Dashhoney25

Greater Calvary Holy Temple Church of Deliverance

1929

A house of God on the outside. A house of control, secrecy, and slow corruption on the inside.

It sits brazenly just across the narrow lane, a high-steepled white building with iron-cross fencing and fresh lilies at the steps. From the pulpit, you can see The Blackline, its high windows often glowing amber at night, blues leaking through to tempt. 

 Great Calvary sat under the Arkansas moon, high vaulted ceilings with exposed wood beams that resemble a ribcage. Inside, the sanctuary echoed with nothing but the faintest creak of floorboards as Sister Marigold Baptiste moved through the back room, her arms stacked with dog-eared Bibles, some with notes scribbled in the margins. The smell of polished wood and incense lingered within the sanctuary. She was alone—or so she thought—arranging the holy books in the pews, her starched, high-neck dress whispering against her thighs with every step. Her honey-brown skin gleamed, her thick coils pinned tight, posture ramrod straight as always with her chin tucked and elbows close. Her fingers fumbled at the edges of a Bible, betraying the knot in her gut. 

The back room door swung open with a low groan and there he was—Elias ‘Stack’ Moore filling the frame like a shadow come to life. Tall, and broad, his deep brown skin stretched over muscles honed from Delta fields, French trenches, and Chicago back alleys. He wore a sharp, silk vest over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show corded forearms, pomade-slick hair neatly laid. That bay rum cologne cut through bold and unrepentant as he stepped in, letting the door ease shut behind him. His full lips curved into a knowing smirk, eyes dark and penetrating, locking on her like she was the only sin worth chasing. 

“Miss Marigold,” Stack drawled, voice low and gravel-rough, that southern lingo wrapping around her name, Missisippi roots tangled with Capone’s edge, “what you doin’ hidin’ back here in the Lord’s closet this late?” 

Marigold froze, bible clutched to her breasts, warm brown eyes flicking up then away quickly. A hard swallow worked down her long, elegant throat, “Stack, you can’t be here,” Marigold hissed, voice hushed but sharp, setting the book down with trembling hands. She fiddled with the top button of her blouse, steps small as she backed away, “Somebody might show up. The deacons, the old sisters from choir. Or worse, my husband. Get on out before—”

Stack chuckled deep and dismissive, closing the distance in two easy strides, his polished shoes silent on the worn floor. Towering over her now, he crowded her space, the heat from his body radiating through her dress. 

“Don’t give a damn who shows, sugar. Let ‘em come. Deacons can pray on it, them dried-up old women can yap gums ‘til they jaws ache, and that preacher husband of yours? He don’t know how to give his woman what she deserve anyway. Limp-dick fool preachin’ fire while you burnin’ up inside.” 

Marigold’s breath hitched high in her chest, knees knocking softly as she pressed back against the door, hips trying to stay church-straight but softening just a touch, “This ain’t the place, Stack. I’m tellin’ you to leave. We can’t—”

“You hidin’ again,” Stack cut in, voice dipping lower, that slick talk turning hard, his thick frame boxing her in. He reached out, big hand planting on the pew beside her hip, leaning close enough she could feel the warmth and softness of his full lips brushing her ear, “Two weeks you been dodgin’ me, actin’ like The Blackline’s poison. Like what we got ain’t worth the risk. I’m sick of it, Marigold,” Stack emphasized his words with a pointed finger, “I ain’t sick of chasin’ behind that big ol’ ass but I know you feelin’ it too. Look at them thighs. Shaking.” 

Marigold pushed at his chest, palms flat against the silk of his vest, but her tough lingered a beat too long, eyes glossy and flustered, “I ain’t hidin’ I got duties, a life—”

“Shut your mouth ‘fore I get in my knees right here and turn that lil’ attitude into somethin’ sweeter, change that tone easy with my lips suckin’ on that pussy. Go on wit’ that tone…I know just how to quiet it down,” Stack growled, words vulgar and raw, his dark eyes boring into hers. He meant it—oh, he meant every filthy syllable. That thick tongue of his flicked over his full lips, his curved dick twitching in his trousers at the thought. 

The words hit her like a slap, stilling her cold. Her fussing fingers dropped, breath lifting sharp, eyes widening as that slow warmth crept up her throat. Marigold swallowed hard, the fight draining from her plush lips as they parted on a silent gasp. Him being in that space made the back room feel smaller, the holy weight of the place twisting into something profane under his gaze. 

Stack pressed closer, his body flush against hers now, one hand sliding to her waist, gripping the soft give there through her dress. His other hand cupped her chin, thumb tracing her kiss-swollen lower lip, forcing her to meet his eyes. 

“Been two weeks since I had them pussy lips in my mouth, sugar,” Stack whispered, voice a low rumble, breath tickling her face, “two weeks without that sweet twang on my tongue, that wild bush ticklin’ my nose while I lap you up. I’m tired of daydreamin’ like some lovesick schoolboy, jerkin’ my thick dick to the memory when I can just bend you over one of these pews right now, hike up that skirt, and wiggle my tongue deep in it proper. Make you forget all ‘bout sin and straighten up.” 

Marigold’s hips softened into curves against him, voice dropping to a husky contralto as resistance cracked. The tension coiled tight, church silence broken only by their ragged breaths. 

Stack’s chuckle rumbled low against her skin, a dark vibration that sent shivers racing down her spine. He leaned in, plush lips brushing the elegant line of her neck, planting slow kisses that trailed fire along her honey-brown flesh. He guided her backwards step by step until her plush hips bumped the edge of the table stacked with hymnals and Bibles. The books and papers shifted, pages fluttering like startled birds scattering across the wooden surface as her ass nudged them aside. 

Marigold’s breath hitched sharp in her throat, a desperate gasp escaping her parted lips. Her hands clutched at Stack’s vest, fingers twisting the silk, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer, “Stack…Stack…Elias—” Marigold pleaded, her voice a husky whisper laced with panic and desire, her warm brown eyes darting to the door as if expecting the knob to turn any second. 

He shushed her with a firm press of his mouth lower, lips sucking gently at the pulse point on her throat and his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of her flushing skin. His hands slid up her sides, thumbs hooking under the swell of her full breasts, cupping them through the starched fabric of her dress. Stack squeezed, feeling the heavy weight yield in his palms, her nipples hardening into tight peaks that poked against his touch. 

“No, no, no, now…it’s daddy,” Stack whispered against her collarbone, his voice thick and commanding, “And you gon’ learn not to keep my food away from me, woman. Two weeks of that sweet cooze starvin’ me—ain’t happenin’ no more.” 

Before Marigold could muster another protest, Stack’s arms hooked under her thighs, lifting her clean off the floor with ease. She yelped soft, legs wrapping instinctive around his wait as he hoisted her up, her round ass settling on the table’s edge. Hymns toppled to the floor in a cascade, spines cracking open like confessions spilled. Stack dropped to his knees between her legs, the worn wood of the back room floor biting into the threading of his trousers but he didn’t care, his focus locked on her, his dark eyes gleaming with hunger. 

Stack’s hands gripped the hem of her skirt, bunching the stiff fabric up her thick thighs exposing the taut pull of her stockings clinging to her satin-smooth skin. He hooked fingers into the garters, snapping them loose with a quick tug, then rolled the thick nylons down agonizingly slow, peeling them off her calves and over her delicate ankles. There was no cool air with that church, but the sensation of his fingers against her skin raised goose flesh along her inner thighs, but the real heat came from his breath fanning higher. Her drawls came into view next, simple cotton panties, what and modest, but damp at the crotch and clinging to the outline of her full pussy lips. The coily hairs of her bush spilled from the sides like a tease. 

Stack’s palms slid up her thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft, dimpled flesh at the tops, forcing her legs wider. He spread her open, knees nudging her heels apart until her feet dangled off the table’s edge, high arches flexing in her sturdy heels. 

“Obadiah come bargin’ in right now and see his wife gettin’ her pussy ate up like a proper feast, what ya’ think he gon’ do?” Stack taunted, voice slick and vulgar, lips curling into a wicked grin as he started up at her flushed face, “that limp preacher drop to his knees and pray? Or watch me tongue-fuck you ‘til you squirt all over these holy books?” 

Marigold bit her lower lip hard, plush Cupid’s bow glossy with her spit, stifling the moan building in her chest. Her hands gripped the table’s edge behind her, knuckles flexing as she fought to keep quiet. The empty church amplified every rustle, every ragged inhale. But her body betrayed her, hips shifting forward just a fraction, thighs quivering under his hold. 

Stack didn’t waist another breath on words. His rough fingers hooked into the leg of her panties, yanking the fabric to the side with a rip of cotton. Her wet bush spilled free, thick black curls matted with arousal and framing the swollen brown of her pussy lips parting slick and eager. Stack admired it all, his eyes devouring the sight—her clit peeking swollen from its hood, the inner folds glistening with that familiar twang he craved, dripping slow onto the table beneath her. 

“Look at this pretty mess,”he growled, thumbs stroking her outer lips to spread her wider, exposing the tight entrance clenching around nothing, “All soaked and waitin’ fo daddy’s mouth. Been neglectin’ this pussy too long. Time to make it sing.” 

Stack’s head dipped forward, nose burying first into her bush, inhaling deep the musky scent of her arousal mixed with lye soap and faint vanilla. Then, his tongue lashed out, flat and broad, licking a long stripe up her juicy slit from bottom to top, gathering her mess and his spit on the flat of it. Marigold’s back bowed off the table, a choked whimper escaping despite her bitten lip, thighs clamping instinctive around his ears. Stack groaned into her, the vibration humming against her clit as he sucked it between his lips, that lethal tongue circling the nub with filthy precision—flicking, swirling, pressing hard enough to make her hips buck. 

Stack ate Marigold like a man starved, mouth working relentless, lips sealed around her folds to suckle deep, tongue plunging into her hole to fuck her shallow and wet, goatee slick with her cream. One hand pinned her thigh wider, the other snaked up to pinch her nipple through her dress, twisting just enough to draw another muffled cry. The table creaked beneath her weight, her body writhing, more Bibles tumbling to the floor, pages splaying open to versus of temptation and fall. His mouth didn’t stop lapping her up, humming approval as her pussy clenched and wept onto his tongue, her quiet please turning into desperate gasps. 

“Daddy…oh, please…” 

Stack’s tongue delved deeper into Marigold’s slick folds, lapping at the creamy essence coating her inner walls with hungry, insistent strokes. He then dragged his tongue between her folds with a thick swipe before sucking her clit between his full lips, tugging gently before releasing it with a wet pop, only to dive back in, fucking her hole with the pointed tip of his tongue. Marigold’s thighs clamped tighter around his head, the muscles in her thighs flexing as she writhed on the table, her plush ass sliding against the scattered hymnals, smearing faint ink from open pages onto her skin. One of her hands flew to his slick hair, fingernails scratching at the nape of his neck where the hairs began to curl from sweat and new growth. Her trembling fingers flattened against his neck, drawing him closer even as her hips bucked erratically, refusing to hold still under his assault. 

“Gahdamn, baby,” Stack rasped against her wet ass pussy, the words vibrating and mumbling through her core as he pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot and ragged on her dripping slit, “You this wet for me, baby? Pussy weepin’ like a Delta flood, soakin’ my chin with all that sweet juice. Been holdin’ out on daddy, but look at ya’ now…gushin’ like you ain’t had a proper lickin’ in months,” Stack plunged two thick, ringed fingers inside her, curling them to stroke that spongy spot deep within, pumping slow and with a curl of his fingers while his lips latched onto her clit again, sucking hard enough to make her back now off the scratched wood. 

Marigold’s free hand clawed at the table edge, her almond shaped nails scraping the grain as another King James Version tumbled to the floor with a heavy thump. Her thick, buttery soft thighs squeezed his ears, trapping him in the vise of her legs, but she couldn’t stop squirming—hips grinding forward to chase his tongue, then jerking back as the pleasure bordered on too much. A low, throaty moan escaped her bitten lip, warm brown eyes squeezing shut, thickly, dense hair loosening from their pins to cascade wild over her shoulders. 

“Elias…oh, Lord…it’s—it’s too—” Marigold gasped, void breaking into a whimper but her body betrayed her words, pressing her soaked pussy harder against his face. 

Stack chuckled into her, the sound muffled by her bush, sending fresh tremors through her clit. Those fingers scissored inside her clenching channel. Stack withdrew his mouth to growl.

“Too what, woman? Too good? This fat pussy’s tellin’ a different story clenchin’ on my fingers. You been dreamin’ of this tongue while that preacher husband snore beside you, ain’t you? Soaked through ya’ drawls just thinkin’ ‘bout daddy eatin’ ya’ out in the house of the Lord,” Stack flattened his tongue and dragged it up her slit again, savoring the flood of arousal spilling from her, then sealed his lips around her hole to suckle the nectar directly, humming deep in his throat as her thighs quivered and tightened anew. 

Marigold’s writing intensified, legs locking around him like she aimed to crush his skull, but Stack held firm, one arm banding across her lower belly to pin her hips down while his free hand kneaded the soft flesh of her inner thigh. He finger-fucked her faster now, knuckles bumping spots inside her she never knew existed with each thrust, his mouth relentless—licking, sucking, nibbling the swollen lips until they throbbed a coral pink and slickened to his liking. 

“That’s it, baby, ride my fuckin’ face,” Stack urged between laps, voice thick with lust and that gravelly drawl, “let it out…drown me in this hot mess you savin’ just for me. Ain’t no hidin’ now, this pussy’s mine and I’m gon’ drink every drop till you shake.” 

Marigold’s resistance shattered further, her body undulating wildly, thighs gripping and releasing in rhythm with his tongue’s thrusts. Sweat beaded on her honey-brown skin, flushing her neck and chest as she teetered on the edge, the profane symphony of wet smacks and her stifled cries echoing softly in the shadowed back room. 

Stack pulled back from Marigold’s drenched folds, his goatee glistening with her slick arousal, dark eyes locking onto hers with a stern glare that cut through the dim room light. His pomade-slicked hair, conked smooth and shiny from the jar of Murray’s he kept in his pocket, stayed perfectly in place despite the grip of her thighs moments before. 

“Cut all that damn squirming, woman,” he commanded, voice low and gravelly, laced with that Delta drawl sharpened by Chicago streets, “you gon’ hold still for daddy now, or we gon’ have problems.” 

Marigold’s chest heaved, full breasts straining against the starched bodice as she met his gaze, warm brown eyes wide and flickering with a mix of defiance and need. But, she nodded shakily, biting the corner of her plush lower lip. With trembling fingers, she hooked her heels onto the table’s edge, drawing her knees up and spreading her thick thighs wider, the satin inner skin quivering in the humid air. She scooted forward inch by inch, her plush ass sliding to the very end of the scarred wooden surface until her soaked drawls—pushed aside earlier—dangled precariously from one knee. Her hands fumbled with the hem of her long skirt, bunching the heavy fabric up over her legs and settling it around her waist, exposing the wild bush framing her swollen pussy lips puffy and slick from his earlier attentions. 

“Elias,” Marigold whispered urgently, voice a hushed plea as she glanced towards the shadowed door leading to the nave, “you gotta be quiet ‘fore somebody come find us. Obadiah’s could be prayin’ up front, and them deaconesses…Lord, if they hear…”  her words trailed off into a soft gasp, thighs twitching with the vulnerability of her position. 

Stack’s full lips curved into a wicked chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his broad chest as he rose slightly on his knees between her spread legs, his massive frame dwarfing the table, “Quiet? Shit, Sister, maybe them church women need to see what it’s like to get your pussy licked proper. Ain’t nothin’ taboo ‘bout suckin’ on some sweet cooze like a oxtail bone…” he peppered kisses along her inner thighs, still holding that dimpled smile, “slow…deep..till I make it flood,” he leaned in closer, breath fanning her exposed clit, making it throb visibly. 

Marigold’s hand shot out, palm connecting with his muscled shoulder in a sharp slap, the sound echoing softly off the paneled walls. Her cheeks flushed deeper, a mix of scandal and lingering piety flashing in her eyes. 

“Elias Moore, you watch that filthy mouth,” she hissed, though her voice cracked with the heat building low in her belly. 

Stack didn’t flinch, he just grinned wider, catching her wrist gently but firmly in his large hand, thumb stroking the pulse point there.

“You can slap me all damn day, woman, but we both know you want me to keep goin’. This pussy’s beggin’ fo it…drippin’ down ya’ thighs like honey from the comb,” to prove his point, he released her wrist and dipped his head, tongue flicking out to trace a slow, teasing line along her inner thigh, lapping up the trail of her arousal. 

Marigold’s breath hitched, and as he moved to bury his face back in her cooze, she bratty-clamped her thighs shut again, trapping his shoulders between the soft, powerful vise of her legs. A playful glint sparked in her eyes, even as her body betrayed her with fresh wetness seeping from her slit. 

Stack froze, then lifted his head, fixing her with a warning look that darkened his deep brown eyes to near black, jaw set like he was staring down a rival bootlegger. His free hand drifted to the leather belt cinched at his waist, fingers hovering over the buckle. 

“You want me to take this belt off, Marigold? Bend you over this here table and stripe that fat ass till you learn to open wide when daddy say so?” 

The threat hung heavy, laced with promise, and Marigold’s defiance crumbled under the weight of it. Her thighs parted slowly, trembling as she exposed herself fully again, pussy lips parting slightly to reveal the creamy pink within, clit peeking out swollen. She knew that the next phase of what he was about to deliver would have her bucking and writhing through the Chitlin Circuit. 

“No…please, Elias,” she whispered, voice small and compliant, hands clutching the bunched skirt like a lifeline. 

Satisfied, Stack’s stern expression softened into predatory hunger, That’s my good girl,” but for her little rebellion, he amped it up, second to devour her on a whole other level. He gripped her thighs harder, thumbs digging into the plush flesh to hold her splayed open, and dove in like a man starved. His tongue plunged straight into her entrance, thick and insistent, fucking in and out with rapid, shallow thrusts that mimicked his fat dick, scooping out her gushing justices with each withdrawal. Then, he shifted, sealing his full lips between her hairy bush, latching onto her clit and inner lips, sucking, drawing that juicy flesh into the wet heat of his mouth in one voracious pull, humming low so the vibrations rattled through her bones. 

Marigold was shook to her core, body jolting like she’d been struck by lightning, back arching off the table as strangled cry escaped her throat. No more writing defiance, now she was pinned by the sheer intensity, thighs quivering but held wide by his iron grip, hips unable to do anything but accept the onslaught. Stack tightened the grip on one thigh and the fingers of his other hand joined the fray, two thick digits shoving deep into her clenching channel, twisting and pumping with brutal precision, knuckles grinding against her walls and his tongue flicking her clit, lashing relentlessly, circling her sensitive pearl until it pulsed like he was strumming a Gibson L-1. 

“Fuck, baby,” Stack growled against her, words muffled but vibrating straight to her womb, pulling back only to spit on her pussy before diving back in, slurping noisily at the mess he’d made, “tighten up on these fingers—yeah, just like that. Gon’ make this pussy gush for me, flood my mouth till I can’t swallow fast enough,” he curled his fingers inside her, stroking that ridged spot with expert pressure, his mouth a blur of licks and sucks. 

Marigold had no choice but to comply, her world narrowing to the ferocious assault between her thighs that stayed spread, feet digging into the table’s edge for leverage as waves of pleasure crashed over her, building to a shattering peak. Her hands flew to her mouth to muffle the moans, but her body surrenders fully, pussy fluttering and gushing around his invading tongue and fingers, lost in the profan e worship of his mouth. 

Her arms buckled under her own weight as the pressure coiled tighter in her core, and she leaned back on her elbow atop the scarred wooden table, the stack of hymnals shifting precariously beneath her plush hips. Her honey-brown skin flushed hot across her chest and up her elegant neck, that long column Stack fixated on so often now quivering with each ragged breath. The starched fabric of her bodice clung sample to her full, heavy breasts, nipples peaked and straining like dark berries against the cotton. Her waist twisted, soft lower belly—his ‘sweet cushion’—tensed and released in waves.

It hit her like a freight train barreling through the quiet night, her orgasm ripping through her body without mercy, purely physical and overwhelming, no room for thought or piety in the blaze. Her warm brown eyes squeezed shut, lashes fluttering wildly against her cheeks while her plush, Cupid’s bow parted in a silent scream that quickly shattered into sound. Her face contorted in raw ecstasy, brows furrowed deep, forehead creased with the intensity, a sheen of sweat beading along her hairline where those thick strands of dark hair had begun to loosen from their pins, a few strands sticking to her temple. Her mouth hung open, tongue darting out to wet her kiss-swollen lips as the pleasure peaked, cheeks hollowing with the force of her gasps. 

Marigold’s body betrayed every secret she’d ever hidden under that conservative shell, thighs clamping down around Stack’s broad shoulders, satin inner skin silk and trembling as her pussy clenched hard around his curling fingers. She felt it all—deep, rhythmic twitches starting from her swollen clit, radiating out in electric pulses that made her wide hips buck involuntarily, generous, dimpled ass lifting off the table’s edge. Gushes of her arousal flooded his mouth, hot and copious, soaking his chin and dripping down his neck. She could sense the wet rush of it, the way her inner walls spasmed an released in forceful squirts that coated his lips and tongue, wild bush matted and glistening. Her pliant belly quivered and her full breasts heaved with each convulsion, the heavy undersides brushing against Stack’s hand that held her firm against her upper torso, her body arching and rolling deep like she was riding a bawdy blues symphony. Every nerve was alight from her high-arched feet curling tight in the air to the nape of her neck prickling with goose flesh. 

Sounds tore from her throat unbidden, husky and broken, her voice thickening into that intimate melt she’d only ever let loose with him.

“Ahh…ohh…mmmph!” The moans spilled out low at first, a throaty rumble building to sharper cries, “hah! Nngh!” Muffled only when she bit down on her lower lip, but even then, the whimpers escaped, wet and needy, echoing softly off the paneled walls like forbidden hymns. 

Stack didn’t let up, his face buried in her gushing pussy, tongue lashing gluttonous at her twitching clit while his thick fingers pumped deeper, knuckles grinding her slick folds. He swallowed her down greedily, the obscene slurps mixing with her cries, his deep brown eyes like whiskey in a highball flicking up to watch her unravel. 

Pulling back just enough to let his breath ghost over her pulsing entrance, he whispered rough and commanding, “you like that, Sister? Tell daddy how this pussy feelin’—tight and throbbin’ f’me?” 

She could barely form words through the aftershocks, her body still twitching under his touch, inner thighs quivering as another wave built from the friction of his mouth, “E-Elias…it—it’s—so full…” her voice came out breathy and instinctual, words melting together in the slow, husky cadence, eyes cracking open to meet his gaze, glossy with overwhelmn. 

Stack hummed approval against her, the vibration sending sparks through her, and dove back in, sucking on her inner folds before flicking his tongue rapid-fire over her clit, “that’s right, baby—tell me more. This fat clit jumpin’ like it can’t get enough? You gon’ give me another flood?” 

Marigold’s elbows slipped further, her back bowing as the questions pulled confessions from her lips, each one stoking the fire anew. Her face twisted again, that scandalous flush creeping down her cleavage, mouth falling open wider as the second climax barreled toward her. She felt it gathering low, her pussy fluttering wildly around his invading fingers, the hush building pressure until it burst. 

“Lord—Elias—gracious!—” the words tumbled out in a desperate prayer twisted profane, her voice cracking into a wail as she came again, harder this time, body seizing in rigid bliss. Her moans spelled out the surrender, “ooooh…aaaahhhh! Mmm—hah!—yes…” long and drawn, they rolled from her chest, husky and unrestrained, peaking in sharp bursts that she couldn’t stifle, “eeeh! Eeeh!” Her hand flying to her mouth too late. Twitches racked her frame, pussy contracting in fierce pulses that squirted more of her essence into his waiting mouth, the sensation of it leaving her—wet, endless—making her hips jerk erratically. 

Marigold’s thick thighs shook, plush and satin-soft against his ears while her stomach clenched, breasts bouncing with the force of her arch, nipples aching. Every inch of her skin prickled, the dimples at her lower back pressing into the wood as she rode the peak, lost in the profane rhythm of his tongue never stopping, lapping and sucking through the deluge like he owned every drop. 

Stack growled low, words vibrating straight into her pussy as he kept going, fingers twisting to hit thst spot while his lips sealed around her clit for another deep pull, “keep cummin’ for me, Marigold—let it all out. You feel that? Daddy’s gon’ drink you dry tonight,” he didn’t relent, pushing her further into the haze. 

Stack eased back at last, his tongue giving one final, lingering swipe along Marigold’s quivering slit before he rose to his full height between her spread thighs. His deep brown skin glistened faintly, chin and lips shiny with her release, that slicked hair still impeccable as ever. He stood there, broad shoulders filling the space, silk vest hugging his muscled chest, eyes raking over her like she was the finest bootleg whiskey he’d ever uncorked. Her thick hair had tumbled free during the frenzy, framing her flushed face in a wild halo, dark and heavy against the table. The top buttons of her blouse had popped loose in her thrashing—two, maybe three—baring the slick, heaving mounds of her breasts, dark nipples hard and pebbled, rising with each panting breath. Lower down, her hairy pussy sat exposed and pretty, lips swollen and parted, clenching in aftershocks, a trail of her cream smeared across the inner satin of her thighs and pooling on the wood beneath her plush ass. 

Stack adjusted his trousers with a low chuckle, the thick bulge of his dick straining obvious against the fabric, but he made no move to free it yet, “I needed that,” Stack drawled, voice rough and satisfied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before leaning in closer, hands bracing on either side of her hips, “you learn ya’ lesson not to keep my food away from me? That sweet drippin’ pussy been starvin’ me too long.” 

Marigold rolled her eyes, a spark of her defiance flickering through the haze, but as she pushed up on shaky elbows, her gaze dropped to the mess they’d wrought. The table was a scandal, hymnals askew, a damp spot blooming where her gushes had soaked through, her stockings bunched at her ankles like fallen prayers. Panic flashed in her brown eyes, pupils wide as she swallowed hard, fingers fumbling to tug her skirt down over the evidence. 

“Elias…Lord have mercy, look at this, if anyone finds—”

Stack cut her off with a smirk, fishing a crisp handkerchief from his vest pocket—monogrammed, smelling of his bay rum cologne. He dabbed it gently across her forehead first, then down her neck, soaking up the sweat that beaded along her collarbone and between her exposed cleavage. The cloth whispered over her skin, tracing the flush that lingered on her honey-brown curves.

“Hush, now, baby. Daddy’s got ya’ cleaned up. Ain’t nobody comin’ in here ‘Cody the ghosts of ya’ sermons,” he tucked a stray hair behind her ear, his touch lingering, thumb brushing her kiss-swollen lips. His eyes darkened as he straightened, that commanding edge sharpening, “you comin’ to see me tonight? Or I gotta wait another two weeks for some more of you? Can’t have my woman playin’ hide-and-seek like this.” 

Her breath fell in uneven heaves, full breasts shifting with the effort, her curvy waist slick with perspiration. Propping herself higher, she shook her head, voice coming out husky and winded, laced with that conflicted pull, “Elias…Obadiah says he’s got important meetings with the male congregation, so he’ll be home. I can’t sneak out—not tonight, not with him watchin’ like a hawk,” her thighs pressed together instinctively, hiding the ache he’d left throbbing between them, eyes flicking away from his intense stare, fiddling with a loose button on her bodice. 

Stack’s jaw tightened, that easy satisfaction hardening into something unyielding, his big hands gripping the table’s edge hard enough to creak the wood. He wasn’t havin’ it—not her excuses, not the preacher’s shadow creeping back in, “Bullshit, Marigold. You think Obadiah’s meetings mean a damn thing to me? That limp-dick fool don’t own your nights no more,” he crowded closer, own hand sliding up her inner thigh, fingers teasing the edge of her wild bush, voice dropping to a gravelly growl, “you gon’ slip out that window like I know you want to, or do I gotta come fetch you myself? ‘Cause I will, baby—drag you right outta that parsonage bed if I have to, make you ride this dick till you forget his holy name.” His thumb circled her still-sensitive clit once, just to punctuate, watching her shiver and bite her lip, “tell me you comin’. Don’t make me ask twice.” 

Marigold’s hesitation hung between them, her brown eyes flickering with that familiar war—want clashing against the chains of her vows, her breath still ragged from the way he devoured her. She bit her lower lip, plush and swollen from earlier bites, fingers twisting into the fabric of her skirt as she tried to summon the will to deny him. But, before the words could form, a distant commotion echoed from the front of the church—muffled voices, the creak of the heavy oak doors, footsteps shuffling like spirits in the nave. Maybe late-night parishioners, or Obadiah’s deacons wrapping up some prayer circle. Her body went rigid, heart slamming against her ribs, those full breasts heaving under the half-undone blouse as she froze. 

Stack heard it too, his head tilting slightly, that sharp gaze darting toward the door for a split second. But, he didn’t flinch—nah, this was his territory now, even in the joys of the Lord. He wanted her commitment, wanted to hear the surrender spill from those kiss-bruised lips. With a low suck of his teeth—sharp and impatient, like a man denied his due—he stepped back just enough to give her space, his big hands dropping to his belt. The buckle clinked softly, leather whispering as he unfastened it, then tugged down the zipper of his trousers. No hesitation, no tease, Stack reached in and hauled out his dick, thick and heavy, the curved length springing free into the dim light. It bobbed once, veins ridged along the dark shaft, the fat head glistening with a bead of precum, full balls hanging low beneath. Nine inches of raw, inhabitable want, curving slightly upward like it was made to hit the deepest spots, the scent of his musk cutting through the stale incense of the room. 

“No?” Stack rumbled, voice dropping, one hand wrapping loosely around the base as he gave it a slow stroke, watching her reaction, “you won’t sneak out for this baby? Won’t slip away from that cold bed just to let me bury this fat dick in that tight, hairy pussy of yours?” He pumped his fist once more, the motion slick and unhurried, his eyes locked on her face, daring her to look away. 

Marigold’s gaze dropped instantly, snared like a moth to flame, her breath catching in her throat with a visible swallow. She couldn’t tear her eyes from it, trance-like, pupils dilating as she took in every inch: the way it throbbed in his grip, the dark skin stretched taut over the girth, how it matched the power in his broad frame. Her knees knocked softly together, hips shifting on the table edge, that wild bush between her legs growing damp again despite the fear prickling her skin. The commotion outside faded to a mutter but she barely registered it, her world narrowed to him, to that commanding presence and the promise of what it could do to her. Fingers fumbled at the buttons, popping another one loose without thought, baring more of her heavy breasts. 

Stack’a lips curved into a sly grin, stepping closer again, his free hand reaching out to tilt her chin up with a firm thumb and forefinger. He let her stare a beat longer, savoring how she melted under the sight. 

“That’s right, baby. Look at what you denyin’. This dick been achin’ for you, thick and ready to stretch you wide, make you cream all over it till you can’t walk straight. You gon’ tell me no to that? Or you gon’ say yes, baby—say you’ll be at my door tonight…legs spread and beggin’ for daddy to fuck you proper?” His voice was a low command, thumb brushing her lower lip, parting it slightly as he waited, the heat from his body washing over her.

Stack’s thumb lingered on her lower lip, pressing just enough to feel the soft give of it, his eyes boring into hers like he could peel back every layer she’d wrapped around herself. Marigold’s breath hitched, a tear slipping free to trace down her cheek, warm and unchecked. His words hung heavy between them. 

“See that?” Stack whispered, voice gravel-low, his free hand sliding to cup the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the thick strands of her hair at the nape—his spot, where he could tilt her head just so, “them tears ain’t from shame, Marigold. Nah, that’s the real you fightin’ to get out. You don’t want them sons washed away, do you? You want ‘em soaked deep, let ‘em stain you proper till you can’t pretend no more.” 

She swallowed, throat working under his grip, another tear following the first, her lush breasts rising and falling quick against the starched front of her blouse. His body heat pressed closer, hard dick resting against her inner thigh as he leaned in, lips nearly grazing her ear.

“Tired of it, ain’t you? Playin’ that model of modesty, all buttoned up and denyin’ what ya’ body’s screaming for. Self-denial? That’s a cage, baby, and you been locked in it too long—hips swayin’ when you walk, pussy gettin’ wet just from my voice. But they won’t let you want it, will they? Won’t let you feel that ache build till it hurts, till you need to cum hard, squirtin’ and shakin’ like the woman you are. No…you gotta hold it all in, smile real pretty for the flock while ya’ clit throbs empty.” 

Marigold’s lips parted on a soft whimper, tears streaming freer now, her hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as his words sank in, cracking the facade she’d built so carefully. She felt exposed, raw, the truth of it twisting in her gut like a sweet ache, years of restraint bubbling up, her thick thighs pressing together instinctively, slickness gathering between them.

Stack pulled back just enough to meet her gaze again, his thumb swiping a tear from her cheek, smearing it like a mark of ownership, “but under all that image you uphold? The perfect wife, the saintly shadow? There’s fire, Marigold. A woman who needs to ride this dick, grind them thick hips down till she milks every drop. Let that frustration out—bounce on me, ass clappin’, tits heavin’ free. No more holdin’ back. You can cum like you should, loud and messy, pussy clenchin’ tight while I fill you up. That’s the real you, baby. Say it—tell me you want it, or I’ll make you beg for it right here.” 

Her body trembled, tears blurring her vision, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers tightened on him, a silent fracture in her resolve as his truths stripped her bare.

The walls seemed to blur at the edges, the lights flickering like candle flames in a draft, as if the room itself were breathing with her quickened pulse. Marigold’s mind reeled—this couldn’t be real, could it? The echo of footsteps from the other side of the door swelled, pounding like a heartbeat too loud to ignore, vibrating through the walls and into her bones. Each step closer, heavier, surreal. Her tears fell faster, hot trails down her cheeks, her body caught between the iron grip of fear and a treacherous pull deep in her core, that hidden part of her whispering to lean in, to shatter the chains she’d worn so long. 

Stack’s hand stayed firm at her neck, thumb teaching the frantic beat in her throat, his breath against her skin as the footsteps thundered nearer. His eyes locked on hers, stripping her further with every word. 

“Listen to that, Sister,” he growled low, voice cutting through the room like the blade in his boot, “them footsteps comin’ for you, echoin’ all your buried wants. You scared? Good. That fear’s just the lock rattlin’ before it breaks. But deep down, you ain’t runnin’—you waitin’ to spread them thighs and let me bury this dick so deep you forget your own name. You don’t want them sons scrubbed clean, baby. Nah, you crave ‘em rubbed in, thick and sticky, till your pussy’s drippin’ with the truth of what you are.” 

The steps boomed louder, shaking the table, the Bibles, her very resolve—closer now, as if an unseen congregation marched toward judgment, or salvation, or something twisted between. Marigold’s chest heaved, nipples hardening traitorously under the fabric. Fear clawed at her throat, visions of her husband’s stern gaze, the church pews filled with watchful eyes, but beneath it, heat pooled low, her thick hips shifting unconsciously, aching to grind against him, to release the storm she’d bottled for years.

Stack leaned closer, lips brushing her ear, his free hand sliding down to grip her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, pulling her flush against the rigid length of his dick pressing closer, “tired of that bullshit modesty, ain’t you? Starvin’ yourself of what a woman like you built for—wantin’ hard, feelin’ every filthy inch, cummin’ till ya legs shake. But they got you chained, don’t they? Smilin’ sweet while your clit’s beggin’ for a tongue, go fingers stretchin’ you open, for a poundin’ that leave you raw and satisfied. You ain’t allowed to ride, to buck them hips wild and take what ya’ need. But fuck that image you cling to, Marigold. Underneath, you’re fire…”

Tears blurred her vision, her hands trembling on his shirt, torn between shoving him away and yanking him closer. The footsteps roared now, deafening, like thunder rolling through the dreamscape, shaking the windows. The very foundation of her world. Part of her recoiled, terror spiking at the edge of ruin—her life, her vows, crumbling under his touch. But the other part, that rebellious park, throbbed alive, urging her to surrender, to feel his mouth on her neck, his dick splitting her wide, washing away the denial in waves of ecstasy. 

“Think on that Song of Solomon, baby. The one they preach as God’s pure love, all that fire and longing…strong as death itself. Intimate, covenantal, bodies callin’ to each other like lovers in the night. But what if it’s mirrorin’ you? That divine hunger twistin’ in your gut, pullin’ you toward somethin’ real, somethin’ that burns hotter than their cold rules. You questionin’ it yet? Why deny the passion when it’s a gift meant to consume you whole? Your husband’s words in the pulpit twist it safe, but here, wit’ me, it’s raw—your body archin’ for mine, pussy weepin’ for the thrust that seals the bond. Choose, Marigold. Stay locked in their cage, or step into this heat, let me fuck the saint right outta you till you mine, cummin’ free and fierce. Them footsteps? They your old life catchin’ up or the new one knockin’ down the door. What ya’ say?”

Her lip quivered, the roar of steps peaking, crashing like waves, as his grip tightened, waiting for her fall. 

But it never came...

Marigold woke like she had been pulled from water. Her body jolted upright before her mind could catch up, a sharp inhale tearing through her chest as if she had been holding her breath for too long. The room around her was dark. A thick, unmoving dark that settled in the corners and clung to the ceiling. Only a faint strip of moonlight slipped through the lace curtains pale and distant, cutting across the foot of her bed. 

Her nightgown clung to her skin. Damp. Cold in places. Warm in others. 

She pressed a hand to her chest, fingers splayed wide as if she could steady the frantic rhythm beneath her palm. Her heart beat hard, uneven, like it was trying to escape her ribs. Each breath came quick and shallow, catching halfway up her throat. For a moment, she didn’t move. She just sat there. Listening. No footsteps. No shifting wind against the windows. Just the sound of her own breathing and the faint rustle of linen as her body trembled. 

Then, she felt it. A different kind of warmth. Low. Heavy. Unmistakeable. 

Her breath hitched as the realization settled over her. She looked down, hands hovering for a second before she gathered the fabric of her gown, lifting it enough to confirm what her body had already told her.

Wet. 

Her stomach turned. 

A sharp, sick feeling rose up in her chest, tangling with the lingering echo of the dream she refused to fully recall. Images tried to surface anyway. A hand. A voice. The shape of him too close, too real. 

She squeezed her eyes shut.

No.

No, she would not let her mind linger there. 

Her lips parted, a broken sound slipping out as she shook her head once, then again, more firmly, like she could physically dislodge the memory. 

“Lord…” 

Her voice came out thin, barely there.

Marigold swallowed hard, dragging in another breath, but it did nothing to steady her. The heat in her body only made it worse. Made it harder to think. Harder to pray. 

Because she knew who had been there. Not her husband.

Not the man she stood beside every Sunday, head held high, hands folded neatly, voice soft and obedient. 

