“The SUN, will never set on the Wakandan Empire.”

The car drops her a half step past the entrance like the driver doesn’t want to block the curb too long. Zariah steps out into a slice of low overhead light and the door shuts behind her with an expensive thud. The building doesn’t announce itself. There was no line, no loud music spilling out. Just a matte black door and a man who looks like he’s part of the wall until you meet his eyes. 

Zariah gives her name. The man checks it once, then again without looking like he’s checking anything at all, and opens the door. 

Inside, things felt different. Not quite the music, more like a pulse under everything. Velvet seatings. Dark wood. People who speak in half-voices and don’t repeat themselves. 

Zariah pauses just inside, long enough to take it in. It was just a breath, nothing obvious. Her shoulders settle into their usual line, chin level, eyes forward. Zariah belongs in rooms. That part is muscle memory. 

A hand touches her elbow lightly, her spine goes rigid. 

“Saint-James.” 

Zariah turns. Malik. He’s familiar enough to ease the first second of it. Zariah’s seen him at fittings, at a campaign wrap, once backstage where he talked too smoothly to be anyone’s assistant. Tonight, he looked sharper, but same smile though. Same confidence that assumes a yes before it’s given. 

“You made it,” he says. 

“Mm.” A small nod. “For a minute.” 

Malik steps in beside her, hazel eyes boring into hers, not blocking, just aligning. 

“Come on. I’ll show you around.” 

Zariah lets him guide the direction not the movement. There’s a difference. He knows people here. That’s useful. He speaks in low tones as they move, greeting without stopping, names traded like small coins. When he introduces Zariah, his hand rests at the small of her back for a second too long, then lifts. 

“This is Zariah. Saint-James.” 

Heads turn. Not many. Enough. 

She offers the version of a smile that doesn’t invite questions. 

“Hi.” 

A woman in a silk slip dress made by some foreign designer studies her, then softens, “I know your face.” 

Zariah dips her chin once. “That happens.” 

A glass appears in her hand without her asking. She doesn’t drink it yet. She holds it, lets the cool settle into her palm. Malik leans in to say something near her ear. His breath brushes too close. Zariah tilts her head just enough to hear without giving him the rest of the space. 

“Good room,” he says. “Keep your face around.”

“Mm.” She takes a small step forward, easing the distance. “I’m not staying long, Malik.” 

They drift to a cluster near the bar. Four men, maybe five. Conversation tight. Phrases that loop around meaning instead of landing on it. Numbers, but not spoken like numbers. Very mysterious in a way that makes you wonder. Zariah listens without looking like she’s listening. That’s a skill she learned early. One of them glances at her, then at Malik. A beat. A question that never becomes a question. 

Malik answers it anyway.

“She’s good,” he says, easy. “She with me.” 

One of the men drags their eyes over Zariah.

“This you, Malik? Whatever happened to that French model you had on your arm during fashion week?” 

“You know that was all business,” Malik leans into Zariah, placing his hand on her lower back. “This is Zariah Saint-James. She’s gonna be the new face taking over the fashion industry. Ain’t that right, baby?” 

Hums of approval circulated.

Zariah stills. Not a freeze. A correction. She turns her head, just enough to catch his eye. Her voice stays light, even.

“I came by myself, actually.”

It lands clean. No edge. No apology. 

A couple of the men look away first. Malik’s smile doesn’t falter, but it tightens at the corners. 

“Yeah,” he says, like he meant it that way. “For a minute.” 

“For a minute,” she repeats, and lifts the glass to her lips without drinking. 

Zariah notices the details in the room now. How people stand angled instead of square. How no one laughs too loud. How eyes track movement without turning heads. This isn’t a creative room. Not really. It wears the shape as a disguise but the weight under it is something else. Something she clearly didn’t prepare herself for. Because this space was dressed up like any other she’d been in. But clearly, this room full of powerful people was another side of stardom she didn’t understand enough.

Malik introduces her again, this time to a man in a dark suit with a watch that probably costs more than what Zariah is worth. Older. White. The man’s gaze rests on her a fraction longer than it needs to. 

“Pleasure,” he says. 

Zariah meets it, steady. “Mm.” 

He smiles like that answer told him something. Zariah blinks away quickly.

Malik’s hand returns to her waist, guiding her half a step closer to the circle as if to anchor the introduction. She lets it sit there for a second, then shifts her weight, a small turn of her hips that leaves his hand with nowhere natural to land. It falls away. 

“I’m gonna grab something,” she says, already moving. Heart racing.

Stay,” Malik whispers, soft enough that it could pass for a suggestion. 

Zariah doesn’t stop. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

At the bar, she can breath better. She sets the glass down untouched and rests her fingertips on the smooth marble of the bar top. Her reflection glides along the surface, broken by light. Zariah smoothes the line of her dress at her hip, more to ground herself than to adjust anything. 

Her phone buzzed once. Zariah glanced at it. A text from a stylist about a call time tomorrow. She types back a quick answer, then locks the screen. Behind her, the private lounge continues like it didn’t notice her stepping away. 

Malik returns, closer than before. Zariah stiffens.

“You good?”

“I’m fine.” Zariah keeps her gaze on the bar, then turns to Malik. “I’m heading out in a second.” 

“Already?” Malik smiles, but there’s something under it now. “You just got here, baby.”

“I said a minute.”

Malik leans in again, voice low. “Don’t do that, Zariah. It’s a good look for you to be seen here. I called some connects. Got you on the list…the least you can do is play along. Don’t you want that Vogue spread?”

Zariah holds his gaze. 

“I’ve been seen.”

There was a pause. Malik’s eyes search her face like he’s trying to decide how far to push. It was making Zariah feel uncomfortable. 

“Come meet one more person,” he says. “Then you can go.” 

Zariah considers it. Quick. The room presses at the edges of her awareness. 

“One,” she says. 

Malik nods like he won something. They cross the floor again. This time, the path feels longer. Or maybe she’s more aware of it. The man Malik wants her to meet stands near a corner where the ambiance is softer. He looks up as they approach, already informed. 

“Saint-James,” Malik says. Like he’s placing a piece on a board. “Told you.” 

The man’s eyes take her in without apology. Dark. Unreadable. A face so chiseled it could only be described as a plastic surgeon’s work. 

“I’ve seen you. That shoot with Alberto Rodriguez. Stunning. Versace.”

“Thank you.” Her tone stays even.

“I’m Westley.” He smiles. “You’re in the right room.”

Zariah meets that without returning it, “I’m in the room I walked into.” 

Malik laughs under his breath like she said something charming. The man doesn’t laugh. 

For a second, no one speaks.

“…well. It’s nice to finally meet you, Saint James. Hopefully the next time we meet, It’s us working together.”

Zariah lets it sit. Then, she inclines her head, gives Westley a faint smile, small and final.

“I’m heading out.”

Malik’s hand ghosts at her back again, then stops when she doesn’t slow. “I’ll walk you.”

“No, you’re good.” Zariah turns slightly, enough to keep it polite, not enough to invite him to follow. “I got it.”

Zadiah moves toward the door with the same pace she walked in with. Composed. The man at the door opens it before she reaches for the handle. 

Outside, Zariah exhales, a real one this time, and steps onto the curb. For a second, she stands there, looking back at the black door like it might explain itself if she gave it long enough. 

It doesn’t. 

Zariah pulls her phone out to call her driver, thumb hovering over the screen. Then, she stills. 

A small thought crosses her mind. 

I should’ve said something.

The ride back felt longer than it should have. Zariah sits angled toward the window, city lights dragging across the glass in streaks of gold and white. Her phone sat in her lap, the screen dark. She picked it up once, unlocked it, then locked it again without doing anything. Her reflection stared back at her faintly in the window. Same face. Same poise. But there was something tighter around her eyes now. 

She exhales and leans back. 

By the time the car pulls up, most of the lights in the surrounding units are off. Her driver tells her goodnight. Zariah answers without thinking and steps out, her heels landing soft against pavement. Inside, the elevator ride was short. Too short. She watches the LED numbers climb, arms folded loosely, thumb brushing over her wrist. Not nervous. Just…aware. 

The elevator doors open. The hallway leading into the hall of her apartment building is dim, lined with soft recess lighting along the ceiling. Her steps are steady and cloaked by the hand-tuffted carpet runner in dark green as she walks to her door. Zariah reaches into her bag, pulls out her keys, and unlocks it. 

The door opens with a hiss. 

And the first thing she notices is the light. It’s already on. It wasn’t every light, but enough. The living room. The kitchen. 

He’s here. 

Smoke is sitting on one end of her sectional, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. No TV. No phone. Just him. And that was enough to make her pause. 

He looked up when she stepped in. Zariah pauses just past the foyer for half a second. Then, she sits her bag down on the coffee table. 

“When did you get here?” She asked, proceeding to take off her heels like everything is normal. 

Smoke doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay locked on her. 

Then—

“Where you come from?”

Flat. No extra weight in the words. That’s what makes it land hard. Zariah slips her other shoe off, placing them beneath the coffee table. 

“Out.” 

A beat

“With who?”

Zariah straightens, smoothing her dress down at her hips before turning to face him. 

“Some people from work.” 

Smoke’s gaze doesn’t break. 

“What people?” 

Zariah tilts her head slightly, studying him now. 

“Why you askin’ like that?” 

Smoke leans back just enough to rest against the sectional, but his eyes remained glued to her like he was seeing past the guard she was trying to obtain.

“Answer the question.”

Zariah’s jaw sets for a second. 

“I told you. Work people.”

Silence. It stretched just enough to be felt. 

Then—

“You was at that lounge on Mercer.” 

It wasn’t a question. Zariah’s eyes flicker once. She wasn’t surprised. Just confirmation that she knew he would be keeping an eye on her location. 

She folds her arms loosely. 

“…Yeah.”

“Who took you there?”

“My driver dropped me off. I went by myself.”

Smoke’s gaze sharpens just a fraction. 

“Don’t do that.” 

Zariah’s brows pull together. “I just told you—”

“Who brought you in?”

His voice doesn’t rise. It just tightens. Zariah exhales through her nose.

“A creative I know. Malik was there.”

Smoke leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees again. 

“Malik.” 

Smoke repeats it like he’s placing it somewhere. Then, he looks back at Zariah. 

“And you thought that was somewhere you should be.” 

There was no question in it. Zariah shifts her weight onto one leg. 

“I’ve been in places like that before.” 

“No,” Smoke says, cutting through it. “You haven’t.”

That hit. Zariah’s arms drop from where they were closed. Her posture straightens. 

“You don’t know every place I’ve been,” Zariah replies, voice firmer now. 

“I know that one.” 

Zariah studies him, eyes narrowing slightly. “You actin’ like I walked into something crazy, Smoke.” 

He holds her gaze. “You did.” 

Zariah’s lips press together. For a second, she looks like she might push back harder. 

“I was fine,” she says instead.

Smoke’s expression doesn’t change. “No, Z. You wasn’t.”

Short. Final. 

Zariah’s breath catches slightly, more from the certainty than the words themselves. She looks away for a second, then back at him. 

“I handled myself. Like I always do.” 

The corner of Smoke’s mouth twitched. Enough to part his full lips and reveal silver slugs. He watched her with a slight squint of his eyes. Because he knew. He always knew. 

“I’m sure you think you did, baby.”

That stung more than anything  else he’d said. 

Her chin lifts just a touch, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Silence again. This time more overbearing. Smoke leans forward more, closing some of the space between them without standing. 

“Look at me.”  

Zariah’s eyes snap back to his. She holds it. 

“I am.” 

Then, Smoke asks, calm and direct. “He put his hands on you?” 

Zariah stills. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides. 

“It wasn’t like that.” 

That’s not an answer. 

Smoke’s gaze doesn’t waver. 

“Did he touch you.” 

Zariah exhales. “…Yeah.” 

Another pause. 

“Where.” 

Her jaw tightens. 

“At my back. My waist. He was just—guiding me.” 

Smoke nods once, slow. “Guiding you.” 

He repeats it, but it wasn’t like he agrees. 

Zariah shifts her weight again. “I moved. I corrected it.”

“I know you did.” 

That catches her off guard. Her brows lift slightly. 

“You know?” 

“I know how you move.” His tone hasn’t changed, but something underneath it has. “And you still stayed.” 

There it is. 

Zariah’s shoulders drop just a fraction. 

“I was trying to leave without making it a thing.” 

Smoke sits back again, dragging a hand over his face once before letting it fall.

“You already was a thing the second you walked in there.” 

Zariah’s gaze softens, just a little. She looks at him for a long second, then speaks quieter. 

“I didn’t know it was like that. That he…that it was more than making connections. Helping my career. I–I didn’t realize he was tryna push up on me, Smoke.”

Smoke watches her. And for the first time, something shifts in his expression. Edged with something else. A softness rarely seen.

