but it wasn’t a playful or kind grin. Without a word, he grabbed your hips, flipped you over onto your stomach, and yanked your ass up until you were on your knees, chest pressed to the mattress. He spread your legs with his own and ran a hand down your back.

“You said I looked like I could be bought for two dollars and some gum,” he growled, dragging himself against your folds, wet and swollen and already twitching from anticipation.

You swallowed, face buried in the sheets. You remembered and silently cursed to yourself.

He leaned down, mouth grazing your ear as he lined himself up behind you. “Good thing for you, I don’t charge. But I do collect.”

And then he slammed into you. No warning. No patience. The thrust knocked the wind out of your lungs. “E-ELIJAHHHH! F-FUCKKK!” you cried, hands gripping the sheets like a lifeline.

Smoke’s pace was nothing like before. All that held-back heat, all that restraint? Gone. His hips snapped against you with vicious precision, his grip digging into your hips as your ass slapped against him, over and over, filling the room with the sound of skin meeting skin and your broken cries.

“This what you wanted?” he grunted, every word punched out between thrusts. “All that mouth, all that attitude… This what you needed to calm down?”

You couldn’t even answer. Couldn’t form a thought. Your voice was raw with whimpers and your tears stained the pillow as you arched back into him on instinct, chasing every brutal, perfect stroke.

He reached around and grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper against your jaw. “You talk big,” he hissed, thrusting deep, “but this pussy always tell the truth.”

You sobbed out a yes. Or maybe his name. Or maybe just a noise—because that’s all you were now. A body molded to his pace. A vessel of heat and ache and want. And then… He slowed again. But this time, his strokes were hard and measured. That had your eyes rolling and your teeth sinking into the pillow to stop yourself from screaming his name like a confession.

“You feel how deep I am?” he groaned, voice thick and low behind you. “You gon’ run your mouth next time a man so much as smiles at you?”

You shook your head quickly, biting down on your bottom lip as you wavered between reality and subspace.

“Use your words,” he demanded before landing hard smacks on your ass that turned your ebony skin bright red.

“No—no, Smo- Daddy! I won’t, I swear—” you gasped, voice choked and high.

“Damn right you won’t.”

He dragged you up by your waist, pulling your back against his chest, one arm wrapping across your ribs, the other snaking down to rub your clit in slow, punishing circles again.

“Let another nigga smile at you again in public and I’ma bend you over right then and there,” he whispered, biting your shoulder. “Make sure everybody knows who you belong to.”

You cried out again, the pleasure building faster than your body could handle. It was too much but you loved every second of it. And Smoke? He was relentless. Focused. Determined to etch his name into your skin, your bones, your fucking soul.

“You gon’ cum one more time for me,” he ordered, fingers working faster now. “And then I’ll think about lettin’ myself nut.”

You couldn’t even reply because your body was already shaking. Your walls were already spasming around his brutal rod. You felt your mind spiral into that place that only he could take you. The place where pride didn’t exist and control was something you gave him freely.

“Go on, baby,” he ordered. “Make my dick shiny. Cum for me.”

And you did. Harder than you’ve ever climaxed before. This orgasm felt spiritual like your soul kissed the feet of God before asking for forgiveness and traveling back into your human vessel. You screamed his name into the pillow like a secret finally confessed, your body convulsed, your legs collapsed beneath you as he held you upright, grunting through clenched teeth.

Smoke held you there, both of you trembling in the twinkling moonlight shining through the bedroom. Your back was slick against his chest, your breath short and stuttering. His arm was still banded tight across your stomach, the other gripping your thigh with bruising intensity, like he didn’t trust his body not to break you if he let it go free. You felt every inch of him—still deep, still pulsing, still holding on with that impossible restraint that made you ache in places words couldn’t touch.

“Fuck… Fuck… Don’t move,” he moaned, his voice cracking down the middle—low, rasped, and dangerous. “Don’t.”

You didn’t dare disobey your man. You were already trembling too hard, barely tethered to your body. Your face was damp with tears, your thighs quaking, your walls still fluttering in waves around him.

“Shit, baby…” he growled, his voice buried somewhere between awe and agony. “You tryin’ to milk me dry, huh?”

You whimpered. Not out of pain. But because you felt it—felt that slow-building quake start to rattle through him. The way his grip tightened. The way his hips stilled just for a beat too long. You felt the flex in his abdomen, the tension coiling at the base of his spine like a spring being wound to the brink of snapping.

Your last orgasm clenched down onto his dick perfectly and now he was close trying to fight against it. You turned your face slightly from the pillow, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “Why’re you holdin’ it in?”