No. 

Him. 

The one she had no business dreaming about. The one she should not have been looking at the way she had. Not even once. 

A pimp. A bootlegger. A man with sin written into the way he walked, the way he spoke, the way his eyes held hers just a second to long. 

Her stomach twisted again, sharper this time. 

“What is wrong with me…”

The words trembled out of her, barely louder than a breath. 

Marigold pushed the covers back quickly, like they were burning her, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cool air kissed her damp skin but it did noting to soothe the heat curled low in her belly. If anything, it made her more aware of it. 

Ashamed of it. 

Her feet met the wooden floor, and she stood on unsteady legs, gathering her gown close to her body as if she could hide herself. She didn’t look back at the bed, she didn’t allow herself to pause. 

She already knew where she needed to go.

The corner of her room waited for her, just beyond the reach of the moonlight. 

Her prayer corner. 

It was small but it held a presence that made the rest of the room feel distant. A simple wooden chair sat beside a narrow table, its surface carefully arranged. A worn Bible rested at the center, its edges softened from years of use, pages marked and underlined in quiet devotion. Beside it sat a small oil lamp, the flame turned low but steady, casting a soft amber glow over everything it touched. A white cloth had been laid beneath it all, clean and pressed, embroidered faintly at the edges with delicate stitching she had done herself.There was a cushion on the floor, slightly flattened from use. 

Her place. 

Marigold dropped to her knees without hesitation. The movement was quick, almost desperate, the impact of it sending a small jolt up her spine. She barely seemed to notice. Her hands came together immediately, fingers interlocking so tightly her knuckles blanched beneath her skin. Her head bowed, then lowered further under her forehead nearly touched her clasped hands. 

“Father God…”

Her voice broke on the first word. 

She squeezed her eyes shut again, harder this time, as if darkness alone could cleanse what she had seen. Her shoulders trembled, breath catching between each word as she tried to steady herself. 

“I…I ask that You forgive me…”

The sentence came in pieces, her chest rising and falling too fast to hold it together properly. A tear slipped free, trailing down the bridge of her nose before falling onto her hands. 

“I don’t know what…what came over me…” another breath. Shaky. Fragile, “I don’t know why my mind would go there…why my body would—”

She cut herself off. Her lips pressed together, tight, like even speaking it aloud would make it worse. Her hands tightened instead. Her whole body folding in on itself now, shoulders curling forward, spine bowing as if she could make herself smaller. Less visible. Less…touched. 

“Please,” she whispered, the word barely more than air, “please take it from me.” Her voice cracked again, and this time she didn’t try to hide it, “take it out of me…cleanse me of it…I don’t want it…”

Her head lowered further until her forehead finally pressed against her clasped hands. 

Trembling. 

“I don’t want to think about him,” she said, and there was something desperate in the way his absence was emphasized. As if no naming him would weaken his hold, "I don't want to feel this…this—”

She faltered again, her breath stuttering. Her body betrayed her in the silence that followed. A faint shift of her thighs. A lingering awareness she could not pray away fast enough if she tried. A sob rose up, sudden and sharp. 

“I am Yours,” she cried softly, her voice cracking open now, “my body is Yours. My thoughts are Yours. I am not meant for…for filth like this. I am not meant to carry this kind of desire. This kind of ache. This kind of want. It is a sin I wish to be free from.” 

Tears slipped freely now, dampening her hands, her lashes, the edge of the cloth beneath her. 

“You made me better than this,” she whispered, “you called me to be better than this…”

Her shoulders shook as the words left her. 

“I am a wife. I am a servant. I am supposed to be an example…I am supposed to be clean.” 

The last word came out strained, like it hurt to say it. Her fingers tightened again, nails pressing into her own skin now, grounding her in something physical. Something she could control.

“Please,” she breathed again, “don’t let the devil use my body against me. Don’t let him plant things in my mind…don’t let him make me weak.” 

Her voice dropped lower, softer, worn down by the weight of it all. 

“Take it from me,” she repeated, “take it all from me…”

The doctor’s office sat on a corner just off the main stretch of the Black district, its narrow windows catching the late morning light in a way that made the glass look almost cloudy. The paint on the door had begun to wear thin around the handle, years of hands pushing in and out, Hope and worry carried in equal measure. 

Inside, it was clean. Not new, not polished, but kept. There was a sharp scent of antiseptic layered over something older—wood, paper, a trace of clove oil that clung faintly to the back of the throat, a ceiling fan turned slow overhead, its motion uneven, clicking every few rotations like it had something to say but couldn’t quite get it out. 

Marigold sat with her back straight in one of the wooden chairs lined along the wall, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. Her hat was pinned just so, her dress pressed, her posture careful. There was nothing out of place about her. 

Nothing at all. 

And yet, she felt it. That awareness that she did not belong to the room the way the other women did.

Across from her, a young woman rested both hand on the curve of her belly, thumbs moving in ski circles like she was soothing something beneath the skin. Beside her, another leaned back with a tired ease, fanning herself gently while her dress stretched over a fullness that spoke of months already passed. 

There was a baby too. Small. Wrapped. Nestled against a shoulder while its mother rocked without thinking, her body knowing the motion by heart. The child made a soft sound, not quite a cry, not quite a sigh, and settled again. Low voices moved through the room. Soft laughter. Shared understanding. Life passing between them in ways that needed no explanation.

Marigold’s fingers tightened in her lap. Just slightly. She kept her gaze forward at first, fixed somewhere near the the far wall where an anatomy chart hung slightly crooked, the paper curling at the corners. But, her eyes shifted permission, drawn again and again to those women. To the weight they carried. To the ease with which they held it. Her hand moved before she could drop it. It came to rest just below her navel, pressing lightly through the fabric of her dress. There was nothing there. No rise. No answering warmth. Just the steady, shape of her own body.

Her fingers pressed a little harder, then stilled.

A door opened down the short hallway. Marigold’s head lifted slightly, her attention pulled towards it without thought. 

She had watched Obadiah disappear behind that door only moments before. The doctor had not asked her. Only him. 

The door did not close all the way. Just enough for voice to carry. 

“…we have conducted the necessary examinations,” the doctor said, tone even, stripped of anything that might soften it, “there are irregularities.” 

A pause. 

Marigold’s fingers stilled against her stomach. Obadiah’s voice came next.

“What kind of irregularities? I thought what you prescribed would work? We have seen plenty doctors about our situation.”

Paper shifted inside the room. A chair creaked. 

“The body is not responding in the manner we would expect,” the doctor continued, “there are complications that would make conception…unlikely.” 

The word settled heavy. 

Unlikely. 

It hung in the space between the door and the waiting room, slipping through the narrow opening like it had been meant for her ears all along. 

Marigold felt paralyzed. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known. Hadn’t had the same news broken to her before. But it didn’t lessen the pain. The burden. The guilt.

Inside, Obadiah spoke again.

 “That does not make sense,” his voice remained low, but something had sharpened inside it, “we have been married for years.” 

A baby fussed somewhere behind Marigold. The sound distant like it belonged to another world entirely. 

“She is in good heath otherwise,” the doctor added, as if that were something to be offered in place of what had just been taken, “but her body is not…suited for this.” 

Not suited. 

Marigold’s hand curled slightly against her stomach. 

Silence.

Then, Obadiah spoke again. Firm. 

“That is not acceptable.” 

No grief. No confusion. Just a statement.

As if the matter could be corrected through insistence alone.

Marigold’s throat tightened. 

The room around her continued on. A woman laughed softly at something said too low for Marigold to catch. The baby was soothed again, its small body settling back into warmth.

Everything moved, except her. 

The door opened fully this time. 

Marigold’s hand dropped back into her lap just as Obadiah stepped out, his expression composed, his hat already in his hand. If there had been any disturbance in him, it did not show itself now. He glanced toward her, his eyes passing over her quick, assessing way before settling into something neutral. 

“Come,” he said. 

 Nothing more. No explanation. No softness. 

Marigold rose immediately, soothing her dress as she stood, her movements practiced, controlled. She didn’t look toward the doctor’s office. She didn’t ask questions. 

She simply followed.

As she moved toward the door, her shoulder brushed lightly against the row of chairs. She nearly missed the woman seated at the end.

Older.

Not frail, but worn in the way time leaves its mark without apology. Her hands rested easy in her lap, her back not as straight as Marigold’s but steady in a different way. 

Her eyes lifted. 

And they landed on Marigold like they had been waiting. 

“Baby,” the woman said softly.

Marigold paused. Just a second.

The word caught her off guard. Not in its sound, in the way it was said. It wasn’t pitying. It was knowing.

The woman’s gaze flicked briefly to Marigold’s midsection, then back to her face.

“Don’t you go holdin’ yourself like you empty,” she said, her voice gentle, certain in a way that did not ask for agreement, “some things take their time comin’ to a body.” 

Marigold blinked. The words didn’t settle neatly. They didn’t fix anything but they didn’t leave her either. She gave a small nod. Polite. Automatic. 

“Thank you,” she said, her voice steady enough to pass. 

Then, she turned and stepped out into the day. 

The ride home was quiet at first, the road stretching ahead in a long, dusty line, the wheels of the car rolling low beneath them. Marigold kept her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed just beyond the windshield, watching the world pass without really seeing it. Obadiah drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the gearshift. His posture was straight, attention forward.

The silence sat between them like something waiting for its moment. 

It came.

“Perhaps the Lord is telling us something.” 

His voice was measured. 

Marigold’s fingers tightened slightly against each other. She turned her head just enough to look at him, her expression careful. 

“I don’t—”

“We have tried,” he continued, cutting across her softly spoken start, “for years.” 

Each word placed with intention. 

“No deviation. No lack of discipline. We have done everything as we should.” 

The car rolled over a slight dip in the road, the movement gentle but noticeable. 

Marigold swallowed. Her gaze dropped to her hands. 

“Then we must continue to trust—”

“Trust,” Obadiah repeated, not raising his voice, but shifting something in the word, “yes.”

A pause.

Long enough to feel.

“But trust does not mean refusal to see what is in front of us.” 

Marigold’s chest tightened. 

Outside, the road stretched on. Inside, she sat with her hands folded over her lap, her body still, her mind circling something she could not quite name. And beneath it all, faint but present, the echo of a stranger’s voice lingered where it had settled deep inside of her.

Don’t you go holdin’ yourself like you empty

The car slowed as they turned off the main road and into the Black district. Little Rock carried a different vibe here. Its own.

The buildings sat close, shoulder to shoulder, some brick, some wood, their paint faded by sun and time but held together with care. Hand-painted signs hung above doorways—barbershops, tailors, grocers, cafés—each one telling its own story in uneven lettering. The sidewalks were alive with movement. Men stood in clusters outside storefronts, hats tipped low, voices rolling easy between them. Women passed by with baskets hooked over their arms, skirts brushing against their ankles, their presence steady. 

A boy darted between two wagons, laughing, chased by another not far behind. Somewhere down the street, a radio crackled faintly through an open window, music slipping out into the day like it belonged there. Life pressed in from every direction. It smelled like it too. Warm bread. Dust. Fruit just beginning to turn sweet in the heat. A trace of tobacco. Oil. Soap. 

The car came to a stop along the curb in front of a narrow cleaners with a sign that read Baptiste & Son Garment Care, the gold paint catching what little sunlight pushed through the buildings. 

Obadiah cut the engine. 

“I won’t be long,” he said, reaching for the door.

Marigold nodded, her hands still folded in her lap. 

He stepped out without another word, straightening his jacket as he moved toward the entrance. The bell above the door gave a soft jingle as he went inside, swallowed by the dim interior. 

Marigold remained seated for a moment, the world outside moving around her. Voices. Footsteps. Laughter. She drew in a slow breath, then reached for the handle. 

The air met her differently outside. Warmer. Fuller. It wrapped around her, settling against her skin as she stepped onto the sidewalk. She adjusted her gloves, her hat, smoothing herself back into place out of habit. 

Her eyes drifted across the street. 

A small grocery sat just a few doors down, its front open wide to the day. Wooden crates lined the entrance, filled with produce that glowed under the sun—greens bundled together, tomatoes deep and red, and a row of peaches so soft in color they almost looked like they held light inside of them. 

Perfect. 

She stepped toward it without thinking too hard on it, her steps measured but unhurried. The bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped inside, though the space itself felt more open than enclosed. Thr scent hit her first.

Sweet. Ripened. Earthy.

A woven basket sat near the entrance and she picked one up, the handle fitting neatly into the crook of her arm. Her fingers brushed lightly over the produce as she passed, selecting without rushing. A bundle of greens. Onions. A few tomatoes. 

Then the peaches.

Marigold paused.

They were soft to the touch, their skin warm from the day, a faint blush spreading across their surface. She lifted one carefully, turning it in her hand before placing it into her basket.

Another. Then another. 

A small movement near the edge of her vision caught her attention.

She turned her head slightly. 

A little girl stood near one of the lower crates, small and thin, her dress hanging loose on her frame. Her hair was parted into uneven sections, the braids not quite holding the way they should. She glanced over her shoulder once, quick and sharp, before reaching out toward a piece of fruit. 

Her hand hovered. 

Then snatched. 

“Hey—!”

The voice came fast.

The grocer, a broad man with rolled sleeves and a cloth thrown over his shoulder, moved from behind the counter in two long steps. 

“I seen that,” he said, his tin firm, already reaching for her wrist. 

The girl froze. Her fingers tightening around the fruit.

“I—I was—” she stared, her voice small, but it didn’t hold. 

Marigold was already moving. 

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice cutting clean but calm as she stepped between them, her hand coming up just enough to interrupt the man’s reach without touching him directly. 

The grocer paused, his eyes shifting to her.

“She was just about to ask,” Marigold continued, her tone steady, leaving no room for argument in it, “weren’t you, baby?” 

The girl looked up at her wide-eyed. Unsure. Then, nodded quickly.

“Yes, ma’am.” 

The grocer exhaled through his nose, glancing between them. 

“She need to ask before she go reachin’,” he muttered,though his tone had already softened.

“And she will,” Marigold replied, “I’ll see to it.” 

There was a beat. 

Then, he stepped back, shaking his head slightly as he returned to the counter. 

Marigold turned then, her attention settling fully on the girl. 

Up close, she could see it clearer. 

The hollowness in her cheeks. The way her collarbone pressed faintly against her skin. The hesitation that sat in her shoulders like she was used to being watched, used to being corrected. 

Marigold reached into her basket, pulling out one of the peaches. She placed it gently into the girl’s hands. 

“Go on,” she said softly, “hold it proper.” 

The girl stared down at it, her fingers adjusting around the fruit like she wasn’t sure it was meant to stay there.

Marigold crouched then, lowering herself until they were level, her skirts settling around her carefully. Up close, her voice softened even more.

“What’s your name, baby?” She asked.

The girl hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around the fruit before she answered. 

“Lula,” she said, quiet but clear.

Marigold nodded like she was receiving something important. 

“Well, Lula,” she said gently, adjusting the peach in her hands so it wouldn’t slip, “you hold onto that like it’s yours. Ain’t nobody takin’ it from you.” 

“Where your momma at?” She asked.

The girl shifted her weight, “workin’,” she said.

“Mm,” Marigold nodded, “where she work?” 

“For a white family,” the girl answered, the words coming out like they had been said many times before, “out past the ridge. She clean for ‘em.”

Marigold’s expression stilled slightly.

“And she ain’t home?” She asked. 

The girl shook her head, “not yet.” 

“How long?” 

The girl hesitated, then shrugged, “a few days.” 

The words sat between them. 

Marigold reached out, smoothing a loose braid back from the girl’s face, her touch gentle, careful not to startle her. 

“You ain’t gotta be stealin’ to eat,” she said softly, “you hear me?”

The girl nodded, though her eyes didn’t fully lift. Marigold added another piece of fruit to her small hands. 

Then another. 

“Take these,” she said, “and you come back proper next time. Ask. Folks more willing to give than you think.” 

The girl looked at her then, really looked. 

Something flickered there, not quite a smile, not quite belief. Just…a small opening. 

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Marigold gave her a small nod, her gaze steady. 

“You take care of yourself,” she said, “and your momma too when she get home.” 

A shadow fell over them. Heavy. Fast. 

“What you doin’?” 

The voice came sharp, cutting through the moment like it had no place for softness. 

Marigold turned her head. 

A man stood there, tall and rigid, his expression tight with something that read like anger before anything else. His eyes dropped immediately to the girl, to the fruit in her hands. 

“I told you not to be beggin’,” he snapped, reaching down to grab her arm. 

“I wasn’t—” the girl started, but he was already pulling her upright. 

“She wasnt begging,” Marigold said, rising to her feet, her voice calm but firm, “I offered—”

“I ain’t ask you what you offered,” he cut in, not looking at her fully, his focus fixed on the child, “you embarrassing my out here.” 

The girl shrank under his grip. The fruit slipped from her hands. Marigold’s chest tightened, but she held her ground, her posture straightening instinctively. 

“She was hungry,” she said, quieter but no less steady, “that’s not an embarrassment. That’s a child.” 

The man’s jaw flexed. 

For a moment, it looked like he might say something else but he didn’t. He just tugged the girl closer, his grip firm. 

“Come on,” he muttered. 

The girl glanced back once. Just once at Marigold. Then, she was gone, pulled into the flow of the street, swallowed by it the same way everything else was. 

Marigold stood there a moment longer, her basket still looped over her arm, hand resting lightly against the edge of it. 

The peaches sat aside. 

Soft. Full. Waiting. 

She exhaled, her gaze drifting down to them. Then, without a word, she turned back toward the counter to finish what she had started.

Marigold paid for the fruit with careful hands, her smile polite enough to pass. The grocer wrapped the peaches in brown paper, twisting the top neat and tight before handing them over. She thanked him, dipped her head just slightly, and turned toward the door. 

The bell chimed again as she stepped out. The street met her all at once. But her mind hadn’t caught up to it yet. It lingered somewhere behind her, tucked into the small shape of a girl standing near a crate, fingers curled around something she thought she had to steal to survive. The weight of that stayed with her in a way she couldn’t quite explain. It settled in her chest, pressing there. 

Lula. 

Her gaze drifted across the street without focus at first, following the flow of people passing by, the ride and fall of voices, the small ordinary things that made up a day. 

Then, it found him. 

Obadiah stood just outside the cleaners, not alone. 

A man faced him, hat in hand, his posture bent forward in a way that spoke of worry before a word was ever said. Obadiah’s head was slightly bowed, his voice low, the cadence of it familiar even from a distance. 

He was praying. 

One hand rested in thr man’s shoulder, firm. Not affectionate. Not soft. Grounded. Authoritative. His other hand lifted slightly as he spoke, palm turned just enough to punctuate his words. The man nodded along, eyes closed tight, his mouth moving faintly like he was trying to follow, trying to hold on to whatever was being given to him in that moment. People passed around them, some slowing just enough to notice, others continuing on as if it were part of the street itself. A preacher speaking over someone in need was not unusual. 

It belonged. 

Marigold stood still for a moment, watching. 

The scene should have brought her comfort. This was who her husband was to the world. A man people sought out. A man who spoke with certainty. A man who could stand in the middle of a street and offer something that felt like direction, like order, like understanding. 

And yet…something in her chest didn’t settle.

Her eyes moved over him slowly, taking in the straight line of his back, the measured way he spoke, the control in every part of him. He didn’t sound like a man who had just been told something couldn’t be done. 

He sounded the same as always. As if the answer would bend eventually, if only it were pressed hard enough. 

The paper around the peaches gave faintly beneath her grip. 

Her jab moved again without thinking. It came to rest just below her stomach, the same place it had earlier, her palm flattening there as if she might feel something different now. 

There was nothing. 

Just her. Her body. The echo of words she had not been meant to hear. 

Her fingers curled slightly, pressing into the fabric of her dress. 

Obadiah’s voice lifted just enough to carry the final words of his prayer, something about guidance, about strength, about walking the path set before you without doubt. The man in front of him whispered his thanks, his shoulders loosening just a fraction as if something had been lifted, even if only for a moment. 

Obadiah gave a single nod, then his gaze lifted. 

It found her almost immediately.

There was no surprise in it. No softness either. Only recognition. Expectation. 

Marigold straightened, her hands dropping from her stomach as if she had been caught doing something she could not explain. She adjusted the bag in her hand, smoothing the front of her dress with her free hand before stepping forward. 

The distance between them closed quickly, the street folded back into itself.

“You’re finished?” She asked quietly when she reached him. 

Obadiah glanced at the paper bag, “yes,” he said, “come along.” 

His attention shifted back to the man for a brief moment, offering a final word, a final nod, sealing whatever had just passed between them. Then, he turned, moving toward the car.

Marigold followed. 

But as she walked, her thoughts slipped once more, just for a moment, back to a small pair of hands clutching fruit like it might disappear if held too loosely. 

And the sound of a voice. 

Lula. 

The sun hung heavy over West 9th Street in Little Rock's bustling Black district, turning the Arkansas air into a thick, humid blanket that clung to everything it touched. Dust kicked up from passing Model Ts and horse-drawn carts, mingling with the scents of fried fish from a nearby vendor and the faint, floral whiff of women's perfumes fighting against the sweltering heat. Lined with modest shotgun houses painted in faded pastels, the street thrummed with life, children darting between legs, men in suspenders calling out greetings, and the distant chime of a church bell reminding folks that Sunday services weren't far off.

Marigold Baptiste stood among the women of Great Calvary, her posture straight and composed, the picture of grace as the preacher's wife. Her honey-brown skin glowed under the wide brim of her straw hat, adorned with a simple ribbon that matched her modest navy dress—long-sleeved, high-necked, falling just below her knees to preserve every ounce of propriety. A string of pearls rested at her throat, a gift from her husband, catching the sun as she nodded along to Sister Evelyn's animated story about the latest quilt circle drama. In her gloved hand, Marigold waved a lace fan, the motion stirring a gentle breeze that did little to ease the sweat beading at her temples. She smiled warmly, her full lips curving just so, eyes crinkling with feigned delight as the other women laughed, their own fans fluttering like a flock of birds painted with scripture verses or floral patterns, tools for both cooling and concealment.

“Oh, Sister Marigold, you should've seen the way she hemmed that dress. Tight as a drum, but twice as pretty,” Sister Claudine chimed in, her voice carrying over the chatter, her sharp eyes flicking towards Marigold with that subtle undercurrent of scrutiny Marigold had come to expect. The group clustered on the corner near the church steps, a ritual pause after midweek prayer meeting, sharing gossip and iced tea from a communal pitcher passed around in china cups.

Marigold's laugh was light, practiced, her wild curls tamed and sleeked into an elegant chignon beneath her hat.

“The Lord provides in the stitches, sisters. It's all in how we weave our testimonies,” Her words flowed smooth, the First Lady's poise a shield she'd worn for years, hiding the voluptuous curves that strained ever so slightly against her bodice—the swell of her breasts, the plush sway of her hips. 

Marigold fanned herself a bit faster, the heat pressing in, but it was nothing compared to the fire she'd been battling in her prayers each night. Lord, deliver me from the memory of him, she'd whisper into the darkness of her bedroom, knees bruised on the hardwood floor, begging for forgetfulness. But the dreams lingered vivid, pulling her back to shadowed rooms and rough hands that promised sin wrapped in salvation.

Then, across the street, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. There he was—Elias ‘Stack’ Moore, striding out from the shadowed doorway of a nondescript building that whispered of secrets in the district’s underbelly. Tall and broad-shouldered, his dark suit tailored sharp against his frame, a fedora tilted low over eyes that scanned the street with primal ease. A toothpick clamped between his teeth, smoke curling lazy into the air, he moved with that unhurried swagger that owned ever my inch of ground he crossed. His gaze swept the corner, casual at first, then locked straight onto her. 

Marigold’s fan faltered mid-wave, the lace trembling in her grip. Her smile froze, heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird. 

Not now. Not here. 

The women’s voices blurred into a distant sound, Sister Evelyn’s fan still snapping open and shut beside her. Stack didn’t approach, he leaned against a lamppost, one hand in his pocket, the other adjusting his tie with a slowness that made you stop and catch your breath. But that look…it stripped her bare. Right there on the holy corner, reminding her of the back room walls blurring in her dreams, of footsteps echoing like judgement, of vulgar truths whispered hot against her ear. Her thighs clenched involuntarily beneath her skirt, a traitorous warmth blooming in her belly, warring with the cold spike of fear. What if he called her out? What if the sisters noticed the flush creeping up her neck, the way her breath hitched? 

Stack tipped his hat ever so slightly, a private mockery of respect, his lips curving into that dangerous grin that said he knew…knew her prayers were futile, knew the part of her that ached to cross the street and surrender. Marigold forced her fan to move again, faster now, her smile cracking at the edges as she turned back to the group, chattering on about the heat. But inside, the temptation coupled tighter, West 9th’s pulse syncing with her own forbidden longing. 

A few days later, the tailor shop sat wedged between a barber’s and a notions store on West Ninth Street, Little Rock’s black district pulsing with a midday blaze in the summer of 1929. Inside, a thick scent of chalk dust, pressed wool, and the faint metallic tang of straight razors from next door filled the space. Bolts of fabric leaned against walls—charcoal grays, deep navies, the occasional splash of burgundy for a bold customer. Sunlight slanted through the plate-glass window catching motes of lint in the air while a ceiling fan whirred last overhead, doing little to cut the humidity that made shots cling and tempers simmer. 

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore stood tall on the wooden stool in the center of the shop, his arms extended like a man crucified for measurement, legs spread shoulder-width for balance. His tailored undershirt hugged the broad slabs of his chest and the faint cut of his abdomen, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with veins an faint scars from German trenches and Chicago scraps. High-waisted slacks hung loose at his hips but strained just enough at the thighs to hint at the power packed there. At 6’1” and built like a rail-yard enforcer, he filled the space without trying, his deep brown skin glowing with a sheen of sweat tracing the line of his strong jaw. 

Old man Harlan, the tailor—a wiry septuagenarian with wire-rim glasses perched on a hawkish nose and fingers nimble from decades of stitching lives together—circled him with a tape measure, chalk in hand. Harlan’s shop was a hub for the district’s sharp dressers; deacons, numbers men, and folks like Stack who turned bootleg shine into clean threads. 

“Alright, Mr. Stack, arms steady now,” Harlan muttered, his voice thick with Arkansas roots, vowels stretching like taffy. He knelt, tape looping around Stack’s inseam, eyes focused but twinkling with the easy familiarity of men who’d shared a flask or two, “these new suits—double-breasted, yeah? Wool blend for that Chicago cool you carry?” 

Stack’s gaze drifted to the window, watching the street bustle: women in house dresses haggling over collards, kids dodging mule carts, a bluesman tuning his guitar on the corner. 

His voice rumbled low, smooth as gravel under tires, that blend of Southern swing and Northern clip making every word land, “Yeah, Harlan. Double-breasted, vest to match. Somethin’ sharp for the fall runs. But listen—”

Stack shifted his hips just a fraction, the stool creaking under his weight. Harlan paused, tape taut against the fabric over Stack’s crotch, where the outline of his thick, soft dick pressed insistent against the wool, balls heavy even at rest in this damn heat. 

“—I need more room up front in them slacks,” Stack continued, tone matter-of-fact, a smirk tugging his full lips, “this pecker of mine ain’t shrinkin’ in this Southern steam. Got a big one, Harlan—you know how it is. Heat got it swellin’ like it’s fixin’ to burst free. Last pair you made me? Fine for walkin’, but sittin’ down? Feel like I’m haulin’ a damn log.” 

Harlan snorted, rising with a chuckle that shook his narrow shoulders, wiping chalk dust on his apron. His laugh was warm, unfiltered, bouncing off the walls in a shop where men spoke plain about the body’s truths. 

“Lord, Stack. You ain’t changed a lick since you left for them windy streets up north. Big pecker, big problems—ain’t that the blues? I seen ‘em all in here, from skinny deacons to them rail bulls with thighs like tree trunks. But you? Whew, boy, you packin’ like a prize bull. Heat don’t help nobody down there; makes everything…ample.” Harlan adjusted his glasses, then nodded slow, already mentally pinning seams, “I can work it out. Loose the crotch a touch, dart it proper so it hangs right without billowin’ like a sail. Add a pleat or two for give—won’t show in the fit. You gon’ look like a king, and that king gon’ stay comfortable. No more adjustin’ yourself mid-deal.” 

Stack’s low laugh joined in, deep and resonant, arms still out as Harlan tugged the tape across his broad back.

“Appreciate it, old man. Can’t be fidgetin’ when the night’s runnin’ hot. Folks notice that mess…thinks you distracted or worse. Make ‘em tailored tight everywhere else, though. Want ‘em huggin these arms, these shoulders. Show what a man built from the ground up look like.” 

Harlan grunted approval, scribbling notes in a pad, “built like you? Ain’t no fabric gon’ hide that. Now, hold still—”

Stack’s eyes flicked back to the window, and there she was. Sister Marigold Baptiste, gliding down the sidewalk like a vision stitched from the district’s quiet dreams. She was in her Sunday best, even midweek—an ivory dress of fine crepe that hugged her nipped waist just enough to whisper the lush hourglass beneath, the structured bodice smoothing over her full, heavy breasts without a hint of cleavage, high neckline buttoned to her throat. The skirt fell mid-calf, pleated soft for movement but held firm, long sleeves covering arms that Stack imagined plush and warm. 

A wide-brimmed hat in cream straw crowned her, tied with a dusty rose ribbon that fluttered gentle in the breeze, gloves sheathing her hands up to the elbows. At 39, almost 40 in September, she carried herself with the poise of the First Lady she was—wife to Reverend Baptiste, pillar of the church two blocks over—every step causing her skirt to sway just enough to hint at the wide hips and thick thighs hidden away. 

But Stack saw it all. His gaze locked on her like a hawk on prey, eyes narrowing as he drank her in from the stool’s height, body still as Harlan measured his chest. She was a looker, no doubt, honey-brown skin glowing under the sun, full lips painted subtle, warm brown eyes framed by lashes that needed no curl. That chignon peeking from under the hat’s brim promised thick coils tamed tight, begging to be unraveled. He eye-fucked her slow, starting at the slope of her neck down to where the fabric strained ever so slight over those shelf-like tits, imagining the weight of them spilling free, nipples hardening under his thumbs. His dick twitched in the slacks, thickening just from the thought, heat pooling low as he traced the dip of her waist, the flare of hips that screamed for gripping, thighs that could lock a man in place while he drove deep into her wet pussy. 

Stack’s mind wandered deeper into the haze, picturing her in that tailor shop, shoving her up against the wall first, big hands ripping open the buttons of her Sunday dress, letting them heavy tits spill out, revealing nipples dark and peaked like ripe berries begging for his mouth. He’d suck them hard, teeth grazing, that honeyed skin hot under his palms. He’d hike her skirt up those thick thighs, find her drawls soaked through, yanking them aside to plunge two thick fingers in that slick pussy. He’d curl his fingers deep, make her buck and whimper like a sinner at revival.Then, he’d spin her around, bend her ass over the cutting table with bolts of wool tumbling to the floor, spread her plush ass cheeks wide and slam his fat dick balls-deep in her from behind, grip her hips, and pound her relentlessly. 

That’s it, Sister, take this dick like you preach forgiveness. Be a good woman for daddy’s dick, baby. 

She’d be moaning prayers twisted filthy, body shaking while Stack fucked her stupid, those pretty lips parting on tongues unknown—glossolalia spilling out in ragged bursts.

“Oh, Lawd…shala…fill me, Jesus…harder, Stack!” 

“Hallelujah…thy will be done…in—in-in-in my womb!” 

Glory—elohim…stretch me wide…amen, amen!” 

“Spirit come…zionara…pound this flesh—redeem me now!” 

“Praise him…maranatha…your rod and staff…unh…comfort me deep!” 

“Flood my temple…oh sweet salvation!” 

“Deliverance…shibboleth…claim this v-v-vessel—”

Pussy clenching tight around his dick. He’d pull out, flip her onto her back and shove that big dick down her throat. Watch her gag and suck sloppy, tears streaking her mascara while she babbles holy nonsense around his stick. He’d haul her onto his lap in that tailor’s chair, those lush curves sinking down to ride him frantic, thighs locking him. Stack would thrust up savage, hands kneading her pillowy ass, breaking that holy poise till she shatter, screaming in tongues, pussy gushing over his dick ‘fore he flood her full with hot cum, leaving her limp and send her back home to her husband. 

Damn, she was a lot of woman, all that body hidden under starched control, like a ripe peach wrapped in brown paper. Stack felt it hit him square—a pull in his gut mixing hunger with something sharper, like spotting fine shine in a dry county. She moved with that church sway, restrained but sensual, and he pictured peeling those layers off, buttons popping one by one, corset unlacing to let her belly soften under his palm, her ass filling his hands while he bent her over. His breath deepened, pulse steady but heavy, that charismatic control holding him in place even as his mind stripped her bare. Admiration burned through him. Not just lust, but respect for the fire banked under all that propriety, the kind of woman who could unravel a man like him if he let her.

Marigold paused at the florist’s cart across the street, a rickety stand bursting with daisies and snapdragons. She lifted one gloved hand, tilting her hat back to fan herself lightly, then slipping it off entirely. The chignon revealed itself sleek and tight, coils glossy black-brown pinned flawless, a few tendrils daring to escape at the nape. She leaned in, inhaling deep from a bunch of daisies, her smile blooming soft and genuine from the old vendor. It was a rare crack in the armor, lips parting to show even teeth, eyes crinkling with warmth. The scent must’ve carried on the breeze, light and fresh, mixing with her own subtle violet talc that Stack swore he could almost taste from here. 

“Earth to Stack,” Harlan teased, snapping the tape against his thigh to pull him back, “you seein’ ghosts out there, or just some fine scenery? Measurements holdin’ steady, but your mind wanderin’.” 

Stack’s gaze lingered a beat longer, committing her to memory—the way her throat words as she swallowed, the subtle shift of her breasts with each breath—before he turned, smirk playing, “scenery, Harlan. The best kind. District got its treasures, don’t it? Now, finish up—got places to be, thoughts to chase.”

Harlan chuckled again, chalk flying, “treasures, huh? Careful them treasures don’t lead you to the preacher’s porch. But yeah, I got you. Suits’ll be ready next week—roomy where it counts.” 

Stack stepped down from the stool with a nod, rolling his shoulders to settle the horny that done crept into him. Harlan tucked away his measure, pinning fabric swatches to a board behind the counter, his wiry frame buzzing with the efficiency of a man who’d fitted half the district’s power players. 

“That about wraps it, Harlan,” Stack said, voice low and even, pulling two crisp bills from his vest pocket and sliding it across the scarred wooden counter, “you got the measurements locked? Double-breasted, room in the slacks, tight on the rest. Don’t want no surprises when they come back.” 

Harlan pocketed the bill with a wink, adjusting his glasss as he tallied the deposit mentally, “locked tight as a deacon’s tithe, Mr. Stack. Wool blend, pleats for that…accommodation you need. They’ll hug you right—shoulders broad, waist tapered, legs lookin’ like they could carry the world. Pick ‘em up next Thursday. I’ll have the vest monogrammed subtle, your initials in silk thread.” 

Stack’s full lips curved in that easy smirk, dimples flashing brief as he clapped the old man’s shoulder—firm, appreciative, the touch lingering just long enough to seal the trust.

“Good man. Keep the change; buy yourself a cool drink after the heat break.” 

Stack straightened his suspenders, smoothed the front of his shirt, put his fedora back on and tipped it before pushing through the shop door. The bell jingled behind him as West 9th’s bustle swallowed him up, vendors calling, laughter spilling from open windows, and the wail of a sax warming up for evening. 

Dapper as ever, Stack moved with that unhurried gait, polished oxfords clicking on the uneven sidewalk, his high-waisted trousers falling crisp over powerful thighs, vest buttoned neat against the broad plane of his chest. A fresh toothpick found its way between his lips, rolling slow as he chewed the end, his eyes scanning the street with the casual vigilance of a man who owned half its shadows. The Little Rock sun beat down unstoppable but Stack carried the heat like it owed him something, deep brown skin absorbing the rays without a flinch. 

The Greater Calvary Holy Temple Church of Deliverance rose at the end of the block, a white-painted sentinel against the district’s grit, freshly scrubbed every spring by the women’s circle, though the old wood beneath groaned come storm season, beams whispering descents in the wind. Black wrought iron fenced it in, the gate forged like two clasped praying hands, welcoming or warning depending on the sinner’s eye. Lily beds flanked the path, petals pristine on neat rows, a symbol of purity that Stack noted with a faint twist of his mouth—immaculate, controlled, much like the women inside. Stained glass caught the sun in fractured colors, biblical scenes twisting with odd symbols—a sword piercing a lamb, a burning bush blinking human eyes, Eve blindfolded and reaching. The bell tower loomed single and stark, silent now but ready to toll come night for prayer or passing or something else entirely. 

Doors stood wide open as they often did midweek, an invitation to any soul needing solace or shade. Stack paused at the threshold, hat in hand, the cool draft from within brushing his face like a confessor’s breath. He stepped inside, oxfords muffled on the red carpet runner, the sanctuary unfolding vast and vaulted, high ceilings with exposed beams like a rib cage arching heavenward, dark polished pews stretching in solemn rows, hymnals tucked crimson and gold in the racks. The air droned quiet, laced with beeswax polish and faint incense, the massive wooden pulpit elevated like a throne, bronze crucifix hanging behind it—Jesus’ face worn smooth by time, eyes hollow and staring. 

Up front, by the pipe organ’s gleaming side, Sister Marigold Baptiste knelt slight, arranging the daisies she’d carried from the florist into a simple clay pot. Her ivory crepe dress held its structured line, high neck buttoned to her throat, long sleeves sheathing arms that moved with precise grace, mid-calf skirt pooling modest around her knees. The chignon sat sleek at her nape, coils pinned flawless, a few escaped tendrils catching the luminance from the stained glass. Gloves lay folded nearby, her hands bar now, wedding ring glinting as she tucked stems just so, full lips pursed in concentration. 

Stack lingered a few paces in, hat clutched loose in one hand, toothpick shifting as he took in the space—worn kneel spots on the carpet, hidden speakers he clocked quick in the woodwork, a narrow staircase veiled behind the pulpit. Marigold hadn’t turned yet, focused on her task, the soft rustle of petals the only sound breaking the silence. Stack eased into a pew midway down, the wood creaking faintly under his weight, settling back with legs spread easy, hay placed beside him on the cushion. The toothpick rolled once more. His gaze steady on her form. 

Marigold straightened then, pot balanced in her hands, an pivoted toward the aisle, eyes widening as they landed on him. Her free hand flew to her throat, fingers closing around the pearl strand there, clutching tight as if to anchor her breath. The daises trembled slight in her grip, her honey-brown skin flushing warm at the cheeks, but she held her poise, chin lifting just a fraction, that church-bred composure snapping into place like a locked door. 