“I know you didn’t, Z. That’s the problem. Because he could have taken advantage. Like that nigga always do.”

Zariah exhales, slow. Her shoulders ease. She steps a little closer now, enough to close some of the distance. 

“I hear you.”

It’s quieter than anything she’s said so far. Real. Smoke holds her gaze a moment longer. Then, he leans back against the sofa, one hand resting on his jaw.

“Next time,” he says, voice steady, “you tell me where you goin’.” 

Zariah nods once. “…Okay.”

She means it, but she looks away right after she says it, eyes drifting toward the kitchen like the conversation might loosen if she doesn’t hold it. 

It doesn’t. 

The sofa creaks as Smoke Stands. He steps toward her, closing the space she left between them. Zariah’s shoulders tighten just a fraction as he stops in front of her. 

“Don’t look away.” 

Smoke’s voice stays low and firm. Her eyes lift back to his, slow and steady. Smoke studies her for a second. Then, his hand comes up, fingers settling under her chin, thumb along the side of her jaw. 

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.” 

Zariah’s breath shifts. She doesn’t pull away. 

“Mkay,” she replies with a soft voice. 

“You walked into a space where nobody in there is who they say they are,” he says. “Not to you.” 

Zariah watches him, listening.

“…That wasn’t no industry lounge,” Smoke continues. “That’s a place people use to meet when they don’t want nothin’ traced back to ‘em. Deals get made in there that don’t got nothin’ to do with clothes or cameras. People walk in there one way and come out different. This industry will chew you up and spit you out, baby. I know it.”

Zariah’s brows pull together slightly. “I didn’t hear anything like that.”

“You wasn’t supposed to,” he answers, just as even. “That’s the point.” 

Zariah’s lips part, then press together again. Smoke’s thumb shifts against her jaw, grounding her attention back to him. 

“And that nigga, Malik?” Smoke goes on. “He ain’t no creative you just ‘know’. He move with people who use faces like yours to get in rooms easier. To make things look clean.”

Zariah’s posture straightens. She exhales. 

“He didn’t do anything to me. I wouldn’t have let it get that far, Smoke. I had it under control,” she says, a little firmer. “And I didn’t even expect to see him tonight. A friend of mine put in a word. I…I just…I figured it was just some exclusive party for A listers and I could—I could walk in there and—”

“I didn’t say he did anything.” Smoke cut her off. “I said he put you somewhere you shouldn’t have been. And that friend? I wouldn’t be surprised if they a part of it. So you need to cut them off.” 

Zariah’s gaze flickers, then steadies again. 

Smoke leans in just slightly, enough to make sure she’s locked in with him. 

“I’m in this enough to know how that goes,” he says. “I seen how fast it turns. You walk in thinkin’ it’s one thing, and next thing you know you tied to somethin’ you don’t even understand yet.”

Zariah swallows lightly. Smoke’s eyes stay on hers. 

“And I don’t play about what’s mine.” 

There’s no rise to his voice. No dramatics. Just fact. Zariah feels that one’s it sits heavy on her chest. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides, but she doesn’t break eye contact. Smoke lets that hang for a second before continuing. 

“So listen to me,” he says. His hand drops from her chin, but his presence doesn’t pull back. “When you go somewhere, you let me know first.” 

Clear.

“You don’t just show up anywhere off impulse. I don’t care who invited you.” 

Zariah nods, lips scrunched up. “Okay.” 

“If you walk into a spot and somethin’ feel off,” he continues, “you don’t stand there tryin’ to figure it out. You leave.” 

Zariah’s lips part slight like she’s about to speak but she lets him finish. 

“You call me,” he says. “I’ll come get you. I don’t care where you at.”

Certainty. 

“And if somebody put their hands on you,” Smoke adds, voice still low, “or make you feel any type of way…”

He paused, enough to let Zariah know he’s dead ass serious. 

“You tell me. And I’ll handle it. My way.” 

Zariah’s breath slows. “I will.” 

Smoke studies her, making sure. 

“Say it again.” 

Zariah’s eyes stay on his. “I’ll tell you.” 

Smoke hums, then he nods his head before leaning down to kiss her forehead, then her cheek, and ending with her lips. A soft peck that stirs her. Zariah breaks the kiss, exhales, then she looks at him. 

“I didn’t know—”

“I know, baby girl. Just…listen to me, okay? You know this shit triggers me when you go off doin’ shit that make me worried. I’m serious, Z. Don’t do this shit again.” 

She purses her lips, but ultimately gives him another kiss, falling into his big embrace that swallows her.

Correction. 

Weeks pass. At first, Zariah tells herself Smoke is just being attentive. Protective. Present. 

After the lounge incident, Smoke starts rearranging his life around hers in ways that don’t announce themselves immediately. It begins small enough to almost feel thoughtful. He starts picking her up from late shoots instead of sending a driver. He waits outside fittings in black SUVs with the engine running while she changes out of couture and campaign makeup under bright studio lights. When she lands in another city for a show, he’s already there before she reaches baggage claim, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, eyes scanning the terminal before they settle on her. 

Smoke never makes a scene. Never acts possessive in public. That’s what makes it harder to argue with. To everyone around her, Smoke looks dependable. Solid. The type of man women brag about having.production assistants smile when he takes garment bags from their hands. Publicists relax when he quietly checks exits and entrances before an event. Designers greet him like they trust him instinctively, even when they don’t know why. 

And Zariah hates that part a little because he’s so good at it. Too good at it. 

Her world keeps moving at full speed while his begins orbiting around it with frightening precision. Editorial spreads in Paris. Beauty campaigns in New York. Fashion week dinners packed with actors, athletes, stylists, investors, people who speak in air kisses and coded conversations. Zariah is everywhere lately. Her face is in windows three stories high. Magazine covers. Digital campaigns looping across giant screens downtown. And somehow, Smoke is always there now too. 

Not beside her. Near her. Outside the room. At the car. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

The first few times, Zariah lets it go. She tells herself it’s temporary. That he’s going to go back to work doing what he does that’s so top secret and get bored of all the glitz and glam. That he’s trying to make a point after what happened with Malik and the lounge. But the weeks stretch and instead of easing up, Smoke becomes more involved. 

More structured. 

He starts asking for schedules in advance. What event. Which hotel. Who invited her. Who’s attending. What time she expects to leave. 

Not interrogations. 

Expectations. 

And that’s what starts irritating her. Because Zariah has spent her entire adult life moving independently through spaces exactly like these. She built her career on instincts, timing, reading energy, staying graceful under pressure. Men in fashion flirt. Men in entertainment hover. Wealthy people invite you places with hidden motives attached to every smile. She learned how to survive that years ago. So when Smoke starts appearing downstairs before she even calls for a car, something in her begins pushing back automatically. 

She stops texting updates as quickly. Leaves details out. Answers questions vaguely. 

“Just work.”

“A dinner.” 

“Somewhere in SoHo.” 

Nothing technically disrespectful. But it was enough for Smoke to notice she’s testing the edges of what he said in that apartment weeks ago. And Smoke noticed everything. Especially patterns. Especially when someone starts moving different on purpose. 

The irritation builds on both sides slowly, layered beneath long workdays and late nights. And the worst part is she can’t tell where protection ends and control begins anymore. 

Zariah’s up early, wrapped in a robe, hair slicked back into a bun, glass skin and fuzzy Louis Vuitton slippers on her pedicured feet. She’s standing at the kitchen counter with her phone propped against a glass of hot water with lemon and ginger. A call time gets pushed. A fitting added. A dinner penciled in. Her voice stays even, professional, the version of her that never slips. 

“Yeah, I can make that,” she says. “Send me the address.” 

She doesn’t mention it to Smoke. Not when she hangs up. Not when she toasts her sourdough bread to add slices avocado and sliced smoked salmon. Not when she walks past the living room where Smoke is sitting, reading. 

He glances up when she crosses. Zariah doesn’t stop. 

“I got a dinner tonight,” she says like it’s an afterthought. “Brand people.” 

Smoke nods, “what time?”

“Eight.” 

“Where.” 

Zariah takes a sip of her water. 

“I’ll text it.”

Smoke studies her for a second longer than usual. Then, nods again. 

“Aight.” 

And Zariah doesn’t text it. Not at eight. Not at nine. She’s already dressed and out the door by the time the reminder crosses her mind, heels clicking down the hallway, phone buzzing in her hand with another message that isn’t his. 

When she comes back, Smoke’s in the same spot. That’s the first thing she notices. Not the fact that he’s there. The fact that he hasn’t moved much.

Zariah steps in, sets her bag down, slips her heels off. 

“You been sittin’ there all day?” Zariah asks, light, like she’s asking about the weather. 

Smoke’s eyes lift to her. “Where you just come from, Zariah.” 

Zariah walks past him, heading toward the kitchen. That little fancy plate of French food wasn’t enough to settle her hunger. She considers ordering in some Pho from her favorite Vietnamese restaurant. 

“I told you,” she says. “Dinner.” 

“With who.”

Zariah opens the fridge, bends over, little cocktail dress rising up, almost revealing no panties. She scans it like she’s actually looking for something. 

“People from the brand.” 

Smoke doesn’t say anything right away. But his jaw ticks. Zariah pulls out a bottle of water, shuts the fridge, leans against the counter. 

“You ask a lot of questions,” she says, taking a sip.

There’s a small edge to it. A sassy little tone that reeks of an attitude that needs to be checked. 

Smoke watches her unblinking. 

“I asked you where, Zariah.” 

She shrugs one shoulder. “It was in the city.”

That’s it. That’s all she gives him. And she knows it. Something stills in Smoke. He’s locked. Smoke sets his phone down on the table beside him. Slow. Then, he stands. Zariah watches him this time. She doesn’t look away. Smoke walks toward her, closing space like an imposing shadow. Zariah straightens a little as he stops in front of her. She braces her hand on the counter behind her. Smoke’s eyes narrow slightly, orbs darkened with frustration. 

“You ain’t text me nothin’.” 

Zariah takes a sip of her water, avoiding his eyes as if the vase across from her on the dining room table was more interesting. 

“I was busy.” 

Smoke tilts his head. “I told you, Z. You go somewhere, you let me know.” 

Zariah lifts her gaze, chin lifting slightly. Defiantly. 

“And I heard you.” 

There it is. That fucking tone. 

Dismissal.

Smoke’s gaze tightens just a fraction. “But you ain’t do it.” 

Zariah shrugs, “I got there, everything was fine. It wasn’t a big deal.” 

Smoke stepped in closer to where she was nearly pressed between his solid frame and the countertop behind her. Her breathing shifted but she checked it as best as she could. 

“It was to me.” 

Zariah rolls her eyes. She pushes off the counter, standing fully now. 

“You can’t expect me to check in every time I step outside, Smoke,” she argues. “That’s not how I move and you know that.” 

More edge now. More bite. Zariah knows she’s pushing. Smoke watches her for a long second. Then, he exhales once through his nose. 

“You think that’s what it is.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

Zariah folds her arms. “I think you’re doing too much.” 

The silence was heavy. 

Then. “Say that again.” 

Zariah holds his gaze. Doesn’t flinch. 

“I said you’re doing too much.”

Smoke’s haha comes up, firm fingers gripping her jaw, turning her face just enough so she can’t angle away. 

“Don’t do that.” Smoke said, low. Controlled yet deep.

“I’m just sayin—”

“NO,” Smoke cuts in, sharper. “You talkin’ like what I said don’t matter. And that’s a problem for me.” 

Zariah’s eyes flash. “That’s not what I—”

“That’s exactly what you doin’.” Smoke’s grip tightens. “You hear me them weeks ago. Loud and clear.” 

Zariah’s chest rises and falls a little quicker now. 

“I did.” 

“But you moved like you didn’t.” 

There’s no way around that. Zariah looks at him, really looks this time. There’s something building in her too. It wasn’t fear. It was friction. 

“I’m not one of your operations,” she says. “You don’t get to run me like that.” 

Smoke scuffs. “Aight.” 

He releases her jaw. Steps back half a step, and that almost feels worse. 

“You right,” Smoke says. And it’s too calm. “I don’t run you.” 

Zariah’s shoulders ease slightly. But only for a second. 

“Which means,” Smoke continued, “you make your own decisions.” 

Zariah watches Smoks cautiously now. 

“And you deal with whatever come with ‘em. You don’t call me. You don’t tell me where you at. You don’t move how I told you to move—”

Smoke pauses. Not long. 

“You on your own with that.” 

Zariah’s brows pull together. “That’s not what I—”

“You wanted independence,” he says, cutting in, still calm. “I’m givin’ it to you.” 

Zariah studies him. 

This isn’t him trick to control her. This is him stepping back. And that doesn’t feel how she thought it would. 

“You serious?” She asks. 

Smoke nods. “I don’t chase grown decisions, ma. But don’t stand in my face and act like what I said ain’t carry weight.”