Smoke gritted his teeth tightly. “‘Cause once I let go…” he hissed, “you ain’t gon’ be able to walk, let alone keep talkin’ shit like you ain’t mine.”

You shivered under him. “But I am yours,” you whispered, the confession slipping out with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

That broke him. Smoke let out a low, raw groan as his grip shifted. He grabbed your hips with both hands, holding you still as his restraint finally began to splinter.

“Say it again.”

“Smoke—”

“Say. It. Again.”

Your voice caught in your throat, but you gave it to him, every word thick with truth and heat. “I’m yours,” you breathed. “I’ve always been yours.”

He let out something between a moan and a curse as he started to move again. Each thrust was rough with purpose, his rhythm tight and controlled even as his body fought against itself for release. “I should’ve made you say that two days ago,” he murmured into your neck. “Could’ve saved us both a whole lot of trouble.”

You could feel him on edge now. His hands were shaking. His thighs flexed with every grind forward. His jaw locked. “Fuck, baby… you feel too good,” he rasped. “Too fucking good.”

You whimpered, barely holding yourself up as he rutted into you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

“Where you want it?” he choked out, voice frayed and thick with hunger. His hand fisted the meat of your ass, keeping your hips tilted perfectly, helplessly open for him.

“Tell me. Right here?” he ground into you deeper—deeper—and your whole body jolted like he’d struck a nerve that reached your soul.

“Want me to fill this pretty pussy up?” he growled, hips snapping forward again, rough, rhythmic, merciless. “You want me to cum so deep you leak for days, huh? So every time you open your legs, you remember who the fuck owns it?”

You tried to answer, but your voice cracked around the sound of your own moan.

Your body was done. Shaking, oversensitive, strung out from back-to-back orgasms—but still hungry for him. Still desperate to take all of him, to feel the final blow. The one he’d been holding back since the minute he put his hands on you.

Smoke’s thrusts became heavier and it became obvious he was losing the reins. His grip on your hips turned bruising, and a deep, guttural snarl ripped out of him like it came from the base of his spine. “Answer me, baby! Where. You. Want. It?”

“Inside,” you cried, head buried in the sheets, hips bucking against him. “Please, Smoke, fill me up.”

Smoke roared before grabbing you by the back of your neck and forcing your chest flush to the mattress. His other hand yanked your ass back into him, hard enough to make your eyes roll. His body collapsed over yours, hot and massive and trembling as he began to pound into you like a man possessed. No more teasing. No more patience. Just raw, primal need.

“You fuckin’ take it,” he growled in your ear. “You take every drop. That’s mine. You hear me? Mine. This pussy… this whole fuckin’ body… you think I’m lettin’ it walk around untouched, unclaimed? Nah. Nah, baby. I’m leavin’ my fuckin’ mark.”

His thrusts were devastating now. Every stroke came with the full weight of his body. His hips snapped forward like punishment, his chest slick against your back, his voice a broken, dirty prayer in your ear.

“I can’t—” you gasped, sobbing against the sheets.

“Yes, you… can,” he growled, his voice deep and guttural, hips pounding harder now. “You will. You gon’ take every drop I give you… then lay here… and thank me for it like a good girl. Understand?”

You felt the tremor roll through his body as his thighs tensed, his back flexed, and the ragged stutter of his breath grew as he chased his own breaking point. He was close. So close. “Say it,” he demanded, his voice sharp as a razor. “Say you’re mine while I paint these walls. Say it with my dick buried in this pussy.”

You cried out, clawing at the sheets, tears streaking your face. “I’m yours, Smoke! I’m yours, please—cum inside me!”

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself so deep you screamed, and then he moaned your name like it was the last word he’d ever say.

You were on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness when you felt Smoke’s hot and heavy load spilling into you in thick waves as his body seized behind you, every muscle locked in place. His nails dug into your hips as he held you there, stuffed full, claimed and ruined. His head dropped into your neck, his moan drawn-out, ragged, the sound of a man breaking as he finally gave in.

He stayed like that. Still pulsing inside you and panting. His lips grazed your skin, open-mouthed, breath hot. Then, after a long, heavy silence—he exhaled and murmured low, almost reverent: “Mine.”

And this time, you didn’t argue. Because your body? It agreed.

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Authors Note: This was just a one shot to get all the horn horn energy out before I finish my series🥴🙂‍↕️ I understand mean Smoke isn’t for everyone but… HE IS VERY GORGEOUS TO MEEEE!!!