“Sister Marigold,” Stack greeted, voice rolling low and smooth, that Southern swing laced with Chicago clip, steady as a heartbeat. 

He didn’t rise, just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, toothpick pausing mid-roll, eyes locking on hers—dark, unblinking, drinking her in slow. His gaze traced her face, down her neck where the pearls rested, down to the structured bodice that hinted at the curves beneath, holding without mercy, steady and intent like he was memorizing every controlled inch. 

“Afternoon. Ain’t mean to startle you. Place feels peaceful today…doors wide, like it’s waitin’ on company.” 

Marigold set the pot down careful on the piano bench, smoothing her skirt with one hand while the other stayed at her pearls, steps measured as she approached the pew, heels clicking softly on the carpet runner. Her warm, brown eyes met his, wary but unflinching, full lips pressing thin before parting.

“Mr. Moore. Elias. I…wasn’t expectin’ anyone this hour. The sanctuary’s open, yes, but most folks come for prayer, not…company.” 

Her voice carried that refined lilt, church polish over Southern roots, words clipped to keep the tremor at bay, posture straight as the pulpit rail. 

Stack’s lips quirked, that teasing charm threading through, low and grounded, no rush to the words, just savoring her discomfort. He nodded toward the daisies, eyes flicking there brief before returning to her, still holding, still tracing the flush on her skin, the way her throat worked under the pearl necklace.

“Pretty touch, those flowers. Daisies, right? I like ‘em. Simple, clean—stand out without tryin’ too hard. Remind me of fresh starts, somethin’ pure in the middle of all this…structure,” the toothpick shifted again, his tone warm, playful at the edges, pulling her in without a push.

Marigold stopped a respectful distance from the pew, hands folding neat at her waist though her fingers twisted slight against the fabric. She glanced back at the pot, then to him, composure cracking just enough for curiosity to peek through.

“They are. For the women’s circle—brightens the space before service. But you…why are you here, Mr. Moore? What do you want in the house of the Lord?” 

Stack eased back into the pew, arms draping lazy over the top rail, behind him, legs swinging loose as he crossed one ankle over the other. That toothpick rolled along his thick tongue, clicking against his teeth, dark eyes never leaving her face—steady, pulling her in without a word. Marigold’s gaze flicked quick over him, tracing the broad set of his shoulders straining the vest, the way his shirt clung just enough to hint at the muscle beneath, before dropping sharp to her feet, toes curling slight in her sensible pumps.

Stack smirked then all knowing, dimples carving deep into his cheeks as he let the silence stretch a beat.

“Pastor been to The Law ‘bout another noise complaint lately?” Stack drawled, “got another notice pinned to my front do’ this mornin’.” 

Marigold blinked, lashes fluttering once, then cleared her throat with a soft, composed huff, chin lifting as she met his eyes again, spicy fire sparking in those warm brown depths, sassy edge sharpening her words.

“Obadiah is a busy man, Mr. Moore. He may have. After all, that hell house of yours sure do make a lot of noise. Disturbin’ the peace in this holy temple. Maybe you outta consider shuttin’ down for good.” 

Her tone bit crisp, laced with that church-honed authority, but her fingers tightened on her pearls, betraying the quick swallow at her throat. 

Stack chuckled low, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder, dimples deepening as he savored her bite—loving the spark. The way she pushed back without flinching. He shifted his gaze, rolling the toothpick once more while he took in the sanctuary—vaulted beams looming like ribs ready to cage, the hollow-eyed crucifix staring down, stained glass casting broken shadows that twisted biblical into something watchful, almost alive.

“This place,” he said, tone dipping thoughtful, eyes sweeping the eerie stillness before landing back on her, “don’t feel as welcomin’ as you put it, Sister. More like it’s holdin’ it’s breath. Waitin’ for somethin’ to confess. Or maybe judge…”

Marigold’s lips parted, ready to fire back, “You got no call comin’ in here talkin’ ‘bout my church like—”

Stack lifted a hand, palm out, silencing her mid-breath with that quiet command, his eyes locking firm. He rose smooth from the pew, unfolding his frame to tower easy. He stepped closer, closing the gap just enough to fill the air between them.

“Maybe that noise bein’ made for a reason in my house,” Stack spoke low, voice steady, pulling her in, “maybe you should come answerin’ sometime. See what all the fuss is about, ‘stead of protestin’ and complainin’ ‘bout what you can’t and won’t control.” 

Marigold dragged her eyes over him then, from the polished shine of his oxfords up the crisp line of his trousers, over the vest hugging his chest, to the strong column of his neck and the smirk still playing at his full lips. She dropped her eyes quick to her feet again, cheeks warming under the honey-brown skin, pearls clutched tighter in her first. 

Stack’s fingers dipped into his vest pocket, pulling out a worn silver coin that gleamed from the light filtering in through the stained glass, eagle side glinting faint as he flipped it up, casual, like he was testing fate more for show than belief. The coin spun lazy in the air, his dark eyes locked on Marigold’s with that shadowed smirk curling his full lips, dimples hitting deep. He caught it mid-turn on the back of his hand, thumb pressing it flat, but let the words land first, voice dropping to that intimate rumble laced with Chicago steel under the Southern drawl. 

“Heads,” he said, eyes never wavering from hers, “you keep your dignity intact and play the role of First Lady—although we both know that ain’t what you want. Tails, you finally come see why they call me Handsome Trouble. Have you moanin’ Mr. Moore ‘stead of callin’ on me like some schoolteacher.”

Marigold’s glare sharpened, warm brown eyes flashing with that sassy fire and brimstone, her full lips pressing into a thin line as she straightened her spine under the high-necked bodice of her ivory crepe dress. Her fingers clenched those pearls tighter, knuckles bulging against her honey-brown skin.

“You got some nerve, Mr. Moore,” she snapped, voice crisp with church authority, chin lifting defiant, “get on out this hour of the Lord. NOW.”

Stack tilted his head just so, that measured curiosity playing in his gaze as he snatched the coin from his hand, flipping it quick against his palm—once, twice—before peeking at the face with a slow smirk that didn’t reach his eyes, keeping the verdict locked behind those velvety brown depths. He pocketed it smooth, the motion pulling his vest taut over the broad plane of his chest, shirt sleeves rolled to show corded forearms built from years of hauling crates, throwing fists, and cutting loose wit’ them machines.

He chuckled then, the sound bouncing soft off the vaulted beams like it belonged more to a backroom deal than this hollow sanctuary. Stepping closer, filling the space with his presence, the faint scent of bay rum and tobacco trailing him, his eyes traced her form from the coiled thick hair pinned, down the nipped waist that hinted at the soft swell beneath, to the way her sensible pumps shifted uneasy on the red carpet.

“You a beautiful woman, Miss Marigold,” Stack spoke with a hushed tone dipping playful yet edged, toothpick rolling once along his tongue, “as fine as they come. You ain’t hot under all that fabric?” 

Her breath hitched sharp, cheeks warmer under the honeyed tone of her skin as she fired back, words tumbling hot and sassy, “I said LEAVE, Mr. Moore. Ain’t no place for your kinda talk here. I’m a married woman—First Lady of this church—and you best remember that ‘fore you embarrass yourself further—”

Stack cut her off with a lift of his brow, voice steady and dangerously low, slicing through like a switch blade wrapped in silk.

“Happily?” 

Marigold’s mouth opened, then closed, no words rising to fill the sudden quiet, her eyes dropping to the polished pew between them, pearls twisting in her grip as the crucifix above seemed to watch, unblinking. 

Stack’s oxfords scraped soft against the red carpet as he began to circle her, his broad shoulders rolling with each step, eyes tracing every inch of her like he was mapping territory he already claimed in his mind. His vest hugged his tapered waist, shirt pulling taut over the hard ridges of his chest with the motion while his thick thighs flexed under the wool trousers, carrying him around her in a lazy orbit that filled the space with his bay rum warmth. Marigold stood frozen, her ivory crepe dress holding firm but her breath came quicker, pearls twisting frantic in her fingers. 

His voice dipped low and sinfully slick, that smooth rumble wrapping around her like cigar smoke, intimate as he paused just behind her shoulder.

“I wonder what kind of drawls you wear hidden under all this,” Stack whispered, the words hanging heavy, his gaze dipping to the hem of her mid-calf skirt where it brushed her thick caves. He stepped closer in the circle, voice dipping even lower, teasing the edge of her ear without touching, “what colors you usually wear ‘em in? They got that lace trim runnin’ ‘long the legs? Little bow sittin’ pretty up the top, maybe? Your initials stitched in there somewhere, engravin’ your name on what’s yours?” He let the question build, his full lips curving as he rounded to her side, eyes flicking down her form, “they hug tight on you, holdin’ all that soft in place? Bet they smell like you after a full day of worship—warm, a lil’ damp from the heat, that violet talc mixin’ wit’ your skin,” his tone stayed steady, but the vulgarity laced through it sharp as a switchblade, “your bush soft down there? All plush and wild under them drawls?” 

Rage boiled up in Marigold’s chest, hot and righteous, her warm brown eyes narrowing as her full lips parted in a silent gasp—vulgar, this man, stripping her bare with words in the house of God. Confusion twisted next, her body betraying her with a flush creeping up her honey-brown neck, a traitorous warmth pooling low in her belly, thighs pressing tight under starched fabric, other areas she dare not speak of growing sinfully tingly. His voice alone stirred her curves to life. The urge hit hard then, her hand twitching at her side, itching to slap him clean across that smirking face for the sheer absurdity, the audacity of painting her secrets out loud like they were his to know. 

Stack completed the circle, facing her full now, eyes locking onto hers with that unblinking intensity, dimples faint as held her stare. Marigold met it head-on, chin lifting despite the tremble in her frame, every button and seam of her dress a barrier he seemed to see right through.  With a shaky voice, edged with that sassy fire but cracking at the edges, she forced the words out. 

“Leave. Now, Mr. Moore. Please.” 

Stack drank her in one last time, eyes roaming slow from her flushed cheeks down the swell of her heavy breasts straining subtle yet succulent against the bodice, over that hourglass waistline she naturally carried but the corset accentuates, to lush hips that shifted uneasy, then back up to hold her gaze. Leaning in just enough—his broad frame casting a shadow—he breathed deep, pulling in her scent: clean lye soap laced with clove and vanilla, that subtle violet powder warming from her skin, a hint of the forbidden heat beneath. His full lips parted on the inhale, savoring it like fine whiskey.

Then, he straightened, turning smooth on his heel, snatching his fedora from the pew where he’d laid it, the motion pulling his shirt sleeves higher on those veined forearms. He walked away unhurried, oxfords echoing toward the nave doors, pausing just once to glance back over his shoulder, smirk playing. 

“I’ll be seein’ you in a few days, Miss Marigold. Wit’ them church women outside my place, protestin’ like they do,” his voice carried that low chuckle, warm and knowing, “thanks for ya’ time.” 

He gave her a wink, the doors creaked as he pushed through, leaving her standing there alone in the hollow quiet, heart pounding against her ribs, the crucifix’s empty eyes staring down as her slay hand smoothed her skirt, trying to press the tremble back into place. 

Sunlight spills through the open nursery windows in thick golden ribbons, warm enough to turn the dust floating through the air into glitter. The gauzy curtains sway lazily with the breeze rolling in from the Quarter, carrying the scent of rain-damp pavement, magnolia blossoms, and the faint trace of incense burning downstairs on Annie’s altar. Wind chimes clink softly somewhere on the back gallery, mixing with the distant sound of a trumpet player serenading tourists three streets over. Outside, the city buzzes with its usual mix of music, heat, and morning chaos.

But in here, the world felt gentler.

Autumn babbles happily to herself from the patchwork quilt laid across the rug, tiny gold bangles jingling around her ankles every time she kicks her feet. Her fat cheeks puff around the big toe currently shoved in her mouth, suckling as though it were the finest delicacy in all of Louisiana. Her chocolate curls were wild from sleep and haloed by the morning light, making her look less like a baby and more like a cherub the ancestors had handcrafted for Annie and Smoke’s enjoyment alone. She was perfection.

Annie leans against the doorway with sleepy eyes, her satin robe resting loosely around her shoulder as she watches her daughter. Her hand lightly caresses the small protection sigil Smoke had discreetly painted in the threshold, the blackened symbol nearly invisible against the wood unless you knew what to look for.

“Those toes providing you enough nutrients,” Annie teases softly, “or would you like some goodness fresh from the tap?”

Autumn lets out an excited squeal at the sound of her mother’s voice, nearly choking on her own laughter as she rolls onto her belly. She kicks her legs wildly behind her, determined to army crawl across the blanket despite only managing a few pitiful inches.

“Mm-hmm,” Annie laughs under her breath. “There goes that impatience. You just like your daddy.”

Autumn answers with another delighted shriek at the mention of her father, reaching for her mother with clumsy little hands.

“Calm down,” Annie giggles, pushing herself off the doorway and crossing the nursery barefoot. The old wooden floor creaks beneath her steps. “I was going to come to you.”

She scoops her into her arms, breathing in that powdery baby scent mixed with shea butter and chamomile oil. The infant immediately tucks herself against her mother’s chest with a happy little sigh. Annie pulls down one side of her night gown and settles into the rocking chair near the window, letting Autumn latch while sunlight pours over them both in warm, honey-colored waves.

Downstairs, the coffee maker gives a soft ding, followed by the familiar sound of cabinet doors opening and closing somewhere beneath the nursery floor. Annie smiles to herself. Smoke was up.

A second later, music crackles low through the house from the old speaker he refused to replace. One of Sammie’s blues records. He’d never admit it out loud, but he was his little cousin’s biggest fan and owned every album he’d ever made on cassette, CD, and vinyl.

Before long, the scent of breakfast begins creeping upstairs. First coffee, dark and rich enough to wake the dead. Then butter hitting hot cast iron. Bacon shortly after that. Annie closes her eyes for a second when the smell of sautéed bell peppers and onions finally joins the mix, followed by the unmistakable scent of seasoned shrimp cooking in garlic and Cajun spices.

Smoke was making his famous shrimp and grits.

She could already picture him downstairs moving around the kitchen, half-dressed, tattoos peeking beneath a black tank top, while he stood over the stove with the same ridiculous amount of focus he put into everything. Probably dancing a little too, if the faint sound of cabinet tapping was anything to go by. A soft laugh leaves her throat.

Annie loved it when Smoke cooked. Not because he was good at it, though Lord knew he was. It was the care behind it that always got to her. The way he plated her food like it mattered. The way he remembered she liked extra cheese in her grits and her peaches sprinkled with sugar. The way he’d slide a cup of coffee into her hands before she even realized she needed one.

She always told him she could taste the love in his food. And every single time, Smoke would roll his eyes like she was being dramatic, even though the smug grin tugging at his mouth always gave him away.

“You wanna go say hi to daddy, babygirl? I’m sure he could use some of this good loving, too.” Autumn blinks up at her with sleepy, milk-drunk eyes, one hand still gripping Annie’s robe as she finishes feeding. A soft little sigh escapes her once she’s full, cheeks warm and round as she settles against Annie’s chest.

“Yeah,” Annie murmured, kissing the top of her curls. “That’s my spoiled girl.”

The old hardwood creaked beneath Annie’s bare feet as she carried Autumn downstairs, the smell of breakfast growing stronger with every step. Annie hums along to Sammie’s record as she crosses into the kitchen, and to her surprise, there are two Moore men waiting to greet her.

“There’s unc’s baby!” Stack grins the second he spots Autumn. His whole face lights up so fast Annie nearly laughs. “Come here, Moonbeam.”

Autumn squeals at the sound of his voice, immediately reaching for him with little grabby hands.

“Traitor,” Smoke snorts.

“Don’t be mad that I’m the favorite twin,” Stack shoots back, reaching out for his niece.

“You don’t even like kids,” Smoke mutters behind his coffee mug.

“Correction: I don’t like outside kids. Moonbeam is different.”

Annie laughs under her breath as Stack carefully scoops the chunky chocolate drop from her arms like she was made of glass. Autumn immediately tucks herself against his chest with a happy hum, tiny fingers grabbing onto the gold chain around his neck.

“Aht-aht,” Stack warns gently, untangling her fist before she could yank it hard enough to choke him. “That chain cost too much money for all that.”

Autumn only blinks at him before smacking her tiny palm against his cheek.

“That’s what your ass get,” Smoke says, barking out a laugh loud enough to echo through the kitchen.

“Abusive like her damn daddy,” Stack fusses as he rubs his cheek.

“You’ll be aight.”

Autumn yawns suddenly against Stack’s shoulder, tiny mouth stretching wide before her face buries into the crook of his neck. The fight drains out of her all at once.

“Annnd she’s out,” Smoke notes, pointing the spatula towards her.

“She’s been up since before sunrise,” Annie nods softly.

Stack glances down at the chocolate cherub curled against him, his expression softening so fast it almost didn’t look like him at all.

“Y’all eat. I got her.” “You sure?” Annie asks.

“Please,” he scoffs. “I’m Uncle Stack. My baby knows she’s in good hands like Allstate.” Smoke rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest further.

Annie smiles as Stack disappears upstairs with Autumn resting against his shoulder, one massive hand spread protectively across her tiny back while he hums softly under his breath. A minute later, the house falls quiet again.

Sensing a chance to seize the opportunity, Smoke stalks quietly behind Annie before snatching her up, expertly pinning her back to the counter. He’d been eyeing the growing damp spot beneath the thin fabric of her night gown for the last ten minutes, and his patience had finally run dry.

“E-Elijah,” Annie breathes, though there’s no real threat behind it. “What are you doing?”

He answers by sliding the strap of her gown from her shoulder slowly, exposing warm brown skin and the fullness of her breast beneath the kitchen light. A fresh bead of milk gathers there, and the sight alone nearly drives him insane.

“Lord have mercy,” he mutters softly, more to himself than her.

Smoke leans down without another word, mouth closing around her with a quiet groan that sends electricity through Annie’s body. Her fingers tighten against the cool marble instantly while his tongue soothes and teases in slow, deliberate strokes, savoring her like something sweet he’d been craving all morning.

“Eliijahhh,” she whimpers as she squirms, attempting to free herself from his grasp.

“Be still, woman,” he fusses. “I’m tryna take care of you.” His free hand carefully glides up her thigh and finds solace in the slick between her legs. Annie’s knees buckle as his fingers expertly work that sensitive bundle of nerves while he indulges in his daughter’s life force, desperate to increase his calcium intake for the day.

“Aye, family! Baby Autumn is down for the coun—” Stack stops short in the kitchen doorway, one brow lifting slowly. “Now what the fuck y’all got going on in here?” 

Annie’s knuckles whiten from how tightly she grips the counter while Smoke nurses from her with a low hum of approval, his fingers working quickly under the hem of her dress.

“Well,” Stack drawls, dragging his gaze over the scene in front of him, “I see Autumn ain’t the only one that likes her milk from the tap.”

“Mind ya business,” Smoke mutters against Annie’s skin, though the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth ruins the threat completely. Stack only laughs, stepping farther into the kitchen. 

“Hard to mind my business when my brother got his wife soundin’ like a damn late-night R&B playlist at breakfast. And in front of my shrimp and grits, no less.”

Annie lifts her head just enough to glance at him over Smoke’s shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded and amused. 

“Then stop staring.”

“Nah,” Stack says easily, leaning against the island. “I’m entertained now.”

Smoke sucks his teeth while Annie fights a smile. The twins had always been dangerous together. Same crooked grin. Same wolfish confidence. But where Smoke burned low and steady, Stack carried chaos in his pockets like loose change.

“Careful, Stack,” Annie murmurs sweetly. “You keep looking at me like that, and your brother gon’ start growling.”

“He is already growling,” Stack shoots back instantly. “I heard him from the hallway.”

Smoke lifts his head just long enough to glare at him. “Get out my kitchen.”

“Make me.”

Stack watches from his spot against the island, arms folded tightly across his chest as he tries to ignore the growing tension low in his stomach every time Annie lets out another soft sound. He’d always thought she was the finest woman he’d ever seen, but watching her melt beneath Smoke’s touch nearly unraveled what little self-control he had left. The sight of her flushed and breathless had temptation crawling straight up his spine.

“Y’all nasty as hell,” he says after a beat, watching the way Annie’s eyes rolled back in her head as slick warmth slowly trails down her thigh.

“And yet you’re still watching instead of coming to do something about it,” Annie challenges.

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, Antoinette,” Stack warns, stalking closer to her. “I’ll have you in a puddle of ya own nut before you can blink.”

“All bark and no bite,” Annie teases, caressing the back of Smoke’s head as he strokes himself through his pajama pants. And in that moment, something in Stack snapped. One of his biggest pet peeves, and secret turn-ons, was a woman who challenged his manhood. He quickly closes the short distance between the island and Annie, attaching himself to her left breast in one fluid motion. Annie almost screamed at the sensation of having both twins on her at once while Smoke’s fingers still danced in her slick. 

“Oooh shiiiit,” she purrs, rolling her hips against Smoke’s rough fingers. 

Though she knew it was wrong, she’d often fantasize about how it would feel to have both twins worshipping her body, and now, here she was experiencing it in 8K. Though they were identical, each brother had his own way of pleasuring her that made her feel like a goddess being worshipped. Smoke took his time, slow and steady, like he enjoyed drawing every reaction out of her piece by piece. Everything he did felt deliberate. Controlled. The gentle pull of his mouth, the lazy flick of his tongue, the slow drag of his fingers between her thighs.

Stack was the complete opposite. He kissed her like he was starving and touched her like restraint had never once crossed his mind. Every impatient movement, every rough little sound he made against her skin sent another rush of heat straight through Annie’s body until she could barely think past the sensation of both brothers surrounding her at once.

“W-Wait,” she says as she feels that familiar bloom in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t want to cum yet, I want to play a game.”

Smoke ignores her initially, glaring daggers at Stack when he notices Annie’s moans growing louder because of him. The two carry on their silent bickering until Annie grips them both by their curls, lifting their heads to meet her gaze. The pair groan in frustration at the loss of contact. 

“I said I want to play a game,” Annie repeats, watching them both with lidded eyes. 

“A game?” Smoke echoes.

“What kind of game?” Stack presses.

“A game of willpower, between the two of you,” she coos, wrapping a hand around each of their third legs. Their dicks felt heavy in her hands as she mentally noted the similarities between them. They were both 9 ½ inches, with Smoke curving to the right and Stack curving to the left. Her pussy throbs as she imagines how it would feel to have one twin fucking her throat while the other fucks her into oblivion. 

“I’m going to stroke you both. Whoever cums first has to watch the other one fuck me.” They both stare at her blankly, blinded by the way her soft hands work them both with steady precision. Smoke weakens almost instantly, and it takes a moment for him to register the proposition.

“You must be out yo mind,” he growls through clenched teeth, eyes darting between his wife and his twin. But Annie ignores him and keeps stroking, her mouth secretly watering as both of their tips begin leaking precum. Stack remains quiet, except for the few small moans that escape his lips as Annie’s thumb swipes over the sensitive head of his dick. When he finally regains his voice, it’s to taunt his grumpy dopplegänger.

“What’s the matter, ‘Lijah? Scared you gone have to watch me bend your wife over?” he teases.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell,” Smoke barks back, already positioning himself back at Annie’s dripping right nipple. Her right hand strokes him with calculated motions, drawing curses from his lips like prayers.

“Gahdamn woman,” he moans, thrusting into her palm like he would her pussy.

“It’s just a friendly competition, ‘Lijah,” she mewls. “You can share me this one time.”

Smoke ignores his wife’s statement, opting to continue pumping his fingers in her slopping wet hole. He wasn’t in the mood to share his lover with his menace of a brother. All he wanted was to indulge in a little breastmilk and enjoy an early morning fuck. Part of him wanted to appease Annie and see where this little competition would lead, but the other side of him, the possessive, unstable side, wasn’t fully convinced. 

One second, his fingers were deep in her core, thrusting in and out. The next, he was curling them to hit that sweet spot that made her toes curl.

“I don’t like sharin’,” he grumbles.

“L-Lijah…”

He uses her moans as fuel to continue working his tongue and fingers until her orgasm rips through her before she has time to process it.

“Fuuuuuck!” she screams, before reeling her voice back in, afraid of waking Autumn.

Stack doesn’t falter. He uses his tongue to guide Annie through her orgasm and work her up for another one. Annie rewards him with a firm squeeze of his shaft.

“Damn Elias,” she purrs softly. “You might be the little brother, but that dick is full-grown.” Stack groans deeply against her chest as she uses his precum to stroke him faster. As much as he loves bringing a woman to her knees and turning her into his personal free-use doll, Stack’s ultimate kink is praise. He loves being told how good a job he’s doing or how well he’s pleasing his woman. 

Annie’s praises, coupled with the way her soft hands alternated between slow, deliberate strokes of his dick to fast, precise ones, had turned Stack into a leaking, moaning mess around her nipple. Shivers shoot down his spine as he tries his best to match the rhythm of her strokes with the flicks of his tongue. His orgasm was building fast.

“You’re being such a good boy for me, Elias,” Annie purrs. “I might let you fuck me just for that.”

Stack shoots Smoke a devilish grin as he suckles a mouthful of breastmilk. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back for Smoke. In one swift motion, he lifts Annie onto the island, spreading her legs as wide as they can go. 

“Say that shit again and I’ll edge you every night for the next week,” Smoke warns, positioning his face right in front of her dripping center. Annie bites her lip as she looks down to meet her husband’s gaze, shivering slightly at the menacing look in his eyes.

“You still wanna try that Eiffel Tower shit you showed me the other night?” he asks, lazily licking up her thigh before placing a gentle kiss on her pussy. The sensation pulls a desperate whimper from Annie’s lips.

“Eiffel Tower? Oh you nasty nasty, Mrs. Moore,” Stack smirks, pressing a trail of kisses from her nipple, down her stomach, and right on top of her mound. “I like it.”

Annie squirms in anticipation as the twins take their places, Stack at her head and Smoke between her legs. Her mouth waters as she comes face to shaft with Stack’s dick, the weight of him resting warm against her lips while that cocky grin slowly spreads across his face.

“Say ahh, pretty girl,” he purrs, amused at how quickly she complies. 

He carefully eases himself into her awaiting mouth, knees buckling as she expertly wraps her tongue around his thick tip. A soft curse slips from his throat almost instantly, one hand bracing against the counter while the other disappears into her curls.

“Fuck,” he breathes, head tipping back for a second before his eyes lock onto her again. “There she go.”

Annie looks up at him through heavy lashes, taking her time like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him. Every slow movement of her mouth pulls another strained sound from deep in his chest, his confidence cracking little by little beneath the heat of her attention.

“Shiiiit woman,” he growls through clenched teeth as he watches his dick disappear down Annie’s throat before reappearing again, completely covered in thick ropes of saliva. He rolls her nipples between his fingers, as she sucks him like her favorite popsicle on a warm, summer day. 

Smoke watches the exchange from his place between her legs with dark, possessive eyes, his hand sliding along her waist while Stack struggles to keep himself together above her. Without warning, he plunges deep into her sex, pulling a strangled moan from her throat. Annie squirts unintentionally on impact, but Smoke keeps on fucking. Annie gasps softly as Smoke buries himself against her neck with a low sound that barely sounds human anymore. The friendly competition between brothers had become possessive.

Smoke had always worshipped Annie openly. Anybody with eyes could see that. The soft kisses against her forehead when she was tired. The way he fixed her coffee exactly how she liked it every morning without asking. The way his hand automatically found the small of her back whenever they walked through a crowded room.

But moments like this pulled something rougher out of him. Something territorial. He was more than willing to give Annie anything under the sun. Jewelry, time, devotion. Hell, blood if she wanted it.

But her pussy? That was his and his alone. And judging by the dark look in his eyes, Smoke intended to remind everybody in the room of that fact.

“Now what was all that shit you was talking about Elias fucking my pussy?” he mutters against her skin, voice rough enough to send heat rushing through her chest. Annie could barely form words, let alone answer him. Her thoughts had melted into scattered fragments somewhere between Stack teasing her nipples and the overwhelming sensation of Smoke filling her to the hilt.

Stack fists her curls, driving himself deeper down her throat as the coils in the pit of his stomach began to unravel.

“Anniiiieeeeee,” he moans as she wraps her hand around the base of his dick, using both her mouth and hand simultaneously to encourage his release. She pulls him out of her mouth just as cum flies out in thick ropes, covering her supple breasts in his unborns.

“Shiit!” he rasps, planting both hands beside her head as he struggles to catch his breath. Annie takes in the sight with pride before shifting her attention to her husband. She readjusts, locking her thick thighs around Smoke’s waist, winding her hips to match his thrusts.

“Cum in your pussy, Papa,” she purrs, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. “It’s yours. Claim it.”

And with that, the little resolve Smoke had left diminished. The feeling hit him hard and sudden, ripping through his body with enough force to leave his knees weak beneath him. A broken sound tore from his chest as he buried his face against Annie’s neck, teeth sinking lightly into her skin while he tried to ride out the overwhelming rush of it. She shivers at the feeling of his mouth against her neck, immediately threading her fingers into his curls while trying to steady her own breathing. Smoke was gone now. This was Elijah again.

“Damn,” Stack laughs softly under his breath, shaking his head while Smoke stays buried against Annie’s throat. “Boy sound like he just saw God.”

Smoke blindly flips him off, keeping his position on Annie’s chest. She laughs, breathless and warm despite the exhaustion settling into her limbs.

“Y’all are ridiculous.”

“And yet, you love us,” Stack retorts, tugging his sweats back on. He pulls his shirt over his head just as a sharp cry crackles through the baby monitor sitting forgotten near the fruit bowl.

All three of them freeze before another cry follows, loud and offended.

“Oh, she up,” Annie sighs instantly, already trying to sit up, despite Smoke’s large body still pinning her to the island. He groans dramatically.

“Swear that child got the worst timing I ever seen,” he fusses as he reluctantly sits up.

“She your child,” Stack reminds him, making his way towards the stairs as Autumn’s angry little cries echo through the speaker. “Y’all stay cuddled up. Uncle Stack can take it from here.”

“Still tryna solidify your spot as her favorite twin,” Annie accuses.

“Because I am her favorite,” he yells back confidently before disappearing up the stairs. A few seconds later, the crying softens upstairs, replaced by the faint sound of Stack’s voice talking nonsense to calm her down. Smoke watches Annie with tired eyes and a crooked smile.

“The way he acts, you’d think she was his child.”

“In his mind, she is.”

•

•

•

•

•

Annie when Stack stood over her:

Folks like to say the devil walks on satin shoes and smells like gin and rouge. But the one I met wore polished boots, carried a Bible, and knew how to whisper your name without movin’ his mouth. The first time I felt real fear, it wasn’t in no juke joint. It was under a steeple, in a room with lace curtains and locked drawers. They said the Lord would send signs. They never said some of them would come dressed as men with collars tight ’round they necks and blood on they breath…

By the time Sister Marigold reached her front steps, the cicadas were already tuning up, their shrill choir rising with the evening heat. The sun hung low, a soft orange sinking behind the pecan trees, casting long, honey‑colored arms across her yard. Her shoes pinched from walking all day, visiting shut‑ins and tending the food bank, her back stiff from the strain of charity. But the ache felt righteous; it meant she’d done good work.

She stopped at the mailbox, expecting only bills and newsletters. One envelope waited instead. A cream paper, no return address, her name written in a confident hand that made her stomach tighten. She glanced up and down the street, the habit of a woman with a reputation to protect, then tucked the letter into her Bible before unlocking the door.

Inside, her house exhaled coolness and quiet. She loosened her collar, slipped off her gloves, and turned on the radio. The radio sounded soft, Mahalia Jackson’s voice like honey over bruises. Marigold poured a glass of water, sat at the dining table, and set the letter before her. The handwriting was unmistakable now that she saw it in the light, elegant but masculine, a little dangerous around the edges.

Stack Moore.

Her pulse quickened. She ran a finger beneath the flap, and his scent rose faintly from the paper. Bourbon, smoke, and the ghost of his cologne.

Miss me yet?

I been dreamin’ ‘bout that sweet mouth of yours and the way you taste when you pray too long.

Every night I been wakin’ up hard, thinkin’ ‘bout that pretty body and how it fit in my hands. I can still smell you on my beard, sugar. I want another sermon from that pussy.

I got a treat for you. There’s a package waitin’ at Madame Laveau’s Dress Shop on West Ninth. Ask for “The First Lady Special.” Try it on. Wear it tonight. I’ll see you soon.

Don’t worry ‘bout the clock. This kind of pleasure rewrites time.

— E.M.

Her breath left in a tremor. She pressed the paper to her chest, ashamed at the heat rising through her body, the ache that bloomed low between her thighs, “Lord, help me,” she whispered, but she read it again anyway.

At six‑thirty, twilight gold and thick, she was on her way to West Ninth. She told herself she was only curious. Only going to look. But her hands trembled on the steering wheel, and her pulse kept skipping.

Madame Laveau’s Dress Shop, West Ninth Street

The bell above the door tinkled as she stepped inside. Jazz purred low from a phonograph in the corner, mingling with the scent of perfume and polished wood. The shop was narrow and glowing with velvet curtains, lace fans, and dresses that hung like promises. Behind the counter stood Madame Laveau, tall and statuesque, skin the color of roasted pecans and lips painted a sinful red. Gold bangles clinked on her wrists when she smiled.

“Evenin’, First Lady,” she said, the words a tease wrapped in respect, “Been expectin’ you. Ready for your special?”

She disappeared behind a curtain and returned with a box wrapped in plum‑colored paper and tied with satin ribbon. Marigold’s hands felt clumsy as she untied it. Inside lay a slip of silk black as sin, thin straps, deep neckline, cut on the bias so it would cling like a second skin.

She swallowed, “Mercy.”

“Go on, baby,” Madame Laveau said with a wink, “Ain’t nobody holy back there but the mirror.”

Marigold stepped into the fitting room. The silk slid over her hips with a whisper. Cool at first, then warm. It molded to her curves, cupping her breasts, grazing her ribs, hugging her waist so close she could feel her heartbeat against the fabric. The hem brushed mid‑calf, the slit climbing high enough to show a sinful tease of thigh.

She turned toward the mirror.

For a moment, she didn’t recognize herself. The woman staring back looked older and younger all at once, skin glowing, lips parted, eyes wide and dark with want. The dress revealed everything her church dresses hid: the soft swell of her breasts, the dip of her back, the curve where her thighs met. Even the faint shimmer of perspiration on her collarbone looked indecent.

Madame Laveau peeked through the curtain and grinned, “Mmm. That man of yours gon’ lose his mind.” She uncapped a bottle of perfume, spritzed the air—a scent of jasmine—and it settled around Marigold.

Marigold managed a shaky smile, “I’ll take it.”

She changed back into her modest clothes, folded the dress neatly in its box, and thanked the woman with a hushed “God bless.”

When she stepped outside, twilight had deepened into the velvet blue of evening. A familiar car eased up to the curb. Aunt Pearl’s, headlights soft in the dark.

“Evenin’, baby!” Aunt Pearl called, waving, “You ready?”

Marigold’s heart skipped. She slipped into the passenger seat quickly, clutching the box like contraband.

“Let’s roll, sugar,” Aunt Pearl said, chuckling as she shifted gears, “We got a night ahead of us.”

As the car pulled away from West Ninth, Marigold glanced down at the plum‑ribboned box in her lap. Beneath the silk lid waited sin tailored in her size, and a man who’d written her name like a prayer he intended to answer himself.

The church bells in the distance tolled seven.

And Marigold smiled.

The hum of The Blackline was already thick in the air by the time Marigold and Aunt Pearl eased around the back of the building. Steam hissed from the kitchen vents, and laughter spilled faintly from the side yard where girls took breaks and lovers snuck smokes in the dark.

Pearl unlocked the side entrance with a grunt, shoulder nudging the door.

They stepped into dim warmth, worn floorboards creaking beneath their feet, walls vibrating with blues from the main floor. As the door shut behind them, another sound rose.

A baby’s cry.

Then another.

High-pitched, echoing as if the sound came not just from one child, but from the ghost of a second. The cries laced together, then cut off abruptly.

“Shhh…shhh…shhh…” came the gentle hushes, somewhere down the hallway. Familiar. Soothing.

Then silence.

Marigold turned, unsettled. But before she could speak, Minnie appeared, a thick blanket folded over her shoulder, her soft face glowing with the hush of a woman used to moving through other people’s storms.

“Well now,” Minnie smiled, “Ain’t you lookin’ like a secret about to get told.”

Marigold smiled faintly, nerves fluttering.

“Stack’s expectin’ you. C’mon.”

The Blackline

Stack’s office was low-lit and lush, the scent of cherry tobacco curling through the air like smoke off a slow fire. The door was cracked, and behind it, Elias ‘Stack’ Moore stood in silhouette, one hand in his pocket, the other nursing a heavy glass of bourbon. A record played on low behind him, the moan of a woman’s voice singing about loving a man she ought to hate.

Marigold stepped in quietly.

Stack turned. His eyes warmed the second he saw her.

“Well damn,” he breathed.

She offered the plum-ribboned box toward him,  “I tried it on.”

“You like it?”

She nodded, “Yes.”

Stack took the box from her, set it aside. Then, without warning, he stepped forward and lifted her clean off her feet. Her body sliding up the length of his, heart leaping as he spun her in a circle like she was his girl, not some preacher’s wife sneaking around behind her husband’s sermons. Her breath caught as her breasts brushed his chest. When he lowered her, he did it slow. Hands firm at her waist. The heat between them undeniable.

Her feet touched down. Her eyes stayed on his mouth.

Then he kissed her.

Deep. Slow. Thorough. Like he was claiming something. His palms rested low on her spine, pulling her in, tongue slipping past her lips like it already knew the way. Her knees wobbled.

When they parted, he leaned in close again, “I saw your husband earlier.”

The words hit like a splash of cold so chilling it made her bones ache, “W-What?”

“Yeah, honey. He showed up outside. Fresh off that council banquet. With some lady.”

Marigold’s lips parted, “Lillian.”

Stack smirked, “Didn’t like me askin’ about you.”

Marigold stepped back, hands on her hips, “You did what?”

Stack raised a brow, sipping his bourbon, unbothered. 

“You did not—Elias Moore, I swear, if you said anything—”

“I ain’t said nothin’ that gave us away. You think I’m stupid?”

She glared, arms crossed, “Your mouth gon’ get me in trouble.”

“I like trouble,” he grinned.

“This ain’t funny! He may be suspecting now—he may—”

“Woman, hush.”