Zariah exhales. She folds her arms and juts that hip out. Lip poked. She looks at Smoke for a long second. Then, softer, but still holding onto herself: 

“That’s not what I was tryin’ to do. And you don’t mean none of that shit. Soon as I leave you gon’ be right there , outside, waitin’ on me. Tell me I’m wrong?”

Smoke cuts his eyes at her. Then, he walks off. Leaving Zariah fuming. 

Zariah spends the rest of the evening like she lives alone. That’s the first thing that gets under Smoke’s skin. 

Just…dismissal. 

She moved through the luxury apartment with that polished calm of hers, never quite looking at him, never quite acknowledging the weight sitting in the space between them. She replies to texts on the sofa with one knee tucked under her, laughing softly at something on her screen, walks past him like he’s furniture. 

Smoke says her name once. 

Zariah hears it. He knows she hears it because her shoulders tighten for half a second. But, she keeps on walking. That does more than attitude ever could because now she’s choosing it. And one trigger of Smoke’s, one thing that really ticks him off—being ignored. He watched her enter her bedroom. Smoke sits there another few seconds, jaw working once. 

Then, he stands. No rush to it. He rolls his shoulders once, loosening the tension sitting there. Smoke reaches for the watch on his wrist and sets it on the side table. Neatly. That alone would tell her everything if she saw it. Smoke never tosses things. When he starts setting items aside with care, he’s making room for discipline. He walks to the kitchen, pours a glass of water, drinks half, sets it down. Runs both palms over his face, then drags one hand across the back of his neck. 

Collecting himself. Not cooling off. Centering. 

By the time he reaches the bedroom, the bathroom door is cracked open from the steam, he pushes the door open wider and steps inside. Zariah is standing in front of her vanity, fingers hooking the thin straps of her sleek black cocktail dress. She tugs one strap down her shoulder, exposing smooth dark skin inch by inch, the fabric whispering at her elbows while she twists to face the mirror, grabbing her hair to pile it high, pinning it loose but secure with a claw clip. 

Smoke leans against the frame, hoody heavy against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest, fitted black tee stretching across his pecs. His eyes track every peel of fabric like he owns the view. Tension crackles thick from the kitchen standoff earlier, her defiance still simmering hot under her skin. 

She sees him in the mirror, and now she’s taking off her strapless lace bra and matching thong. Completely naked and glowing like her body was slathered in liquid gold. That little performance almost makes him smile.

Almost. 

“You done?” Smoke asks. 

Her voice stays light. “With what?” 

“With this act you tryna put on to piss me off.” 

Zariah grabs a plum-colored silk robe from a wall mounted hook, hiding that beautiful body. 

“I’m getting ready to shower. Then I’m going to bed. I have a busy schedule tomorrow, Smoke.” 

Smoke closes the bedroom door. The click of the latch is small but it lands. Zariah’s fingers pause over the tie of her robe. Only for a second. Then, she resumes, adjusting the front of her robe like nothing changed. Smoke walks up until he’s directly behind her, watching her reflection instead of her directly. 

“You been real busy not seein’ me tonight.” 

Zariah shrugs one shoulder. 

“I’ve been minding my business.”

“That so.” 

“You got something to say,” she says, voice even, “say it.”

“I did.” His tone is lower now. “You ignored it.” 

Her chin lifts a little in the mirror. 

“Maybe I was tired of hearing it.” 

Smoke’s hand comes to the robe knot at her waist, fingers brushing the bow but not pulling it loose. Zariah finally turns them, eyes lifting to meet his. 

There’s a challenge there. Smoke matches that, boring his eyes into hers like he was asking her telepathically ‘you really wanna take it there, baby girl?’. His gaze dropped briefly to the robe that barely hugged her frame, the one she loved to put on after her showers. The one she wore whenever her skin was slicked with body oil so it could mold to her body in ways that had Smoke dickin’ her down to put her to bed properly. 

“You been pokin’ at me all night.” 

Zariah folds her arms over her chest. 

“Maybe you’re easy to poke.” 

That earns a quiet breath through his nose. And he wasn’t amused. 

He steps closer until there’s no way for her to forget he’s there. The heat of him reaches her before contact does. Her spine straightens automatically. Smoke notices. His hand slides to her jaw, thumb settling near her chin, guiding her face up. 

“Wrong answer.” 

Zariah’s lips part.

She means to say something slick. He sees it forming.

But the words stall when his other hand reaches down,  tugs the robe knot loose in one pull, then lets it fall open on its own. He takes a small step back, eyes downcast to admire her. Take in the view like she was modeling nudity for his eyes only. Robe parted wide and framing that long, elegant frame without hiding a damn thing. 5’10 of slim-thick lines hit different up close. Her long torso stretched down to a waist he could circle with both hands and still have room, dipping into hips that curved fuller from the side, that rich brown skin glowing warm.

Her chest rose steady with each breath, full and natural, nipples tightening just from the air or maybe his stare, elegant shape softening the sharp edges of her shoulders and collarbones. He clocked the subtle give in her stomach, toned thighs long from runway miles pressed together slight, calves flexing strong as she held runway poise even now. 

Smoke’s eyes never leave hers.

“That attitude you got,” he says quietly. “I’m ‘bout done with it.”

“You ain’t my bodyguard no more, Smoke,” Zariah snaps, voice laced brat-sharp. “Stop actin’ like you run shit. I do what I want.” 

Smoke chuckles low, rumble deep from his chest rolling out gravel-thick, his hand shoots out to snag her wrist before she grabs the front of her robe, pulling her half-turn into him, cedar scent faint mixing with her floral perfume. 

“Yeah, but who you come runnin’ to when you needed help? Who handled things to make shit easier for you? Roughed niggas up that got too close? Would kill anybody that so much as try you?” Smoke drawls slow, southern thick, free hand palming the front of his joggers where his thick bulge thickens obvious. “Yeah, but you was feenin’ for this dick. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you beggin’ me to fuck you in that dressing room. Remember? Or you forgot just like you forgot who the fuck I am. And when I say somethin’, you do as you told.” 

Smoke’s eyes never left yer face, unblinking and coal-dark, jaw set under stubble. 

Zariah yanks her wrist free, twisting away but stays close, turning full to shove her palm flat against his chest, pushing half-hearted, his pecs unyielding under her spore as fingers. Zariah leans in, chin high, lips curling into a smirk. 

“And wasn’t you the one that couldn’t wait to fuck me?” She fires back, hip cocked. “Ain’t never had a bitch like me in yo’ life. Soon as you got a taste, you obsessed, right? That’s why you still actin’ like a good little soldier. Now who’s in control now, big bad Smoke?” Her voice pitches taunt, one hand sliding down to trail the ridge of his abs where his tee clings, nails scraping light to test the flex. 

Zariah walks off, brushing past him. Smoke snorts  breath. 

“Control? Lil’ girl, you testin’ ropes right now.” Smoke growls. His large Pam clamps her hip, yanking her flush from behind, his hard dick against her ass. His beard grazes her cheek as his head dips. “That dressin’ room…you hiked that dress, spread your legs wide, pussy was drippin’ and beggin’ for my tongue first. Then you rode this dick cryin’ daddy til you squirted all on this dick. Obsessed? Yeah…I ain’t got a reason to deny shit. But you hooked, baby girl. Chasin’ this nut every night since.” Smoke’s fingers trail up the arch of her spine, his other hand cupping her ass cheek. 

Zariah gasps sharp, twisting her hips, bucking against him, but eventually she breaks the hold. 

“Hooked? Please. You stalkin’ my every move like a lost puppy.” She spits, laughing brittle, backing toward the bathroom door. “Body guard days over, but you still guarding this pussy like it’s yours. And I’m glad you know exactly how obsessed you are.” Her eyes flash, lips parting to rest her tongue at the corner of her mouth. 

Smoke steps forward, hands shooting out to brace the doorframe over her head, caving her without touch. 

“Mine? Damn right. Till you prove otherwise.” He rumbles. “Go ‘head, shower off that dinner, but don’t think slamming doors gon’ end this talk.” His eyes rake over her body, dick tenting the front of his joggers. Zariah places her palm flat against his chest before giving him a final shove to the ripple of muscle, the door swinging hard bang latch catching. The shower turned on beyond the door and as much as Smoke wanted to open that door, he waited. Waited until he heard that shower shut off.

Zariah is standing at the vanity in nothing but a towel, lotion bottle in hand, acting deeply interested in the label. She bends to reach for her toner in the cabinet beneath the sink. The bathroom door opens, the humidity in the bathroom turning the air chill. The fog on the glass began to disappear. The way she knows exactly where he is behind her without turning around. She just wants him to know she can ignore it. 

Zariah rises slowly, and sets her toner on the sink with careful precision. 

Still won’t turn. 

Zariah swallows. Her arms start to cross over herself instinctive. Smoke catches both her wrists and lowers them back at her sides. 

“No.” 

Zariah looks at him now, fully. Some of the bravado thinning at the edges. Because she knows this version of him. The one who gets calmer the more serious he is. He releases her wrists only after they stay where he put them. Then, he steps back half a pace and gestures toward the counter. 

Smoke steps behind her, broad hand spreading over the back of her neck for one steady second, claiming her attention. 

"Good," he says.

The steam from her shower clings to the air, thick and warm, fogging the mirror above the sink in faint swirls. Zariah stands there naked, skin dewy, water droplets tracing slow paths down her shoulders and the curve of her back. The towel lies discarded on the floor by her feet, leaving her fully exposed. Smoke’s hand lingers at her neck a beat longer, thumb pressing firm against her pulse, anchoring her in place. The heat of his palm seeps into her, carrying that familiar cedar scent that always seems to cut through everything else. Smoke's chest brushes her back as he closes the space. Zariah can feel the expansion of his black tee against her shoulder blades when he draws a controlled breath.

"Hands on the sink," he tells her, voice low and even. 

Zariah does not move right away. Her chin lifts a fraction, eyes flicking to his reflection in the mirror, holding his gaze there. Bold still, testing. 

“For what?” she asks, tone carrying that edge she knows gets under his skin, words clipped. 

Smoke doesn’t rise to it. His free hand slides down her side, large fingers splaying over her hip, gripping just enough. The veins in his forearm stand out as his muscles flex. 

“You know why,” he says. “All that mouth. Ignoring calls. Acting like rules don’t stick. Time to fix it.”

Zariah exhales through parted lips, a subtle shift, but her hands stay at her sides. Her posture remains upright, feet planted on the cool tile. Inside, she feels the pull, the way his presence makes the steam feel heavier, but she pushes back one more time.

 “I was busy. You act like I owe you every second.”

Smoke's grip tightens on her hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh there. He leans in closer, lips near her ear, breath warm against the damp shell. 

“Busy playin' games. Poking. Now I’ma show you. But that’s what you wanted, right?” His other hand lifts from her neck, trails down her spine, ending at the swell of her ass. He cups one cheek fully, squeezing hard enough to make her shift her weight.

"Hands. Sink. Now."

This time, her body responds before her mouth does. Palms flat on the cool porcelain edge, fingers splaying wide. She arches her back slightly without meaning to, ass pushing out toward him, skin prickling under the humid air. Her eyes stay on his in the mirror, defiant spark still there, but her breathing picks up, chest rising faster.

“That's better. So, you do as you told then?” he says, stepping fully behind her now. His feet plant wide on the tile, knees bracketing her legs as he positions himself. One hand stays on her hip, holding her steady. The other rears back, large palm open, veins bulging along his wrist.

The first smack lands solid across her right cheek, skin meeting skin with a sharp crack that echoes off the tiled walls. Her ass jiggles from the impact, flesh purpling instantly under his handprint. Zariah's fingers curl against the sink, a hiss escaping her teeth, but she bites down on anything louder.

 “That all?” she throws back, voice tight, trying to keep the bold front.

Smoke sees it. The way her thighs tense, pussy lips glistening between her legs from more than just the shower. He knows she’s wet, knows the defiance is her last push before she settles. His dick barely had room to grow in his joggers, that thick length pressing against the seam as he watched her in the mirror. 

“Keep talkin',” he warns, hand coming down again, harder this time, left cheek taking the full weight of his swing. The slap rings out wet in the steam, her ass bouncing, a fresh mark blooming dark against her skin.

Zariah gasps, knees buckling a touch, but his grip on her hip keeps her upright. Heat spreads across her backside, stinging deep. 

“Fuck,” she breathes, eyes narrowing at him in the glass. “You mad at me daddy?”

Smoke doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he delivers three quick spanks in succession, alternating cheeks, each one heavier than the last. Palm cracks against flesh, her ass rippling with every strike, turning hot and swollen under his assault. Her pussy clenches visibly, slickness dripping down her inner thigh, betraying how much she needs this correction. Smoke's free hand slides between her thighs from behind, thick fingers parting her folds roughly, middle finger plunging into her soaked pussy without warning.