She opened her mouth again but yelped when his palm popped her backside. Hard. Her head snapped back, but his grin was already cocky.

“Let me see your hand.”

She held up her right.

“Uh uh. Your left.”

She switched.

He took her hand gently, studied the wedding ring glinting on her finger, a slim, silver-gold thing meant to symbolize holiness and commitment.

He slid it off.

Her gasp was soft. But loud in that room. He set the ring down on the edge of his desk, then stepped closer. So close his nose almost touched hers. His voice dropped to a whisper that scraped low in her belly.

“Fuck your husband.”

Marigold blinked. Heart pounding. She should’ve slapped him. She didn’t. Truthfully, deep down, she didn’t want to. He took her hand. Led her past the heavy curtain to his private quarters, the space behind the office where indulgence lived and secrets were kept.

The Sleeping Quarters of Elias Stack Moore

The air in the back room was warmer, thicker. The scent of expensive liquor, spiced cologne, and faint cigar smoke clung to the red velvet curtains. A king-sized bed sat in the center, draped in satin sheets as deep red as a ripe plum, corners slightly rumpled like something wild had happened there not long ago. A vanity mirror reflected the room in soft golden glow, lit by a standing lamp in the corner. A low liquor bar gleamed beside it, crystal decanters full of amber and clear spirits. On the far side, a hidden drawer, slightly ajar, held the flash of steel pistols always close, always loaded. It smelled like sin dressed in silk. The kind of room made for nights you couldn’t take back.

Stack closed the door behind them and locked it. He moved to a nearby armoire and pulled out a plum velvet robe. It was lush, soft, and cool to the touch.

“Strip,” he said, voice low.

Marigold didn’t move at first. So he walked to her. Unbuttoned the first button of her blouse. Then the second. Her breath trembled. She finished the rest. Slipped the blouse off her shoulders. The skirt next. Her stockings rolled down with trembling fingers. She stood in her slip, then even that came off. Bare. Glowing. Trembling with desire and fear and everything she wasn’t allowed to feel as First Lady of Greater Calvary. Stack didn’t leer. He looked like a man beholding something sacred. He handed her the robe.

She slid it on.

It hugged her shoulders. Fell down her back. Barely reached her knees. It made her feel like a woman again. Not a wife, not a church fixture, not a sermon in heels. Just a woman standing in front of a man who wanted her badly enough to undress God’s expectations and wrap her in velvet instead.

“Damn,” Stack said low, eyeing her from head to heel like he hadn’t just seen her five minutes ago. He poured slow from the bottle, brown liquor curling heavy in the glass, then handed it over like it was something precious, “Toast to tonight,” he said with that wolf’s grin, the kind that made her thighs press together, “And to sinning slow.”

Marigold took the glass, brows pinched with suspicion, but still brought it to her lips. The first sip hit hard, sharp enough to bite the back of her throat. She coughed once, caught off guard.

“Oh now, you gon’ have to do better than that,” Stack laughed, reaching out to steady the glass in her hand, “Ain’t nothin’ but a little barrel heat. You coughin’ like you just tasted freedom.”

She glared at him through watery eyes, “You tryna kill me with this mess?”

“Kill you?” He chuckled, low and easy, “If I wanted you dead, I’d just let you keep livin’ the way you been.”

She sucked her teeth and took another sip, slower this time. He watched her do it. Watched her throat move. Watched how she swallowed like she was tryna prove a point.

He leaned his hip against the edge of the dresser, “You best loosen up, though.”

She gave him a side glance, “Loosen up for what?”

“What we doin’ next,” he said simply, eyes never leaving her face, “Don’t need you flinchin’ on me when I start.”

Her brow rose at that, “Start what? What lesson?”

He tilted his head, “Ain’t you eager.”

“I ain’t eager,” she said quick, rolling her eyes like a schoolgirl caught starin’ too long at the wrong boy.

Stack grinned slow, “Coulda fooled me. Sittin’ over there battlin’ that drink like it’s got the answers.”

“You talk too much,” she said, setting the glass down with a clink.

He stepped off the dresser, came toward her with that deliberate kind of walk he always had like he moved to his own beat, and everybody else was just tryin’ to catch the rhythm, “I got a treat for you,” he said, “Real special.”

Marigold narrowed her eyes, “What kinda treat?”

“One that require a little garden trimmin’.”

She blinked, “Garden?”

“Mhmm.”

“What garden you talkin’ about?” Her hands went to her hips, “You speakin’ in riddles.”

“You gon’ find out soon enough,” he said, motioning for her to follow.

She didn’t move. Just stood there, chin high like she was tryin’ to size him up.

He paused in the doorway, turned slow and looked her over with something slick behind his eyes. “Why you so damn disobedient?” he asked, “For a woman that’s holy and devout, you sure as hell don’t like followin’ instructions.”

“I ain’t disobedient,” she snapped.

He came back in the room, closing the space between them. His presence pushed heat into the air. He stopped just close enough for her to feel the brush of his breath, then reached down and tapped his belt buckle once. Her eyes dropped. Real slow. And stayed there.

“You gon’ listen,” he said, voice low like a drawl, “or I’m gon’ have to whip that ass, Goldie?”

Her mouth parted just a little.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear,  “The faster we get done, the closer we get to the next lesson. One you need bad, seein’ as you like to run that mouth so damn much.”

She still hadn’t moved. Not forward. Not back. Just stood there, breath shallow, eyes darting between the belt and the man behind it. And Stack…he waited. Waited like he already knew which way she’d go.

“Come on,” Stack said, voice low, dimple flashing, eyes cutting through her like smoke through lace. Marigold hesitated in the doorway, clutching the knot of her robe tighter across her belly.

“This ain’t a request, Goldie. I said come on.”

He turned his back and walked in, leaving the door open. The room was dim, lit by a wall sconce and the amber glow of a standing lamp in the corner. It wasn’t like any bathroom she’d ever seen. No plain white tile or hard church lines. This was Stack’s. Black marble floors. Warm cream walls. A clawfoot tub that looked deep enough to swallow her whole. An ornate vanity with a gold-rimmed basin sat beneath a wide mirror. Everything gleamed. Everything whispered power. And at the center of it all, laid out like a sinful altar, was a shaving kit and a white towel folded smooth on the cushioned stool.

Her feet didn’t move at first.

Stack turned slightly, looking over his shoulder, “Don’t make me come get you.”

That made her walk.

He pulled out the stool with one hand and nodded toward it, “Sit.”

She frowned, “You said you needed to talk to me.”

“I do. That mouth just keeps getting in the way. Now sit your ass down and spread.”

Her cheeks burned hot, “You’re outta your mind if you think—”

He leaned against the sink, arms folded, head tilted, “Ain’t nobody told you to talk back, Goldie. This ain’t about what you think. This about how that sweet little pussy gon’ look when I get done with it.”

She was breathing too fast. Too deep.

His voice dropped to a hush, “Let me clean you up, baby. Make you real pretty.”

She sat.

Stack knelt before her like a man ready to pray, except his hands weren’t folded, they were already sliding the robe off her thighs. The velvet pooled behind her. She was naked underneath.

“Spread,” he whispered.

She did.

He whistled low, shaking his head like a man seeing sunlight for the first time, “Damn, mama. Look at that.” The cool air kissed between her legs. Stack reached up, stroked her inner thigh with his knuckle, “Lil’ more hair comin’ in,” he spoke, rubbing his thumb slowly across her mound, “You want me to leave a lil’ patch up top? Somethin’ cute?”

Marigold’s lashes fluttered, I—I don’t know…”

Stack glanced up at her, lips curled in a knowing smile, “Don’t know, huh?”

She shook her head, embarrassed, thighs twitching where they rested against his chest. 

He tapped her gently right above her mound, “Alright then. I’ll leave you a lil’ triangle. Neat and soft. Somethin’ pretty for me to kiss later.”

She bit her lip, trying not to squirm.

Stack leaned in, voice dropping to a hush, “Real ladylike. Real nasty, too.”

He snapped open the shaving tin. His razor was straight-bladed, old-fashioned, shining. He tested the warmth of the water, then dipped a badger-hair brush into a mug of lather and swirled until it foamed thick. Marigold watched his hands. She couldn’t stop. The flick of his wrist. The way he shook off the excess. The way he looked at her like her pussy was a map and he was ready to explore every inch.

“Lay back some. Open wider.”

She adjusted, trembling.

“Good girl.”

The first brush of warm foam made her jolt.

“You ticklish?” Stack chuckled, brushing it gently over her mound and down to the soft folds between her thighs, “I ain’t even started yet, baby.” 

She hissed a breath when the razor touched her skin.

“Be still,” he said, voice low, “Let me take my time.”

He shaved her slow. Real slow. Every stroke soft and deliberate. He tilted her, adjusted her thighs, angled her legs over his shoulders so he could get the curve just right. He whispered filth the whole time, soft and warm like it was gospel.

“You know how good this gon’ feel when I eat it bare?”

Stroke.

He scraped the blade slow, careful, exposing more of that tender, untouched skin with each stroke.

Then, voice husky, barely above a whisper, he asked, “You like that I’m doin’ this to you?”

Marigold’s breath hitched. She didn’t answer right away.

Stack smiled without looking up, the blade gliding again, “Don’t gotta say it, baby. I can feel it in the way you breathin’. In how warm you gettin’ down here.” He looked up at her then, eyes heavy, voice velvet-thick, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with likin’ it. I want you to like it.”

Stroke.

“I ain’t just trimming it—I’m claiming it.”

Stroke.

“I want this pussy bald, soft, pretty. For me. For them nights you wear nothin’ but heels and pearls. 

She whimpered.

He looked up at her, one brow arched, “You okay?”

She nodded quickly.

“You blushin’.”

“No, I’m not,” she lied.

“You are. Gettin’ shy ‘cause I’m down here talkin’ to your lil pearl like it’s my girl.”

He rinsed the blade and leaned in to blow warm air over her slick mound.

Her hips jumped.

He chuckled and smoothed her thighs, “Settle down, Goldie. I’m almost done. Gotta shape this triangle just right for you.”

She watched. Couldn’t stop. Every detail felt obscene. Beautiful. When he finished, Stack wiped her clean with a warm cloth, his touch careful, almost worshipful. He folded the towel neatly when he was done and stood between her thighs, towering, eyes heavy with heat.

“Look at it,” he said, nudging her chin down with two fingers. His other hand slid an ornate mirror into hers, the frame cold against her warm, trembling palm. Marigold hesitated. The hand mirror hovered, inches from the swell of her thighs, before she finally lowered it. Her breath caught.

She looked. Her pussy was glistening. Soft. Shaved smooth except for the delicate little triangle he’d left just above her slit. It was neat and dainty.

Stack leaned close behind her, voice deep, low, and hot against her neck, “Pretty, ain’t it?”

She didn’t answer.

He smirked, “Bet you never really seen it before. Not like this. All cleaned up, bare…proud.” His hand slid around her waist, anchoring her as she held the mirror steady, “Ain’t no shame in lookin’. That’s you. That’s all yours.”

Her cheeks were burning. She couldn’t look him in the face. Could barely look at herself.

“Don’t turn away,” he said, firm now, “You got a fat lil’ pussy. Plump lips, sittin’ sweet and tight. Pink as a summer peach inside. Look at how wet you are already. Look what I did to you.”

Her legs twitched.

“See how the lips kiss together? All puffy and shy like they don’t know what to do. That lil crease at the bottom—look at it—soft and swollen, like it’s beggin’ to be sucked. You older, yeah. But you still a woman. Still got that heat between your legs.”

She blinked hard, her voice caught in her throat.

He pressed his lips behind her ear, words sinking in like syrup, “That pussy right there? Got power. Power to ruin a man. To bring him to his knees and keep him there.” His hand slid lower, fingertips ghosting just above her mound, “You don’t hide that. You honor it. Be proud of it.”

She swallowed.

“Say it,” he coaxed, “Say you proud of it.”

“I—” her voice cracked.

He cupped her chin, brought her gaze to meet the mirror again, “Say it.”

A pause. Then, quietly, “I’m proud of it.”

“Say it louder, baby.”

“I’m proud of my pussy.”

“There she go,” he grinned, slow and wicked, “Now keep lookin’. ’Cause I ain’t done tellin’ you how pretty it is.”

His lips stayed at her ear, soft and full, brushing her skin as he spoke. The smell of cherry tobacco and spicy bourbon curled around her, thick enough to taste. Each word rolled slow, soaked in heat and weight.

“You see that?” he whispered, “That’s a grown woman’s pussy. Got its own shine to it. That lil’ slit got nerve endings that know exactly what it want. And them lips? Fat enough to talk back.”

Goosebumps chased down her arms. Her nipples stood hard and aching, poking through her robe like chocolate-covered gumdrops, begging for touch. Stack let out a slow hum, chin settling against her shoulder. His eyes dropped to her reflection, dragging over her folds, the slight parting, the wet gleam between. She held the mirror, wide-eyed and flushed, thighs clenching in reaction.

“You feel them chills? That’s you feelin’ seen. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ shy, baby. But you gotta know what you holdin’. You sittin’ on a blessing. On magic.” He circled her slowly, dragging his hand along her hip. Then, he took the mirror from her grip and set it gently down on the sink. She sat there, exposed and buzzing, chest rising and falling, eyes on his every move. He came close again. Closer than before. Leaned down, lips ghosting her neck as he whispered, “You know I slept with it still in my beard?”

She gasped—soft, startled.

“I ain’t em’ wash my face. Layed back in my bed with your taste all on me. Right here,” he tapped his chin, then dragged his fingers down to his throat, “Sweet. Heavy. Had me dreamin’ with your scent in my nose. Mouth still slick.” He tilted his head, licking his bottom lip like the memory alone made him hard again, “Didn’t want to wash it off. I wanted to keep it. Let the night stay wit’ me.” His hand slid down her belly, slow and deliberate, until his knuckles brushed the soft patch of hair he’d left, “You proud of it now, ain’t you?”

Marigold, breathing shaky, whispered, “Yes.”

His lips curled into a grin against her skin, “Good. You should be.” Stack ran his finger along her slit, then sucked it clean. “Goddamn,” he whispered.

“Stack…”

He licked his lips, voice gravel low, “Sweet thing look like it don’t know how to behave.” He smirked,  “That’s a goddamn masterpiece sittin’ between your legs.” Then he looked at himself in the mirror, still between her thighs, his hands on her knees, her pussy bare and his, “Now you see this? This how a man supposed to look when he own somethin’.”

Stack stepped back, admiring his work. The white towel hung slack from his hand. Her thighs were parted just enough for him to see the whole glistening gift he’d uncovered. Soft, bare, smooth, with that tiny triangle above like the top of an arrow pointing him exactly where to go. He dropped the towel beside him. Then he went to his knees again. But this time, it wasn’t to shave. He curled his hands beneath her thighs and dragged her to the edge of the stool, slow and thick, until the backs of her knees dangled over his broad shoulders and her pussy hovered open right in front of his mouth. The scent of lilac water mixed with her arousal. Sweet and musky. Clean and obscene. She smelled like a woman now. His woman.

Stack’s voice came low. Throaty. 

“Gon’ taste you now.”

Her breath caught.

“Real slow. Real deep. Real nasty.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the slickness between her legs. His lips parted, tongue sliding out to drag a long, slow stripe from her opening all the way up to her clit. Wide, flat, and wet. He didn’t rush. He took it. Every inch of her slit. Like he had all the time in the world. Marigold gasped, legs tightening instinctively around his shoulders. 

It was different now. No hair in the way, no friction to dull it. Just the heat of his mouth against freshly bared skin, every flick sharper, wetter, meaner. The smooth glide of his tongue over her slit felt like a hot ribbon. Every lick lit up her spine. His lips sealed around her clit like he was trying to pull something out of her slow and rhythmic at first, then harder, greedier.

She could feel the grain of his beard now, the coarse strands dragging across her softness, catching slick as he sucked her deeper into his mouth. There was nothing to dull the sensation. Every stroke made her gasp. Every swirl made her knees tremble. She reached for the edge of the stool,  palm slapping wood, trying to hold herself up as his tongue flattened and pressed hard, then flicked, then circled.

“Oh—”

Her body jolted. Her thighs tried to close around his head, but he held them open, spreading her wider, dragging her closer to the edge of the stool so he could get deeper, hungrier. Stack moaned into her, the vibration shaking her whole core. He pulled back just a little, lips wet, tongue shining. Then he went back in.

And this time? He unhinged.

His mouth opened wide, tongue sliding beneath her folds, scooping her slick straight into his mouth like honey. Slurping it. Sucking it. Letting it run over his tongue before closing his lips and swallowing her with a filthy, greedy hum.

“Mmm-mph…”

He moaned into her, like he liked how clean she was now. Like he could taste her better. Like he was proud of what he’d done and wanted to enjoy the results.

It was too much. Too raw.

The feeling of his tongue sliding over her, the contrast of beard and spit, lips and suction, it made her toes curl. Made her cry out. Made her forget about shame. There was nothing between them now. No modesty left. Just the wet sounds of his mouth. The ache building inside her.

He nosed into her slit, licking up, then down again. Then flattened his tongue and licked sideways. Like a man tracing scripture. Like he needed every part of her memorized.

Marigold’s head tilted back, mouth open in a soft cry, “Mmm-hhhh…Stack…oh my—”

Stack didn’t stop.

He buried his mouth in her. Ate like he was starving. Like she was his first meal after a year of war. He tilted his head to the side to slide in from a different angle, lips wrapping around her clit and sucking slow, deep, pulling it into the heat of his mouth like a ripe piece of fruit. Then let it go with a soft pop.

She jerked.

Her fingers grabbed at his hair, her body starting to shake, but he just tightened his grip beneath her thighs and dove deeper.

“Open your legs wider,” he muttered between licks, lips brushing her folds as he spoke, “Let me have it, Goldie. Don’t you hold back now.”

She tried. She tried. But her knees were trembling too bad.

So he helped.

He pulled her legs open farther, his strong hands cradling the backs of her knees like he was parting a holy book. Then he devoured her. Lips sealed to her entrance. Tongue swirling, dipping in and out. Slurping. Sloshing. Making the nastiest sounds against her soaking slit. Wet, sticky, messy. He liked it messy. Spread her wider with his fingers so he could lick up every drop of cream spilling from her, moaning like it was the best thing he ever tasted.

“Goddamn, baby,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to blow cool air on her clit, “You know how sweet this pussy is?” And his voice, low between licks, “That’s it. Give it to me, baby. Let me taste it all.”

She whimpered.

He looked up at her then. His eyes were molten. Gleaming. Lips slick, chin shiny. He looked like a man possessed, “I said—” he dragged his tongue across her again, slower than before, “do…you…know?”

Her thighs were shaking. Her breath hitched. Her head dropped forward to look at him. Her lips parted. Her skin was flushed everywhere—breasts rising fast with every breath, sweat beading along her collarbone, her chest shimmering.

“No,” she breathed, “I—I don’t…”

Stack grinned, “That’s alright. I’ll show you.”

And he went in.

Mouth wide, tongue rolling in long, slow strokes. Then he tilted his head up and gave her the kind of open-mouthed, sloppy, tongue-heavy kiss right against her clit that made her scream high-pitched, desperate, and raw. He sucked. He slurped. He ate. Over and over. In circles, in flicks, in strong rhythmic pulls. His jaw moved like he was trying to inhale her whole.

“Hnnn—uhhn—unhh—Stack—ah—haaah…”

Her sounds cracked and rolled, turning breathy and broken, lips trembling. She was trying not to cry. He licked straight up her slit and let his lips wrap around the whole mound before pulling back and exhaling deep.

His voice was wrecked, “You milk so pretty, mama. You makin’ a mess down here.”

She covered her face.

“Don’t hide from me,” he growled, grabbing her wrists and pulling her hands away, “Let me see you when you cum.”

“I’m—I’m not close—” she whimpered.

“Yes, you are.”

“No I—ahhh! Stack—!”

He sucked her clit hard, then pulled back and licked side to side, soft and deliberate.

She went still. Then trembled.

Then came.

Her pussy gushed. Not a stream, but a wave, clear and hot over his mouth. Stack groaned, swallowing it like water in a desert. Lips and beard drenched.

“Ohhh…Stack, Stack—” she moaned, trying to close her thighs, but he wouldn’t let her, “I can’t—Stack, baby—I can’t—”

“Don’t run. You wetter than a busted pipe.” he growled, smacking her thighs open again and diving back in, “Gushing all over me—of course you can.” He flicked his tongue like a starved man, then leaned back and hissed with arousal. It was a hiss—pure and primal—like he’d been caught in a snare that felt too good to escape, “drippin’ like a faucet and talkin’ ‘bout can’t? All that tight talk, now look at this mess you done made.”

She arched. Moaned louder. Her thighs squeezed his head so hard it made his ears ring. He licked her through it. Sucked her until her eyes rolled. Slid his tongue into her pulsing hole and fucked her with it, speared her with it, slow and deep, while rubbing her clit with his thumb.

Her toes curled. Her stomach fluttered. Her voice broke again.

“Mmm-mmmmhh—ahhh—uhhhnnn…”

And all she could do was ride it, hips rocking in his face, tears streaming down the sides of her cheeks from how good it felt. How full her body was. How owned she felt in this moment.

Stack owned her pussy. That wasn’t up for debate.

And he knew it. She knew it.

He pulled back finally, mouth soaked, licking his lips slow. Her cum shined on his chin. His eyes were low and thick-lashed, mouth parted like he just finished sipping holy wine.

“I told you,” he rasped, dragging his tongue across his lower lip.

She was trembling. Breathless. Flushed from neck to navel. Stack kissed her inner thigh, then again, then let his tongue trace the crease near her pelvis like a brand.

“You ever taste that sweet before?” he asked, licking his fingers clean. Long tongue damn near licking his chin clean. 

She couldn’t answer.

He leaned up, close to her mouth, breath hot and smelling of Sister Marigold’s sweet pussy, fingers still playing lazily between her thighs, “I own this pussy now. Say it.”

She looked dazed. Swallowed. And whispered, wrecked, “Y-Y-You o-o-own it.”

Stack smiled, “That’s right.”

Then he licked her again. Her skin still tingled from his tongue. 

And then, he rose. Stack stood up slow, towering. His face was slick with her. His lips looked darker. Wetter. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, collar loose, his chest still glistening where he’d been sweating between her thighs. He reached up, eyes locked on hers, and with that same  touch he used between her legs, he slid the plum velvet robe off her shoulders. It fell like it had weight. Like it didn’t want to leave her. She sat there naked. Bare from head to heel. He looked at her like a man looks at his last meal. Like she was made of everything Aunt Pearl made for his kingdom.

And then, without a word, he lifted her. Her gasp caught in his throat. Arms around his shoulders, legs dangling, she clutched him instinctively. She’d never been carried before. Not like this. Not with her body still wet and trembling from his mouth. Stack’s hold was solid. Strong. His chest rose slowly as he carried her out the bathroom, down the short hall, into a room that was all shadow and heat. Every step he took now echoed inside her, like her bones had gone hollow with lust. She was trembling between the legs, robe parted down the middle, and she could feel the air kiss her with every slight movement. Her thighs were damp. Her knees weak. She didn’t even remember breathing.

They were back in Stack’s private room. It didn’t smell like cologne or soap. It smelled like him. Musk and spice. Wood and skin. The curtains were drawn, heavy and dark. The walls were painted deep red and black, rich and expensive, with gold accents at the crown and base. There was a large bed. Larger than any she’d ever seen. The headboard was carved, dark oak with details she couldn’t stop staring at. The sheets were black. Silk. Rumpled. Slept in. The room was lit only by a floor lamp and a small brass sconce near the door, casting amber light across the walls like whiskey poured slow.  He sat her down on the edge of the bed like she was delicate.

She felt anything but.

Stack crouched in front of her again. His hands slid up her thighs, then cupped her hips. But he didn’t touch her pussy this time.

He looked at her.

Then raised one hand, dragged the back of his knuckles up her arm, her shoulder, until he reached her cheek. He held her face in one big palm, thumb rubbing over her cheekbone. The way his touch shifted from hungry to soft made her chest ache.

“You so pretty it hurts,” he spoke softly, brushing a stray curl behind her ear.

Then that thumb grazed her lower lip. Pressed. Rubbed.

Her lips parted.

He slid his thumb in.

Not deep. Just enough to sit heavy on her tongue. Marigold’s lashes fluttered. Her thighs tensed.

She sucked.

And Stack smiled.

“You like that?” he whispered.

She nodded, barely. His thumb was still inside.

He took it out slow. Slick with her spit.

And then?

Her eyes dropped.

His shirt was still open, the spread of his chest catching the lamplight. Hard and smooth, a sheen of sweat between his pecs. Her eyes followed the dark line of hair trailing down…

And there it was. A thick, unmistakable bulge behind his slacks. Long. Heavy. Straining the fabric.

Her mouth went dry.

He noticed.

Stack grinned.

He reached down, hand grazing his abs, then lower, slow, like he knew she was watching every inch. His fingers brushed the thick leather of his belt. He gripped the buckle.

Tugged it once.

The clink echoed.

Then he slid his hand down, gripped the length of himself through his slacks. Firm. Big. Like he was palming a weapon. Her thighs clenched. She felt another rush between her legs. She couldn’t even look away. He was watching her watch him.

Low-lidded. Hungry. Silent at first.

Then—

“You wanna see it?” he asked, voice like smoke in a warm room.

She swallowed hard. Gave the tiniest nod.

Stack chuckled, “Saw it in your face, didn’t you?” he teased, stepping closer, slowly working his palm along his dick through the fabric, “Wasn’t peepin’ through the crack of that door enough for you?”

She sucked her teeth, half-embarrassed, half-turned on, “That was an accident—”

“Wasn’t no damn accident. Still lyin’?”

He grabbed her hand and placed it right back where it belonged.

Over the bulge.

“Here—refresh your memory,” he said with a wicked smile, “Been a couple days. You might need a reminder.”

Her palm pressed against it.

Her eyes went wide.

He was so…hard. So hot through the slacks it felt like he’d burn through the fabric. She rubbed without thinking, tentatively at first, but when she felt him twitch beneath her hand, her fingers tightened. She stroked him slow.

Stack hissed through his teeth, “Yeah, just like that, Goldie. Lil’ bit higher though. Mmm. There you go.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his. His jaw was tight. His nostrils flared. His lip was caught between his teeth.

“You missed it?” he asked her low.

She nodded. The honesty poured out before she could stop it, “I thought about it…”

“Thought about what?”

She blinked, “About…your mouth. And your—your…”

He reached down again. Gripped himself. Let her feel the pressure.

“You let a couple glimpses o’ this heavy dick settle in your mind, and now you can’t shake it, huh?” he said, voice velvet-smooth, “Say it. Say what you been sittin’ in that church house daydreamin’ ‘bout.”

“I didn’t say all that.” She crosses her arms, but her eyes won’t meet his. Her thighs press a little tighter.

“Mmhm.”

Stack leaned back, slow, watching her with that half-smile — the kind that didn’t reach his eyes, because his eyes were too busy studying her.

“You ain’t gotta lie, Goldie.” His voice was low. Measured, “That mouth say one thing, but your thighs over there squeezin’ like they beggin’ for the truth.” He stood, steps slow, closing the space between them, “Now I ain’t askin’ to hear it just ‘cause I wanna be flattered.” His head dipped, his breath warm against her cheek, “I want you to own it.” A pause. He let the silence hang, thick, “Say it.” He looked her dead in the eye, “Tell me you been thinkin’ ‘bout my dick.”

Then, barely above a whisper, but clear as daylight, “I been thinkin’ ‘bout your dick.” She exhaled like it knocked the wind out of her to admit it. But her eyes stayed on his now. Wide. Dark. Unblinking, “Too much.”

Stack leaned close, his lips almost brushing hers, “You gon’ do more than just think ‘bout it tonight.”

She didn’t even know what she was doing to him. The way her small hand rubbed up and down the front of his slacks, fingers tentative but curious like she was afraid and fascinated at the same damn time. That shit made Stack’s whole jaw flex tight. His stomach clenched. His dick throbbed against the thick cotton lining, already too hard for this game.

This woman was ruining him

That thing had been in her face, hard as a brick and just as heavy. She’d seen it rise—tall as a steel beam, hot as July—but she ain’t felt it stretch her yet. Her hand had been there, soft and curious. But that was just the first hello. She hadn’t even taken him inside her, and he was already shootin’ off in her hand like a man starved. Her hand looked too soft, too sweet to be wringin’ him dry like that. But she did. With nothin’ but nerves and a shaky grip. She pumped him slow, lips parted like she couldn’t believe what she was holdin’…and he came for her. Just like that. She ain’t say a word, just kept pumpin’—eyes wide, breath held—’til he was gaspin’ and shootin’ thick across her fingers. 

He could remember vividly what was going through his mind…

Lord, look at her.

Miss First Lady. Miss white-gloved on Sunday, eyes down when she walk. Miss “that’s improper” and “I’ll pray for you.”

Strokin’ a man’s dick like she don’t even know what she doin’. And still doin’ it so good he could cry.

That pretty lil hand, wrapped ‘round my mean ol’ meat. Thumb barely meetin’ her fingers. Slidin’ over it like she tryna soothe a sin she already committed.

That ain’t no preacher’s wife grip—that’s a woman tryna figure out what power feel like.

And baby, she holdin’ it.

She holdin’ a pole thick as a mule’s back leg. Runnin’ that fist over it all slow and shaky like she scared it’ll bite but she won’t let go.

I oughta bend her over right now. Ain’t even pull my pants all the way down. Just enough to slide in and show her what she wakin’ up. She don’t even know the mess she startin’.

Miss Holy and Devout, starin’ at this slab like it got answers. Like if she keep strokin’ it sweet enough, I might show her heaven.

But all she gonna get is the kind of fuckin’ that make her forget where she put her shoes….

Stack stood in front of her, towering over where she sat perched pretty and bare at the edge of his bed. Her knees just slightly apart. Hair down. Skin dewy and flushed from his mouth. She had one hand braced behind her like she was holding herself steady—and the other, oh Lord—the other was still palming his pecker like it was a question she didn’t know how to answer yet.

Her hand shifted again. Rubbed up the shaft, knuckles dragging against the fabric.

His breath dragged in through his nose, “Fuck…”

It felt too good. Too good.

The pressure of her palm. The hesitation. The way she fidgeted while doing it. Marigold kept glancing up at him, eyes full of something unsure, like she didn’t know if she was allowed to enjoy this. Her lashes lowered. She bit her lip. And then—

That nervous little tick of hers kicked in.

She tucked her chin. Swallowed. Fidgeted again. Still touching him.

Stack grinned slow, teeth flashing beneath the shadow of his lip, “Uh uh,” he said, voice low, rough with restraint. He leaned closer, brushing his fingers beneath her chin to tilt it back up, “Ain’t no lookin’ down when I’m standin’ in front of you like this, Goldie.”

She looked up, eyes wide and already glazed. He stepped closer, enough for his cock to nudge against her knuckles.

“This lesson right here?” his thumb stroked her cheek, “Gon’ show you exactly what you’ll be fed wit’.”

Marigold’s breath hitched. Her hand faltered, then kept moving. Just a little slower. Stack watched her. Watched her fingers slide down the length of his dick through the fabric, tracing it like a shape she didn’t understand yet.

And what a shape it was.

Thick. Long. Straight with a heavy curve at the base. His head flared big and broad beneath the slacks, outlined clear as day. He wasn’t soft—not even close—and the seam of his pants was pulled taut from how hard he was pressing. Her fingers brushed the underside, curved where the weight of him hung, then up again toward the tip. She was exploring it.

And Stack nearly lost it.

He hissed through clenched teeth, forehead dipped low for a moment like he was trying to rein it in. Trying.

But her hand was too small. Too warm. Too fucking sweet.

“Pull him out,” he rasped, voice hoarse with need.

She looked up again.

“Go on,” he whispered, stepping back just enough to give her room, “Start with the belt.”

Her fingers trembled. She lifted both hands to the thick leather strap around his waist, tugging at the buckle slowly—metal clinking. She undid it with care, like it was a ribbon on a gift. Then paused. Looked up at him again.

“Keep goin’,” Stack said, “Unwrap your blessing.”

Marigold bit her lip again, but she obeyed. Her hands slid to the button next, carefully popping it open. Then she reached for the zipper. It slid down with a soft sound. And then—God help him—her hand went in. Stack’s eyes fluttered shut. He tilted his head back, throat exposed. His chest heaved once. He couldn’t help the sound that came out of him.

“Nnnnh—shit…”

She found him.

Warm. Heavy. Throbbing in her palm. She tugged, trying to maneuver it out, and when she finally freed him—when his dick sprung into the air, proud and veined and dripping at the tip—Marigold gasped. Stack opened his eyes again and looked down at her with a crooked smirk. His lip glistened where he’d bitten it. His chest rose and fell harder now, the abs below twitching.

“There she go, good job, baby.”  he drawled, “Pretty, ain’t it?”

Marigold didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

She was staring at it like it was carved from marble and granite. Stack was girthy—his dick thick at the base, tapering into a wide, rounded head that was already wet with precum. The shaft was smooth but ridged with veins that pulsed faintly beneath the skin. The curve of it tilted downward as it throbbed, hungry for her mouth. His balls hung heavy, dark, tight. And God bless it—he knew it looked good. He kept himself clean, trimmed just enough for comfort. His skin tone deepened there, rich and dark-brown. His dick was as pretty as the rest of him—too pretty for someone so filthy. A contradiction. A trap.

And all hers.

She stared.

He throbbed in her hand again.

“Mm-mm,” he said, low and dirty, “Don’t just look at it like that. Touch it. Proper.”

Her fingers wrapped around him slow.

He watched.

Watched her palm mold around his thickness. Watched her mouth part just a little in disbelief at how big he really was. Her thumb moved instinctively over the swollen head, catching the bead of slick and smearing it down his shaft.

Stack groaned, “You see what you do to me?” he said through gritted teeth, “You see how hard you got me?”

She nodded faintly, still stroking.

“Good girl,” he said, “Now kiss it.”

Her head snapped up.

“Go on. Right on the tip. Real soft.”

Marigold leaned forward—nervous, blushing—and pressed her mouth to the head of his pretty dick like it was something sacred.

It twitched.

He exhaled sharply, “Fuck…Now do it again. Slower. Let me feel it.”

She kissed the tip again, then trailed another down the side, lips brushing his thick vein. Stack stared down at her—his girl—naked, sitting on his bed, stroking his dick with two hands now just to hold the full weight, kissing it like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life.

He leaned down, grabbed the back of her head, and whispered against her temple, “I waited so long for you to see it, Goldie.” He tilted her chin up. Eyes met, “You ready for what come next?”

Her lips still tingled from kissing the head of it. He was so hard in her hands. So heavy. Her palms weren’t even enough. She had to wrap one hand around the base and hold the rest up with the other—and still, her fingers didn’t fully close. His dick pulsed hot and thick in her grip, and the longer she looked at it, the more unsure she became.

It was beautiful. That was the truth. But it was also…intimidating.

Smooth, veined, the head flushed and shiny with a slick she’d tasted already but hadn’t yet swallowed. She kept glancing up at him—at Stack, standing over her now, shirt open, belt hanging undone, breathing like he was trying not to take over. His abs were flexed. His lips glistened where he kept licking them. His eyes? Fixed on her mouth.

And still, he was patient. Still, he was hers.

She didn’t know where to start. Her fingers trembled slightly as she stroked him again, slow from base to tip. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Blinked hard. Swallowed again.

“I don’t know if I can…” she whispered.

Stack leaned in, low. His fingers brushed her hair from her face, gathering it in one strong hand at the nape of her neck, “You can, baby. Just breathe. You don’t gotta take it all at once. Let me show you.”

She nodded slowly.

“Good girl.”

He gathered the rest of her hair in his fist and gently pulled it back, exposing her neck. Her chest rose high with each breath, nipples tight from the air, thighs pressed together from nerves. He tilted her chin.

“Now look at it,” he said, voice low, “This what you gon’ get fed with. What you earned.”

She did. Her mouth watered.

“Go ‘head and kiss it again. Start at the tip. Use your lips. Get acquainted.”

She leaned forward, nervous, and kissed the head again—soft, warm. He twitched in her grip.

“Mm. That’s it,” he whispered, “Now again. Little lower. That spot right under—yeah, there. That’s where I’m sensitive. Give that spot a lil’ tongue.”

She did. Slowly, shyly, her tongue peeked out and traced beneath the swollen head.

Stack let out a low growl, “Fuck…”

The sound did something to her. Made her bolder. She licked again—this time, longer. Sloppier. She used the flat of her tongue, dragging it along his shaft like he told her. She kissed the base, the thick vein. 

The sound did something to her.

The low, sharp hiss that broke from his throat when her tongue touched him—tight, almost pained. It made her bolder. Made something deep inside her flutter and clench. She licked again. This time, longer. Sloppier. She used the flat of her tongue, just like he told her. Dragged it up along the length of him, slow and heavy, feeling the heat of his skin and the pulse of that thick vein pressing back against her tongue. She kissed the base. Then the side. Her lips grazed the thick vein and she moaned before she could stop herself. She couldn’t believe it—how wet her mouth had gotten. Her tongue felt thick. Saliva pooled fast, warm and embarrassing. Like her body was reacting before her mind could catch up. Like her mouth wanted it.

It was filthy. It was insane.

And she liked it.

Her hand trembled where it wrapped around him, trying to keep steady. She’d never done this before. Never been in this position with a man’s dick—his dick—pressed to her lips, twitching under every lick. But now that she had him in her mouth, even just a little…

She wanted more.

Her thighs pressed together. She was already wet again. Her cheeks burned, not just from the act, but from the shame of how much she craved it. The taste of him. The weight. The power of watching his breath stutter, jaw clench, muscles tighten every time she moved. She licked up the shaft again, slower this time, mouth shiny and open. Then back down, her tongue curling under the base like she was starving for it.

And she couldn’t look him in the eye. Not yet. She was too scared he’d see the truth in her face. That she was hooked. That she needed it. That her mouth might never forget how good it felt to please him.

She pressed her lips to his tip again and sucked it—just the tip—trying to figure out how her mouth could stretch enough to take it.

It barely fit. Her jaw ached already.

“I don’t know if it’ll…” she started, pulling off, eyes wide. “It’s so big, Stack.”

He smiled. Soft. Filthy, “I know, baby,” he stroked her cheek, “Don’t rush it. You ain’t gotta shove it down your throat. Not yet. Just suck my tip for me. Real slow. Like it’s one of them butterscotch candies you church ladies keep in their purses.”

She gave a shy laugh, but did as told. Mouth parted. Lips stretched. Tongue out first—then slowly, slowly, she sank her lips around his tip again, cheeks hollowing just slightly as she sucked.

“Yeahhh, just like that,” he moaned, head tipping back, “Keep it right there. Let me feel your mouth. Let me feel how warm you are.”

She could feel it now—how wet her own thighs were. Her slick dripping slow down her inner leg, untouched but burning. Her nipples ached, and her stomach fluttered each time Stack groaned, especially when her tongue did something right.

“Now stroke me while you suck,” he guided, “Real gentle. Base to tip. That’s it.”

Her hand moved up and down while she sucked the head. Her other hand steadied her on the bed. She relaxed her jaw, let her tongue move more freely. She even glanced up once, mouth full, eyes soft.

Stack’s knees buckled.

He groaned, “Shit, Goldie…look at you.” His grip on her hair tightened slightly, “Lean back for me, baby. On your hands.”

She paused. Pulled off with a pop. Her lips were puffy now, slick with him. She leaned back on her hands, her chest pushed forward, hair hanging loose, thighs open just slightly from how she was sitting.

Stack stared. She looked…

Beautiful.

Her lips glistened. Her chin was damp. Her nipples pointed. Her skin flushed.

“You look like a meal sittin’ like that,” he said, voice deep. He stepped closer. His dick hovered near her mouth again, “Go on. Suck just the tip again. Let your tongue swirl a little. Get real messy for me.”

She obeyed.

Her mouth opened—slow, awed—and she took him again, swirling her tongue around the head just like he asked. Her spit coated him. Her jaw worked a little more confidently now.

She moaned.

Stack growled, “Shit, baby…you hear yourself?”

She nodded while sucking.

“Good,” he whispered, “I want you to moan while you taste it. I want you to fall in love with the way I feel in your mouth.”

Her hand slid up and down again, matching the rhythm.

Slurp. Suck. Flick.

She didn’t mean to, but her spit spilled—down her chin, over her hand.

It got messy.

She gasped when it dripped, pulling back with shame in her eyes.

But Stack shook his head. Smiled, “Nah,” he said low, “That’s how I like it.” He bent down, rubbed her mouth with his thumb, then dragged it across her tongue, “Look at you. So pretty. So fuckin’ mine.”

Marigold panted. Her lips were swollen. She stared up at him like she didn’t recognize herself.

But she did. And she liked it.

She liked his taste. The weight of him on her tongue. The way her lips stretched. The way his voice changed when she did it just right. The way he coached her. Praised her.

“Stack…”

He looked down at her. Smirked, “You ready for the next lesson?”

Stack had never seen anything so goddamn beautiful.

She was trying—nervous, soft-eyed, mouth shiny and cheeks flushed, with spit on her chin and his pecker pulsing in her hands. And God help him, it was that effort that was wrecking him. Not the skill. Not the performance. But the raw, newness of her. The hunger trembling just beneath the surface of her uncertainty.

She wanted to please him.

And it was driving him crazy.

“Mm,” he groaned, watching her tongue swirl the head, her lips wrapping around him slow, dragging slick across the most sensitive spot just under the ridge. Her hand stroked him at the same time—gentle, nervous, wet. He could feel her mouth flutter with each moan.

She was learning his body by feel.

Learning how to wreck him.

He stared down at her like a man hypnotized. One hand wrapped firm in her hair, the other cupping her jaw as she sucked him slow and shallow, moaning faintly around the tip like she didn’t know it would throb for her just like that.

And then—he saw it.

The way her lashes flicked down. The moment she inhaled like she was preparing for something.

The shift of her jaw. The parting of her lips a little wider.

She was about to try it.

She wanted to take more.

Stack’s abs tensed. “Goldie…”

She opened wider—and then slowly, carefully, began to sink lower. Past the head. An inch. Then another.

“Shit,” he hissed.

Her throat welcomed more than he thought she could manage on the first try. Her hand dropped to the base. He watched his shaft disappear between her lips, wet and slick.

Then—

She gagged.

Hard.

Her eyes watered. She jerked back quick, coughing once, mouth and nose shining.

“Baby,” Stack said low, reaching for her face, “You okay?”

She nodded, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. But her face was ashamed. Her chin trembled.

“Hey,” he said, voice dropping even lower, soft but still thick with heat, “Don’t be embarrassed.”

She blinked up at him, ashamed.

“You tried. That’s all I asked. You hear me?”

She nodded, still holding his dick in her hand. Her fingers had a little more confidence now, stroking him with more pressure.

Stack smirked, “That mouth ain’t used to nothin’ like me, huh?”

Marigold swallowed and shook her head, “No, Stack…it’s so big.”

He bit his bottom lip at that, “Say it again.”

She looked up at him through her lashes, “You’re too big, Stack…”

“Damn right.” He leaned in, thumb wiping the spit from her lower lip, “But we gon’ work on that.”

She nodded again.

And to his shock—his delight—she opened her mouth, again. Braver this time. Determined.

“Atta girl,” he whispered, “Take your time.”

She eased her mouth down over the tip. Then a little more. And a little more. He felt her tongue flatten.

Then the gag hit again.

She coughed, pulled off, but not as fast this time. Her hand stayed on his shaft. She was starting to learn where the stretch became too much.

Stack groaned, “Fuck, Goldie…” His dick throbbed in her grip, “You tryin’ to break this pimpin’ down, huh?”

She let out a shaky breath, “I just wanna do it right…”

He stroked her cheek, then held her jaw gently, “Baby, this is right. Every time you try again? You gettin’ closer. You feel me?”

She nodded.

He looked down at her, his breath ragged, his hips jerking ever so slightly as she wrapped her lips around him again.

“Just relax. Don’t think so much. Let your mouth remember how I feel.”

She moaned around him.

Stack nearly lost his balance.

“Goddamn…”

Her mouth was wetter now. Her tongue more daring—pressing beneath, tracing the thick vein. She sucked gently at first, then a little deeper again.

She tried.

Again.

This time, he watched her shoulders shudder—heard the wet gag, but she didn’t pull away fast. She held. Breathed through her nose. Let her spit pour around the base.

Stack growled, “You don’t even know how pretty you look like this, do you?”

She pulled back with a gasp, a line of spit connecting her lips to the tip.

“No,” she whispered. “I can’t see myself…”

He cupped her chin,  “Good.”

He stepped back just slightly, pulled the lamp closer so the light washed over her skin. She was flushed and glistening—spit on her chin, lips pink and swollen, her breath ragged. Her bare chest heaved. Her thighs glistened. Her mouth hung open.

Messy.

Obedient.

Beautiful.

“You’re doin’ better than you know,” he said, voice thicker now. “You hear me? Say yes sir.”

She nodded, swallowing, “Yes, sir.”

He smirked, then brushed her hair back with both hands, “One more time.”

She opened for him.

And when he slid into her mouth again—just the tip—she didn’t gag. She sucked. Let her tongue curl beneath, just like he told her.

Stack couldn’t hold still. His hips rocked forward slow. Just a little.

“Goddamn, Goldie,” he hissed, “That’s it…work that mouth, baby.”

She moaned again. And this time, she didn’t stop. She never thought it would feel like this. The power. The sweetness. The weight of him on her tongue. Stack Moore—smooth talker, filthy-mouthed, belt-slingin’ Stack—was breathing ragged and shaking in front of her. Head tipped back. Mouth parted. Sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. All because of her. All because of how she was learning to worship him with nothing but her lips and hands.

She felt it—the tension in his thighs, the way his dick throbbed so hard in her mouth it made her moan without meaning to. She tasted him, thick and salty-sweet. And she didn’t pull back. Not this time.

She stayed.

Her hand wrapped firm around his base, slick with spit. Her tongue curled beneath him as her lips slid back down his shaft, slower now, more deliberate, the gag reflex twitching in her throat but not breaking her focus.

Stack groaned. A long, low sound from deep in his chest. His fingers tangled in her hair, not pushing, just gripping, like he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

“Fuuuuck…” The word came ragged, his voice coated in disbelief. “Goldie…baby…”

Her throat tightened. She gagged, just a little. She coughed, pulled back with a wet gasp, chest heaving. One hand flew up and clutched her sternum—Lord. Her jaw ached. Her eyes watered.

But the hunger in her gaze was still there.

Wide. Wet. Wanting.

She looked up at him with trembling lips and whispered something without thinking. Breathless. Innocent and obscene.

“Is this how heaven feeds its men?”

Stack staggered.

She saw it.

The twitch in his jaw. The hard flex of his abs. The way his dick jumped in her hand like it heard her say it too.

He looked down at her like he’d been shot.

His voice was hoarse, “What the hell did you just say?”

He’d hear that line and damn near bust alone. It’s a mix of filth and worship so sweet and nasty—the kind of line that turns a man’s bones to water. It’s submissive but powerful. She’s giving everything in that moment, not just mouth and spit, but mind, pride, and desire.

“Don’t say no mess like that with my dick down your throat. Mouth like yours oughta come with a warning, girl.”

She blinked. Innocent. A little dazed, “I—I just meant…it feels like a holy thing. Having you like this.”

Stack growled. His whole chest shook. He looked like he might drop to his knees, “You better stop talkin’ like that, girl,” he warned, hand tightening in her hair, “You say another line like that, I’m gon’ let off right down your throat.”

Marigold flushed. Her thighs squeezed together. But she leaned forward anyway, smiling just a little. And then she sucked him again.

Harder. Deeper.

She moaned low—on purpose this time—and it sent vibrations through his whole body. Stack choked. His hand slapped the wall beside the bed, steadying himself. His hips jerked forward against her mouth once, involuntarily.

He was coming undone.

“Goldie—” he grunted, voice strangled. “Shit, baby—I’m—” His hand tugged her hair—not to stop her, but to warn her, “I’m close. You hear me? I’m close.”

But she didn’t stop. She moaned again.

Stack’s eyes rolled back. His breath left him in a sharp, ragged exhale. His thighs trembled beneath her grip. He looked down—saw her lips swollen and wet, cheeks hollowing, spit dripping down her wrist.

His pretty church girl, suckin’ him off like she’d been born to do it.

His hand was a fist against the wall now—braced high above her, knuckles flexed, veins bulging from his forearms like he was holding himself together by sheer will alone.

But he was close. Too damn close.

“Goldie…” Stack moaned low, his voice all grit and warning, but still thick with hunger, “You got no clue what you doin’ to me, girl…”

He looked down—saw the glisten on her chin, the way her lips were stretched wide around him, not even taking all of him, but still making him lose his damn mind. She was holding him steady at the base, stroking what her mouth couldn’t reach, twisting slow, teasing him. Her thumb slipped beneath, cradling the most sensitive part, and the ripple that tore through his spine made his knees damn near buckle.

“Shiiit…”

It was heavy in her hand—thick, dark, every vein standing up like it was trying to break through his skin. Her spit made it slick, shiny, and filthy, coating the shaft in long, glistening trails that caught the light each time she pumped. He was throbbing. Harder than he’d been the last time she held him. The tip had gone darker—a flushed plum, stretched tight and leaking steady. Her palm slid over it, guided by the mess they’d made, and she could feel the way he twitched under her grip—sharp, frantic little pulses, like his body was begging to snap like a guitar string.

She squeezed just under the head like he’d taught her. His hips jerked. A thick vein ran along the underside, bold and swollen, pulsing under her thumb every time she slid back down. His balls had drawn up tighter, and the whole length of him felt like it was brimming—full, taut, seconds away from snapping.

Stack’s breath had gone ragged. His stomach was flexing hard, jaw clenched tight, teeth grit like he was holding back more than just words. And Goldie still stroked him—slow at first, then faster—her shy little hand working that dick like she was born to do it. Every pump made him grunt. Every twist of her wrist brought out another hiss. He was slick, spit-soaked, and so hard it looked painful.

And then he growled her name—low, deep, broken. 

His jaw clenched, and he bit down on his bottom lip, hard. Not enough to bleed. But enough to feel it. His eyes fluttered half-shut—low, dark, glossy with lust. He was licking his lips between breaths like a man starved, dazed by the feel of her.

“You a nasty lil’ thing, ain’t you, darlin’?” he groaned, voice frayed, breath ragged, “Look at you…suckin’ it like you love it…like it’s candy…”

She moaned, just a soft, sinful hum around him—and he damn near buckled again.

“Oh—fuck, girl. Don’t do that. Don’t moan like that while you got my dick in your mouth,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “You tryin’ make daddy l-lose it?”

His voice cracked on the last word. Because that’s what it felt like.

He was right on the edge.

Heat built low in his belly—tight and urgent, pulling tighter and tighter with every glide of her mouth, every swirl of her tongue, every slick stroke of her hand. His thighs were trembling now, struggling to stay still. His abs clenched. The nerves in his back fired like sparks off a match head.

It was crawling up his spine like lightning.

That climax. That crash.

“Ohh—fuck,” he whispered, eyes rolling, hips twitching once against her mouth, “Keep goin’. Keep goin’. That’s it. Just like that. Don’t stop…”

Marigold didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. She stayed on him, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks hollowing just a little more with each suck, each greedy pull. Her fingers flexed tighter around the base, milking him, coaxing him.

Stack’s voice got breathier. Slurred. He was shaking now, sweat sliding down his chest, beading at his temple. His lips parted again as he looked down at her in disbelief.

“You love this dick, don’t you,” he rasped, his words barely holding together, “Love how big it feel in that pretty lil’ mouth. Love makin’ me fall apart…” His hands dropped—one landing heavy on her shoulder, the other sliding to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing over her wet cheekbone as if he needed to feel her to believe she was real, “Look at you,” he whispered, awestruck. “Ain’t so damn innocent after all…”

That tight pull inside him snapped.

The first wave hit like fire.

“Goldie—” he groaned, deep and helpless. His eyes squeezed shut, brows twisted in tortured pleasure. His whole body seized forward, hips jerking once more as he lost it—thick and hot, his climax spilling into her mouth in strong, aching pulses.

She didn’t know he was going to finish like that.

Not in her mouth. Not all at once. Not with both hands wrapped around her head like that—low, heavy, fingers splayed through her pressed hair, holding her still as his hips slowed and stuttered. Her tongue was still flat beneath him when it happened. Her lips slick. Her jaw open just enough for him to push deeper—not far enough to gag her, but close. Real close.

And then she tasted it.

The first pulse hit the back of her tongue. It didn’t drip. It poured. A deep, warm surge that was bitter, sharp, then thickening with something salt-slick and earthy. Like sweat. Like heat after a storm. Like the smell of his skin when he pressed her into the mattress and whispered what he was gonna do.

She froze.

Not because she didn’t want to take it. Because of how much there was. She hadn’t expected it to fill her mouth like that—heavy, warm, coating the roof and sides, dripping toward her throat faster than she could prepare.

Her first instinct was to pull back. He didn’t let her. She didn’t pull away. She moaned again—soft and surprised—and swallowed. His hand tightened in her hair as the second wave hit.

Then a third.

Each one dragging a ragged grunt from his throat, his eyes barely open, his body twitching as the sensation rolled through him like thunder. His head fell forward, jaw slack, shoulders slumped, chest heaving like he’d just run miles.

“Uh-uh. Mouth wide open, now you best finish what you started. Keep that mouth soft. Let it spill. Let me see you take it like you meant to.”

The way he said that—slow, pointed, with his thumb sliding down to stroke her cheek—made something inside her tighten. She swallowed hard.

The texture shifted. Thick turned wet. Her throat worked to take it down, and she could feel every drop sliding deeper. Still more came. More than she thought was possible. It gathered beneath her tongue, behind her teeth, clinging to the corners of her lips where she could taste him for real.

Not cologne. Not the faint sweetness of wine from earlier.

But him.

It was strong. Raw. The kind of taste she’d never had in her mouth before. Not like that. Not this much. The kind that didn’t just sit on her tongue, but sank into her.

She swallowed again.

And again.

Until she felt empty. Until her mouth was clean, her lips bare, her chin glistening where a single drop had gotten away.

“God…damn…” he muttered, barely audible.

She pulled off slowly, lips wet and parted, tongue flicking to catch what she missed. Stack’s eyes finally opened, glazed and low. His fingers brushed her cheek again. Gently this time.

Stack looked down at her like she’d just done something unholy. Like he couldn’t believe her lips had taken all of him like that. His thumb wiped her chin. Then he brought it to her lips.

“Holy fuck…” he breathed, eyes locked to hers, “Girl, you gon’ take me out if you keep on.”

Her fingers still trembled around the base of him, spit clinging between them, “I thought I was bein’ gentle,” she whispered, “Didn’t think you’d…cum like that.”

Marigold dropped to her knees fully this time—her thighs giving out beneath her like they didn’t know how to hold her up anymore. She was trembling.

It wasn't from fear. Not even from shame.

But from something deeper. Something heavier.

Her lips were still parted, a fine string of spit and seed connecting her mouth to her hand. Her fingers twitched around the base of him, slick and trembling, as her gaze flicked between his face…and it. Still thick and wet. Still glistening like sin in low light. Her breath hitched. She looked dazed. Like she’d just stepped off a cliff and landed somewhere holy and wrong.

Her voice came out hoarse. Quiet, “That was gluttonous…” She blinked. Eyes wide and stunned, like she didn’t recognize herself. Then, lower—like a confession to the walls, “What have you done to me?”

Her eyes fluttered closed.

He just looked down at her—at his Goldie. At the same sweet church woman who used to flinch when he said the word pussy. The same woman who now knelt in front of him, breathless, spit-shined, and glowing like she’d touched divinity and filth all at once.

She looked wrecked. And beautiful. And his.

Stack let out a slow exhale, jaw flexing.

He reached down with both hands, cupping beneath her arms, lifting her like she weighed nothing. She stumbled a little as he pulled her upright, still unsteady and trembling.

And then he kissed her.

No hesitation.

He kissed her deep, like she was the last piece of salvation he’d ever taste. Tongue sliding over hers, chasing the lingering flavor of himself. One hand gripped the back of her neck. The other held her jaw open for him, fingers splayed across her cheek and ear, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.She gasped into him and he moaned into her. Like her mouth was a gospel he’d been waiting to memorize. When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard. Her forehead fell against his chest. His hand smoothed over her spine.

“You wanna know what I done to you?” he whispered low, his lips brushing her hairline. He tilted her face up with two fingers, “I taught you how to take what you want.” He kissed her again, softer this time. Tender. Then against her lips, he whispered, “And you took it, Goldie.”

The bath was already drawn.

Warm and low-lit, with steam curling up in lazy tendrils from the water’s surface. Stack had lit a few candles stolen from one of the girls’ rooms no doubt and the faint scent of gardenia and beeswax hung in the air like perfume on bare skin.

Marigold sank in first, still trembling a little. The heat licked up her thighs, her belly, her breasts, and she let out a soft gasp as the water hugged her tender skin. Her limbs felt boneless, heavy from what had just happened. Her cheeks were still flushed. She just sat there in the bath, knees drawn in, arms wrapped loose around them, heart still racing.

He stepped in behind her. The water shifted. Ripples curled around her waist. And then—he sat. Right behind her. His broad, bare chest met her back. Strapping thighs bracketing her hips. His arms slid around her like a cage made of heat and muscle and something that felt far too much like…

Marigold closed her eyes.

Leaning back.

Resting her head against his collarbone.

“You did real good, baby…” Stack spoke softly, mouth brushing her temple, “Real good.”

She didn’t answer. She just sighed, the sound caught somewhere between pleasure and disbelief.

“I feel ruined,” she whispered finally, “Like I’m never gon’ be the same.”

Stack chuckled against her hair, “You ain’t.”

His hands moved slow. One dipped a sponge into the warm, sudsy water, squeezed it over her shoulders, watched the droplets trace down her collarbones like prayer beads. The other hand slid up her thigh. Not to tease. Just to touch. To remind her.

That she was his.

“Sit up a little,” he said, voice smooth and low.

She obeyed. And he pulled her back between his thighs, legs spread wider now, guiding her to rest between them like she belonged there.

Marigold let her head fall back again.

Stack kissed her jaw. Ran the sponge between the valley of her breasts.

“I ever tell you how good you look in candlelight?” he murmured, “Skin glowin’ like warm honey. My own lil’ psalm in the flesh…”

Marigold flushed deeper, “You stay talkin’ slick like that?”

“What you want—roses and rhyme while I’m down your throat? That it? You want somethin’ soft now? Little bit o’ lace on the way I talk? I could wax poetic if you need it, sugar. But I figured you liked it real.”

“A slick tongue’s fine…but I lean toward a man who know how to stir somethin’ up here first.” She tapped her temple, “I like language. Makes me feel somethin’. Makes me listen.”

“I don’t make you listen?” He runs a thumb along her jaw, “Every time I say somethin’, your body leanin’ in like it’s tryin’ to memorize it.”

“You a man of many words, Stack…” She looked down for a beat, then back up, slower, “You may not be quotin’ no scripture, but—” Her lips curled slightly. Not quite a smile, “You say things that stick. Got a way of makin’ a woman think…question things…wonder.”

Stack’s smile crept in like a slow leak, one dimple deepening as he tilted his head to the side. That look he gave her wasn’t smug—it was knowing. Like he’d been waiting on her to say something like that. Like he already knew she would.

He sat back a little, relaxed into himself, “That’s ‘cause talkin’s always been my lane.” His voice dragged slow, easy, “I’m the mouthpiece. Always been. Smoke—he the quiet one. The kind folks don’t see comin’ ‘til they already laid flat. He don’t need to raise his voice. Just show up. That’s enough.” He glanced off, jaw flexing once before he brought his eyes back to hers, “Me?” He tapped two fingers to his own chest, “I gotta work rooms. Make deals. Talk people into trustin’ us…or fearin’ us. Whatever the day calls for. Talk saved my life more times than a blade ever could.”

He paused then, thumb grazing the edge of her thigh like he wasn’t even aware he was doin’ it, “You learn a lot watchin folks. Learn more listenin’. Especially women.” His tone dropped. Just a little, “Men talk loud. Women carry it different. You watch close enough, they’ll show you everything without sayin’ a word.” His hand stilled, “That’s what I got a knack for. Seein’ past the front. Past the fear. All that polish and pretense…” His eyes moved over her slow, like he wasn’t in a rush to finish the thought, “I see what a woman need—what she don’t even know she cravin’. That’s where I live.”

And for a second, his smile softened. Just a little.

“That’s what make my words stick.” 

She didn’t mean to say it. The words slipped out on a breath, softer than the silence between them.

“I had a dream…” Her voice caught, not from nerves exactly, but from the weight of it, “To be a writer.”

Stack didn’t speak. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t poke. Just looked at her the way he had been—like he saw the shape of something behind her eyes that no one else bothered to notice.

She glanced down at her lap, smoothing her thighs with the backs of her fingers, “I don’t know why I’m tellin’ you that.” A small shake of her head, more to herself than him, “Ain’t told nobody that in years.” She let out a short breath, almost like a laugh, but there was no humor in it. Just disbelief, “Used to carry notebooks everywhere. Little ones. Wrote on scraps when I ran outta pages. Stories, mostly. Sometimes poems. Whole worlds, just sittin’ in my head waitin’ to come out.” Her voice trailed, and she looked back up at him, blinking past the flicker of shame that tried to rise, “But life gets loud. And loud things drown out dreams.”

She hadn’t meant to unravel this much. Not in front of him. But something about the way he looked at her—like she wasn’t just some preacher’s wife tryna be good in public—it loosened things. Shook old dust off the corners of herself she thought were long gone.

Stack didn’t speak right away or rush to fill the space she’d left open. Instead, he reached for her hand—slow and certain—and rested his fingers over hers like they’d belonged there all along. His thumb moved once, tracing the top of her knuckles. Just that. No grip. No weight. Just touch.

“Ain’t nothin’ foolish about wantin’ to put your mind on paper.” His voice was softer now. Not low like when he was tryin’ to seduce her. Just warm. Steady, “You ever think maybe them words still in you? Just waitin’ for you to get quiet enough to hear ‘em again?” He leaned forward, catching her gaze over her shoulder, hands still holding hers, “I bet you see the world different. I bet you feel things harder than most. You don’t just walk through life—you carry it. And women like that?” He nodded once, slow, “They make the best storytellers.” His eyes didn’t move from hers. Not once, “I ain’t read a single word you ever wrote, and I still know you got it.” Then, the smile came back—slight and crooked, one dimple deep, “Long as you don’t go writin’ me in lookin’ too soft. Gotta keep my reputation.”

He winked slow, still holding her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She laughed.

Not the polite kind. Not the kind she wore at church functions or when Obadiah told one of his stiff, hollow jokes.

This laugh was real.

Soft at first, then fuller. Head tilted back just a little, eyes crinkled, hand slipping from his to press lightly against her chest like she needed to catch her breath.

“You?” she said between laughs, “Soft?” She shook her head, “Please.”

And that’s when he moved. One hand reached for her face, fast but smooth. Fingers curling firm beneath her jaw, thumb just below her bottom lip. Not rough. Not rushed. Just right. Commanding.

Her laughter caught in her throat.

Before she could blink, before she could say another word, he pulled her to him and kissed her.

No warning. No space for hesitation.

His mouth met hers full and sure, like he’d been waiting all night for her to open up that way—laughing, soft, light for once—and he wasn’t about to let it float away. His lips pressed hard, then deepened, tilting her head just so with his hand. He kissed like he talked—deliberate, skillful, just enough tongue to make her breath catch again.

He kissed like he meant to leave something behind. When he finally pulled back, just enough for her to breathe, her lips stayed parted.His lips found her shoulder—bare where the fabric had slipped slightly down her arm. A slow kiss, not rushed or hungry. Just firm enough to make her eyes close. To make her breath hitch. To make her skin rise. He stayed there a second longer, exhaling soft against her skin.

“Sanctified Heat.”

She blinked, “What?”

“That’s your first book title.” He leaned forward, looking down at her, eyes dancing, “Sanctified Heat. Sound like somethin’ I’d read twice.” A pause, then, “Tell some tale about a First Lady on a quest to becomin’ a whole lotta woman.”

She let out a breath—part laugh, part groan—and rolled her eyes hard enough to see the back of her own head.

“You have no serious bone in your body, Elias.”

Stack smirked, “Ain’t true. I got one, right here,” his semi-hard dick twitched against her lower back, “And it’s been mighty serious ‘round you lately.”

She hit his arm before he could finish laughing.

Steam lingered like a ghost in the corners of the room, soft and curling as it clung to the wood-paneled walls. Stack reached for a towel, dragging it down the length of Marigold’s spine with a slow, practiced sweep. Her skin, still warm from the bath, glistened under the soft golden light that spilled in from his bedside lamp. She sat at the edge of the tub with one leg crossed over the other, quiet as she let him handle her.

He’d bathed her like a man who understood worship in motion—hands firm, touch focused. Now he was drying her off the same way. Careful. Lingering. His fingers never missed the hollows: the back of her knee, the dip behind her ear, the swell of her hip where her body curved lush and inviting. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Her eyes were half-lidded, the weight of desire still heavy in her gaze from what they’d already done before.

“Keep breathin’ like that,” he said low, palm skimming the inside of her thigh, “and I’ma drag you right back in that tub.”

Marigold’s lips pulled into a soft smirk, but her voice stayed husky, relaxed, “You say that like it’d be a punishment.”

He laughed from deep in his chest and reached for the small cut-glass bottle on the side table. The oil inside was golden-brown and thick, slow to pour. It carried a smell like smoked vanilla, orange peel, and something darker—something sharp beneath it all, like clove left too long in a hot room.

“Got this mix from Cordelia,” he said as he warmed it between his palms, “She say it make a woman’s skin light up under low light.”

“Mm,” Marigold answered, eyelids fluttering, “And what kind of night you plannin’ for me to light up in?”

“The kind where folk don’t forget what they saw.”

His hands worked the oil into her shoulders, down her arms, across the curve of her back. He took his time, knuckles pressing in circles, thumbs sweeping out tension she didn’t even know she carried. When he reached her calves, she uncrossed her legs, spreading slightly so he could reach everywhere.

The room smelled like heat and citrus and the slow smolder of something carnal. Stack stood and reached for her robe, He held it open for her. She slipped her arms through with grace, though her breath caught when the cool lining kissed her still-damp skin. He adjusted it on her shoulders, fingers brushing the tops of her breasts as he smoothed it closed.

There was a knock.

Three quick raps, then a pause.

Stack held her eyes for a beat, reluctant to break the moment, “Be right back, Goldie.”

He left the room with no robe, no shame, just a slow, steady stride that made the wood floor creak underfoot.

The door to his office opened a crack as he leaned out, his voice low, “Who knockin’?”

“It’s me,” Cordelia’s voice answered, smooth and steady, “Brought them shoes you asked for. She need options, don’t she?”

He opened the door fully.

Cordelia didn’t blink at his bare skin. She’d known Stack too long, seen too much. She stood with a parcel in one hand and her other arm draped lazily across her waist. Her lipstick was a deep cherry red tonight, her dress cut low and hugging curves that had made grown men stammer in daylight. Stack took the parcel from her. Inside were three pairs: one black suede with a t-strap, one with a lace vamp and jeweled heel, and the third—a satin pump, soft as ink.

“They all match the dress?” he asked.

“Down to the thread.”

Stack’s face lit with a grin, “You a magician.”

“Don’t start that smooth talk. You’ll have Peaches knockin’ me cross the head.”

He chuckled and started to pull the door closed, but Cordelia placed her palm on the edge.

“One more thing,” she added, leaning in, voice dropping slightly, “Delta Slim and Cornbread just got here. Smoke went to meet ‘em at the depot. They just walked through the front.”

That pulled a genuine whoop from Stack’s chest, “Well, I’ll be damned. That mean the night done started.”

“Just about,” Cordelia said, eyes gleaming, “You gon’ dress, or greet ‘em like that?”

Stack smirked, “Ain’t no shame left in this house.”

“Clearly.” She stepped back and gave him a quick once-over, “Tell Goldie I picked the satin ones for her.”

He nodded and shut the door behind him, grinning. 

Stack closed the door with the box of shoes under one arm, still grinning from Cordelia’s parting jab. But as soon as the latch clicked, he glanced down and chuckled low.

“Shit.”

He was still bare as the day he was born, skin slick with the oil he’d rubbed into Marigold not ten minutes before. In the soft lamplight, he crossed to the wardrobe near the back of the room. It stood tall, carved from dark walnut, its doors groaning faintly as he pulled them open. Inside hung pressed shirts in muted jewel tones, suspenders, slacks with sharp creases, and a few vests Cordelia had insisted he keep on hand for appearances.

He didn’t overthink it. He reached for black trousers with a high waist and a button fly, sliding them on with practiced ease. A steel gray shirt followed, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, collar loose. He looped on suspenders, the leather worn soft, before slipping a small silver chain into his pocket—a flask on one end, a matchbook on the other.

He ran a hand over his hair, adjusting the part with his fingers rather than a comb. Then, and only then, did he glance at himself in the mirror. Just long enough to nod once. Not vanity. Just a check. He looked how he needed to look: sharp, effortless, grounded. When he turned to Marigold, she was watching him from the corner, robe tied neat around her, legs tucked under her on the velvet settee, the robe riding just high enough on her thigh to distract him.

“You clean up fast,” she said.

He grinned, “Ain’t like I was dirty. Just distracted.”

She arched a brow when she saw his face, “What’s that smile about?”

Stack tossed the parcel on the bed and started walking toward her, slow, “Cornbread and Delta Slim just got in.”

Marigold looked up from where she sat, brow gently raised, “Those names supposed to mean somethin’ to me?”

He grinned, unbothered, “They will.”

She folded her arms loosely, leaning back into the cushion, “Mm. Let me guess. Some of your old partners in trouble?”

Stack chuckled low, “Somethin’ like that. Cornbread’s from back in Clarksdale—used to crack on me and Smoke like it was a paid job. And Slim…” He paused, rubbing his jaw, “Slim older. Don’t say much unless he got a reason. But when he plays…” Stack shook his head once, “Man could make a room weep.”

Marigold tilted her head, the corners of her lips lifting, “That kind of night, huh?”

He stopped in front of her, heat flickering behind his grin, “That kind of night.”

Stack bent at the waist, brushing his lips across her jawline, voice warm and deep.

“Biggest one yet.”

And with that, he stepped out to meet his past.

The silk of Marigold’s robe clung warm to her thighs as she shifted on the settee, one hand drifting slow along her oiled skin. She listened—half to the hallway, half to her own thoughts. Stack had paused only long enough to throw on trousers, roll up his sleeves, and slick his hair with his fingers before he slipped out the room with that lazy grin still playing on his mouth. He’d said Cornbread and Delta Slim had just arrived, but he hadn’t said what that meant. Not really. And now, with him gone, the quiet wasn’t empty—it thrummed. It curled under her ribs and settled low, the kind of hush that meant something was about to start.

Marigold stood from the settee, the silk of her robe sliding down her hips like a second skin. The room was still warm with the scent of oil and sex, the air thick with the memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice. She crossed the floor barefoot, slow, drawn toward the mirror set into the wardrobe’s tall frame. The glass was slightly clouded with age around the edges, but the center held her clear.

Her reflection met her like a secret kept too long. Her skin gleamed—shoulders, collarbone, thighs—all catching the low light like poured gold. But it wasn’t just the oil that made her glow.

It was what she’d done.

Her hand lifted to touch her jaw, tender along the hinge. The ache was there, deep and steady. A reminder. She’d taken him into her mouth. Sucked him slow while he groaned her name. Let him pour himself onto her tongue and didn’t flinch, didn’t run, didn’t spit. She’d swallowed him down, eyes up, hands steady, trembling only after it was done. The taste still lingered on the back of her tongue—salty, thick, intimate. She didn’t mind it. Not now. Not after the way he looked at her. The way he’d praised her, voice heavy, breathless, like she’d unlocked something in him.

In herself.

Marigold pressed her palm against her belly, letting her breath settle. She’d done something no First Lady would ever speak of, something no woman in her old life would ever admit. Not to a man like him. Not at all. And yet here she stood—bare-legged, oiled, grinning. She tried to smooth the smile from her lips. Tried to blink the heat out of her eyes.

It didn’t work.

It rose anyway, slow and real, curling in the corner of her mouth as she looked at herself. At the woman in the mirror who’d let go of shame and found something sweeter in the wreckage.

A woman becoming.

Then she heard it. A voice that boomed like laughter through wood walls. Familiar in a way that was impossible—bold, country-thick, dipped in mischief and muscle.

Stack’s.

And then, others. Deeper. Slower. Weighted. Like thunder that chose its moment to roll.

She tightened the sash of her robe as she made her way toward the main room.

The speakeasy floor of The Blackline was already humming. The bar glowed low, lined with amber-lit bottles that threw golden reflections against the walls. Liquor warmed the air—rye, gin, absinthe, and sweat. The wood of the floors shone faintly, worn smooth by the shoes of men who whispered sins and the heels of women who didn’t whisper at all.

Behind the long counter, the bartenders moved like smoke. All women. All dangerous in the ways you didn’t see coming. Pippy stood tallest tonight, sharp-faced and smooth-skinned with a cleaver smile and a gold nose ring that caught the light when she leaned forward. Lotta was beside her, wide-hipped and smooth-talking, with a mouth known for spilling both drinks and secrets when she wanted them to travel.

And seated before them—arms outstretched, laughter spilling out like a drum beat—was Cornbread.

Big as she’d imagined a man named Cornbread might be. His shoulders were round and strong beneath a pinstriped shirt, suspenders stretching over the span of his chest. His dark skin caught a dull shine under the low light. His smile took up half his face, and when he slapped the bar in laughter, the whole room seemed to vibrate.

“Boy, you still talk slick with a mouth that ain’t paid rent?” Cornbread said, twisting in his stool to pull Stack into another hug.

Stack, dressed now but with that same lazy grin still tugging his mouth, swatted the back of Cornbread’s head playfully, “You still got breath to waste on bad jokes? Goddamn, I thought you’d be half-dead and missin’ teeth by now.”

“Ha! Missin’ teeth? Naw, I keep mine sharp. Gotta keep up with Theresa, she don’t like no gummy kisses.” Cornbread turned to the bar and tapped his glass for a refill, “Rye, baby. The one with bite.”

Pippy poured it smooth and fast, no smile. She was used to Stack’s boys by now. And just behind them, seated quieter but heavier in presence, was Delta Slim.

Marigold saw him before she felt him. And yet, something about him reached her before her eyes did. He sat with one boot resting on the brass footrail, his body turned slightly from the bar, as if watching the room from an angle no one else understood. A wide-brimmed hat sat next to his elbow, untouched. His vest hugged a narrow frame, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal long, sinewed arms. One hand rested over a glass half-full. The other held a harmonica, thumb brushing over the grooves like it was a living thing. His face was carved in stillness. Deep eyes. High cheekbones. Brown skin marked by time, shadowed by what he’d seen and hadn’t said.

He didn’t laugh. He watched.

Stack approached him with more care, “Unc.”

Delta Slim looked up, slow. The corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. More like acknowledgment.

“Mm. Boy still remember who poured the blues down his throat first,” Slim said, voice husky and deep like a storm refusing to pass.

“You ain’t pour nothin’. You just played so good I ain’t had no choice but to drown in it.”

Stack held out his hand. Slim took it. Their grip was brief but firm.

“You still drinkin’ that piss they call gin?” Slim asked.

“Nah, I done graduated to the good poison.” Stack lifted two fingers, “Pippy, pour Unc whatever he came here for.”

“Already did,” Pippy said without looking, “He ain’t sipped it yet.”

Slim chuckled once, low and dry, “Just savorin’ the quiet before this place fills with the wild.”

Behind the bar, Lotta leaned in toward Cornbread, “Y’all brought the blues with you or just the noise?”

Cornbread wiggled his brows, “Brought both. But the blues gon’ slide in sweeter.”

That was when Marigold stepped closer, her bare feet near silent on the floor. Stack noticed first. His eyes flicked to her, and something shifted in his chest—pride and tension mingling.

“Fellas,” he said, stepping aside. “This here’s Marigold.”

Cornbread turned, his mouth already curving, “Well, damn. You must be the one Stack been keepin’ upstairs like a song he don’t want nobody else to hear.”

Marigold gave a soft smile, one hand resting at her hip, “And you must be the mouthy one.”

“Oooh,” Cornbread wheezed, delighted, “She quick. I like her.”

Slim turned to look at her fully. She felt it—the weight of his gaze. Not invasive. Just seeing.

“Miss Gold,” Slim said, nodding once, “You carry somethin’ in your eyes. Make a man wanna play a slower tune.”

Marigold blinked. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She didn’t know this man. And yet, it felt like he already knew the shape of her sorrow.

Stack wrapped an arm around her waist, grounding her.

“We got music comin’,” he told them both, “Food on the way. And that back room’s open for who need to sit and sweat it out.”

Slim lifted his glass.

Cornbread winked at Marigold.