“This what you wanted?” Smoke growls low, pumping in and out once, twice, feeling her walls grip him tight. She moans despite herself, hips bucking back. But he pulls out just as quick, smearing her juices over her ass before landing another brutal smack right where her cheek meets thigh.

Zariah's head drops forward a second, elbows locking on the sink, but she lifts it back up, meeting his eyes again. 

“Keep goin' then,” she challenges, voice breathier now, the bold cracking at the edges.

Smoke's chest rumbles with a low sound, approval mixed with hunger. That big dick throbs, straining as he tugs his joggers down with one hand, freeing the curved shaft and wide tip. Pre-cum beads at his slit, heavy length slapping against her bruised ass. But he ain’t done punishing her yet. Smoke grabs a fistful of her wet hair, pulling her head back gently but firm, forcing her to arch deeper. 

“Count 'em,” he orders.

His hand cracks down again, full force, the loudest yet. Her ass quivers, marked deep purple, heat radiating. 

“One,” she grits out, pussy aching empty.

Another on the other side, palm stinging his own skin from the velocity. “Two.”

Smoke spreads her cheeks with his thumbs, exposing her tight asshole and dripping slit, then spanks right across both, the impact jarring her whole body. 

“Three,” she moans, thighs shaking. Teeth chattering. 

Smoke leans over her, his dense midsection pressing into her back, shirt damp from the steam and her skin. His beard scraping her shoulder as he bites down lightly there, marking her while his hand rains down five more measured strikes, each one pushing her closer to breaking that last wall. Her counts come faster, voice turning needy, ass on fire, pussy clenching around nothing as viscous arousal slicks her legs. By the tenth, she is panting, body trembling in his hold, bold facade shattered into raw want.

 P-Please,” Zariah whispers finally, not begging wildly but settling, hands gripping the sink.

Smoke pauses, rubbing his palm over the abused flesh, soothing the burn while his tip nudges her entrance, thick head parting her lips. 

“Good girl,” he says, voice thick with possession. 

Then he thrusts in deep, stretching her pussy wide around his girth, filling her completely. His hips snap forward once, deep and punishing, fat dick buried to the hilt in her dripping pussy, stretching her walls tight around his thickness. 

When he eased that fat length inside her it opened her pussy with a slow burn, the girth demanding space as it sank deep. The curve to the right caught along her slick walls, dragging firm pressure against the sensitive ridge there with each inch that followed. Long and solid, bottoming out steady, filling her to the limit while her body adjusted around the thickness pulsing hot and full. Every shift would send that curve nudging the same spot over and over, building a tight coil low in her belly that made her thighs tremble without her meaning to. Zariah's breath catches sharp, body jolting against the sink, but Smoke pulls out slow, leaving her clenching empty, creamy slick coating his shaft. Not done yet. Her ass still needs more work, cheeks blazing hot under his palm prints.

Smoke's hand cracks down again, heavy and mean, right across both bruised globes. The slap echoes wet in the bathroom, her flesh rippling, thighs quivering from the sting. Zariah whimpers low, knees buckling inward, but his grip on her hip locks her straight.

“I don’t know why the fuck you act like you tough, baby,” Smoke growls, voice thick with that Mississippi drawl, low and gravel-rough, breath hot on her neck. His free hand fists her wet hair tighter, yanking her head back so her eyes lock on his in the fogged mirror. Dark brown gaze bores into hers, heavy-lidded and unblinking. “Why the fuck you keep actin’ up? Huh?”

Another smack lands harder, palm flattening her left cheek, sending fire blooming deep. Zariah’s legs shake harder, pussy leaking fresh wetness down her inner thighs, mixing with shower droplets on the tile. Zariah bites her full lip, trying to hold the sound, but a needy whine slips out anyway, body arching despite the burn.

“Why? Answer the fuckin’ question,” Smoke demands, leaning his solid chest heavier against her back, tee clinging damp to his thick torso. The weight of him pins her forward, broad shoulders eclipsing her reflection. His cream-coated dickthrobs hot against her thigh, pre-cum smearing her skin, but he holds off, rubbing her sore ass roughly with his rough palm, veins popping along his forearm whenever he would grip the flesh with his fingers. 

Zariah exhales shaky through parted lips, fingers digging into the sink edge, porcelain cool under her palms. That bold edge frays, but she pushes one last time, voice breathy and tight. “I heard you...just didn’t think…”

Crack. His hand swings full force, spanking the spot where ass meets thigh, jolting her whole frame. Her pussy clenches hard, clit twitching, inner lips trembling from the impact, visible drip falling to the floor. Her legs trembled bad now, barely holding her up.

“Didn’t think what? That I mean what I say?” Smoke presses closer, beard scraping her shoulder as he leans in to kiss the spot where his teeth was minutes ago, soothing it. He spanks again, rapid fire—three in a row, alternating sides, each crack louder, her ass swelling fuller, hot to the touch. 

“You went out there actin’ like my words ain’t shit. Ignorin’ calls. Playin’ like you run this. Nah, baby. That stops now.”

Zariah’s whimper turns into a gasp, body softening under the onslaught, shoulders dropping a fraction. She feels his control sink in deep, the dense gravity of his frame making the steam thicker, her vanilla-musk scent mixing with his cedar smoke. 

“Y-Yeah... I hear you,” she admits quieter, chin lifting less defiant, eyes holding his with that flicker—irritation yielding to the weight.

Smoke pauses, large hand soothing over the fiery flesh, squeezing possessive. But his voice stays mean, drawl dragging slow.

 “Too late for that hearin’ shit. You gonna learn tonight.” That dick nudges her slit again, thick head parting her soaked folds, teasing that creamy entry without giving it what it wants. One more spank, brutal across the fullest part of her right cheek, making her cry out soft, hips bucking back involuntary.

“Count the rest. And don’t make me ask twice.”

Her voice comes steady now, reined in, body present under him. “E-Eleven.”

Smoke’s hand lifts off her throbbing ass cheek, fingers digging into the heated flesh one last time before shoving her shoulders down firm. Enough with the slaps. Time to shut that mouth up proper. Her knees hit the wet tile with a soft smack, water slick under her shins. Zariah’s dark eyes lift to his, breath still ragged from the burn, but she don't hesitate. Her body shifts smoothly, settling low, full tits swaying as she balances on her heels.

Smoke steps up close, black tee clinging to his broad chest, sweat and shower mist beading on his deep brown skin. One thick hand wraps the base of his dick, pulling it free from where it hung thick and heavy between his muscular thighs. Almost as thick as her forearm, easy nine inches stretching out straight at first, then curving wicked at the tip like it know exactly where to hit deep. Girth thick around, veins bulging ropey along the dark shaft, skin a rich chocolate shade fading near the fat, flared head that's glossy with pre-cum leaking steady. Heavy balls swing low underneath, plump and full, hanging loose in that wrinkled sac, dark and musky from the heat. Whole thing pulses alive in his grip, smelling of clean soap mixed with his natural cedar-earth scent up close.

“See this dick right here, baby? You wanna talk back, runnin’ yo’ mouth like you run shit? Get this dick in that throat,” Smoke growls low, drawl dragging thick and mean, free hand tangling rough in her wet curls. He yanks her face forward, smearing the leaking head across her plump lips, leaving a shiny trail. “Suck big daddy’s dick. Put that mouth to work since you actin’ all tough. Throat it deep, show me you learned somethin’ tonight.”

Zariah parts her lips wide, tongue flicking out to lap the salty bead from his slit before she stretches her jaw open. Head disappears first, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard around the ridge, pulling him in inch by girthy inch. Those full Saliva spills quick, dripping down her chin. She trained for this, months of him working her down slow at first, gagging her till she took every curve without choking. Now she slides forward steady, throat relaxing open, feeling that bend nudge the back of her mouth then slip past her tonsils smooth.

The soft flesh of her lips stretches wide and presses flush against his shaft as she sinks lower, creating a tight seal that drags with each slow pull. Wet suction fills the quiet with each bob of her head, the sound thick and wet as her mouth works to take more. Heat and pressure builds around Smoke from the way her lips clamp and slide, her tongue pushing up from below while her throat opens to pull him deeper with every descent.

Zariah’s face pulls tight around that thick girth filling her mouth, her cheeks drawing inward in deep hollows that frame the shaft with sharp definition as she sinks lower. She maintains a steady rhythm of long, controlled pulls, her tongue pressing firm and flat underneath while her throat opens to swallow more with each descent, creating a constant wet drag and suction that tightens on the upstroke. Her jaw works visibly with the effort, lips sealed flush and sliding in a smooth, milking motion that builds pressure without pause.

Smoke groans deep in his chest, hips bucking shallow to feed her more. “Yeah, that's it, fuckin' swallow this big dick. You know how I like it, don't play. Deeper, baby, choke on it if you gotta, but don’t stop.” His voice rumbles harsh, hand guiding her head, thick fingers pressing her nose toward his trimmed pubes. His fat nuts slap light against her chin as she bobs, throat bulging visible with his length buried fully. Zariah gags once soft, eyes watering, but pushes through, humming low around him, tongue pressing flat underneath to stroke the bulging vein.

Smoke watches her work in the mirror, heavy-lidded eyes narrowing mean. “Look at you, all that fire earlier, now you slurpin' dick like a good lil’ girl. Shoulda did this from jump, keep that ass in line and yo’ throat full. Mmm, suck harder, baby. Drain these nuts dry.” His grip tightens in her hair, fucking her face, pulling out to the tip with a wet pop before slamming back in, curve hitting her gag reflex perfect every thrust. Her hands brace his thick thighs, nails digging into the dense muscle, feeling him flex under her palms as drool strings from her stretched lips.

Zariah’s pussy aches empty between her spread knees, thighs slick with her own drip mixing on the floor, but she focuses, hollowing her cheeks tighter, swallowing around his girth to milk him. Her nose buries in his coarse hairs finally, balls snug against her chin, holding him deep till her lungs burn. She pulls off gasping, strings of spit connecting her mouth to his shining shaft, then dives back, faster, head twisting side to side for friction.

“That’s my girl, train that throat right. You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I bust down yo’ neck,” Smoke grunts, free hand cupping her jaw rough, thumb smearing spit back in. His heavy balls draw up tight, dick twitching hard in her sucking mouth, but he holds off, drawing it out mean. “Keep goin’. Earn that forgiveness, baby.”

Zariah’s right hand wraps around the base of his thick dick, fingers barely meeting around the girth as she strokes up slow, twisting at the swollen head slick with her spit. She sucks deeper on the pull back, lips sealed tight around his veiny shaft, tongue swirling under the curve that presses her cheek out. Her left hand steadies on his heavy thigh, nails scraping light into the dense muscle as she bobs faster, throat opening wide to take him balls-deep again, humming vibrations along his length.

Smoke's eyes narrow sharp, watching her work from above. His big palm cracks down quick on her stroking hand, slapping it off his dick with a wet smack. 

“Nah, baby. Hands where I can see ‘em. Up behind yo head or on them thighs. This mouth mine now.”' He grabs a fistful of her wet curls tighter, yanking her head back just enough to pop his dick free, strings of saliva stretching long before snapping. Then he thrusts forward, burying every curving inch straight down her throat in one push, balls smacking her chin heavy.

Zariah gasps around the invasion, eyes watering, but puts her hands in her lap. Her throat bulges with his girth, the  bend lodging deep, cutting off her air till black spots dance. He don't let up—hips snap forward, fucking her face, pulling out to the flared head where she gasps ragged, then slamming back in, pubes grinding her nose.

“Fuckin’ tired of yo games, Zariah. All this bullshit you pullin’,” he growls low, thick and gravelly, voice echoing off the tile. Smoke picks up meaner, dick pistoning her mouth, heavy balls swinging to slap her jaw each thrust. “Back when I was yo’ bodyguard, dealin' with yo’ spoiled, uptight, prissy ass barkin' orders left and right. Actin’ like you own the world, snappin’ at me like I'm one of yo’ lil' errand boys. Had to bite my tongue, watchin' you strut ‘round thinkin’ you untouchable.”

Zariah’s knees spread wider on the slick floor, thighs quivering as drool pours down her chin, soaking her tits glossy. She gags hard on a deep plunge, throat convulsing around his pulsing shaft, but holds the position, hands laced tight in her lap, fingers twitching to grip something. That wet ass pussy throbbed neglected, juices trailing down to puddle under her.

Smoke grunts deep, free hand bracing the sink edge, muscles flexing in his thick arm as he rams harder, curve dragging her tonsils raw. “And now? Now you on this dick, slurpin’ like you starved, and still think you run shit? Nah, baby girl. I run it. Always did. Just lettin’ you play pretend till I remind this lil’ ass who in charge.” He yanks her hair sharper, holding her nose-deep, balls snug on her chin, grinding slow circles to stretch her throat wider. “Feel that? Feel daddy ownin' this mouth? You gon’ take every inch till I say stop. No more actin’ brand new.”