The bar swelled with low laughter and the soft clink of glass against wood when the back door swung open—the one that led from the kitchen.

Sammie Moore stepped through, chewing the last bite of a thick slice of cornbread still warm from Aunt Pearl’s skillet. A smear of butter clung to the corner of his mouth, and his guitar hung by a faded strap against his back. He paused just inside the room, blinking against the dimmer light, adjusting his glasses with the back of his knuckle. The sweet and savory smell still clung to him—lard, sugar, woodsmoke.

Stack spotted him instantly, “There he go!” Stack called, grinning wide, “Ain’t even wiped the crumbs off, greedy ass.”

Sammie chuckled and shook his head, finishing the bite, “Aunt Pearl said get it while it’s hot.”

Cornbread turned on his stool, eyebrows lifting, “That little Sammie?”

Stack turned him toward the bar with one hand on his shoulder, “Not so little no more. This here’s Samuel Moore—soon-to-be graduate of Fisk University. And tonight…” Stack turned to Marigold with a grin, “we throwin’ him a celebration. Blues, cooze, and a whole lotta liquor to put some hair on that narrow chest.” Stack stepped aside, beckoning him toward the bar, “C’mere, boy. Lemme introduce you proper.”

Sammie walked over, straightening a little as he approached, pulling the guitar strap from his shoulder and leaning it gently against the bar rail.

Stack turned to Marigold, one hand sweeping between them with theatrical flair, “Lil’ cuz, this here’s Marigold. First Lady Marigold.”

Sammie’s brow rose slightly, but he dipped his head with polite warmth, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Before Marigold could respond, Cornbread twisted in his seat, already barking out a laugh.

“First Lady? Lord, you done brought a church woman into this wicked house?”

Marigold’s eyes cut to Stack, one brow lifting.

Stack smirked, unfazed, “She been converted.”

Cornbread wheezed, “Chile, I hope you got holy oil on them thighs, ‘cause you gon’ need it before the night’s through.”

Marigold folded her arms and gave Cornbread a look that made him immediately raise both palms.

“I’m jokin’, I’m jokin’. Don’t curse me, Sister.”

Sammie looked between them, unsure whether to laugh or apologize. Marigold just shook her head, letting the corner of her mouth tug up.

Marigold took him in—his pressed slacks, clean fingernails, soft Southern posture—and offered a nod of her own, “Same to you, Mr. Moore.”

Stack leaned in with a crooked grin, “See? She don’t bite.”

Cornbread squinted, “You sure Jedediah know you out here throwin’ his boy into the lion’s den? He liable to catch a train his damn self and drag your ass back to Clarksdale.”

Stack just laughed, pulling Sammie closer, “He grown now. He deserve a night that feels like it.”

He turned to Delta Slim, who was watching the exchange through narrowed eyes, one hand still idling on the neck of his glass.

“You remember little Sammie, don’t you, Unc?”

Slim didn’t nod right away. He looked at Sammie like a man weighing something in his palm. Then he said, voice low and plain, “I know his daddy.”

A long sip, then, “You in school, son?”

“Yes, sir,” Sammie said, “Fisk University. Majoring in English and folklore. Minor in music theory.”

Slim’s eyebrows twitched. He didn’t say anything. Just took another drink.

Stack leaned his elbow on the bar, grinning like the devil, “Unc don’t know—Preacher Boy here? Best blues player in the Delta right now.”

Slim scoffed, finally letting out a slow, drawn laugh.

“Boy, I got socks older than you,” he said, shaking his head, “What the hell you know about the blues?”

Sammie didn’t flinch. He smiled back, cool but sure.

“I can show you better than I can tell you,” he said, “Tonight.”

Cornbread leaned back, impressed, “Oh, he got that Moore heat in him after all.”

Pippy slid a shot glass across to Sammie, the clear liquid catching the light.

He looked at it, then looked at Stack.

“First one’s yours,” Stack said, “Then the night does the rest.”

Sammie took the glass in hand, the faintest tremble in his fingers, and raised it toward the room.

“To family,” he said.

Stack clinked his glass against it, “And freedom.”

And just like that, the music of the night began to tune itself into motion.

The music and voices from the main floor thinned as Marigold pushed through the swinging kitchen door, the weight of the night loosening from her shoulders for just a moment. The air inside was thick with warmth and spice, butter and onion, flour dust and meat smoke. A pot simmered low on the back eye, something sweet wafting from the oven.

Aunt Pearl stood at the center table, strong hands wrist-deep in biscuit dough, her sleeves rolled and her braids pinned up tight beneath a head wrap. Across from her, Minnie was peeling sweet potatoes into a wide tin basin, her soft face already glistening with a light sweat from the heat.

Marigold stepped to the sideboard and reached for a cup. Aunt Pearl’s eyes lifted before she could pour.

“Mm-mm,” she said, wiping her forearm across her brow, “You sit. I’ll get it.”

Marigold obeyed, settling onto the corner stool beside the door. Aunt Pearl poured cool water from a clay jug into a glass and handed it to her without another word.

Marigold drank slow, grateful. The cold hit her throat like clarity. Behind her, Minnie hummed tunelessly and scraped peel after peel into a growing pile.

“What’s all that racket out there?” Aunt Pearl asked, not looking up as she pressed her knuckles into the soft dough, folding it over with care.

Marigold wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, “Some old friends of Stack and Smoke showed up from Clarksdale. Cornbread and Delta Slim.”

The name didn’t even finish falling from her mouth before Aunt Pearl’s whole rhythm stilled.

She paused, hand mid-fold, breath just shy of inhale.

“You say…” she began, voice caught on something too soft for starch, “Delta Slim?”

Marigold blinked, “Yes, ma’am.”

Aunt Pearl’s eyes dropped to the dough, then to her own flour-dusted hands. She stood straight, exhaled through her nose, and moved to the sink. Minnie and Marigold exchanged a look—quiet, knowing. Aunt Pearl washed slowly, almost ceremonially. She scrubbed the dough from her palms, rubbed her forearms clean, splashed her face, then patted it dry with the hem of her apron.

Marigold tilted her head, “You know him?”

Aunt Pearl didn’t answer right away. She stood at the counter with her back turned, removed her headwrap, and smoothing her hair down with both hands, checking her reflection faintly in the glass of the cabinet. She adjusted her braids, dabbed her throat with a clean cloth, and reached for the pair of gold hoops on the windowsill that she usually saved for Sundays.

“Chile,” she finally said, voice thick with something tender, “ain’t seen Delta Slim in years ‘round Little Rock. Him and his buddy Rice—rest his soul—used to get the whole Juke on Eighth Street jumpin’. Music would bleed out into the roads like it was callin’ the whole block to dance.” She chuckled low and soft, smoothing her apron down now, too, “Used to play a piano so sweet it’d make you second-guess whoever you was mad at.”

Marigold sipped her water and just watched.

Aunt Pearl wasn’t trying to be young again—but something about her shifted. Just a little. Her eyes sparkled the way only a woman who’s been seen by a man like Delta Slim would understand. She pressed her lips together, checked her blouse, and straightened her spine.

Minnie leaned in slightly, stage-whispering with a grin, “Miss Pearl, you blushin’.”

“Shut up,” Pearl said without bite, waving her off, “Ain’t nobody blushin’. Just… ain’t no harm in presentin’ yourself decent when company’s in town.”

Marigold smiled around the rim of her glass, warmth rising in her chest. She had never seen Aunt Pearl like this. Always firm, always moving, always humming and judging and fixing. But right now, she was just a woman. A woman remembering a song that once made her heart thump louder than the beat.

It was beautiful.

“Think he gon’ remember you?” Minnie teased gently.

Aunt Pearl side-eyed her, lips twitching, “If he don’t,” she said, tying her apron tighter with a flourish, “he damn sure gon’ see me.

The Blackline wasn’t just full.

It was heaving.

Smoke coiled in the rafters like spirits called down for witness, and the scent of perfume, fried catfish, cherry pipe tobacco, bourbon, cocoa butter, and sweat layered the air so thick it fogged the mind. The band was already kicking—upright bass slapping, trumpet crooning, a piano woman banging keys like she was mad at them but making magic all the same. The place was a dirty cabaret, dressed up like something out a devil’s daydream. Velvet curtains, low amber lights, chandeliers swaying from too much body heat, and that red-lit stage like the gates of hell yawning open. Smoke and Stack’s security—old war buddies turned muscle—prowled the corners in shadow, eyes sharp beneath fedoras, jackets tight with the shape of hidden steel. Ain’t nobody causing trouble here without answering to fire.

And right now, all eyes were on the stage.

Stack Moore, already three drinks in and grinning wide, swaggered to the mic like he owned the whole damn city—which, in some ways, he did. He raised a hand. The band hit a bluesy fanfare. The crowd roared.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. And all you low-down lucky souls between!!!” he drawled into the mic, that Southern slur smooth and rich like molasses poured slow, “Tonight, we celebratin’ a fine young man!!!”

Cheers.

“Some of y’all know him. Some of y’all ‘bout to get acquainted!!!”

More cheers.

“He’s blood. He’s got music in his bones. He’s smart, clean, and fresh from school. But more importantly…” Stack grinned wide, eyes twinkling like a bastard prince. “He just turned twenty!!!”

Applause. Hollers.

“And I aim to ruin him tonight!!!”

The crowd howled.

“Give it up for my cousin—my kin—the one, the only… Preacher Boy Sammie Moore!!!”

🎺 The trumpet let loose. Spotlights swung. 🎺

Sammie, dressed clean in a deep navy three-piece suit with satin lapels, crisp white shirt, collar pin, tie sharp as a blade, and Stacy Adams shoes freshly shined, stepped into the glow. His hair was neatly cropped, his jaw strong, and his posture had that young lion look—a little tense, a little unsure, but ready to run the pride. He clutched the Moore family guitar—once Smoke and Stack’s father— slung on his back like a weapon. And as he moved through the crowd, the spotlights followed him. The room parted like water around a blessing.

Women leaned in. Men nodded. Glasses raised. Sammie smiled, humbled, his dimples deep as the Delta. 

And there she was.

Marigold.

Sitting in the private booth lit by candlelight, diamonds in her ears, skin kissed with gold powder, and her body poured into that satin-black dress like it had been sewn to her soul. Cordelia had done her hair up—glossy finger waves that glimmered like oil slicks under the light. Peaches had painted her lips the color of garnet wine and lined her eyes sharp like scripture. She looked like Sunday wrapped in sin, a sermon in hips, back straight, eyes low-lidded. That dress showed shoulder, swelled over her breasts, hugged her waist, then fell like water over her hips. Every step she took whispered. Every turn of her head caught someone’s breath.

The whole room noticed when Stack made his way to her.

He was drunk. But that kind of pretty drunk—loose at the shoulders, smile hot and hungry. Cigarette tucked behind his ear, top buttons undone, gold tooth flashing every time he grinned.

He reached out a hand, “C’mon, First Lady. Let me steal one.”

Marigold hesitated just a second. Then she slipped her hand into his. He pulled her to the center of the floor. The music kicked up—thick, nasty blues with a heartbeat rhythm.

And Stack showed her how to dance.

He didn’t take it easy.

One spin. Her back to him. His hands on her hips. Then he pulled her sharp—flush against him.

Her breath hitched.

He leaned in close, breath warm behind her ear, “Let me show you how we grind in my house, baby.”

His hands slid from her waist to her hips, then lower— palming her thighs, guiding her into rhythm. Marigold let her body answer. Let her hips roll. Let herself melt back into him, back arched just so. Stack’s palm flattened on her stomach, fingers splayed wide, possessive. He ground against her slow. Hard. His other hand traveled up —over her ribs, under the swell of her breasts, teasing, almost grazing, then sliding back down.

She let out a soft gasp. The crowd watched—entranced.

But this wasn’t performance.

This was a claim.

His jaw at her shoulder. Sweat glistening at their temples. He smelled like spiced liquor and expensive cologne. She felt his desire—heavy and hot at her backside—and it only made her grind deeper.

Her eyes fluttered. Her mouth parted. He whispered something filthy in her ear, and her legs nearly buckled.

This was Stack’s world. And tonight, it was Sammie’s world too.

In the corner booth, Smoke and Violet were lip-locked, her giggle sweet and breathless as she straddled his lap, hands on his chest, one of his big palms cupping the back of her neck like he was the only thing keeping her from floating away.

The Blackline pulsed. The room was glowing. The music wailed. And somewhere between blues and sweat, between velvet and teeth, between whiskey and desire, a boy became a man. A preacher’s wife became a flame.

And Stack? He laughed low against Marigold’s neck and whispered, “You gon’ be the death of me.”

Sammie hadn’t ever seen anything like it.

The Blackline undulated like a living thing—smoke curling in thick ribbons, hips rocking under low lights, velvet and sweat mingling in the air like perfume. Stack had introduced him like royalty, spotlights dragging over the crowd as girls hooted and clapped, calling him “cutie” and “baby Moore” and “preacher boy gone bad.”

Now, sitting in a booth with a tall glass of brown liquor in his hand, Sammie let the weight of it all settle in his chest. His birthday party. His first real drink. His guitar—their daddy’s—resting in a case by his feet like a sleeping memory.

Stack was on the floor, dancing with the preacher’s wife like she belonged to him, hand gripped tight to her waist, body pressed so close it made the air thicken. Marigold. That was her name. And Lord, was she something. The way she moved in that black dress, like a prayer too wicked to say out loud. Smoke and Violet were off in a corner booth, her giggles bubbling over his mouth as he kissed her neck and tugged her closer. Sammie had caught Violet’s wink earlier—that quick hug she gave him when he arrived. She looked good, grown. And even happier.

But none of them knew what was still tugging at the back of his mind.

That girl. That sweet thing in butter-yellow.

He saw her again.

Not in person but in every song that slid over the stage. Every slow sway. Every heat-fueled note. She was stuck in his head like a lyric he hadn’t written down in time.

He drained his glass, heat flooding his stomach, and sat forward.

“Where you goin’, baby Moore?” one of the girls purred from across the table.

“Nowhere yet,” he smiled, dimples flashing. But his eyes? Already drifting toward the front doors.

He hadn’t seen her since earlier at the Shine Parlor, licking her ice cream with that sideways smirk like she knew something he didn’t. She’d said she might come.

He was hoping she meant it.

The room was packed wall to wall with Black elegance and sin. Sequins shimmered. Suspenders stretched. Perfume clung to sweat and smoke like molasses to warm bread. The scent of gin, sweat, and fresh hair grease met in the air like lovers reunited.

Stack leaned halfway over the edge of the small platform stage near the back, half-drunk and fully loud, waving a bottle in the air like he was summoning something holy.

“Ayyyeee, where my blues man at?!”

The crowd clapped and whooped as Delta Slim stood up slow from his corner stool. He was dressed in his sharpest—ink-black trousers, a steel-gray vest, and a shirt rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms roped with age and memory. His silver rings caught the light. A flask of corn liquor rested loose in his hand.

“Ain’t come here for all that shoutin’,” he said gruffly, stepping up. But he was already smirking. “Y’all gon’ wake the dead with all this carryin’ on.”

“Oh, let ‘em wake,” Stack hollered, nearly dropping his drink as he helped guide Slim onto the small riser, “Let the dead hear what real music sound like.”

The crowd roared in response, clapping in rhythm as Delta Slim sank onto the piano bench and cracked his knuckles like a man about to confess something dangerous.

Off to the side, near the open kitchen doors, Aunt Pearl stood watching.

She wasn’t trying to be seen, but she was hard to miss tonight. Her cotton dress hugged her just right, apron still tied, but her waist defined, her gold hoops shining. She’d smoothed her braids into a twist and dabbed her neck with cologne. A soft dusting of rouge touched her cheekbones, and her lips were slicked with her best lipstick—a deep plum shade that caught in the light and looked like temptation in full bloom.

Two of the house girls slipped by with drink trays, eyeing her with warmth and mischief.

“Mmm, Auntie, who you gettin’ fine for tonight?”

“Aunt Pearl, that lipstick got you lookin’ dangerous.”

She swatted at them with her dish towel but didn’t hide the smile that curled up slow. Her eyes never left the stage.

Delta Slim leaned forward, fingers hovering above the keys. The first notes slid out low, aching—like honey stirred into black coffee. The piano crooned under him. He played like the night owed him something. Like every note was a name he hadn’t spoken in decades.

The room fell into a hush before the cheering broke loose again.

“All right now!”

“Woooo! Play them keys, old man!”

“I know that’s right, Slim!”

“Tell it!”

Folks clapped, hips rolled, drinks sloshed. Some danced. Some swayed. Some just sat there, eyes closed, letting the sound wash over them like baptism with better consequences.

Then—Lucille Bogan stepped into the light.

Wearing a body-hugging black dress that clung to every round curve, she climbed onto the piano like she’d been born on it. She adjusted her bosom with a shrug and a grin, one knee bent, shoe dangling off her toe, lipstick smudged from another man’s mouth.

She sang like she didn’t owe anybody an apology.

The crowd hushed, lips parted, leaning into every syllable.

🎶I gotta big fat belly

I gotta big broad ass

And I can fuck any man

With real good class

Talkin’ ‘bout fuckin

Talkin’ ‘bout grindin’, baby, all night long…🎶 

The crowd hooted. Chairs scraped. Hands slapped thighs.

🎶You know both a my mens

They are tight like that

They got a great big dick just like a baseball bat—

Oooooooh, fuck me

Do it to me all night long

I want you to do it to me, baby

Honey, till the cows come home…🎶 

It was raunchy. Raw. Perfect.

Slim didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just kept playing like the devil himself was keeping tempo at his feet. When the song ended, the room erupted. Glasses raised. Voices hollered. Somebody slapped the wall in time.

Slim leaned back, sweat glistening on his brow. He took one slow sip from his flask.

Then his eyes found her.

Across the room, apron tied neat and lips still glistening, Aunt Pearl stood frozen in her own breath. Slim lifted his flask in her direction, eyes twinkling, grin sharp as a butcher’s knife. Gold teeth flashed in the low light.

Aunt Pearl didn’t smile back right away. But she touched her earring. Adjusted her hem. And in that small shift, that glance she held a beat too long—she answered him.

The music never stopped.

It shifted, swelled, rolled like heat waves off tin. Delta Slim’s piano had settled into a low, steady groove now, punctuated by the slide of steel strings and the stomp of bodies against the floorboards. The room swayed with it—laughter, grinding, hunger—all pressed together under the sultry pull of the blues.

Sammie Moore stood frozen at the edge of it all, guitar slung across his chest, wide eyes catching too much light. He didn’t know where to look. Or rather, he looked everywhere.

Violet was near the center, lost in a slow, filthy grind against Smoke. Her dress was hitched halfway up her thighs, one of his hands firm around her neck, angling her so she could back it up into him just right. His other hand gripped her hip, anchoring her like he was scared she might float off if he let go. Their rhythm wasn’t just dancing—it was a warning. Warning of what was to come later. Every part of Violet moved like it had purpose, like she knew who was watching and didn’t give a damn. And Smoke—dark-eyed, mouth parted—looked like a man made to sin and stay sinnin’.

Sammie swallowed hard and dragged his gaze away.

But it didn’t help.

Girls with shining legs and bare breasts climbed onto tables, bending and twisting, hands in each other’s hair, mouths open, laughing, singing, moaning. A man reclined in a shadowy corner behind a sheer red curtain—shirt undone, head tilted back—while two women knelt between his thighs, heads bobbing in tandem, soft wet sounds swallowed by the music.

Sammie stared too long before he caught himself. His throat burned. His palms were sweating. Something inside him felt like it was breaking open and rising all at once. He adjusted his guitar, pulled it down to cover the obvious press forming in his trousers. The scent of lard and onions wafted in from the kitchen—sweet potatoes, smoked meat, peppery collards steeped in pot liquor. He saw people sopping it up with thick-cut biscuits and hunks of cornbread right from Aunt Pearl’s cast-iron pan, mouths greasy, bellies full, eyes half-lidded from food and drink and desire. It was too much. And not enough. He licked his lips, felt his heart thudding in his ears.

“Don’t breathe too deep, baby boy,” a voice crooned beside him, “You liable to pass clean out.”

It was Pippy, tall and lean with that gold nose ring glinting under the light, a drink in her hand already sweating against her palm.

“Happy birthday, sweet thang,” she said, pressing the glass into his hand.

He looked down at it—reddish gold, rim dusted in sugar and chili salt. Something smelled citrus, something else smoky.

“What is it?” he asked, voice cracked.

She smirked, “Mine.” Then walked off.

He stared after her, stunned, then back to the drink. Somewhere in the background, Lucille Bogan let out another raspy note. A woman cackled. Glass broke. The bass line dropped again.

Sammie raised the glass to his lips and drank deep. The burn was smooth. But the heat didn’t go away. It settled lower. Thicker. He stood there, guitar hiding his ache, the world moving around him in color and sweat and sound—and something inside him shifted. He had never felt more alive. Or more afraid of what that meant.

He stepped away from the crowd, needing a breath, just one moment to gather himself. He moved toward the hallway that led to the kitchen, the guitar still slung across his chest, drink still half-full in his hand.

That’s when it happened.

He turned the corner just as someone rounded the same edge, and they collided—light, but enough to knock her tray sideways.

Plates clattered, nothing broke, but a sweet film of sauce splashed against her forearm.

“Oh—!” she gasped, gripping the tray tighter, shoulders tense.

“I’m sorry,” Sammie said quickly, stepping forward. “I wasn’t lookin’.”

She blinked up at him, startled but composed, dark eyes wide beneath soft lashes. She wore a simple dress, apron tied snug at the waist, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Her hair was pinned up loosely, a few curls sticking to her forehead with the sweat of the night. Her cheeks were flushed, but she didn’t frown.

“It’s fine,” she said, voice soft, almost a whisper. “I should’ve called it out.”

“Let me help,” he said, already reaching for the plates that had tilted on the tray. She hesitated, then nodded.

Together, they steadied the mess, and she led the way into the kitchen.

The warmth inside was heavier. Cast iron clanged, grease popped, Aunt Pearl muttered to herself as she pulled fresh cornbread from the oven. Minnie was bent over a roasting pan, humming as she basted something slow and sticky.

Sammie set the tray on the prep table, then turned back toward the girl. She was already rinsing her hands at the sink.

“I really didn’t mean to bump you,” he said again, quieter now.

She turned off the tap and reached for a cloth. “It happens,” she replied, drying her arms. Her smile was gentle, but short-lived.

Sammie swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m Sammie, by the way.”

She looked at him a moment, then replied simply, “Alma Rose.”

It landed soft between them. Nothing flirtatious, nothing deliberate—just the name, given like a secret she didn’t mind him holding.

Before he could say more—

“There your ass go!”

Stack’s voice burst into the kitchen like a gunshot wrapped in laughter. He was already moving, half-drunk and still magnetic, a grin stretched wide across his face.

“You hidin’ in here with biscuits and pretty girls while I’m out there tryna hype your name up?”

Sammie blinked, startled. “I wasn’t hidin’, I just—”

“Come on,” Stack said, already grabbing him by the shoulder, “Slim’s waitin’. I told these folks my lil’ cousin could play. Time to prove me right.”

Sammie glanced back toward Alma Rose. She gave him a small nod, already turning back to the sink.

And then he was gone, pulled back into the heat and holler of the juke, the kitchen door swinging shut behind him.

The lights in The Blackline dimmed without announcement. Not sudden, not dramatic. Just a gradual softening, like the room itself had leaned in. Cigarette smoke hung low and blue, caught in the amber glow of the lamps. Whiskey glasses clinked. Someone laughed too loud near the bar and was hushed by the sound of a piano warming up, keys pressed slow and curious. The air was thick with perfume, sweat, food, anticipation. Something expectant.

Stack stepped onto the edge of the stage, already half drunk, jacket slung loose, grin easy and dangerous, “Alright now!” he said, voice cutting clean through the room, “I want y’all to listen up!” 

The crowd quieted. Not fully. But enough.

“This here,” Stack continued, reaching back and catching Sammie by the shoulder, pulling him forward into the light, “is my cousin. Fresh‑turned twenty. Fresh outta school. Preacher’s boy from the Delta, but don’t let that fool you.”

Laughter rolled through the room.

“He gon’ show you somethin’ tonight!” 

Delta Slim slapped the piano with delight, “Show these folk how bad a blues man you are, boy!”

Sammie stepped forward. The guitar felt heavier than it ever had. Not because of the wood. It was because of what pressed into his chest when he touched it. He hadn’t played yet, but something in the room had shifted. It was like stepping into deep water without realizing the tide had come in. His breath caught. Just once. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, fingers brushing the worn grain of the guitar Smoke and Stack had given him years ago. Their daddy’s guitar. Passed down not as inheritance, but as permission.

Sammie swallowed. He didn’t know why his hands were shaking. He only knew he needed to play.

Somewhere near the bar, Violet stilled. Her laugh died in her throat as if someone had closed a door inside her chest. A chill ran clean down her spine, sharp enough to make her press her fingers into the edge of the table.

She frowned.

She had seen this before. Not like this—not the room, not the faces—but this feeling. The pull. The hush before sound changed things. She leaned closer to Smoke without knowing why, eyes fixed on Sammie like the answer was waiting in his hands.

Across the room, Liza June had already gone quiet. She stood near the wall, white lace gloves folded together at her waist, head tilted slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear. Her breath slowed. Her pupils widened.

They were arriving. Not crashing in. Not screaming.

Just…stepping closer.

The first chord rang out. Low. Open. True. The guitar didn’t just sound—it opened. Sammie’s shoulders dropped as if something had settled into him. His fingers moved before he thought to tell them how. The notes bent, stretched, cried. Not polished. Not practiced. Real. And when he sang, his voice didn’t strain.

It carried.

🎶Somethin’ I been wantin’ to tell you for a long time…I was just a boy, ’bout eight years old…🎶 

The room leaned forward.

Liza June sucked in a sharp breath.

Louisa Fields stood near the edge of the stage, small and solemn, bare feet not quite touching the floor. Thirteen forever. Watching Sammie like she recognized him. Behind her, the Harris twins appeared together— Mary Elizabeth and Melvine Grace—hands clasped, dresses identical, eyes bright with something between sorrow and relief. Clarene Bell lingered near the piano, fingers brushing the air as if remembering how it felt to sing. Her mouth trembled when Sammie’s voice cracked, just a little. Larissa Boone stood farther back, arms crossed, head tilted, approval sharp and quiet. Forty‑two years old and still unbowed.

And then the room deepened.

Cressida Weatherford arrived without sound.

She did not drift. She did not fade. She stood. Hands strong. Scarred. Alive with memory. Her palms glowed faintly—not light, not color—but knowing. She moved through the room slowly, the way women do when they know everyone must make space for them. Her eyes passed over the patrons, the dancers, the men with money and the women with laughter clutched tight to their ribs.

And then she stopped.

Marigold.

Cressida hovered just behind her, hands near her shoulders but never touching. Close enough to warm the air. Close enough to remind the blood what it remembered.

Liza June’s knees almost buckled. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Golden‑handed.

The words did not echo. They settled.

Cressida lifted her head and looked straight at Liza June. Not through her. At her. Liza swallowed hard, eyes burning, a smile trembling at the corner of her mouth like she’d been waiting her whole life to be seen.

Sammie kept playing. He didn’t know why his eyes burned. Didn’t know why the room felt bigger than it had any right to be.

🎶They say the truth hurts, so I lie to you…🎶 

Somewhere, someone cried and didn’t know why. Past, present, and future pressed close—ancestors of the room, shadows of what had been lost, outlines of what was still to come. They filled the corners, the rafters, the space between bodies.

The music held them. And then there was movement near the back.

Cressida turned.

Her attention shifted like a tide finding a new shore.

Greater Calvary Holy Temple Church of Deliverance

1929

A house of God on the outside. A house of control, secrecy, and slow corruption on the inside.

It sits brazenly just across the narrow lane, a high-steepled white building with iron-cross fencing and fresh lilies at the steps. From the pulpit, you can see The Blackline, its high windows often glowing amber at night, blues leaking through to tempt. 

 Great Calvary sat under the Arkansas moon, high vaulted ceilings with exposed wood beams that resemble a ribcage. Inside, the sanctuary echoed with nothing but the faintest creak of floorboards as Sister Marigold Baptiste moved through the back room, her arms stacked with dog-eared Bibles, some with notes scribbled in the margins. The smell of polished wood and incense lingered within the sanctuary. She was alone—or so she thought—arranging the holy books in the pews, her starched, high-neck dress whispering against her thighs with every step. Her honey-brown skin gleamed, her thick coils pinned tight, posture ramrod straight as always with her chin tucked and elbows close. Her fingers fumbled at the edges of a Bible, betraying the knot in her gut. 

The back room door swung open with a low groan and there he was—Elias ‘Stack’ Moore filling the frame like a shadow come to life. Tall, and broad, his deep brown skin stretched over muscles honed from Delta fields, French trenches, and Chicago back alleys. He wore a sharp, silk vest over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show corded forearms, pomade-slick hair neatly laid. That bay rum cologne cut through bold and unrepentant as he stepped in, letting the door ease shut behind him. His full lips curved into a knowing smirk, eyes dark and penetrating, locking on her like she was the only sin worth chasing. 

“Miss Marigold,” Stack drawled, voice low and gravel-rough, that southern lingo wrapping around her name, Missisippi roots tangled with Capone’s edge, “what you doin’ hidin’ back here in the Lord’s closet this late?” 

Marigold froze, bible clutched to her breasts, warm brown eyes flicking up then away quickly. A hard swallow worked down her long, elegant throat, “Stack, you can’t be here,” Marigold hissed, voice hushed but sharp, setting the book down with trembling hands. She fiddled with the top button of her blouse, steps small as she backed away, “Somebody might show up. The deacons, the old sisters from choir. Or worse, my husband. Get on out before—”

Stack chuckled deep and dismissive, closing the distance in two easy strides, his polished shoes silent on the worn floor. Towering over her now, he crowded her space, the heat from his body radiating through her dress. 

“Don’t give a damn who shows, sugar. Let ‘em come. Deacons can pray on it, them dried-up old women can yap gums ‘til they jaws ache, and that preacher husband of yours? He don’t know how to give his woman what she deserve anyway. Limp-dick fool preachin’ fire while you burnin’ up inside.” 

Marigold’s breath hitched high in her chest, knees knocking softly as she pressed back against the door, hips trying to stay church-straight but softening just a touch, “This ain’t the place, Stack. I’m tellin’ you to leave. We can’t—”

“You hidin’ again,” Stack cut in, voice dipping lower, that slick talk turning hard, his thick frame boxing her in. He reached out, big hand planting on the pew beside her hip, leaning close enough she could feel the warmth and softness of his full lips brushing her ear, “Two weeks you been dodgin’ me, actin’ like The Blackline’s poison. Like what we got ain’t worth the risk. I’m sick of it, Marigold,” Stack emphasized his words with a pointed finger, “I ain’t sick of chasin’ behind that big ol’ ass but I know you feelin’ it too. Look at them thighs. Shaking.” 

Marigold pushed at his chest, palms flat against the silk of his vest, but her tough lingered a beat too long, eyes glossy and flustered, “I ain’t hidin’ I got duties, a life—”

“Shut your mouth ‘fore I get in my knees right here and turn that lil’ attitude into somethin’ sweeter, change that tone easy with my lips suckin’ on that pussy. Go on wit’ that tone…I know just how to quiet it down,” Stack growled, words vulgar and raw, his dark eyes boring into hers. He meant it—oh, he meant every filthy syllable. That thick tongue of his flicked over his full lips, his curved dick twitching in his trousers at the thought. 

The words hit her like a slap, stilling her cold. Her fussing fingers dropped, breath lifting sharp, eyes widening as that slow warmth crept up her throat. Marigold swallowed hard, the fight draining from her plush lips as they parted on a silent gasp. Him being in that space made the back room feel smaller, the holy weight of the place twisting into something profane under his gaze. 

Stack pressed closer, his body flush against hers now, one hand sliding to her waist, gripping the soft give there through her dress. His other hand cupped her chin, thumb tracing her kiss-swollen lower lip, forcing her to meet his eyes. 

“Been two weeks since I had them pussy lips in my mouth, sugar,” Stack whispered, voice a low rumble, breath tickling her face, “two weeks without that sweet twang on my tongue, that wild bush ticklin’ my nose while I lap you up. I’m tired of daydreamin’ like some lovesick schoolboy, jerkin’ my thick dick to the memory when I can just bend you over one of these pews right now, hike up that skirt, and wiggle my tongue deep in it proper. Make you forget all ‘bout sin and straighten up.” 

Marigold’s hips softened into curves against him, voice dropping to a husky contralto as resistance cracked. The tension coiled tight, church silence broken only by their ragged breaths. 

Stack’s chuckle rumbled low against her skin, a dark vibration that sent shivers racing down her spine. He leaned in, plush lips brushing the elegant line of her neck, planting slow kisses that trailed fire along her honey-brown flesh. He guided her backwards step by step until her plush hips bumped the edge of the table stacked with hymnals and Bibles. The books and papers shifted, pages fluttering like startled birds scattering across the wooden surface as her ass nudged them aside. 

Marigold’s breath hitched sharp in her throat, a desperate gasp escaping her parted lips. Her hands clutched at Stack’s vest, fingers twisting the silk, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer, “Stack…Stack…Elias—” Marigold pleaded, her voice a husky whisper laced with panic and desire, her warm brown eyes darting to the door as if expecting the knob to turn any second. 

He shushed her with a firm press of his mouth lower, lips sucking gently at the pulse point on her throat and his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of her flushing skin. His hands slid up her sides, thumbs hooking under the swell of her full breasts, cupping them through the starched fabric of her dress. Stack squeezed, feeling the heavy weight yield in his palms, her nipples hardening into tight peaks that poked against his touch. 

“No, no, no, now…it’s daddy,” Stack whispered against her collarbone, his voice thick and commanding, “And you gon’ learn not to keep my food away from me, woman. Two weeks of that sweet cooze starvin’ me—ain’t happenin’ no more.” 

Before Marigold could muster another protest, Stack’s arms hooked under her thighs, lifting her clean off the floor with ease. She yelped soft, legs wrapping instinctive around his wait as he hoisted her up, her round ass settling on the table’s edge. Hymns toppled to the floor in a cascade, spines cracking open like confessions spilled. Stack dropped to his knees between her legs, the worn wood of the back room floor biting into the threading of his trousers but he didn’t care, his focus locked on her, his dark eyes gleaming with hunger. 

Stack’s hands gripped the hem of her skirt, bunching the stiff fabric up her thick thighs exposing the taut pull of her stockings clinging to her satin-smooth skin. He hooked fingers into the garters, snapping them loose with a quick tug, then rolled the thick nylons down agonizingly slow, peeling them off her calves and over her delicate ankles. There was no cool air with that church, but the sensation of his fingers against her skin raised goose flesh along her inner thighs, but the real heat came from his breath fanning higher. Her drawls came into view next, simple cotton panties, what and modest, but damp at the crotch and clinging to the outline of her full pussy lips. The coily hairs of her bush spilled from the sides like a tease. 

Stack’s palms slid up her thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft, dimpled flesh at the tops, forcing her legs wider. He spread her open, knees nudging her heels apart until her feet dangled off the table’s edge, high arches flexing in her sturdy heels. 

“Obadiah come bargin’ in right now and see his wife gettin’ her pussy ate up like a proper feast, what ya’ think he gon’ do?” Stack taunted, voice slick and vulgar, lips curling into a wicked grin as he started up at her flushed face, “that limp preacher drop to his knees and pray? Or watch me tongue-fuck you ‘til you squirt all over these holy books?” 

Marigold bit her lower lip hard, plush Cupid’s bow glossy with her spit, stifling the moan building in her chest. Her hands gripped the table’s edge behind her, knuckles flexing as she fought to keep quiet. The empty church amplified every rustle, every ragged inhale. But her body betrayed her, hips shifting forward just a fraction, thighs quivering under his hold. 

Stack didn’t waist another breath on words. His rough fingers hooked into the leg of her panties, yanking the fabric to the side with a rip of cotton. Her wet bush spilled free, thick black curls matted with arousal and framing the swollen brown of her pussy lips parting slick and eager. Stack admired it all, his eyes devouring the sight—her clit peeking swollen from its hood, the inner folds glistening with that familiar twang he craved, dripping slow onto the table beneath her. 

“Look at this pretty mess,”he growled, thumbs stroking her outer lips to spread her wider, exposing the tight entrance clenching around nothing, “All soaked and waitin’ fo daddy’s mouth. Been neglectin’ this pussy too long. Time to make it sing.” 

Stack’s head dipped forward, nose burying first into her bush, inhaling deep the musky scent of her arousal mixed with lye soap and faint vanilla. Then, his tongue lashed out, flat and broad, licking a long stripe up her juicy slit from bottom to top, gathering her mess and his spit on the flat of it. Marigold’s back bowed off the table, a choked whimper escaping despite her bitten lip, thighs clamping instinctive around his ears. Stack groaned into her, the vibration humming against her clit as he sucked it between his lips, that lethal tongue circling the nub with filthy precision—flicking, swirling, pressing hard enough to make her hips buck. 

Stack ate Marigold like a man starved, mouth working relentless, lips sealed around her folds to suckle deep, tongue plunging into her hole to fuck her shallow and wet, goatee slick with her cream. One hand pinned her thigh wider, the other snaked up to pinch her nipple through her dress, twisting just enough to draw another muffled cry. The table creaked beneath her weight, her body writhing, more Bibles tumbling to the floor, pages splaying open to versus of temptation and fall. His mouth didn’t stop lapping her up, humming approval as her pussy clenched and wept onto his tongue, her quiet please turning into desperate gasps. 

“Daddy…oh, please…” 

Stack’s tongue delved deeper into Marigold’s slick folds, lapping at the creamy essence coating her inner walls with hungry, insistent strokes. He then dragged his tongue between her folds with a thick swipe before sucking her clit between his full lips, tugging gently before releasing it with a wet pop, only to dive back in, fucking her hole with the pointed tip of his tongue. Marigold’s thighs clamped tighter around his head, the muscles in her thighs flexing as she writhed on the table, her plush ass sliding against the scattered hymnals, smearing faint ink from open pages onto her skin. One of her hands flew to his slick hair, fingernails scratching at the nape of his neck where the hairs began to curl from sweat and new growth. Her trembling fingers flattened against his neck, drawing him closer even as her hips bucked erratically, refusing to hold still under his assault. 

“Gahdamn, baby,” Stack rasped against her wet ass pussy, the words vibrating and mumbling through her core as he pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot and ragged on her dripping slit, “You this wet for me, baby? Pussy weepin’ like a Delta flood, soakin’ my chin with all that sweet juice. Been holdin’ out on daddy, but look at ya’ now…gushin’ like you ain’t had a proper lickin’ in months,” Stack plunged two thick, ringed fingers inside her, curling them to stroke that spongy spot deep within, pumping slow and with a curl of his fingers while his lips latched onto her clit again, sucking hard enough to make her back now off the scratched wood. 

Marigold’s free hand clawed at the table edge, her almond shaped nails scraping the grain as another King James Version tumbled to the floor with a heavy thump. Her thick, buttery soft thighs squeezed his ears, trapping him in the vise of her legs, but she couldn’t stop squirming—hips grinding forward to chase his tongue, then jerking back as the pleasure bordered on too much. A low, throaty moan escaped her bitten lip, warm brown eyes squeezing shut, thickly, dense hair loosening from their pins to cascade wild over her shoulders. 

“Elias…oh, Lord…it’s—it’s too—” Marigold gasped, void breaking into a whimper but her body betrayed her words, pressing her soaked pussy harder against his face. 

Stack chuckled into her, the sound muffled by her bush, sending fresh tremors through her clit. Those fingers scissored inside her clenching channel. Stack withdrew his mouth to growl.

“Too what, woman? Too good? This fat pussy’s tellin’ a different story clenchin’ on my fingers. You been dreamin’ of this tongue while that preacher husband snore beside you, ain’t you? Soaked through ya’ drawls just thinkin’ ‘bout daddy eatin’ ya’ out in the house of the Lord,” Stack flattened his tongue and dragged it up her slit again, savoring the flood of arousal spilling from her, then sealed his lips around her hole to suckle the nectar directly, humming deep in his throat as her thighs quivered and tightened anew. 

Marigold’s writing intensified, legs locking around him like she aimed to crush his skull, but Stack held firm, one arm banding across her lower belly to pin her hips down while his free hand kneaded the soft flesh of her inner thigh. He finger-fucked her faster now, knuckles bumping spots inside her she never knew existed with each thrust, his mouth relentless—licking, sucking, nibbling the swollen lips until they throbbed a coral pink and slickened to his liking. 

“That’s it, baby, ride my fuckin’ face,” Stack urged between laps, voice thick with lust and that gravelly drawl, “let it out…drown me in this hot mess you savin’ just for me. Ain’t no hidin’ now, this pussy’s mine and I’m gon’ drink every drop till you shake.” 

Marigold’s resistance shattered further, her body undulating wildly, thighs gripping and releasing in rhythm with his tongue’s thrusts. Sweat beaded on her honey-brown skin, flushing her neck and chest as she teetered on the edge, the profane symphony of wet smacks and her stifled cries echoing softly in the shadowed back room. 

Stack pulled back from Marigold’s drenched folds, his goatee glistening with her slick arousal, dark eyes locking onto hers with a stern glare that cut through the dim room light. His pomade-slicked hair, conked smooth and shiny from the jar of Murray’s he kept in his pocket, stayed perfectly in place despite the grip of her thighs moments before. 

“Cut all that damn squirming, woman,” he commanded, voice low and gravelly, laced with that Delta drawl sharpened by Chicago streets, “you gon’ hold still for daddy now, or we gon’ have problems.” 

Marigold’s chest heaved, full breasts straining against the starched bodice as she met his gaze, warm brown eyes wide and flickering with a mix of defiance and need. But, she nodded shakily, biting the corner of her plush lower lip. With trembling fingers, she hooked her heels onto the table’s edge, drawing her knees up and spreading her thick thighs wider, the satin inner skin quivering in the humid air. She scooted forward inch by inch, her plush ass sliding to the very end of the scarred wooden surface until her soaked drawls—pushed aside earlier—dangled precariously from one knee. Her hands fumbled with the hem of her long skirt, bunching the heavy fabric up over her legs and settling it around her waist, exposing the wild bush framing her swollen pussy lips puffy and slick from his earlier attentions. 

“Elias,” Marigold whispered urgently, voice a hushed plea as she glanced towards the shadowed door leading to the nave, “you gotta be quiet ‘fore somebody come find us. Obadiah’s could be prayin’ up front, and them deaconesses…Lord, if they hear…”  her words trailed off into a soft gasp, thighs twitching with the vulnerability of her position. 

Stack’s full lips curved into a wicked chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his broad chest as he rose slightly on his knees between her spread legs, his massive frame dwarfing the table, “Quiet? Shit, Sister, maybe them church women need to see what it’s like to get your pussy licked proper. Ain’t nothin’ taboo ‘bout suckin’ on some sweet cooze like a oxtail bone…” he peppered kisses along her inner thighs, still holding that dimpled smile, “slow…deep..till I make it flood,” he leaned in closer, breath fanning her exposed clit, making it throb visibly. 

Marigold’s hand shot out, palm connecting with his muscled shoulder in a sharp slap, the sound echoing softly off the paneled walls. Her cheeks flushed deeper, a mix of scandal and lingering piety flashing in her eyes. 

“Elias Moore, you watch that filthy mouth,” she hissed, though her voice cracked with the heat building low in her belly. 

Stack didn’t flinch, he just grinned wider, catching her wrist gently but firmly in his large hand, thumb stroking the pulse point there.

“You can slap me all damn day, woman, but we both know you want me to keep goin’. This pussy’s beggin’ fo it…drippin’ down ya’ thighs like honey from the comb,” to prove his point, he released her wrist and dipped his head, tongue flicking out to trace a slow, teasing line along her inner thigh, lapping up the trail of her arousal. 

Marigold’s breath hitched, and as he moved to bury his face back in her cooze, she bratty-clamped her thighs shut again, trapping his shoulders between the soft, powerful vise of her legs. A playful glint sparked in her eyes, even as her body betrayed her with fresh wetness seeping from her slit. 

Stack froze, then lifted his head, fixing her with a warning look that darkened his deep brown eyes to near black, jaw set like he was staring down a rival bootlegger. His free hand drifted to the leather belt cinched at his waist, fingers hovering over the buckle. 

“You want me to take this belt off, Marigold? Bend you over this here table and stripe that fat ass till you learn to open wide when daddy say so?” 

The threat hung heavy, laced with promise, and Marigold’s defiance crumbled under the weight of it. Her thighs parted slowly, trembling as she exposed herself fully again, pussy lips parting slightly to reveal the creamy pink within, clit peeking out swollen. She knew that the next phase of what he was about to deliver would have her bucking and writhing through the Chitlin Circuit. 

“No…please, Elias,” she whispered, voice small and compliant, hands clutching the bunched skirt like a lifeline. 

Satisfied, Stack’s stern expression softened into predatory hunger, That’s my good girl,” but for her little rebellion, he amped it up, second to devour her on a whole other level. He gripped her thighs harder, thumbs digging into the plush flesh to hold her splayed open, and dove in like a man starved. His tongue plunged straight into her entrance, thick and insistent, fucking in and out with rapid, shallow thrusts that mimicked his fat dick, scooping out her gushing justices with each withdrawal. Then, he shifted, sealing his full lips between her hairy bush, latching onto her clit and inner lips, sucking, drawing that juicy flesh into the wet heat of his mouth in one voracious pull, humming low so the vibrations rattled through her bones. 

Marigold was shook to her core, body jolting like she’d been struck by lightning, back arching off the table as strangled cry escaped her throat. No more writing defiance, now she was pinned by the sheer intensity, thighs quivering but held wide by his iron grip, hips unable to do anything but accept the onslaught. Stack tightened the grip on one thigh and the fingers of his other hand joined the fray, two thick digits shoving deep into her clenching channel, twisting and pumping with brutal precision, knuckles grinding against her walls and his tongue flicking her clit, lashing relentlessly, circling her sensitive pearl until it pulsed like he was strumming a Gibson L-1. 

“Fuck, baby,” Stack growled against her, words muffled but vibrating straight to her womb, pulling back only to spit on her pussy before diving back in, slurping noisily at the mess he’d made, “tighten up on these fingers—yeah, just like that. Gon’ make this pussy gush for me, flood my mouth till I can’t swallow fast enough,” he curled his fingers inside her, stroking that ridged spot with expert pressure, his mouth a blur of licks and sucks. 

Marigold had no choice but to comply, her world narrowing to the ferocious assault between her thighs that stayed spread, feet digging into the table’s edge for leverage as waves of pleasure crashed over her, building to a shattering peak. Her hands flew to her mouth to muffle the moans, but her body surrenders fully, pussy fluttering and gushing around his invading tongue and fingers, lost in the profan e worship of his mouth. 

Her arms buckled under her own weight as the pressure coiled tighter in her core, and she leaned back on her elbow atop the scarred wooden table, the stack of hymnals shifting precariously beneath her plush hips. Her honey-brown skin flushed hot across her chest and up her elegant neck, that long column Stack fixated on so often now quivering with each ragged breath. The starched fabric of her bodice clung sample to her full, heavy breasts, nipples peaked and straining like dark berries against the cotton. Her waist twisted, soft lower belly—his ‘sweet cushion’—tensed and released in waves.

It hit her like a freight train barreling through the quiet night, her orgasm ripping through her body without mercy, purely physical and overwhelming, no room for thought or piety in the blaze. Her warm brown eyes squeezed shut, lashes fluttering wildly against her cheeks while her plush, Cupid’s bow parted in a silent scream that quickly shattered into sound. Her face contorted in raw ecstasy, brows furrowed deep, forehead creased with the intensity, a sheen of sweat beading along her hairline where those thick strands of dark hair had begun to loosen from their pins, a few strands sticking to her temple. Her mouth hung open, tongue darting out to wet her kiss-swollen lips as the pleasure peaked, cheeks hollowing with the force of her gasps. 

Marigold’s body betrayed every secret she’d ever hidden under that conservative shell, thighs clamping down around Stack’s broad shoulders, satin inner skin silk and trembling as her pussy clenched hard around his curling fingers. She felt it all—deep, rhythmic twitches starting from her swollen clit, radiating out in electric pulses that made her wide hips buck involuntarily, generous, dimpled ass lifting off the table’s edge. Gushes of her arousal flooded his mouth, hot and copious, soaking his chin and dripping down his neck. She could sense the wet rush of it, the way her inner walls spasmed an released in forceful squirts that coated his lips and tongue, wild bush matted and glistening. Her pliant belly quivered and her full breasts heaved with each convulsion, the heavy undersides brushing against Stack’s hand that held her firm against her upper torso, her body arching and rolling deep like she was riding a bawdy blues symphony. Every nerve was alight from her high-arched feet curling tight in the air to the nape of her neck prickling with goose flesh. 

Sounds tore from her throat unbidden, husky and broken, her voice thickening into that intimate melt she’d only ever let loose with him.

“Ahh…ohh…mmmph!” The moans spilled out low at first, a throaty rumble building to sharper cries, “hah! Nngh!” Muffled only when she bit down on her lower lip, but even then, the whimpers escaped, wet and needy, echoing softly off the paneled walls like forbidden hymns. 

Stack didn’t let up, his face buried in her gushing pussy, tongue lashing gluttonous at her twitching clit while his thick fingers pumped deeper, knuckles grinding her slick folds. He swallowed her down greedily, the obscene slurps mixing with her cries, his deep brown eyes like whiskey in a highball flicking up to watch her unravel. 

Pulling back just enough to let his breath ghost over her pulsing entrance, he whispered rough and commanding, “you like that, Sister? Tell daddy how this pussy feelin’—tight and throbbin’ f’me?” 

She could barely form words through the aftershocks, her body still twitching under his touch, inner thighs quivering as another wave built from the friction of his mouth, “E-Elias…it—it’s—so full…” her voice came out breathy and instinctual, words melting together in the slow, husky cadence, eyes cracking open to meet his gaze, glossy with overwhelmn. 

Stack hummed approval against her, the vibration sending sparks through her, and dove back in, sucking on her inner folds before flicking his tongue rapid-fire over her clit, “that’s right, baby—tell me more. This fat clit jumpin’ like it can’t get enough? You gon’ give me another flood?” 

Marigold’s elbows slipped further, her back bowing as the questions pulled confessions from her lips, each one stoking the fire anew. Her face twisted again, that scandalous flush creeping down her cleavage, mouth falling open wider as the second climax barreled toward her. She felt it gathering low, her pussy fluttering wildly around his invading fingers, the hush building pressure until it burst. 

“Lord—Elias—gracious!—” the words tumbled out in a desperate prayer twisted profane, her voice cracking into a wail as she came again, harder this time, body seizing in rigid bliss. Her moans spelled out the surrender, “ooooh…aaaahhhh! Mmm—hah!—yes…” long and drawn, they rolled from her chest, husky and unrestrained, peaking in sharp bursts that she couldn’t stifle, “eeeh! Eeeh!” Her hand flying to her mouth too late. Twitches racked her frame, pussy contracting in fierce pulses that squirted more of her essence into his waiting mouth, the sensation of it leaving her—wet, endless—making her hips jerk erratically. 

Marigold’s thick thighs shook, plush and satin-soft against his ears while her stomach clenched, breasts bouncing with the force of her arch, nipples aching. Every inch of her skin prickled, the dimples at her lower back pressing into the wood as she rode the peak, lost in the profane rhythm of his tongue never stopping, lapping and sucking through the deluge like he owned every drop. 

Stack growled low, words vibrating straight into her pussy as he kept going, fingers twisting to hit thst spot while his lips sealed around her clit for another deep pull, “keep cummin’ for me, Marigold—let it all out. You feel that? Daddy’s gon’ drink you dry tonight,” he didn’t relent, pushing her further into the haze. 

Stack eased back at last, his tongue giving one final, lingering swipe along Marigold’s quivering slit before he rose to his full height between her spread thighs. His deep brown skin glistened faintly, chin and lips shiny with her release, that slicked hair still impeccable as ever. He stood there, broad shoulders filling the space, silk vest hugging his muscled chest, eyes raking over her like she was the finest bootleg whiskey he’d ever uncorked. Her thick hair had tumbled free during the frenzy, framing her flushed face in a wild halo, dark and heavy against the table. The top buttons of her blouse had popped loose in her thrashing—two, maybe three—baring the slick, heaving mounds of her breasts, dark nipples hard and pebbled, rising with each panting breath. Lower down, her hairy pussy sat exposed and pretty, lips swollen and parted, clenching in aftershocks, a trail of her cream smeared across the inner satin of her thighs and pooling on the wood beneath her plush ass. 

Stack adjusted his trousers with a low chuckle, the thick bulge of his dick straining obvious against the fabric, but he made no move to free it yet, “I needed that,” Stack drawled, voice rough and satisfied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before leaning in closer, hands bracing on either side of her hips, “you learn ya’ lesson not to keep my food away from me? That sweet drippin’ pussy been starvin’ me too long.” 

Marigold rolled her eyes, a spark of her defiance flickering through the haze, but as she pushed up on shaky elbows, her gaze dropped to the mess they’d wrought. The table was a scandal, hymnals askew, a damp spot blooming where her gushes had soaked through, her stockings bunched at her ankles like fallen prayers. Panic flashed in her brown eyes, pupils wide as she swallowed hard, fingers fumbling to tug her skirt down over the evidence. 

“Elias…Lord have mercy, look at this, if anyone finds—”

Stack cut her off with a smirk, fishing a crisp handkerchief from his vest pocket—monogrammed, smelling of his bay rum cologne. He dabbed it gently across her forehead first, then down her neck, soaking up the sweat that beaded along her collarbone and between her exposed cleavage. The cloth whispered over her skin, tracing the flush that lingered on her honey-brown curves.

“Hush, now, baby. Daddy’s got ya’ cleaned up. Ain’t nobody comin’ in here ‘Cody the ghosts of ya’ sermons,” he tucked a stray hair behind her ear, his touch lingering, thumb brushing her kiss-swollen lips. His eyes darkened as he straightened, that commanding edge sharpening, “you comin’ to see me tonight? Or I gotta wait another two weeks for some more of you? Can’t have my woman playin’ hide-and-seek like this.” 

Her breath fell in uneven heaves, full breasts shifting with the effort, her curvy waist slick with perspiration. Propping herself higher, she shook her head, voice coming out husky and winded, laced with that conflicted pull, “Elias…Obadiah says he’s got important meetings with the male congregation, so he’ll be home. I can’t sneak out—not tonight, not with him watchin’ like a hawk,” her thighs pressed together instinctively, hiding the ache he’d left throbbing between them, eyes flicking away from his intense stare, fiddling with a loose button on her bodice. 

Stack’s jaw tightened, that easy satisfaction hardening into something unyielding, his big hands gripping the table’s edge hard enough to creak the wood. He wasn’t havin’ it—not her excuses, not the preacher’s shadow creeping back in, “Bullshit, Marigold. You think Obadiah’s meetings mean a damn thing to me? That limp-dick fool don’t own your nights no more,” he crowded closer, own hand sliding up her inner thigh, fingers teasing the edge of her wild bush, voice dropping to a gravelly growl, “you gon’ slip out that window like I know you want to, or do I gotta come fetch you myself? ‘Cause I will, baby—drag you right outta that parsonage bed if I have to, make you ride this dick till you forget his holy name.” His thumb circled her still-sensitive clit once, just to punctuate, watching her shiver and bite her lip, “tell me you comin’. Don’t make me ask twice.” 

Marigold’s hesitation hung between them, her brown eyes flickering with that familiar war—want clashing against the chains of her vows, her breath still ragged from the way he devoured her. She bit her lower lip, plush and swollen from earlier bites, fingers twisting into the fabric of her skirt as she tried to summon the will to deny him. But, before the words could form, a distant commotion echoed from the front of the church—muffled voices, the creak of the heavy oak doors, footsteps shuffling like spirits in the nave. Maybe late-night parishioners, or Obadiah’s deacons wrapping up some prayer circle. Her body went rigid, heart slamming against her ribs, those full breasts heaving under the half-undone blouse as she froze. 

Stack heard it too, his head tilting slightly, that sharp gaze darting toward the door for a split second. But, he didn’t flinch—nah, this was his territory now, even in the joys of the Lord. He wanted her commitment, wanted to hear the surrender spill from those kiss-bruised lips. With a low suck of his teeth—sharp and impatient, like a man denied his due—he stepped back just enough to give her space, his big hands dropping to his belt. The buckle clinked softly, leather whispering as he unfastened it, then tugged down the zipper of his trousers. No hesitation, no tease, Stack reached in and hauled out his dick, thick and heavy, the curved length springing free into the dim light. It bobbed once, veins ridged along the dark shaft, the fat head glistening with a bead of precum, full balls hanging low beneath. Nine inches of raw, inhabitable want, curving slightly upward like it was made to hit the deepest spots, the scent of his musk cutting through the stale incense of the room. 

“No?” Stack rumbled, voice dropping, one hand wrapping loosely around the base as he gave it a slow stroke, watching her reaction, “you won’t sneak out for this baby? Won’t slip away from that cold bed just to let me bury this fat dick in that tight, hairy pussy of yours?” He pumped his fist once more, the motion slick and unhurried, his eyes locked on her face, daring her to look away. 

Marigold’s gaze dropped instantly, snared like a moth to flame, her breath catching in her throat with a visible swallow. She couldn’t tear her eyes from it, trance-like, pupils dilating as she took in every inch: the way it throbbed in his grip, the dark skin stretched taut over the girth, how it matched the power in his broad frame. Her knees knocked softly together, hips shifting on the table edge, that wild bush between her legs growing damp again despite the fear prickling her skin. The commotion outside faded to a mutter but she barely registered it, her world narrowed to him, to that commanding presence and the promise of what it could do to her. Fingers fumbled at the buttons, popping another one loose without thought, baring more of her heavy breasts. 

Stack’a lips curved into a sly grin, stepping closer again, his free hand reaching out to tilt her chin up with a firm thumb and forefinger. He let her stare a beat longer, savoring how she melted under the sight. 

“That’s right, baby. Look at what you denyin’. This dick been achin’ for you, thick and ready to stretch you wide, make you cream all over it till you can’t walk straight. You gon’ tell me no to that? Or you gon’ say yes, baby—say you’ll be at my door tonight…legs spread and beggin’ for daddy to fuck you proper?” His voice was a low command, thumb brushing her lower lip, parting it slightly as he waited, the heat from his body washing over her.

Stack’s thumb lingered on her lower lip, pressing just enough to feel the soft give of it, his eyes boring into hers like he could peel back every layer she’d wrapped around herself. Marigold’s breath hitched, a tear slipping free to trace down her cheek, warm and unchecked. His words hung heavy between them. 

“See that?” Stack whispered, voice gravel-low, his free hand sliding to cup the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the thick strands of her hair at the nape—his spot, where he could tilt her head just so, “them tears ain’t from shame, Marigold. Nah, that’s the real you fightin’ to get out. You don’t want them sons washed away, do you? You want ‘em soaked deep, let ‘em stain you proper till you can’t pretend no more.” 

She swallowed, throat working under his grip, another tear following the first, her lush breasts rising and falling quick against the starched front of her blouse. His body heat pressed closer, hard dick resting against her inner thigh as he leaned in, lips nearly grazing her ear.

“Tired of it, ain’t you? Playin’ that model of modesty, all buttoned up and denyin’ what ya’ body’s screaming for. Self-denial? That’s a cage, baby, and you been locked in it too long—hips swayin’ when you walk, pussy gettin’ wet just from my voice. But they won’t let you want it, will they? Won’t let you feel that ache build till it hurts, till you need to cum hard, squirtin’ and shakin’ like the woman you are. No…you gotta hold it all in, smile real pretty for the flock while ya’ clit throbs empty.” 

Marigold’s lips parted on a soft whimper, tears streaming freer now, her hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as his words sank in, cracking the facade she’d built so carefully. She felt exposed, raw, the truth of it twisting in her gut like a sweet ache, years of restraint bubbling up, her thick thighs pressing together instinctively, slickness gathering between them.

Stack pulled back just enough to meet her gaze again, his thumb swiping a tear from her cheek, smearing it like a mark of ownership, “but under all that image you uphold? The perfect wife, the saintly shadow? There’s fire, Marigold. A woman who needs to ride this dick, grind them thick hips down till she milks every drop. Let that frustration out—bounce on me, ass clappin’, tits heavin’ free. No more holdin’ back. You can cum like you should, loud and messy, pussy clenchin’ tight while I fill you up. That’s the real you, baby. Say it—tell me you want it, or I’ll make you beg for it right here.” 

Her body trembled, tears blurring her vision, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers tightened on him, a silent fracture in her resolve as his truths stripped her bare.

The walls seemed to blur at the edges, the lights flickering like candle flames in a draft, as if the room itself were breathing with her quickened pulse. Marigold’s mind reeled—this couldn’t be real, could it? The echo of footsteps from the other side of the door swelled, pounding like a heartbeat too loud to ignore, vibrating through the walls and into her bones. Each step closer, heavier, surreal. Her tears fell faster, hot trails down her cheeks, her body caught between the iron grip of fear and a treacherous pull deep in her core, that hidden part of her whispering to lean in, to shatter the chains she’d worn so long. 

Stack’s hand stayed firm at her neck, thumb teaching the frantic beat in her throat, his breath against her skin as the footsteps thundered nearer. His eyes locked on hers, stripping her further with every word. 

“Listen to that, Sister,” he growled low, voice cutting through the room like the blade in his boot, “them footsteps comin’ for you, echoin’ all your buried wants. You scared? Good. That fear’s just the lock rattlin’ before it breaks. But deep down, you ain’t runnin’—you waitin’ to spread them thighs and let me bury this dick so deep you forget your own name. You don’t want them sons scrubbed clean, baby. Nah, you crave ‘em rubbed in, thick and sticky, till your pussy’s drippin’ with the truth of what you are.” 

The steps boomed louder, shaking the table, the Bibles, her very resolve—closer now, as if an unseen congregation marched toward judgment, or salvation, or something twisted between. Marigold’s chest heaved, nipples hardening traitorously under the fabric. Fear clawed at her throat, visions of her husband’s stern gaze, the church pews filled with watchful eyes, but beneath it, heat pooled low, her thick hips shifting unconsciously, aching to grind against him, to release the storm she’d bottled for years.

Stack leaned closer, lips brushing her ear, his free hand sliding down to grip her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, pulling her flush against the rigid length of his dick pressing closer, “tired of that bullshit modesty, ain’t you? Starvin’ yourself of what a woman like you built for—wantin’ hard, feelin’ every filthy inch, cummin’ till ya legs shake. But they got you chained, don’t they? Smilin’ sweet while your clit’s beggin’ for a tongue, go fingers stretchin’ you open, for a poundin’ that leave you raw and satisfied. You ain’t allowed to ride, to buck them hips wild and take what ya’ need. But fuck that image you cling to, Marigold. Underneath, you’re fire…”

Tears blurred her vision, her hands trembling on his shirt, torn between shoving him away and yanking him closer. The footsteps roared now, deafening, like thunder rolling through the dreamscape, shaking the windows. The very foundation of her world. Part of her recoiled, terror spiking at the edge of ruin—her life, her vows, crumbling under his touch. But the other part, that rebellious park, throbbed alive, urging her to surrender, to feel his mouth on her neck, his dick splitting her wide, washing away the denial in waves of ecstasy. 

“Think on that Song of Solomon, baby. The one they preach as God’s pure love, all that fire and longing…strong as death itself. Intimate, covenantal, bodies callin’ to each other like lovers in the night. But what if it’s mirrorin’ you? That divine hunger twistin’ in your gut, pullin’ you toward somethin’ real, somethin’ that burns hotter than their cold rules. You questionin’ it yet? Why deny the passion when it’s a gift meant to consume you whole? Your husband’s words in the pulpit twist it safe, but here, wit’ me, it’s raw—your body archin’ for mine, pussy weepin’ for the thrust that seals the bond. Choose, Marigold. Stay locked in their cage, or step into this heat, let me fuck the saint right outta you till you mine, cummin’ free and fierce. Them footsteps? They your old life catchin’ up or the new one knockin’ down the door. What ya’ say?”

Her lip quivered, the roar of steps peaking, crashing like waves, as his grip tightened, waiting for her fall. 

But it never came...

Marigold woke like she had been pulled from water. Her body jolted upright before her mind could catch up, a sharp inhale tearing through her chest as if she had been holding her breath for too long. The room around her was dark. A thick, unmoving dark that settled in the corners and clung to the ceiling. Only a faint strip of moonlight slipped through the lace curtains pale and distant, cutting across the foot of her bed. 

Her nightgown clung to her skin. Damp. Cold in places. Warm in others. 

She pressed a hand to her chest, fingers splayed wide as if she could steady the frantic rhythm beneath her palm. Her heart beat hard, uneven, like it was trying to escape her ribs. Each breath came quick and shallow, catching halfway up her throat. For a moment, she didn’t move. She just sat there. Listening. No footsteps. No shifting wind against the windows. Just the sound of her own breathing and the faint rustle of linen as her body trembled. 

Then, she felt it. A different kind of warmth. Low. Heavy. Unmistakeable. 

Her breath hitched as the realization settled over her. She looked down, hands hovering for a second before she gathered the fabric of her gown, lifting it enough to confirm what her body had already told her.

Wet. 

Her stomach turned. 

A sharp, sick feeling rose up in her chest, tangling with the lingering echo of the dream she refused to fully recall. Images tried to surface anyway. A hand. A voice. The shape of him too close, too real. 

She squeezed her eyes shut.

No.

No, she would not let her mind linger there. 

Her lips parted, a broken sound slipping out as she shook her head once, then again, more firmly, like she could physically dislodge the memory. 

“Lord…” 

Her voice came out thin, barely there.

Marigold swallowed hard, dragging in another breath, but it did nothing to steady her. The heat in her body only made it worse. Made it harder to think. Harder to pray. 

Because she knew who had been there. Not her husband.

Not the man she stood beside every Sunday, head held high, hands folded neatly, voice soft and obedient. 

No. 

Him. 

The one she had no business dreaming about. The one she should not have been looking at the way she had. Not even once. 

A pimp. A bootlegger. A man with sin written into the way he walked, the way he spoke, the way his eyes held hers just a second to long. 

Her stomach twisted again, sharper this time. 

“What is wrong with me…”

The words trembled out of her, barely louder than a breath. 

Marigold pushed the covers back quickly, like they were burning her, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cool air kissed her damp skin but it did noting to soothe the heat curled low in her belly. If anything, it made her more aware of it. 

Ashamed of it. 

Her feet met the wooden floor, and she stood on unsteady legs, gathering her gown close to her body as if she could hide herself. She didn’t look back at the bed, she didn’t allow herself to pause. 

She already knew where she needed to go.

The corner of her room waited for her, just beyond the reach of the moonlight. 

Her prayer corner. 

It was small but it held a presence that made the rest of the room feel distant. A simple wooden chair sat beside a narrow table, its surface carefully arranged. A worn Bible rested at the center, its edges softened from years of use, pages marked and underlined in quiet devotion. Beside it sat a small oil lamp, the flame turned low but steady, casting a soft amber glow over everything it touched. A white cloth had been laid beneath it all, clean and pressed, embroidered faintly at the edges with delicate stitching she had done herself.There was a cushion on the floor, slightly flattened from use. 

Her place. 

Marigold dropped to her knees without hesitation. The movement was quick, almost desperate, the impact of it sending a small jolt up her spine. She barely seemed to notice. Her hands came together immediately, fingers interlocking so tightly her knuckles blanched beneath her skin. Her head bowed, then lowered further under her forehead nearly touched her clasped hands. 

“Father God…”

Her voice broke on the first word. 

She squeezed her eyes shut again, harder this time, as if darkness alone could cleanse what she had seen. Her shoulders trembled, breath catching between each word as she tried to steady herself. 

“I…I ask that You forgive me…”

The sentence came in pieces, her chest rising and falling too fast to hold it together properly. A tear slipped free, trailing down the bridge of her nose before falling onto her hands. 

“I don’t know what…what came over me…” another breath. Shaky. Fragile, “I don’t know why my mind would go there…why my body would—”

She cut herself off. Her lips pressed together, tight, like even speaking it aloud would make it worse. Her hands tightened instead. Her whole body folding in on itself now, shoulders curling forward, spine bowing as if she could make herself smaller. Less visible. Less…touched. 

“Please,” she whispered, the word barely more than air, “please take it from me.” Her voice cracked again, and this time she didn’t try to hide it, “take it out of me…cleanse me of it…I don’t want it…”

Her head lowered further until her forehead finally pressed against her clasped hands. 

Trembling. 

“I don’t want to think about him,” she said, and there was something desperate in the way his absence was emphasized. As if no naming him would weaken his hold, "I don't want to feel this…this—”

She faltered again, her breath stuttering. Her body betrayed her in the silence that followed. A faint shift of her thighs. A lingering awareness she could not pray away fast enough if she tried. A sob rose up, sudden and sharp. 

“I am Yours,” she cried softly, her voice cracking open now, “my body is Yours. My thoughts are Yours. I am not meant for…for filth like this. I am not meant to carry this kind of desire. This kind of ache. This kind of want. It is a sin I wish to be free from.” 

Tears slipped freely now, dampening her hands, her lashes, the edge of the cloth beneath her. 

“You made me better than this,” she whispered, “you called me to be better than this…”

Her shoulders shook as the words left her. 

“I am a wife. I am a servant. I am supposed to be an example…I am supposed to be clean.” 

The last word came out strained, like it hurt to say it. Her fingers tightened again, nails pressing into her own skin now, grounding her in something physical. Something she could control.

“Please,” she breathed again, “don’t let the devil use my body against me. Don’t let him plant things in my mind…don’t let him make me weak.” 

Her voice dropped lower, softer, worn down by the weight of it all. 

“Take it from me,” she repeated, “take it all from me…”

The doctor’s office sat on a corner just off the main stretch of the Black district, its narrow windows catching the late morning light in a way that made the glass look almost cloudy. The paint on the door had begun to wear thin around the handle, years of hands pushing in and out, Hope and worry carried in equal measure. 

Inside, it was clean. Not new, not polished, but kept. There was a sharp scent of antiseptic layered over something older—wood, paper, a trace of clove oil that clung faintly to the back of the throat, a ceiling fan turned slow overhead, its motion uneven, clicking every few rotations like it had something to say but couldn’t quite get it out. 

Marigold sat with her back straight in one of the wooden chairs lined along the wall, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. Her hat was pinned just so, her dress pressed, her posture careful. There was nothing out of place about her. 

Nothing at all. 

And yet, she felt it. That awareness that she did not belong to the room the way the other women did.

Across from her, a young woman rested both hand on the curve of her belly, thumbs moving in ski circles like she was soothing something beneath the skin. Beside her, another leaned back with a tired ease, fanning herself gently while her dress stretched over a fullness that spoke of months already passed. 

There was a baby too. Small. Wrapped. Nestled against a shoulder while its mother rocked without thinking, her body knowing the motion by heart. The child made a soft sound, not quite a cry, not quite a sigh, and settled again. Low voices moved through the room. Soft laughter. Shared understanding. Life passing between them in ways that needed no explanation.

Marigold’s fingers tightened in her lap. Just slightly. She kept her gaze forward at first, fixed somewhere near the the far wall where an anatomy chart hung slightly crooked, the paper curling at the corners. But, her eyes shifted permission, drawn again and again to those women. To the weight they carried. To the ease with which they held it. Her hand moved before she could drop it. It came to rest just below her navel, pressing lightly through the fabric of her dress. There was nothing there. No rise. No answering warmth. Just the steady, shape of her own body.

Her fingers pressed a little harder, then stilled.

A door opened down the short hallway. Marigold’s head lifted slightly, her attention pulled towards it without thought. 

She had watched Obadiah disappear behind that door only moments before. The doctor had not asked her. Only him. 

The door did not close all the way. Just enough for voice to carry. 

“…we have conducted the necessary examinations,” the doctor said, tone even, stripped of anything that might soften it, “there are irregularities.” 

A pause. 

Marigold’s fingers stilled against her stomach. Obadiah’s voice came next.

“What kind of irregularities? I thought what you prescribed would work? We have seen plenty doctors about our situation.”

Paper shifted inside the room. A chair creaked. 

“The body is not responding in the manner we would expect,” the doctor continued, “there are complications that would make conception…unlikely.” 

The word settled heavy. 

Unlikely. 

It hung in the space between the door and the waiting room, slipping through the narrow opening like it had been meant for her ears all along. 

Marigold felt paralyzed. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known. Hadn’t had the same news broken to her before. But it didn’t lessen the pain. The burden. The guilt.

Inside, Obadiah spoke again.

 “That does not make sense,” his voice remained low, but something had sharpened inside it, “we have been married for years.” 

A baby fussed somewhere behind Marigold. The sound distant like it belonged to another world entirely. 

“She is in good heath otherwise,” the doctor added, as if that were something to be offered in place of what had just been taken, “but her body is not…suited for this.” 

Not suited. 

Marigold’s hand curled slightly against her stomach. 

Silence.

Then, Obadiah spoke again. Firm. 

“That is not acceptable.” 

No grief. No confusion. Just a statement.

As if the matter could be corrected through insistence alone.

Marigold’s throat tightened. 

The room around her continued on. A woman laughed softly at something said too low for Marigold to catch. The baby was soothed again, its small body settling back into warmth.

Everything moved, except her. 

The door opened fully this time. 

Marigold’s hand dropped back into her lap just as Obadiah stepped out, his expression composed, his hat already in his hand. If there had been any disturbance in him, it did not show itself now. He glanced toward her, his eyes passing over her quick, assessing way before settling into something neutral. 

“Come,” he said. 

 Nothing more. No explanation. No softness. 

Marigold rose immediately, soothing her dress as she stood, her movements practiced, controlled. She didn’t look toward the doctor’s office. She didn’t ask questions. 

She simply followed.

As she moved toward the door, her shoulder brushed lightly against the row of chairs. She nearly missed the woman seated at the end.

Older.

Not frail, but worn in the way time leaves its mark without apology. Her hands rested easy in her lap, her back not as straight as Marigold’s but steady in a different way. 

Her eyes lifted. 

And they landed on Marigold like they had been waiting. 

“Baby,” the woman said softly.

Marigold paused. Just a second.

The word caught her off guard. Not in its sound, in the way it was said. It wasn’t pitying. It was knowing.

The woman’s gaze flicked briefly to Marigold’s midsection, then back to her face.

“Don’t you go holdin’ yourself like you empty,” she said, her voice gentle, certain in a way that did not ask for agreement, “some things take their time comin’ to a body.” 

Marigold blinked. The words didn’t settle neatly. They didn’t fix anything but they didn’t leave her either. She gave a small nod. Polite. Automatic. 

“Thank you,” she said, her voice steady enough to pass. 

Then, she turned and stepped out into the day. 

The ride home was quiet at first, the road stretching ahead in a long, dusty line, the wheels of the car rolling low beneath them. Marigold kept her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed just beyond the windshield, watching the world pass without really seeing it. Obadiah drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the gearshift. His posture was straight, attention forward.

The silence sat between them like something waiting for its moment. 

It came.

“Perhaps the Lord is telling us something.” 

His voice was measured. 

Marigold’s fingers tightened slightly against each other. She turned her head just enough to look at him, her expression careful. 

“I don’t—”

“We have tried,” he continued, cutting across her softly spoken start, “for years.” 

Each word placed with intention. 

“No deviation. No lack of discipline. We have done everything as we should.” 

The car rolled over a slight dip in the road, the movement gentle but noticeable. 

Marigold swallowed. Her gaze dropped to her hands. 

“Then we must continue to trust—”

“Trust,” Obadiah repeated, not raising his voice, but shifting something in the word, “yes.”

A pause.

Long enough to feel.

“But trust does not mean refusal to see what is in front of us.” 

Marigold’s chest tightened. 

Outside, the road stretched on. Inside, she sat with her hands folded over her lap, her body still, her mind circling something she could not quite name. And beneath it all, faint but present, the echo of a stranger’s voice lingered where it had settled deep inside of her.

Don’t you go holdin’ yourself like you empty

The car slowed as they turned off the main road and into the Black district. Little Rock carried a different vibe here. Its own.

The buildings sat close, shoulder to shoulder, some brick, some wood, their paint faded by sun and time but held together with care. Hand-painted signs hung above doorways—barbershops, tailors, grocers, cafés—each one telling its own story in uneven lettering. The sidewalks were alive with movement. Men stood in clusters outside storefronts, hats tipped low, voices rolling easy between them. Women passed by with baskets hooked over their arms, skirts brushing against their ankles, their presence steady. 

A boy darted between two wagons, laughing, chased by another not far behind. Somewhere down the street, a radio crackled faintly through an open window, music slipping out into the day like it belonged there. Life pressed in from every direction. It smelled like it too. Warm bread. Dust. Fruit just beginning to turn sweet in the heat. A trace of tobacco. Oil. Soap. 

The car came to a stop along the curb in front of a narrow cleaners with a sign that read Baptiste & Son Garment Care, the gold paint catching what little sunlight pushed through the buildings. 