Zariah’s chest heaves desperate around the blockage, tears streaking her cheeks mixing with spit, but her eyes stay locked up at him, defiant spark fading to raw submission. She swallows around his girth, milking the veiny underside, tongue pressing frantic when he pulls back for air. Her hands stay put, obedient, elbows trembling from the strain as he resumes pounding, wet gurgles filling the humid air, his heavy balls tightening with each brutal thrust.

Smoke abruptly snaps his hips back, dick leaving her throat. Zariah sucked in a lung full of air, sniffling, teary eyes cloudy as she looked up at her daddy with a bite of her bottom lip. She’d sucked a few dicks in her twenty-nine years of living but she would have never thought a nine inch, veiny monster would fit down her throat. Normally, she would pat herself on the back, but right now, Smoke was pissed off. Her reward would come later. Right now, she’s a throat to fuck and nothing more. Her eyes went hazy from staring at his hard dick bobbing and twitching in her face, glossy and dripping with saliva. She knew he was close because his tip was a deep purple and it flared so wide it left the corners of lips raw. The map of veins along his shaft bulged in size, and his nut sack sat full and loaded with cum. 

“Open up.” Smoke commands.

Zariah does as she’s told, eager for more. That big dick slid in smooth and full, making her eyes roll. 

Smoke's hips jackhammer faster now, thick dick plunging her throat raw brutal snaps, the curve battering her tonsils. His balls draw up tight, slapping her chin wet and relentless, his breath turning into ragged grunts as the pressure coils low in his gut. Sweat beads down his solid chest, tee clinging damp to the full slabs of pecs heaving with each drive. He feels her throat spasm greedy around his girth, milking him closer to the edge.

“Eyes up here, Zariah. Look at me while I feed this throat,” he snarls, free hand clamping her jaw firm, thumb digging into the hinge to force her gaze up. Watery brown eyes meet his dark, heavy-lidded stare, hers wide and pleading, his burning with ownership. “Hands in yo’ lap. Fingers laced. Don't move ‘em.”

Zariah shifts quickly on her knees, pulling her elbows in to drop her hands to her thighs, palms up and fingers interlocking obediently in her lap like a proper slut. Her thighs quake wider apart on the tile, pussy clenching empty and dripping strings of arousal to the floor. Her jaw slackens under his grip, relaxing loose as he demands, lips stretched obscene around his pistoning shaft, drool bubbling out the corners to sheet down her neck and pool between her heaving tits.

“Good girl. There you go, relax that jaw. Let daddy bust,” Smoke growls deep, gravel scraping rough, pace turning erratic, hips stuttering as his dick swells thicker in her gullet. His balls contract hard, and he slams balls-deep one final time, grinding his pubes flush to her nose, holding  as ropes of hot cum erupt straight down her throat. Pulse after thick pulse floods her, warm, slightly salty jets coating her esophagus, forcing her to gulp convulsively around the buried length.

He don't budge an inch, big hand locked on her curls, the other on her jaw, keeping her pinned nose-deep while she swallows every drop—no spill, no waste. Her throat works visible under the skin, bulging swallows pulling his load down greedy, chest fluttering desperate for air around the blockage. Her eyes remain locked on his, tears carving clean tracks through the spit mask on her face, but that defiant spark's gone fully, replaced with raw, owned surrender shining back.

Smoke holds till the last twitch fades, dick softening just enough in the wet heat, then eases out slow, dragging the sensitive underside over her lolling tongue. Strings of cum-mixed saliva cling thick, snapping as the flared head pops free. She coughs hoarse, sucking air in big whoops, hands twitching in her lap but staying put, lips puffy and glossy. He strokes her cheek with his thumb, smearing the mess, voice dropping low and satisfied. 

“Every drop. That's how you take what’s yours. Don’t forget who run this shit.”

Smoke’s thick fingers loosen from her curls, sliding down to hook under her arms with that unyielding grip, hauling her up off the tile slow and steady. Her knees wobble jelly-soft, thighs slick from her own dripping need, but he steadies her full against his sweat-damp shirt, broad chest rising firm under her cheek. His big hand cups her elbow, the other spans low on her back, guiding her bare feet over the bathmat and out the steamy bathroom door.

He snags a clean washcloth from the sink edge first, soaking it under hot tap water till steam curls off, then presses it gentle but thorough to her chin, wiping away the glossy streaks of spit and tears. His thumb traces her swollen lips, the cloth dragging over puffy cheeks and her jaw, leaving her skin flushed warm and bare. 

“There. Clean slate, baby girl,” he rumbles low, voice that quiet thunder rolling deep from his chest.

The king bed dominated the dim space, sheets rumpled from earlier. He sinks onto the edge, thighs spreading wide like tree trunks, then tugs her forward to drape her naked body across his lap face-down. Ass up high, cheeks still blooming hot from the spanking, pussy lips peeking swollen and slick between spread thighs. His weight shifts the mattress deep, one massive palm flattening broad on her lower back to anchor her still, the other dipping into the jar of balm on the nightstand. A cool, thick shea and aloe mix he keeps stocked for nights like this.

His fingers dig in generously, spreading the cream in firm circles over her left cheek first, kneading the stinging heat away, thumb pressing into the tender underside where it meets thigh. Smoke switches to the right after a while, palms gliding slick, parting the globes slightly to smooth the balm down the cleft, grazing her puckered hole and dipping low enough to tease her soaked folds without mercy. 

“You know why that ass got lit up, Zariah,” he starts, tone even, dangerously calm wrapping each word like barbed wire, dragging vowels long and weighted. “Pushin’ me like that, testin' boundaries when I done told you how it's gone be. Mouth runnin’ reckless, darin’ me to snap. I spank you again and again if you keep triggerin’ this fire. Don’t make me prove it twice more tonight.”

His hand keeps working, the balm sinking in as her skin drinks it greedy, cooling the fire to a throb. Smoke’s palm cups one cheek full, squeezing soft, then leans down to press open-mouth kisses along the curve—lips dragging hot and wet, tongue flicking out to taste the salted balm on fevered flesh. Peck after peck trails inward, nipping the fullest swell before soothing with flat laps.

“Mmm,” he draws back, biting his bottom lip, her slick sticking to his goatee, “pussy puffy from me popping that ass,” Smoke takes two fingers, tapping her pussy lips, labia peeking through like petals. “I know you love it when daddy turns you out like a fuck doll…pussy leakin’ for it. But safety first, always. Top of my list. You play brat, defy what I say to keep you whole, that shit upsets me deep. I’d kill anybody—end ‘em slow—who so much as touches a hair on your head. Bleed ‘em dry for less.”

Smoke’s voice stays level, no rise, just that steel edge slicing through, breath ghosting her skin between kisses, one hand landing square on the sit-spot welt. Smoke pauses, hand stilling to pat her ass possessive, waiting till her breath evens soft against the sheets.

“Now, you know what I want you to do. Say it clear.”

Zariah shifts slightly across his lap, thighs clenching, posture holding upright even prone, spine straight, hands smoothing the bedspread once to ground herself. Her voice comes soft, that self-possessed edge threading through.

“…I’ll listen to what daddy says.”

“Good girl, keep goin’.”

Smoke’s palm resumes stroking the balm in, fingers parting her cheeks wider for a deep kiss right above where her puckered hole sat, his tongue circling lazy.

“…I—I’ll stop being m–mean to daddy…and understand t–that he’s trying to protect m–me, not control me,” her full lips press thin a beat, exhale parting them tense, brown eyes flicking back over her shoulder to hold his gaze steady. Even though her body couldn’t stop shaking.

“Mm. That’s my girl,” another peck lower, between the under cuff of her ass where her thighs met, “finish it.”

“H–He wants me to continue t–to be independent…but understand that m–my man w–wants and needs to step up. To provide, protect, a–and spoil me. To create a life for me w–where I can continue to be t–the phenomenal women that I am. The beautiful woman t–that I am. The sexy woman that I am.”

Her words came out even in some ways and shaky in others. No plea. Only quiet dominance and echoing his, her body relaxing fuller into his lap as the balm soaked deep. Smoke nods once, satisfaction etching his heavy-lidded stare. He gave his girl a final kiss planted firm on her tailbone, one large, calloused hand sliding up her slick spine to tangle light in her hair, tugging her head back gently for more eye contact.

“That’s my girl. Good job. Now…rest that ass here while daddy thinks up how to spoil you next.”

Smoke positions Zariah on her stomach across their bed. He spreads her thighs wide from behind and lifts her hips into the right tilt. Smoke dips his head and admires her pussy lips sitting in the shape of a heart below her ass that glistened from the balm. His tongue moves in slow strokes from the base of her pussy upward, gathering every bit of wetness. He seals his lips around the folds and sucks them clean with steady pulls before pressing soft kisses along the slick skin. His tongue dips inside to lick deeper then returns to lap and suck without rushing, working through the mess until only his mouth leaves her glistening.

Zariah’s body rocks with small shifts under his hold. “Yes daddy." Her voice comes thick. “Thank you daddy.” She pushes back a fraction as his suction holds on her clit. “I love it when you eat my pussy.”

Smoke keeps his pace while his voice rumbles low against her. “Stay open for me. Let daddy clean every drop. You taste so good when I take my time like this.” He kisses her tender entrance then sucks again, tongue circling slow. “That’s it. Give it all to me.”

Zariah shifts her hips back in a slow roll, pressing her soaked folds against Smoke's mouth. He meets each motion by sealing his lips around her clit and sucking with firm, steady pressure, drawing the swollen bud between his lips in a gentle pull before releasing. Her thighs tremble under his grip as she rocks again, grinding back for more contact.

"Oooo," she breathes out, the sound stretching long. “Fuck. Yes.” The words slip free between moans while her body keeps moving, seeking that same suction each time she pushes her pussy toward him.

Smoke's tongue works in skillful laps, flattening broad against her entrance before dragging upward to circle her clit again. His voice stays low and even, vibrating right against her skin.

 “That’s right, keep bringing it back  like that. Let me suck on this pretty pussy. You feel how wet you stay for me?” Smoke proves her opening with the tip of his tongue to catch some of that wetness. “I can taste every bit of it, so sweet and thick on my tongue. Gon’ fuck you so deep after this, stretch you open slow with every inch until you can't think straight. This pussy gon' take it all, and I'ma give it to you proper.”

Snoke sucks with more pressure on her clit as she rocks back once more, holding the pull for a beat longer before easing off to lick through her folds. “Tastes so damn good, baby. Can't get enough of how you drip down my chin.”

Zariah’s voice comes out husky between her moans. “You love this pussy, baby?”

Smoke answers without lifting his mouth, the words rumbling straight into her. “Daddy love this pussy. Best fuckin’ pussy I ever had.”

Zariah’s voice lifts soft and questioning as she rocks back once more. “Daddy?”

Smoke answers with a low hum that vibrates against her folds, the sound deep and steady while his tongue continues its work.

Zariah pushes again, her words coming clearer now. “Daddy I wanna watch you eat my pussy.”

In one smooth motion Smoke flips her onto her back, his hands guiding her body with controlled strength. He pulls the black tee over his head and drops it aside, leaving him fully naked as he settles between her open thighs. Zariah spreads wider for him, and he eases down to keep his mouth on her, licking and sucking with focused attention. She grinds her pussy into his mouth, hips rolling to meet each pull of his lips. Smoke gently pushes her thighs open further, holding them apart so he can slurp directly on her clit with wet, smacking sounds. He stays right there, working that spot alone because it builds her up fast. Her body tenses and then releases in a sudden rush as she squirts, the warm fluid spilling over his tongue and chin while he keeps sucking through every pulse.

Smoke stays locked between her thighs, refusing to ease up. His tongue drags in long, wet strokes that feel heavy and thick against her folds, each one landing with pressure that makes her hips twitch. Zariah’s pussy quivers under the attention, the sensitive skin pulsing and tightening as he circles her clit again and again. He holds her legs open wider with firm hands, keeping her spread so nothing interrupts the steady motion of his mouth. The wet sounds grow louder with every lick, and he focuses right there, building the heat until her body starts to tighten once more. She grinds down into him, chasing the sensation as the pressure coils deep inside. His tongue works without pause, thick and insistent, pushing her straight toward the edge until she breaks again, fluid spilling over his lips while he keeps sucking through the pulses.

Smoke stays locked in place, his mouth sealed over her pussy as he sucks deeper, pulling her swollen clit between his lips with steady pressure. His tongue follows in thick, wet drags that lap up every fresh trickle of her arousal, working in firm circles that make her thighs shake in the air. Zariah keeps her legs spread wide, knees bent and feet towards the ceiling, giving him full access while her hips roll in small, desperate circles against his face.