Obadiah cut the engine. 

“I won’t be long,” he said, reaching for the door.

Marigold nodded, her hands still folded in her lap. 

He stepped out without another word, straightening his jacket as he moved toward the entrance. The bell above the door gave a soft jingle as he went inside, swallowed by the dim interior. 

Marigold remained seated for a moment, the world outside moving around her. Voices. Footsteps. Laughter. She drew in a slow breath, then reached for the handle. 

The air met her differently outside. Warmer. Fuller. It wrapped around her, settling against her skin as she stepped onto the sidewalk. She adjusted her gloves, her hat, smoothing herself back into place out of habit. 

Her eyes drifted across the street. 

A small grocery sat just a few doors down, its front open wide to the day. Wooden crates lined the entrance, filled with produce that glowed under the sun—greens bundled together, tomatoes deep and red, and a row of peaches so soft in color they almost looked like they held light inside of them. 

Perfect. 

She stepped toward it without thinking too hard on it, her steps measured but unhurried. The bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped inside, though the space itself felt more open than enclosed. Thr scent hit her first.

Sweet. Ripened. Earthy.

A woven basket sat near the entrance and she picked one up, the handle fitting neatly into the crook of her arm. Her fingers brushed lightly over the produce as she passed, selecting without rushing. A bundle of greens. Onions. A few tomatoes. 

Then the peaches.

Marigold paused.

They were soft to the touch, their skin warm from the day, a faint blush spreading across their surface. She lifted one carefully, turning it in her hand before placing it into her basket.

Another. Then another. 

A small movement near the edge of her vision caught her attention.

She turned her head slightly. 

A little girl stood near one of the lower crates, small and thin, her dress hanging loose on her frame. Her hair was parted into uneven sections, the braids not quite holding the way they should. She glanced over her shoulder once, quick and sharp, before reaching out toward a piece of fruit. 

Her hand hovered. 

Then snatched. 

“Hey—!”

The voice came fast.

The grocer, a broad man with rolled sleeves and a cloth thrown over his shoulder, moved from behind the counter in two long steps. 

“I seen that,” he said, his tin firm, already reaching for her wrist. 

The girl froze. Her fingers tightening around the fruit.

“I—I was—” she stared, her voice small, but it didn’t hold. 

Marigold was already moving. 

“Excuse me,” she said, her voice cutting clean but calm as she stepped between them, her hand coming up just enough to interrupt the man’s reach without touching him directly. 

The grocer paused, his eyes shifting to her.

“She was just about to ask,” Marigold continued, her tone steady, leaving no room for argument in it, “weren’t you, baby?” 

The girl looked up at her wide-eyed. Unsure. Then, nodded quickly.

“Yes, ma’am.” 

The grocer exhaled through his nose, glancing between them. 

“She need to ask before she go reachin’,” he muttered,though his tone had already softened.

“And she will,” Marigold replied, “I’ll see to it.” 

There was a beat. 

Then, he stepped back, shaking his head slightly as he returned to the counter. 

Marigold turned then, her attention settling fully on the girl. 

Up close, she could see it clearer. 

The hollowness in her cheeks. The way her collarbone pressed faintly against her skin. The hesitation that sat in her shoulders like she was used to being watched, used to being corrected. 

Marigold reached into her basket, pulling out one of the peaches. She placed it gently into the girl’s hands. 

“Go on,” she said softly, “hold it proper.” 

The girl stared down at it, her fingers adjusting around the fruit like she wasn’t sure it was meant to stay there.

Marigold crouched then, lowering herself until they were level, her skirts settling around her carefully. Up close, her voice softened even more.

“What’s your name, baby?” She asked.

The girl hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around the fruit before she answered. 

“Lula,” she said, quiet but clear.

Marigold nodded like she was receiving something important. 

“Well, Lula,” she said gently, adjusting the peach in her hands so it wouldn’t slip, “you hold onto that like it’s yours. Ain’t nobody takin’ it from you.” 

“Where your momma at?” She asked.

The girl shifted her weight, “workin’,” she said.

“Mm,” Marigold nodded, “where she work?” 

“For a white family,” the girl answered, the words coming out like they had been said many times before, “out past the ridge. She clean for ‘em.”

Marigold’s expression stilled slightly.

“And she ain’t home?” She asked. 

The girl shook her head, “not yet.” 

“How long?” 

The girl hesitated, then shrugged, “a few days.” 

The words sat between them. 

Marigold reached out, smoothing a loose braid back from the girl’s face, her touch gentle, careful not to startle her. 

“You ain’t gotta be stealin’ to eat,” she said softly, “you hear me?”

The girl nodded, though her eyes didn’t fully lift. Marigold added another piece of fruit to her small hands. 

Then another. 

“Take these,” she said, “and you come back proper next time. Ask. Folks more willing to give than you think.” 

The girl looked at her then, really looked. 

Something flickered there, not quite a smile, not quite belief. Just…a small opening. 

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Marigold gave her a small nod, her gaze steady. 

“You take care of yourself,” she said, “and your momma too when she get home.” 

A shadow fell over them. Heavy. Fast. 

“What you doin’?” 

The voice came sharp, cutting through the moment like it had no place for softness. 

Marigold turned her head. 

A man stood there, tall and rigid, his expression tight with something that read like anger before anything else. His eyes dropped immediately to the girl, to the fruit in her hands. 

“I told you not to be beggin’,” he snapped, reaching down to grab her arm. 

“I wasn’t—” the girl started, but he was already pulling her upright. 

“She wasnt begging,” Marigold said, rising to her feet, her voice calm but firm, “I offered—”

“I ain’t ask you what you offered,” he cut in, not looking at her fully, his focus fixed on the child, “you embarrassing my out here.” 

The girl shrank under his grip. The fruit slipped from her hands. Marigold’s chest tightened, but she held her ground, her posture straightening instinctively. 

“She was hungry,” she said, quieter but no less steady, “that’s not an embarrassment. That’s a child.” 

The man’s jaw flexed. 

For a moment, it looked like he might say something else but he didn’t. He just tugged the girl closer, his grip firm. 

“Come on,” he muttered. 

The girl glanced back once. Just once at Marigold. Then, she was gone, pulled into the flow of the street, swallowed by it the same way everything else was. 

Marigold stood there a moment longer, her basket still looped over her arm, hand resting lightly against the edge of it. 

The peaches sat aside. 

Soft. Full. Waiting. 

She exhaled, her gaze drifting down to them. Then, without a word, she turned back toward the counter to finish what she had started.

Marigold paid for the fruit with careful hands, her smile polite enough to pass. The grocer wrapped the peaches in brown paper, twisting the top neat and tight before handing them over. She thanked him, dipped her head just slightly, and turned toward the door. 

The bell chimed again as she stepped out. The street met her all at once. But her mind hadn’t caught up to it yet. It lingered somewhere behind her, tucked into the small shape of a girl standing near a crate, fingers curled around something she thought she had to steal to survive. The weight of that stayed with her in a way she couldn’t quite explain. It settled in her chest, pressing there. 

Lula. 

Her gaze drifted across the street without focus at first, following the flow of people passing by, the ride and fall of voices, the small ordinary things that made up a day. 

Then, it found him. 

Obadiah stood just outside the cleaners, not alone. 

A man faced him, hat in hand, his posture bent forward in a way that spoke of worry before a word was ever said. Obadiah’s head was slightly bowed, his voice low, the cadence of it familiar even from a distance. 

He was praying. 

One hand rested in thr man’s shoulder, firm. Not affectionate. Not soft. Grounded. Authoritative. His other hand lifted slightly as he spoke, palm turned just enough to punctuate his words. The man nodded along, eyes closed tight, his mouth moving faintly like he was trying to follow, trying to hold on to whatever was being given to him in that moment. People passed around them, some slowing just enough to notice, others continuing on as if it were part of the street itself. A preacher speaking over someone in need was not unusual. 

It belonged. 

Marigold stood still for a moment, watching. 

The scene should have brought her comfort. This was who her husband was to the world. A man people sought out. A man who spoke with certainty. A man who could stand in the middle of a street and offer something that felt like direction, like order, like understanding. 

And yet…something in her chest didn’t settle.

Her eyes moved over him slowly, taking in the straight line of his back, the measured way he spoke, the control in every part of him. He didn’t sound like a man who had just been told something couldn’t be done. 

He sounded the same as always. As if the answer would bend eventually, if only it were pressed hard enough. 

The paper around the peaches gave faintly beneath her grip. 

Her jab moved again without thinking. It came to rest just below her stomach, the same place it had earlier, her palm flattening there as if she might feel something different now. 

There was nothing. 

Just her. Her body. The echo of words she had not been meant to hear. 

Her fingers curled slightly, pressing into the fabric of her dress. 

Obadiah’s voice lifted just enough to carry the final words of his prayer, something about guidance, about strength, about walking the path set before you without doubt. The man in front of him whispered his thanks, his shoulders loosening just a fraction as if something had been lifted, even if only for a moment. 

Obadiah gave a single nod, then his gaze lifted. 

It found her almost immediately.

There was no surprise in it. No softness either. Only recognition. Expectation. 

Marigold straightened, her hands dropping from her stomach as if she had been caught doing something she could not explain. She adjusted the bag in her hand, smoothing the front of her dress with her free hand before stepping forward. 

The distance between them closed quickly, the street folded back into itself.

“You’re finished?” She asked quietly when she reached him. 

Obadiah glanced at the paper bag, “yes,” he said, “come along.” 

His attention shifted back to the man for a brief moment, offering a final word, a final nod, sealing whatever had just passed between them. Then, he turned, moving toward the car.

Marigold followed. 

But as she walked, her thoughts slipped once more, just for a moment, back to a small pair of hands clutching fruit like it might disappear if held too loosely. 

And the sound of a voice. 

Lula. 

The sun hung heavy over West 9th Street in Little Rock's bustling Black district, turning the Arkansas air into a thick, humid blanket that clung to everything it touched. Dust kicked up from passing Model Ts and horse-drawn carts, mingling with the scents of fried fish from a nearby vendor and the faint, floral whiff of women's perfumes fighting against the sweltering heat. Lined with modest shotgun houses painted in faded pastels, the street thrummed with life, children darting between legs, men in suspenders calling out greetings, and the distant chime of a church bell reminding folks that Sunday services weren't far off.

Marigold Baptiste stood among the women of Great Calvary, her posture straight and composed, the picture of grace as the preacher's wife. Her honey-brown skin glowed under the wide brim of her straw hat, adorned with a simple ribbon that matched her modest navy dress—long-sleeved, high-necked, falling just below her knees to preserve every ounce of propriety. A string of pearls rested at her throat, a gift from her husband, catching the sun as she nodded along to Sister Evelyn's animated story about the latest quilt circle drama. In her gloved hand, Marigold waved a lace fan, the motion stirring a gentle breeze that did little to ease the sweat beading at her temples. She smiled warmly, her full lips curving just so, eyes crinkling with feigned delight as the other women laughed, their own fans fluttering like a flock of birds painted with scripture verses or floral patterns, tools for both cooling and concealment.

“Oh, Sister Marigold, you should've seen the way she hemmed that dress. Tight as a drum, but twice as pretty,” Sister Claudine chimed in, her voice carrying over the chatter, her sharp eyes flicking towards Marigold with that subtle undercurrent of scrutiny Marigold had come to expect. The group clustered on the corner near the church steps, a ritual pause after midweek prayer meeting, sharing gossip and iced tea from a communal pitcher passed around in china cups.

Marigold's laugh was light, practiced, her wild curls tamed and sleeked into an elegant chignon beneath her hat.

“The Lord provides in the stitches, sisters. It's all in how we weave our testimonies,” Her words flowed smooth, the First Lady's poise a shield she'd worn for years, hiding the voluptuous curves that strained ever so slightly against her bodice—the swell of her breasts, the plush sway of her hips. 

Marigold fanned herself a bit faster, the heat pressing in, but it was nothing compared to the fire she'd been battling in her prayers each night. Lord, deliver me from the memory of him, she'd whisper into the darkness of her bedroom, knees bruised on the hardwood floor, begging for forgetfulness. But the dreams lingered vivid, pulling her back to shadowed rooms and rough hands that promised sin wrapped in salvation.

Then, across the street, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. There he was—Elias ‘Stack’ Moore, striding out from the shadowed doorway of a nondescript building that whispered of secrets in the district’s underbelly. Tall and broad-shouldered, his dark suit tailored sharp against his frame, a fedora tilted low over eyes that scanned the street with primal ease. A toothpick clamped between his teeth, smoke curling lazy into the air, he moved with that unhurried swagger that owned ever my inch of ground he crossed. His gaze swept the corner, casual at first, then locked straight onto her. 

Marigold’s fan faltered mid-wave, the lace trembling in her grip. Her smile froze, heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird. 

Not now. Not here. 

The women’s voices blurred into a distant sound, Sister Evelyn’s fan still snapping open and shut beside her. Stack didn’t approach, he leaned against a lamppost, one hand in his pocket, the other adjusting his tie with a slowness that made you stop and catch your breath. But that look…it stripped her bare. Right there on the holy corner, reminding her of the back room walls blurring in her dreams, of footsteps echoing like judgement, of vulgar truths whispered hot against her ear. Her thighs clenched involuntarily beneath her skirt, a traitorous warmth blooming in her belly, warring with the cold spike of fear. What if he called her out? What if the sisters noticed the flush creeping up her neck, the way her breath hitched? 

Stack tipped his hat ever so slightly, a private mockery of respect, his lips curving into that dangerous grin that said he knew…knew her prayers were futile, knew the part of her that ached to cross the street and surrender. Marigold forced her fan to move again, faster now, her smile cracking at the edges as she turned back to the group, chattering on about the heat. But inside, the temptation coupled tighter, West 9th’s pulse syncing with her own forbidden longing. 

A few days later, the tailor shop sat wedged between a barber’s and a notions store on West Ninth Street, Little Rock’s black district pulsing with a midday blaze in the summer of 1929. Inside, a thick scent of chalk dust, pressed wool, and the faint metallic tang of straight razors from next door filled the space. Bolts of fabric leaned against walls—charcoal grays, deep navies, the occasional splash of burgundy for a bold customer. Sunlight slanted through the plate-glass window catching motes of lint in the air while a ceiling fan whirred last overhead, doing little to cut the humidity that made shots cling and tempers simmer. 

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore stood tall on the wooden stool in the center of the shop, his arms extended like a man crucified for measurement, legs spread shoulder-width for balance. His tailored undershirt hugged the broad slabs of his chest and the faint cut of his abdomen, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with veins an faint scars from German trenches and Chicago scraps. High-waisted slacks hung loose at his hips but strained just enough at the thighs to hint at the power packed there. At 6’1” and built like a rail-yard enforcer, he filled the space without trying, his deep brown skin glowing with a sheen of sweat tracing the line of his strong jaw. 

Old man Harlan, the tailor—a wiry septuagenarian with wire-rim glasses perched on a hawkish nose and fingers nimble from decades of stitching lives together—circled him with a tape measure, chalk in hand. Harlan’s shop was a hub for the district’s sharp dressers; deacons, numbers men, and folks like Stack who turned bootleg shine into clean threads. 

“Alright, Mr. Stack, arms steady now,” Harlan muttered, his voice thick with Arkansas roots, vowels stretching like taffy. He knelt, tape looping around Stack’s inseam, eyes focused but twinkling with the easy familiarity of men who’d shared a flask or two, “these new suits—double-breasted, yeah? Wool blend for that Chicago cool you carry?” 

Stack’s gaze drifted to the window, watching the street bustle: women in house dresses haggling over collards, kids dodging mule carts, a bluesman tuning his guitar on the corner. 

His voice rumbled low, smooth as gravel under tires, that blend of Southern swing and Northern clip making every word land, “Yeah, Harlan. Double-breasted, vest to match. Somethin’ sharp for the fall runs. But listen—”

Stack shifted his hips just a fraction, the stool creaking under his weight. Harlan paused, tape taut against the fabric over Stack’s crotch, where the outline of his thick, soft dick pressed insistent against the wool, balls heavy even at rest in this damn heat. 

“—I need more room up front in them slacks,” Stack continued, tone matter-of-fact, a smirk tugging his full lips, “this pecker of mine ain’t shrinkin’ in this Southern steam. Got a big one, Harlan—you know how it is. Heat got it swellin’ like it’s fixin’ to burst free. Last pair you made me? Fine for walkin’, but sittin’ down? Feel like I’m haulin’ a damn log.” 

Harlan snorted, rising with a chuckle that shook his narrow shoulders, wiping chalk dust on his apron. His laugh was warm, unfiltered, bouncing off the walls in a shop where men spoke plain about the body’s truths. 

“Lord, Stack. You ain’t changed a lick since you left for them windy streets up north. Big pecker, big problems—ain’t that the blues? I seen ‘em all in here, from skinny deacons to them rail bulls with thighs like tree trunks. But you? Whew, boy, you packin’ like a prize bull. Heat don’t help nobody down there; makes everything…ample.” Harlan adjusted his glasses, then nodded slow, already mentally pinning seams, “I can work it out. Loose the crotch a touch, dart it proper so it hangs right without billowin’ like a sail. Add a pleat or two for give—won’t show in the fit. You gon’ look like a king, and that king gon’ stay comfortable. No more adjustin’ yourself mid-deal.” 

Stack’s low laugh joined in, deep and resonant, arms still out as Harlan tugged the tape across his broad back.

“Appreciate it, old man. Can’t be fidgetin’ when the night’s runnin’ hot. Folks notice that mess…thinks you distracted or worse. Make ‘em tailored tight everywhere else, though. Want ‘em huggin these arms, these shoulders. Show what a man built from the ground up look like.” 

Harlan grunted approval, scribbling notes in a pad, “built like you? Ain’t no fabric gon’ hide that. Now, hold still—”

Stack’s eyes flicked back to the window, and there she was. Sister Marigold Baptiste, gliding down the sidewalk like a vision stitched from the district’s quiet dreams. She was in her Sunday best, even midweek—an ivory dress of fine crepe that hugged her nipped waist just enough to whisper the lush hourglass beneath, the structured bodice smoothing over her full, heavy breasts without a hint of cleavage, high neckline buttoned to her throat. The skirt fell mid-calf, pleated soft for movement but held firm, long sleeves covering arms that Stack imagined plush and warm. 

A wide-brimmed hat in cream straw crowned her, tied with a dusty rose ribbon that fluttered gentle in the breeze, gloves sheathing her hands up to the elbows. At 39, almost 40 in September, she carried herself with the poise of the First Lady she was—wife to Reverend Baptiste, pillar of the church two blocks over—every step causing her skirt to sway just enough to hint at the wide hips and thick thighs hidden away. 

But Stack saw it all. His gaze locked on her like a hawk on prey, eyes narrowing as he drank her in from the stool’s height, body still as Harlan measured his chest. She was a looker, no doubt, honey-brown skin glowing under the sun, full lips painted subtle, warm brown eyes framed by lashes that needed no curl. That chignon peeking from under the hat’s brim promised thick coils tamed tight, begging to be unraveled. He eye-fucked her slow, starting at the slope of her neck down to where the fabric strained ever so slight over those shelf-like tits, imagining the weight of them spilling free, nipples hardening under his thumbs. His dick twitched in the slacks, thickening just from the thought, heat pooling low as he traced the dip of her waist, the flare of hips that screamed for gripping, thighs that could lock a man in place while he drove deep into her wet pussy. 

Stack’s mind wandered deeper into the haze, picturing her in that tailor shop, shoving her up against the wall first, big hands ripping open the buttons of her Sunday dress, letting them heavy tits spill out, revealing nipples dark and peaked like ripe berries begging for his mouth. He’d suck them hard, teeth grazing, that honeyed skin hot under his palms. He’d hike her skirt up those thick thighs, find her drawls soaked through, yanking them aside to plunge two thick fingers in that slick pussy. He’d curl his fingers deep, make her buck and whimper like a sinner at revival.Then, he’d spin her around, bend her ass over the cutting table with bolts of wool tumbling to the floor, spread her plush ass cheeks wide and slam his fat dick balls-deep in her from behind, grip her hips, and pound her relentlessly. 

That’s it, Sister, take this dick like you preach forgiveness. Be a good woman for daddy’s dick, baby. 

She’d be moaning prayers twisted filthy, body shaking while Stack fucked her stupid, those pretty lips parting on tongues unknown—glossolalia spilling out in ragged bursts.

“Oh, Lawd…shala…fill me, Jesus…harder, Stack!” 

“Hallelujah…thy will be done…in—in-in-in my womb!” 

Glory—elohim…stretch me wide…amen, amen!” 

“Spirit come…zionara…pound this flesh—redeem me now!” 

“Praise him…maranatha…your rod and staff…unh…comfort me deep!” 

“Flood my temple…oh sweet salvation!” 

“Deliverance…shibboleth…claim this v-v-vessel—”

Pussy clenching tight around his dick. He’d pull out, flip her onto her back and shove that big dick down her throat. Watch her gag and suck sloppy, tears streaking her mascara while she babbles holy nonsense around his stick. He’d haul her onto his lap in that tailor’s chair, those lush curves sinking down to ride him frantic, thighs locking him. Stack would thrust up savage, hands kneading her pillowy ass, breaking that holy poise till she shatter, screaming in tongues, pussy gushing over his dick ‘fore he flood her full with hot cum, leaving her limp and send her back home to her husband. 

Damn, she was a lot of woman, all that body hidden under starched control, like a ripe peach wrapped in brown paper. Stack felt it hit him square—a pull in his gut mixing hunger with something sharper, like spotting fine shine in a dry county. She moved with that church sway, restrained but sensual, and he pictured peeling those layers off, buttons popping one by one, corset unlacing to let her belly soften under his palm, her ass filling his hands while he bent her over. His breath deepened, pulse steady but heavy, that charismatic control holding him in place even as his mind stripped her bare. Admiration burned through him. Not just lust, but respect for the fire banked under all that propriety, the kind of woman who could unravel a man like him if he let her.

Marigold paused at the florist’s cart across the street, a rickety stand bursting with daisies and snapdragons. She lifted one gloved hand, tilting her hat back to fan herself lightly, then slipping it off entirely. The chignon revealed itself sleek and tight, coils glossy black-brown pinned flawless, a few tendrils daring to escape at the nape. She leaned in, inhaling deep from a bunch of daisies, her smile blooming soft and genuine from the old vendor. It was a rare crack in the armor, lips parting to show even teeth, eyes crinkling with warmth. The scent must’ve carried on the breeze, light and fresh, mixing with her own subtle violet talc that Stack swore he could almost taste from here. 

“Earth to Stack,” Harlan teased, snapping the tape against his thigh to pull him back, “you seein’ ghosts out there, or just some fine scenery? Measurements holdin’ steady, but your mind wanderin’.” 

Stack’s gaze lingered a beat longer, committing her to memory—the way her throat words as she swallowed, the subtle shift of her breasts with each breath—before he turned, smirk playing, “scenery, Harlan. The best kind. District got its treasures, don’t it? Now, finish up—got places to be, thoughts to chase.”

Harlan chuckled again, chalk flying, “treasures, huh? Careful them treasures don’t lead you to the preacher’s porch. But yeah, I got you. Suits’ll be ready next week—roomy where it counts.” 

Stack stepped down from the stool with a nod, rolling his shoulders to settle the horny that done crept into him. Harlan tucked away his measure, pinning fabric swatches to a board behind the counter, his wiry frame buzzing with the efficiency of a man who’d fitted half the district’s power players. 

“That about wraps it, Harlan,” Stack said, voice low and even, pulling two crisp bills from his vest pocket and sliding it across the scarred wooden counter, “you got the measurements locked? Double-breasted, room in the slacks, tight on the rest. Don’t want no surprises when they come back.” 

Harlan pocketed the bill with a wink, adjusting his glasss as he tallied the deposit mentally, “locked tight as a deacon’s tithe, Mr. Stack. Wool blend, pleats for that…accommodation you need. They’ll hug you right—shoulders broad, waist tapered, legs lookin’ like they could carry the world. Pick ‘em up next Thursday. I’ll have the vest monogrammed subtle, your initials in silk thread.” 

Stack’s full lips curved in that easy smirk, dimples flashing brief as he clapped the old man’s shoulder—firm, appreciative, the touch lingering just long enough to seal the trust.

“Good man. Keep the change; buy yourself a cool drink after the heat break.” 

Stack straightened his suspenders, smoothed the front of his shirt, put his fedora back on and tipped it before pushing through the shop door. The bell jingled behind him as West 9th’s bustle swallowed him up, vendors calling, laughter spilling from open windows, and the wail of a sax warming up for evening. 

Dapper as ever, Stack moved with that unhurried gait, polished oxfords clicking on the uneven sidewalk, his high-waisted trousers falling crisp over powerful thighs, vest buttoned neat against the broad plane of his chest. A fresh toothpick found its way between his lips, rolling slow as he chewed the end, his eyes scanning the street with the casual vigilance of a man who owned half its shadows. The Little Rock sun beat down unstoppable but Stack carried the heat like it owed him something, deep brown skin absorbing the rays without a flinch. 

The Greater Calvary Holy Temple Church of Deliverance rose at the end of the block, a white-painted sentinel against the district’s grit, freshly scrubbed every spring by the women’s circle, though the old wood beneath groaned come storm season, beams whispering descents in the wind. Black wrought iron fenced it in, the gate forged like two clasped praying hands, welcoming or warning depending on the sinner’s eye. Lily beds flanked the path, petals pristine on neat rows, a symbol of purity that Stack noted with a faint twist of his mouth—immaculate, controlled, much like the women inside. Stained glass caught the sun in fractured colors, biblical scenes twisting with odd symbols—a sword piercing a lamb, a burning bush blinking human eyes, Eve blindfolded and reaching. The bell tower loomed single and stark, silent now but ready to toll come night for prayer or passing or something else entirely. 

Doors stood wide open as they often did midweek, an invitation to any soul needing solace or shade. Stack paused at the threshold, hat in hand, the cool draft from within brushing his face like a confessor’s breath. He stepped inside, oxfords muffled on the red carpet runner, the sanctuary unfolding vast and vaulted, high ceilings with exposed beams like a rib cage arching heavenward, dark polished pews stretching in solemn rows, hymnals tucked crimson and gold in the racks. The air droned quiet, laced with beeswax polish and faint incense, the massive wooden pulpit elevated like a throne, bronze crucifix hanging behind it—Jesus’ face worn smooth by time, eyes hollow and staring. 

Up front, by the pipe organ’s gleaming side, Sister Marigold Baptiste knelt slight, arranging the daisies she’d carried from the florist into a simple clay pot. Her ivory crepe dress held its structured line, high neck buttoned to her throat, long sleeves sheathing arms that moved with precise grace, mid-calf skirt pooling modest around her knees. The chignon sat sleek at her nape, coils pinned flawless, a few escaped tendrils catching the luminance from the stained glass. Gloves lay folded nearby, her hands bar now, wedding ring glinting as she tucked stems just so, full lips pursed in concentration. 

Stack lingered a few paces in, hat clutched loose in one hand, toothpick shifting as he took in the space—worn kneel spots on the carpet, hidden speakers he clocked quick in the woodwork, a narrow staircase veiled behind the pulpit. Marigold hadn’t turned yet, focused on her task, the soft rustle of petals the only sound breaking the silence. Stack eased into a pew midway down, the wood creaking faintly under his weight, settling back with legs spread easy, hay placed beside him on the cushion. The toothpick rolled once more. His gaze steady on her form. 

Marigold straightened then, pot balanced in her hands, an pivoted toward the aisle, eyes widening as they landed on him. Her free hand flew to her throat, fingers closing around the pearl strand there, clutching tight as if to anchor her breath. The daises trembled slight in her grip, her honey-brown skin flushing warm at the cheeks, but she held her poise, chin lifting just a fraction, that church-bred composure snapping into place like a locked door. 

“Sister Marigold,” Stack greeted, voice rolling low and smooth, that Southern swing laced with Chicago clip, steady as a heartbeat. 

He didn’t rise, just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, toothpick pausing mid-roll, eyes locking on hers—dark, unblinking, drinking her in slow. His gaze traced her face, down her neck where the pearls rested, down to the structured bodice that hinted at the curves beneath, holding without mercy, steady and intent like he was memorizing every controlled inch. 

“Afternoon. Ain’t mean to startle you. Place feels peaceful today…doors wide, like it’s waitin’ on company.” 

Marigold set the pot down careful on the piano bench, smoothing her skirt with one hand while the other stayed at her pearls, steps measured as she approached the pew, heels clicking softly on the carpet runner. Her warm, brown eyes met his, wary but unflinching, full lips pressing thin before parting.

“Mr. Moore. Elias. I…wasn’t expectin’ anyone this hour. The sanctuary’s open, yes, but most folks come for prayer, not…company.” 

Her voice carried that refined lilt, church polish over Southern roots, words clipped to keep the tremor at bay, posture straight as the pulpit rail. 

Stack’s lips quirked, that teasing charm threading through, low and grounded, no rush to the words, just savoring her discomfort. He nodded toward the daisies, eyes flicking there brief before returning to her, still holding, still tracing the flush on her skin, the way her throat worked under the pearl necklace.

“Pretty touch, those flowers. Daisies, right? I like ‘em. Simple, clean—stand out without tryin’ too hard. Remind me of fresh starts, somethin’ pure in the middle of all this…structure,” the toothpick shifted again, his tone warm, playful at the edges, pulling her in without a push.

Marigold stopped a respectful distance from the pew, hands folding neat at her waist though her fingers twisted slight against the fabric. She glanced back at the pot, then to him, composure cracking just enough for curiosity to peek through.

“They are. For the women’s circle—brightens the space before service. But you…why are you here, Mr. Moore? What do you want in the house of the Lord?” 

Stack eased back into the pew, arms draping lazy over the top rail, behind him, legs swinging loose as he crossed one ankle over the other. That toothpick rolled along his thick tongue, clicking against his teeth, dark eyes never leaving her face—steady, pulling her in without a word. Marigold’s gaze flicked quick over him, tracing the broad set of his shoulders straining the vest, the way his shirt clung just enough to hint at the muscle beneath, before dropping sharp to her feet, toes curling slight in her sensible pumps.

Stack smirked then all knowing, dimples carving deep into his cheeks as he let the silence stretch a beat.

“Pastor been to The Law ‘bout another noise complaint lately?” Stack drawled, “got another notice pinned to my front do’ this mornin’.” 

Marigold blinked, lashes fluttering once, then cleared her throat with a soft, composed huff, chin lifting as she met his eyes again, spicy fire sparking in those warm brown depths, sassy edge sharpening her words.

“Obadiah is a busy man, Mr. Moore. He may have. After all, that hell house of yours sure do make a lot of noise. Disturbin’ the peace in this holy temple. Maybe you outta consider shuttin’ down for good.” 

Her tone bit crisp, laced with that church-honed authority, but her fingers tightened on her pearls, betraying the quick swallow at her throat. 

Stack chuckled low, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder, dimples deepening as he savored her bite—loving the spark. The way she pushed back without flinching. He shifted his gaze, rolling the toothpick once more while he took in the sanctuary—vaulted beams looming like ribs ready to cage, the hollow-eyed crucifix staring down, stained glass casting broken shadows that twisted biblical into something watchful, almost alive.

“This place,” he said, tone dipping thoughtful, eyes sweeping the eerie stillness before landing back on her, “don’t feel as welcomin’ as you put it, Sister. More like it’s holdin’ it’s breath. Waitin’ for somethin’ to confess. Or maybe judge…”

Marigold’s lips parted, ready to fire back, “You got no call comin’ in here talkin’ ‘bout my church like—”

Stack lifted a hand, palm out, silencing her mid-breath with that quiet command, his eyes locking firm. He rose smooth from the pew, unfolding his frame to tower easy. He stepped closer, closing the gap just enough to fill the air between them.

“Maybe that noise bein’ made for a reason in my house,” Stack spoke low, voice steady, pulling her in, “maybe you should come answerin’ sometime. See what all the fuss is about, ‘stead of protestin’ and complainin’ ‘bout what you can’t and won’t control.” 

Marigold dragged her eyes over him then, from the polished shine of his oxfords up the crisp line of his trousers, over the vest hugging his chest, to the strong column of his neck and the smirk still playing at his full lips. She dropped her eyes quick to her feet again, cheeks warming under the honey-brown skin, pearls clutched tighter in her first. 

Stack’s fingers dipped into his vest pocket, pulling out a worn silver coin that gleamed from the light filtering in through the stained glass, eagle side glinting faint as he flipped it up, casual, like he was testing fate more for show than belief. The coin spun lazy in the air, his dark eyes locked on Marigold’s with that shadowed smirk curling his full lips, dimples hitting deep. He caught it mid-turn on the back of his hand, thumb pressing it flat, but let the words land first, voice dropping to that intimate rumble laced with Chicago steel under the Southern drawl. 

“Heads,” he said, eyes never wavering from hers, “you keep your dignity intact and play the role of First Lady—although we both know that ain’t what you want. Tails, you finally come see why they call me Handsome Trouble. Have you moanin’ Mr. Moore ‘stead of callin’ on me like some schoolteacher.”

Marigold’s glare sharpened, warm brown eyes flashing with that sassy fire and brimstone, her full lips pressing into a thin line as she straightened her spine under the high-necked bodice of her ivory crepe dress. Her fingers clenched those pearls tighter, knuckles bulging against her honey-brown skin.

“You got some nerve, Mr. Moore,” she snapped, voice crisp with church authority, chin lifting defiant, “get on out this hour of the Lord. NOW.”

Stack tilted his head just so, that measured curiosity playing in his gaze as he snatched the coin from his hand, flipping it quick against his palm—once, twice—before peeking at the face with a slow smirk that didn’t reach his eyes, keeping the verdict locked behind those velvety brown depths. He pocketed it smooth, the motion pulling his vest taut over the broad plane of his chest, shirt sleeves rolled to show corded forearms built from years of hauling crates, throwing fists, and cutting loose wit’ them machines.

He chuckled then, the sound bouncing soft off the vaulted beams like it belonged more to a backroom deal than this hollow sanctuary. Stepping closer, filling the space with his presence, the faint scent of bay rum and tobacco trailing him, his eyes traced her form from the coiled thick hair pinned, down the nipped waist that hinted at the soft swell beneath, to the way her sensible pumps shifted uneasy on the red carpet.

“You a beautiful woman, Miss Marigold,” Stack spoke with a hushed tone dipping playful yet edged, toothpick rolling once along his tongue, “as fine as they come. You ain’t hot under all that fabric?” 

Her breath hitched sharp, cheeks warmer under the honeyed tone of her skin as she fired back, words tumbling hot and sassy, “I said LEAVE, Mr. Moore. Ain’t no place for your kinda talk here. I’m a married woman—First Lady of this church—and you best remember that ‘fore you embarrass yourself further—”

Stack cut her off with a lift of his brow, voice steady and dangerously low, slicing through like a switch blade wrapped in silk.

“Happily?” 

Marigold’s mouth opened, then closed, no words rising to fill the sudden quiet, her eyes dropping to the polished pew between them, pearls twisting in her grip as the crucifix above seemed to watch, unblinking. 

Stack’s oxfords scraped soft against the red carpet as he began to circle her, his broad shoulders rolling with each step, eyes tracing every inch of her like he was mapping territory he already claimed in his mind. His vest hugged his tapered waist, shirt pulling taut over the hard ridges of his chest with the motion while his thick thighs flexed under the wool trousers, carrying him around her in a lazy orbit that filled the space with his bay rum warmth. Marigold stood frozen, her ivory crepe dress holding firm but her breath came quicker, pearls twisting frantic in her fingers. 

His voice dipped low and sinfully slick, that smooth rumble wrapping around her like cigar smoke, intimate as he paused just behind her shoulder.

“I wonder what kind of drawls you wear hidden under all this,” Stack whispered, the words hanging heavy, his gaze dipping to the hem of her mid-calf skirt where it brushed her thick caves. He stepped closer in the circle, voice dipping even lower, teasing the edge of her ear without touching, “what colors you usually wear ‘em in? They got that lace trim runnin’ ‘long the legs? Little bow sittin’ pretty up the top, maybe? Your initials stitched in there somewhere, engravin’ your name on what’s yours?” He let the question build, his full lips curving as he rounded to her side, eyes flicking down her form, “they hug tight on you, holdin’ all that soft in place? Bet they smell like you after a full day of worship—warm, a lil’ damp from the heat, that violet talc mixin’ wit’ your skin,” his tone stayed steady, but the vulgarity laced through it sharp as a switchblade, “your bush soft down there? All plush and wild under them drawls?” 

Rage boiled up in Marigold’s chest, hot and righteous, her warm brown eyes narrowing as her full lips parted in a silent gasp—vulgar, this man, stripping her bare with words in the house of God. Confusion twisted next, her body betraying her with a flush creeping up her honey-brown neck, a traitorous warmth pooling low in her belly, thighs pressing tight under starched fabric, other areas she dare not speak of growing sinfully tingly. His voice alone stirred her curves to life. The urge hit hard then, her hand twitching at her side, itching to slap him clean across that smirking face for the sheer absurdity, the audacity of painting her secrets out loud like they were his to know. 

Stack completed the circle, facing her full now, eyes locking onto hers with that unblinking intensity, dimples faint as held her stare. Marigold met it head-on, chin lifting despite the tremble in her frame, every button and seam of her dress a barrier he seemed to see right through.  With a shaky voice, edged with that sassy fire but cracking at the edges, she forced the words out. 

“Leave. Now, Mr. Moore. Please.” 

Stack drank her in one last time, eyes roaming slow from her flushed cheeks down the swell of her heavy breasts straining subtle yet succulent against the bodice, over that hourglass waistline she naturally carried but the corset accentuates, to lush hips that shifted uneasy, then back up to hold her gaze. Leaning in just enough—his broad frame casting a shadow—he breathed deep, pulling in her scent: clean lye soap laced with clove and vanilla, that subtle violet powder warming from her skin, a hint of the forbidden heat beneath. His full lips parted on the inhale, savoring it like fine whiskey.

Then, he straightened, turning smooth on his heel, snatching his fedora from the pew where he’d laid it, the motion pulling his shirt sleeves higher on those veined forearms. He walked away unhurried, oxfords echoing toward the nave doors, pausing just once to glance back over his shoulder, smirk playing. 

“I’ll be seein’ you in a few days, Miss Marigold. Wit’ them church women outside my place, protestin’ like they do,” his voice carried that low chuckle, warm and knowing, “thanks for ya’ time.” 

He gave her a wink, the doors creaked as he pushed through, leaving her standing there alone in the hollow quiet, heart pounding against her ribs, the crucifix’s empty eyes staring down as her slay hand smoothed her skirt, trying to press the tremble back into place.