Her body reacts in waves. The muscles in her lower belly tighten and release with each pull of his mouth, sending ripples across her frame. Her rich brown skin glistens with sweat, the soft curve of her waist flexing as her back arches off the bed. Her breasts rise and fall faster, nipples tight and dark against the air. Inside, her walls pulse and flutter around nothing, clenching with every lick that drags from her entrance up to her clit. More slick heat spills out, coating his tongue and dripping down his chin as he swallows it down without pause.

“Uhuh, yeah baby.” Smoke rumbles against her, voice low and thick with command. “Keep those legs open. Let me feel you gettin' close. I want every drop this time. Right in my fucking mouth. Feed me.” His words vibrate through her core, pushing the tension higher. Smoke sucks again, lips sealed tight while his tongue flicks quick and firm right on that sensitive spot, building the pressure until her moans turn ragged.

Zariah’s hands fist the sheets. Her pussy quivers harder now, the inner walls squeezing in quick spasms that grow stronger with each pass of his tongue. The heat coils low in her belly, spreading outward until her toes curl and her breath hitches in short gasps. "Haah—Fuck," a sharp inhale caught in her throat, then she breathes out, the word breaking on a moan as another rush of wetness floods his mouth. Her hips jerk upward, chasing the sensation while her thighs tremble around his shoulders.

Smoke doesn't let up. He slides two fingers inside her, curling them against that spongy spot while his mouth keeps working her clit in wet, insistent pulls. “I know you feel it buildin’. Don't hold back on me. You gon’ give it all, you hear me?” His free hand presses her thigh wider, keeping her open as her body winds tighter. Her stomach flutters visibly, the muscles jumping under her skin. Her pussy clenches around his fingers, gripping and releasing in a steady climb toward the edge.

"I'll be your good girl—” Zariah gasps, voice cracking as the pressure peaks. Her whole frame locks up for a beat, then shatters. A hot rush pours from her, squirting in pulsing waves straight into his mouth. Smoke groans low and drinks it down, tongue still moving through the contractions that ripple through her walls. Her orgasm rolls on, body shaking as fresh slick spills over his lips and chin, her moans filling the room while he holds her through every last spasm.

Smoke lingers between her thighs after the last tremors fade, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against her slick folds. Each one lands soft, his lips brushing over the swollen heat while his tongue gives the lightest flick to catch the lingering taste. 

“That’s a good girl," he whispers low against her, the words vibrating through her sensitive skin. “Took every bit of it just like I said. Look at you, still shakin’ for me.” His praise comes steady and warm, laced with that deep southern drawl that settles right into her bones.

Zariah’s breath hitches in the aftermath, her body still sprawled open on the sheets. Her rich brown skin gleams from the vanilla oil, a fine sheen of sweat tracing the narrow dip of her waist and the soft flare of her hips. Her breasts rise and fall in quick, shallow pulls, nipples drawn tight from the rush that just tore through her. Inside, her walls continue to flutter in small, involuntary pulses, the aftershocks making her thighs twitch around his shoulders even as she keeps them parted for him.

Smoke trails those kisses upward, dragging his mouth across the smooth plane of her lower belly. Each press of his lips leaves a ticklish, wet mark that cools against her heated skin, moving higher with unhurried purpose. His hands slide along her sides, palms broad as they frame her ribcage. When he reaches her chest, he pauses at one peaked nipple, drawing it between his lips with a firm, wet pull. His tongue circles the tight bud then strokes while he sucks, the pressure sending fresh sparks straight down to her still-throbbing core.

Zariah arches into the contact, a broken moan slipping free as her fingers thread into the sheets again. The pull at her nipple feels sharper now, heightened by how raw everything still feels below. Her other breast settles against his cheek when he shifts to give it the same attention, sucking deep while his tongue works in lazy, insistent laps. 

“So damn responsive,” Smoke rumbles between pulls, voice thick with approval. “Every part of you knows who it belong to.”

Zariah’s legs ease wider on instinct, the earlier tension melting into a loose, pliant sprawl. The muscles along her stomach quiver visibly under his path, and her hips give a small, involuntary roll upward as if chasing more of the contact even though he's moved on. Smoke keeps his mouth latched, alternating between gentle suction and firmer draws that make her back bow off the bed, her full lips parting around another shaky exhale.

Smoke stays latched on her nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth with sucks that make her whole chest tighten. His tongue works in firm circles, pressing and flicking against the stiff peak while his teeth graze just enough to send sharp little jolts straight through her. Zariah’s rich brown skin flushes darker across her breasts, the full weight of them rising and falling with every breath as he switches sides, sucking the other nipple just as hard, his broad hand cupping the first one to keep the wet heat from fading.

Her pussy responds fast, slick folds parting on their own as fresh wetness slips out in a steady drip that trails down toward the sheets. The sensation builds low and insistent, her clit twitching in time with each strong suck, the tiny bud swelling and pulsing without any direct touch. Her slim-thick thighs part wider on the bed, hips rolling in small, helpless circles as the throbbing between her legs grows heavier, matching the pull of his mouth.

Zariah’s long legs tremble as another rush of heat floods her core. She can feel it clearly now, the way her pussy clenches around nothing, dripping steadily while her clit jumps and aches for friction. Smoke doesn’t let up, his lips sealed tight around her nipple, sucking with that deep, focused technique hat leaves her gasping. His free hand slides down her side, palm broad against the curve of her waist, holding her steady as her back arches higher off the mattress.

“Look at that,” he says low, voice rough against her skin between pulls. “Your body tellin’ on you. Drippin’ all over just from this.” He drags his tongue across the sensitive tip one more time, then seals his mouth around it again, sucking harder until her clit twitches visibly with the next wave of wetness sliding free.

Zariah’s breath comes in short, shaky pulls, her full lips parted, eyes half-lidded as the pressure builds. Every strong draw from his mouth sends fresh heat straight down, making her pussy clench and release, more slick gathering and spilling out in warm trails. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, the empty ache growing sharper with each passing second. She rolls her hips again, seeking something, anything, but Smoke keeps her pinned with his weight and his mouth, focused entirely on working her nipples until the dripping and twitching leaves her shaking.

When he could see that pussy weeping the way he needed it to, Smoke releases her nipple with a slow drag of his lips, the wet pull leaving a shiny trail across her deep brown areolas. He rises over her, his thick frame blotting out the light above the bed as he lowers his mouth to hers. The kiss lands heavy and unhurried, his tongue pushing past her parted lips to stroke deep, carrying the taste of her own sex. Zariah meets him without hesitation, her full lips pressing back while her breath hitches against his. Her hands slide up his arms, fingers curling around the dense muscle there as the kiss stretches on, turning hotter with each slow pass of his tongue.

Her body stays open beneath him, thighs spread wide on the sheets. The steady drip from her pussy continues, warm slick sliding down the curve of her ass and soaking into the sheets right along with the puddle she made from squirting. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, each pulse sending fresh heat through her core. Zariah rolls her hips upward, seeking the press of his weight, the hard length of him brushing her inner thigh as he settles closer. Smoke's hand moves to cradle the back of her neck, holding her still while the kiss turns rougher, his teeth catching her bottom lip for a brief tug before his tongue claims her mouth again.

His hand lingers tangled in her curls, thumb stroking the nape of her neck in lazy circles 

“Spoil you proper now,” Smoke rumbles that reminder, voice vibrating through her bones. His big palms slide down her sides, gripping her hips firm to flip her upright in one smooth hoist, straddling his thighs now, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. That heavy and rigid, curved dick all thick-veined and standing tall from those low-hanging balls, say wedged between her pussy lips, tip glossy from pre-cum beading thick.

Zariah braces her hands on his full chest, fingers splaying over his pecs, feeling the dense muscle shift under her palms as he breathes deep. Glossy brown eyes lock on his heavy-lidded stare, lips parting on a soft exhale, posture straight even perched like this, thighs flexing to lift her hips. Zariah sinks down slowly, pussy lips parting wide around his girth, swallowing the flared head first with a wet stretch, inner walls clenching greedily as inches disappear inside. Halfway down, she pauses, breath hitching, hands smoothing over his pecs to steady herself. 

Smoke’s arms snake around her, one thick forearm banding her lower back, the other spanning shoulder blades, yanking her flush against him. Chest mashes to chest, her nipples dragging hard points over his skin, his beard scraping her jaw as he nuzzles close. “

“Ride daddy, baby girl,” Smoke growls low in her ear, hips snapping up suddenly, thrust punching deep, balls slapping her ass with a meaty smack. Zariah gasps, spine arching but Smoke holds her locked, pumping from below relentlessly now. Each buck rolls his pelvis up hard, curved dick spearing her g-spot dead-on, grinding the base against her swollen clit with every bury.

Thighs like steel pistons flex under her, driving up fast then slow, varying the rhythm to make her chase it, his arms crushing her closer, one hand fisting her ass cheek to spread her wider, fingers teasing her hole while he rails her pussy. Sweat slicks their skin, her juices coat his shaft glossy, dripping down to soak his balls. 

“Feel that? Daddy fillin’ you full, protectin’ this pussy ‘cus it's mine. Phenomenal woman takin’ every inch.” His voice stays that dangerous calm, breath tickling her neck between grunts, lips sucking marks along her collarbone.

Zariah rocks with him, hips circling intentional, walls fluttering tight around his length. Her voice was soft, edged with that self-possession. 

 “Yes, daddy...feels so good.” No begging, just owning the ride, thighs quivering as tension builds. He ramps it harder, arms vise-tight, fucking up into her like a machine, wet slaps echoing loud, her ass bouncing on his thighs, pussy creaming thick down his dick. 

Zariah’s moans spill out breathy at first, soft exhales pitching higher with each deep punch,,starting as hushed mmh's from deep in her throat, lips parting wider to let ahh's drag long and throaty, vibrating against where her mouth presses open near his collarbone. Tension coils her core tighter, breaths coming measured but ragged now, moans layering into nngh-ahh-mmh, each one punched out precisely by his upward drives, voice never cracking loud but husky-thick with need, edges fraying just enough to feel raw.

“Yes, daddy,” Zariah breathes into his neck, her hips working bolder, starting to throw it down now, lifting high to slam her ass back onto his thighs with snaps and deep grinds, pussy gripping his girth on every drop. “You fuck me so good. Fuck this pussy. Fuck me with that big dick.” Her thighs flex hard, bucking wilder to meet his thrusts, wet hole sucking him deeper, creamy froth building at the base where her pussy lips stretch taut around his veined curve. “Fuck, I love this big dick.” Her voice stays in that self-possessed tone, edged needy, no shrieks or pleas because she was owning every word as she grinds down, clit dragging his pelvis, walls pulsing greedy. 

Smoke’s grip tightens, one forearm locked across her lower back to mash her tits flush to his chest, the other palm cupping her ass full, fingers digging into the balm-slick cheek to yank her harder onto each buck. His toned hips piston up relentless, thick thighs bulging under her weight, curved length spearing her depths over and over. Those heavy balls swinging up to tap her perineum with heavy thwacks. 

“Fuck yes, baby girl, throw that pussy on daddy's dick like you ownin’ it, good girl, get your dick,” Smoke rumbles low in her ear, thick and commanding. “Look at you ridin’ this big Mississippi meat, creamin’ all over my balls. Feel how deep I'm feedin’ this wet hole? Huh? Stretchin’ you wide, hittin’ that spot ain’t I’m?” Smoke thrusts up and holds, tapping Zariah on the rump as she shakes all over. “All that boss shit disappear when I give you dick. You safe wit’ me, act like it.” 

Smoke rolls his pelvis on the upthrusts, grinding the fat base against her clit, varying the pace from slow deep grinds to three fast snaps, making her chase the friction. Sweat beads on his chest, his beard rasping her jaw as he turns her face to capture her lips in a messy suck, tongue thrusting in time with his hips. “Keep talkin’ to me, bad girl. Tell daddy how this dick rearrangin’ that tight pussy. You takin’ it perfect.” Smoke’s thumb teases her back entrance light, pressing the puckered ring while he rails her pussy, arms crushing her immobile against him, and Zariah was owning it even as she bucks wild.

Her pace picks up frantic, hips slamming down to swallow him balls-deep every time, pussy squelching loud around his girth, juices dripping warm down his sack to soak the sheets. Her moans turn into throaty-soft pleas now.

“Ahh-nngh-yes!” blending with his grunts, body trembling. Smoke feels her tighten vise-like, knows she's close, but holds back his own load, hips snapping sharper to drag it out.

Zariah’s walls clamp down vise-tight around his thick length, that deep coil snapping loose as the orgasm rips through her, body seizing rigid in his iron hold, thighs locking hard against his hips, back arching sharp but pinned flush by his forearm across her back. Her pussy floods him in hot gushes, creamy release squirting thick around his pistoning shaft, soaking his heavy balls and dripping messy down to the sheets below. Zariah can’t buck anymore, stuck impaled balls-deep on his curved girth, every ridge dragging her fluttering walls as Smoke keeps snapping up relentless, his hips rolling precisely to grind that swollen spot inside her over and over, forcing wave after wave to crash harder.

Moans pour from her throat uncontrolled, delicate but fractured, starting as a long, drawn out ‘ahhhh’ vibrating deep in her chest, pitching into sharp ‘nngh-nngh’ gasps punched out by each thrust, lips trembling open against his neck where her face buries hot and slick with sweat. They layer ragged, breathy exhales fraying at the edges ‘mmh-ahh-mmh’ blending into a throaty hum that shakes her frame, her voice husky-thick and edged raw, never shrill but owning the depth of it, body quaking helpless as she creams all over his big dick.

Smoke doesn't let up, thick arms crushing her immobile against him, his biceps bulging under her sliding palms, one hand palming her ass cheek deep to spread her wider, fingers splayed to feel her hole pulse and leak around him. His pelvis snaps up in deep strokes, curved head battering that g-spot without mercy, balls wet against her perineum through her flood. That thick length gleamed with her juices and he just kept fucking her pussy straight through the peak. Smoke turns her face to lock eyes with him, his heavy-lidded gaze burning steady into hers, full lips parting on a low grunt.

“Yeah, cum on this dick, baby girl, keep cummin’ on this dick.” Smoke growls thick in her ear. “Pretty pussy grippin’ me so tight, squirtin’ all over daddy’s balls. Stuck right here takin’ every inch while I hit that spot. Keep cummin’ for me, baby, flood this big dick, bad girl. You own this nut, pussy milkin’ me deep.” He varies the drives—three short punches to her depths, then a slow grind circling her clit with his base, drawing out the spasms, her walls sucking greedily even as she trembles locked.

Zariah’s body jerks in aftershocks, pussy clenching around him, more cream bubbling out to coat his veined length shiny, her thighs quivering helpless. All Zariah can do is moan throaty into his collarbone, ‘ahh-nngh-yes’ spilling fractured as he rails her sensitive hole. He feels his own sack tighten heavy, but holds it back, hips powering through her mess to chase every drop from her. He’d continue to edge himself as long as he gives his bad bitch plenty of orgasms. 

Smoke eases out of her spasming pussy with a wet pop, Zariah’s cream clinging thick in strings to his veined shaft, glossy from tip to base where her squirt and cream mixed in slick trails down his heavy balls. Smoke wastes no time and flips her over rough but steady, large hands gripping her hips to yank her ass high at the bed's edge, face pressed flat into the rumpled sheets, knees spread wide under his direction. One palm presses firm between her shoulder blades, forcing that deep arch in her spine until her spine hollows out perfectly, ass cheeks parting naturally from the stretch, lower back dipping sharp.

Her pussy blooms open in that position, lips puffy and flushed dark from the pounding, inner folds glistening raw and swollen, stuck slightly agape from his girth, unable to close full after the stretch. Cream leaks steady from that stretched, creamy hole, thick white rivulets bubbling out slow to trail down her inner thighs, mixing with squirt sheen that soaks the sheets beneath her knees. Above it, her pretty asshole winks in the cool air, the tight ring pulsing faint with each aftershock clench from her pussy below, pink-brown rim flexing open a fraction before snapping shut, begging subtle under the exposure.

Smoke stands planted at the edge, bare feet firm on the floor, thick thighs framing her as he lines up, messy dick heavy in his fist, curved length slapping once against her leaking slit to smear her own juices back over her clit. Then, he sinks in, crown breaching her folds with a squelch, inch after girthy inch parting her walls until his pelvis meets her ass full, balls nestling heavy against her clit. Slow strokes start, pulling back to the tip so her pussy lips drag reluctant along his ridges, then driving deep again, his hips rolling weighted to bottom out each time, grinding her depths before he withdraws again. 

“Zari…you daddy’s little bratty girl, huh?” Smoke rumbles low, thick and edged mean, one hand sinking deep into her left ass cheek, fingers digging to spread her wider. He watched his curved dick emerge shiny-coated in fresh cream, veins pulsing as her hole grips and tugs. “You piss me off just so I can fuck you like this? Bend you over and drill this good pussy deep?” Smoke popped her ass. “See how sweet you get when you finally let go?” 

“Yes, daddy,” Zariah gasps throaty into the mattress, voice husky-fractured from the stretch, ass pushing back instinctively to meet his plunge, her walls fluttering around the slow invasion. “Yes, sir, I do—want this dick so bad.”

Smoke grunts his approval, other hand claiming a full handful of her right cheek—palms rough and veined, overflowing with soft flesh, kneading hard as he pulls her onto him deeper, pace still controlled but forceful, balls tapping her clit wet on each burial. Her leaky mess coated him fresh, pussy slurping audible around the drag. 

“That’s right. Act up so daddy give you some dick, stretch this bratty hole wide. Piss me off on purpose, gettin’ that arch just right for me too. You love bein’ face down, ass up, leakin’ all over my balls while I stroke it slow like this? Huh?”

“Mmm-yes sir,” Zariah moans soft-edged, body rocking forward with each deep seat, tits dragging along the sheets, back holding that arch under his palm's pressure, thighs quaking faint as the slow grind builds the pressure anew.

 “Love it daddy, love pissin’ you off for this—fuck me deep, please sir.”

Smoke’s grip tightens on her ass, spreading her cheeks farther to stare down at the sight, thick dick disappearing into her gripping pussy, lips hugging tight on the outstroke, cream frothing at the base where her hole milks him greedy. He picks up a fraction, strokes still deep but adding a twist at the end to nudge her g-spot, heavy balls swinging to smack her clit. Sweat beads his sculpted chest, biceps flexing as he holds her steady, heavy-lidded eyes tracing the messy union.

Each withdraw dragged her puffy lips outward, clinging to his veined length before he fed it back in full, pelvis slapping her ass cheeks with a meaty thud that echoed off the walls. His large hands overflow with her flesh, thumbs digging into the crease where thigh meets cheek to pry her wider, exposing the way her hole stretches taut around his girth, inner walls visible in flashes of pink and slick as cream bubbles fresh at the seam. Her asshole keeps up its subtle pulse above, ring contracting in time with her pussy's greedy squeezes, a faint sheen of her own leak trickling down to gloss it further.

Zariah twists her neck, cheek lifting off the damp sheets, eyes glassy and desperate locking onto his over her shoulder, those lips he loved so much parted on heavy breaths, kinky hair spilling wild across her back. 

“Daddy–yyy,” she pleads raw, voice cracking high as one of her hands snakes down between her spread thighs, thumb finding her swollen clit to rub frantic circles, chasing the building coil. “Please sir, harder—gimme more dick, I need it deep.” Her hips buck back insistent against his controlled pace, ass jiggling faint in his grip, pussy slurping louder on the next plunge as her walls clamp down fluttering.

“Not yet, brat,” he growls thick, voice rolling low, free hand sliding up her spine to press her chest flatter, keeping that arch locked while his hips roll weighted, grinding the curve of his dick against her front wall on every bury. “You gon’ beg pretty for daddy first. Tell me how bad this pussy want it—how you act up just to get stretched like this, leakin’ all over me, nasty girl.” He watches her fingers blur faster on her clit, the way her thighs start quaking harder. “You feel how hard you holdin’ onto me? That stress been sittin’ in your body all damn week. Use me then, go ‘head.” 

“Daddy, yes, I'm your bratty girl, piss you off for this dick every time,” Zariah whines, head turning full to hold his gaze, eyes pleading wide while her fingers grind her clit ruthlessly, body rocking violently now between his strokes and her own touch. Her eyes go cross eyed as she gushes fresh around him, walls rippling wild as the pressure crests, her back bowing deeper under his palm, ass pressing back to take him to the hilt. “Daddy, daddy—I'm squirting, oh fuck sir, it's comin’—don't stop, talk me through it please!”

Smoke leans forward slightly, chest brushing her back as one hand releases her cheek to tangle in her hair, yanking her head back gently but firm to keep those eyes on him, the other palm smacking her ass once sharp to jolt her higher. His strokes stay slow but deepen, twisting at the base to nudge her g-spot while her fingers strum. 

“Good girl, there you do, baby girl, let it go for daddy. Feel that pussy squeezin’ me tight? You squirtin’ all over this dick, you can't help it. Push back on it, rub that clit harder—gimme that mess. You like bein’ handled, huh?”

“Yes—”

“That’s my baby right there.” 

His voice stays gravel-rough, guiding her edge with words as her body seizes, thighs locking, toes curling into the mattress, a sharp cry ripping from her throat.

Her squirt hits explosive, clear jets pulsing out around his buried length to spray his pelvis and thighs, puddling hot on the sheets below as her pussy convulses violently, clenching him in waves that force more cream to froth at the base. She stares back at him wild-eyed, mouth slack on gasps, fingers slowing sloppy through the aftershocks while he holds steady inside her, hips grinding minimal to prolong the clench, watching her leak mix with the spray in rivulets down her legs.

 “Good girl, just like that—daddy got you, keep cummin’ good tonight. There you go, let all that pressure out. Ain’t nobody gon’ take care of you like me. Daddy got you. Been a mean bitch for so long ain’t nobody fuck you stupid til I cam around,” Smoke pops her on the left cheek. “Quit actin’ tough and come get this comfort. Say, yes sir.” 

“Y–yes, sir.” 

 “Now we gettin’ to the good part. I’ma move when you ready, but when I do, you gon’ feel every stroke. You with me? Say it.”

Zariah exhales, “I’m with you, daddy.” She grips the sheets. 

“Talk to me, Zari. Words. You ready or daddy gotta give you a break?” 

Zariah sucks in air and lets it out meditating slow. 

“I’m ready, sir.” 

Smoke's grip shifts lightning-quick from her hair to her shoulders, thick fingers clamping down over the knobs of bone there, palms splaying wide across her upper back to yank her torso up off the soaked sheets, forcing that spine into a brutal arch. Her head snaps upright, chin tucking toward her chest while her eyes glaze over fucked-out, pupils blown wide staring dead ahead at the headboard, mouth hanging slack on drooling whimpers, tongue lolling faint as spit beads at the corner. The new angle spears his dick straight down into her core, her ass cheeks spreading obscene on his pelvis with every hilt, pussy lips puffing out bloated and raw around the veined stretch, cream and squirt foaming thick at the root to splatter his heavy balls on the upstroke.

Smoke rears back tall behind her, knees digging wider into the mattress for leverage, broad shoulders rolling fluid as his dense core tightens, abs flexing solid under sweat-slick brown skin that gleams. Those rounded delts bunch heavy, veins popping along his forearms as he hauls her back onto him harder, his hips snapping forward with punishing force now, no more tease, full throttle wrecking. Each thrust lands weighted and final, his pelvis crashing her ass with claps that ripple flesh outward in waves, her cheeks clapping back against his thighs while her entire frame jolts forward violently, tits swinging beneath her to smack her ribs. The bed frame groans protest under the onslaught, pure power uncoiling from that grounded stance, thighs thick and corded pumping relentlessly.

Zariah’s body's a live wire in the pound, pussy walls seizing erratic around his plunging length, clenching desperate to hold him but fluttering loose on the withdraw, gushing fresh squirt in erratic sprays that arc down her quaking thighs to puddle wider on the sheets. Every bury shoves her forward an inch before his shoulder grip reels her back, her ass meat compressing flat against him then bouncing rebound, ripples traveling up her spine to make her curls lash wild. Her thighs attempt to lock rigid then spasm open, toes scrabbling, curling into the mattress as her belly sucks in hollow, ribs heaving under sweat-sheened skin, fucked-out stare fixed unblinking ahead, lashes fluttering half-mast while tears streak silent from the corners, jaw slack wider on guttural cries that pitch higher with each rip through her depths.

“That little mean streak disappear fast when I touch you right. You been wantin’ this all day. Nah, stay right there I wanna watch you take it—look at my girl—take this dick tearin’ you open,” he rasps, drawl thickening hot over the wet slaps, one hand sliding from shoulder to tangle back in her hair—yanking her head higher to deepen the arch while the other digs  into her shoulder, pinning her steady for the ram. His chest heaves, heavy breaths fanning her neck as he leans over partial, hips pistoning machine-like, balls swinging to batter her clit, smearing her mess back up her folds. 

“Feel daddy rearrangin’ your guts? You soaked the whole damn bed beggin’ for it—now wet this dick up  again while I pound you stupid. Arch that back deeper, push this ass on me—gimme that grip, baby. You gon’ relax for me or keep fightin’ me, baby?”

Zariah chokes out a keen, body betraying full surrender—hips grinding back frantic despite the overwhelm, pussy convulsing in fresh spasms that squeeze him vise-tight, walls undulating a massage along every vein as another squirt builds from the core. Her arms buckle, elbows to the sheets, fingers clawing fabric while her tits drag heavy across the damp cotton, nipples scraping raw. Her entire frame shudders electric with the force, ass lifting instinctively to meet his slams even as her vision blurs white-hot ahead. Sweat rivers down her cleavage, pooling in her navel before dripping off to mix with the flood below, thighs slick and trembling spread wide around his pistoning thighs.

Smoke grunts approval low, pace ratcheting inhuman, thrusts blurring to a frenzy that shakes her teeth, his solid midsection slapping her ass endless while those large hands anchor her, veins throbbing prominent down his forearms from the haul. Sweat beads thick on his brow, trickling into the heavy stubble framing his jaw that’s set hard, dark eyes locked on the destruction between her legs, watching her hole gape briefly on pulls before swallowing him balls-deep again. 

“FUCK, just like that—pussy talkin’ back to daddy, on every stroke.” His voice coaches steady through the chaos, drawl wrapping command around her haze as her body hurtles toward shatter again, the room thick with their slap-echo and her broken pleas. “Breathe through it. You can handle it. This what happen when you act like you don't need me tellin' you what to do. Next time you think about steppin’ out of line, you remember how this dick feel stretchin’ you open and makin’ you cum so hard you can't even talk.” 

Smoke yanks free with a wet pop that leaves her hole gaping, pink inner walls fluttering visible, clenching air desperate around nothing while thick strands of her cream stretch and snap between his retreating length and her wrecked folds. Frothy white coats his dick heavy from root to tip, balls glossy-slick swinging low and heavy beneath, veins pulsing prominent along his curved shaft.

 “Flip over, clean this dick spotless, baby,” Smoke orders, cutting sharp through her haze as one large hand strokes himself base-up lazy, smearing her mess while the other pats her ass firm to roll her.

Zariah twists compliant on trembling limbs, spine sinking into the drenched mattress as she sprawls supine, hair fanning wild across the pillow, belly quivering faint under the aftershocks. Her thighs splay wide, knees bending hooks toward her shoulders to bare everything, pussy on full display. Lips swollen fat and parted like it wanted to stay just like that from now on, flushed deep around the edges from the tear-up, inner pink glistening obscene under a sheen of her own squirt that drips lazy from her stretched entrance. Her clit hood peeled back partial, pearl throbbing exposed and raw, folds puffy-ridged from friction with cream beading fresh in the creases, entire slit pulsing like a heartbeat begging refill.

Smoke kneels up tall between her legs, knees bracketing her hips as he feeds his dick forward, tip bumping her lips expectant. Zariah cranes her neck, tongue darting out to lap broad from balls upward, tracing the heavy seam salty with her tang before sucking one orb full into her mouth, cheeks hollowing while her hand cups the other, rolling it. Up the shaft next, flat laps cleaning veins groove by groove, swirling the flared head to hollow her cheeks around it vacuum-tight, sucking her cream off audible with slurps that echo wet, spit mixing fresh to dribble down her chin as she moans low vibrations against him. His free hand dives between her thighs unhurried, palm cupping her mound full before thick fingers part those bloated lips wider, middle and ring sliding through the slick valley, parting her petals to expose that clenching core.

Feels like firework sparks when he rubs. Thick fingers coarse-knuckled dragging pressure perfect over her clit first, circling the hood lazy to make it twitch and swell fatter under the pad of his thumb joining in, then dipping lower to trace entrance rim where her walls suck greedy at the intrusion. That sweet pussy yields butter-soft inside, hot velvet clamping instant on the shallow probes, gushing syrupy response that coats his digits knuckle-deep. Each pass through her folds sends jolts electric up her spine. Zariah’s thighs jerked, spread while her hips buck faint to chase. Her outer lips drag sensitive along his palm skin, inner ridges fluttering as he massaged with his fingertips that scoop cream back up to smear her clit renewed, building that coil tight again with every glide.

Zariah polishes him thoroughly, tongue polishing the underside ridge before popping off clean with a gasp. Her hand wrapped around the base firm now to stroke with a upward twist, the skin gliding smooth over the cleaned glans while her gaze locks with his from below. Sultry heat simmers there, lids heavy-lidded fuck-drunk but sharp with desire, full lips curving wicked as teeth catch the bottom one, dragging slowly, holding his stare unblinking, challenge wrapped in surrender. Smoke groans deep, torso folding forward lean as his mouth crashes hers hungry—tongue thrusting his claim deep to tangle hers messy, tasting her own flavor shared while fingers keep working her pussy, two now plunging knuckle-deep to curl and hook against that front wall.

The kiss breaks on her whine, his beard rasping her chin, then his lips trail fire down her throat, nipping her collarbone before his palms scoop under her breasts heavy, thumbs flicking her chocolate nipples side-to-side to make them diamond-hard. Smoke kneads them, fingers sinking deep into the yielding flesh to shape and bounce them palm-to-palm, mouth latching hot over one peak to suck with a vacuum pull while his teeth graze faintly. His tongue lashes flat on her areolas before nibbling gently. Her strokes quicken on his dick, thumb swiping pre cum at his slit.

Smoke releases her nipple with a wet smack, lips glossy from the pull as his gaze lifts heavy to lock hers, dark eyes boring deep, one thumb still circling the slick peak lazy while the other hand squeezes her other titty, flesh spilling between fingers. 

“Good girl, Zariah,” Smoke rumbles faintly, voice dipping low like thunder. “Daddy proud of you…takin’ this dick so deep, stretchin’ that pussy perfect. Handlin’ yo’ punishment like a champ too, ass sore but you stayed right there, took every lick without runnin’.That's my baby.”

Zariah gasps sharp, hand tightening its stroke on his girthy dick, twisting from base to tip with precum and spit slicking the glide. Her eyes fluttered half-shut before snapping back to him.

 “Yes,” she breathes out needy, hips rolling faint into his stalled fingers still buried knuckle-deep in her folds.

Smoke chuckles low, free hand sliding up her thigh to anchor as he pulls his fingers free with a squelch, strings of her arousal snapping clear. 

“Mmm, yeah…and that's why daddy spoil you rotten. Fuck you good whenever you crave it, eat that sweet pussy till you flood my face. You mine to treat right.” His mouth brushes her earlobe feather-light, beard scraping her chin.  

“Yes, baby, you always know what I need,” Zariah moans velvety, arching her back to press her titties fuller into his palm, legs parting wider. “I love how you treat me. I'm your princess.” Her lips part on a whine, gaze sultry, locked.

Smoke nods slow approval, torso unfolding tall as he nudges her knees wider, settling heavy between her thighs, dick bobbing thick upright against her mound, tip nudging her clit. Zariah’s body's pliant now, limbs loose-jointed from the haze, so he hooks his elbows under her knees easy, folding her double with her thighs pinned to her chest, calves framing his shoulders tight. That pussy blooms upward obscenely, outer lips mashed flat from how spread open she is, inner folds splayed wide and quivering, entrance winking creamy-pink around the void, clit mashed prominent and pulsing under the weight of his dick resting heavy along her slit. Cream pools fresh in the crease, dripping backward to lube her puckered hole. 

Smoke notches his tip at her entrance, eyes never breaking hers, heavy-lidded stare pinning her soul-deep and thrusts in one long stroke, dick disappearing inch-by-thick-inch till his balls nestle snugly against her upturned ass, stretch burning visible in the way her walls bulge around all that girth. 

“Damn, princess, pussy grippin' daddy tight like I ain’t fucked you open,” Smoke praises, drawl stretching vowels lazy as his hips draw back on a slow drag, veins dragging friction along the inner ridges of her walls before snapping forward to bury fully again, pelvis slapping her ass with an audible wet sound. His Stroke pulls half-out next, her inner lips clinging reluctant to the retreat, then he plunges renewed, hitting that bottom with a grind that mashes her clit under his pubic bone. “You know who this belong to. Don't you? Say it for me.”

“Daddy’s pussy…daddy’s pussy.” Zariah whines. 

“I see you. See how you holdin'm’ on. How you lettin’ me own this. You doin’ so good for me, Zari. Real good, baby.” 

Zariah’s folded frame shudders, tits squished between her thighs as her walls clamp on the invasion, sparks exploding core-deep from the deep hits that kiss her cervix. Each thrust sends ripples through her puffy, pussy lips, cream frothing white at the seal where he bottoms out, her breaths punching out on the reentries while her eyes stay fused to his, wide and glassy with the lock, lips mouthing silent pleas. 

“All this dick, baby, take it all—daddy got you,” Smoke coos, pace building like a piston now, balls swinging tap-tap against her tailbone with every deep drive, his gaze unwavering intensely as he watches every twitch, every flutter, every jerk, every silent scream, every shake. 

Smoke's stare sharpen like a predator, jaw clenching, eyes narrowing to slits while his hands clamp on the backs of her thighs, thumbs digging meaty divots to pin her folded frame immobile. He snaps his hips downward piston-hard, big dick plummeting into her splayed pussy with a wet schlap that echoes off the walls, balls slapping her ass crack heavy before the recoil yanks him half-out only to hammer back in, burying full.

No words now, just breath hissing through his teeth, chest heaving as he tunnels, each drop stroke burying to the hilt, dick dragging brutal against her clamping walls that suck reluctantly at the retreat. His pace ratchets machine-steady, bedframe groaning under and the mattress dipping deep where his toes anchored. Sweat beads his temple and trails down, dripping onto her upturned tits that jiggle chaotic with every impact, nipples peaked tight from the frenzy.

Zariah's moans rip free raw, high-pitched keens fracturing into throaty wails that bounce off the ceiling, back arching futile against the fold as her thighs quake trapped in his hold. Her manicured acrylic nails rake fire-trails down his bulging biceps, carving pink welts into the sweat-slick skin that flexes corded under the gouge. Her calves locked rigid around his shoulders while her toes splay then curl tight, soles cramping from the building blaze. That battered pussy convulses wildly around his invading girth, cream gushing frothier at the seal with every plunge, inner muscles fluttering desperately to milk on those veins pulsing hot inside her. That curve hitting spots that make her dizzy. That tip kissing the back of her pussy, making her stomach clench. 

Tension coils her belly taut, breaths punching erratic as sparks ignite white-hot, walls seizing brutally on the next drop that kisses her spot, and she shatters. Squirt erupts forceful, clear jets arcing from her spasming slit to splatter his abs, soaking the shaft still lodged halfway as her pussy clamps and ejects, flooding the crease between her ass cheeks in hot rivulets that puddle onto the sheets, dampening it dark beneath her. Zariah’s body bucks helplessly in Smoke’s fold, eyes rolling on a scream that shreds hoarse while her nails dig crescent moons into his forearms.

Smoke grunts low once, chest rumbling the sound, before yanking free with an obscene squelch, dick springing upright glossy and throbbing, veins livid against the slick sheen of her release coating every inch from balls to tip. He unfolds her legs, thighs blooming wide as gravity settles her limp, then shoulders between them rough—head dipping low to seal his full lips hot over her quivering pussy. That thick tongue plunges flat and broad through her splayed folds, lapping the gush pooled in her entrance like a glutton, tongue flicking up to swirl her clit hood and those lips start sucking the pulsing nub vacuum-tight. Smoke smacked his lips wet, devouring every drop. His thick fingers splay her lips wider, exposing the pink inner clench still fluttering post-squirt, and he tongues deep inside to scoop the cream hollowing her out, beard scraping thighs raw as nose buries into her mound drag her scent full lungs.

Zariah stared down at him dumbfounded. She didn’t have the capacity to form words. He was eating her pussy up and even her twitching didn’t stop him from overstimulating her. 

Her vision blurred as aftershocks ripple through her, body slack against the soaked sheets, chest rising and falling shallow while her pussy throbs exposed, folds. Moans spill lazy from her throat, fracturing into his name drawn long and needy

“Smoke...Smoke…” her hips canting, rolling her slick pussy against his locked mouth, grinding her clit over his probing tongue that flicks non-stop like a propeller. Her thighs clamp his ears, heels digging into his back to pull him tighter into her drenched heat, cream smearing into his beard thick as she chases the friction through the daze, palming the top of his low cut ceasar with the deep waves.

Smoke’s growl vibrates low against her pussy before he lifts, his face slick-shined, eyes burning dark into hers, jaw set granite

“Gon’ nut so deep in this pussy, lock it down tight.” No pause, Smoke surges up fluid, knees bracketing her hips, one hand fisting the base of his dick slick-heavy to notch his tip bluntly at her fluttering hole, then he slams home in a single thrust, burying balls-deep with a meaty thwack that jolts her tits.

Silence is only broken by skin-slaps wet,  his powerful hips snapping, pulling that dick to drag slow, veins bulging against her pussy grip before dropping to grind deep with a roll of his hips. His pace builds, thighs flexing like steel under sweat rivers carving paths down his obliques, abs clenching ridge-defined with every plunge that stretches her walls around that curved dick invading her pussy. The headboard thumped the wall with dull thuds while his heavy balls swung to slap her ass cheeks spread wide, drawing creamy froth at the seal to drip down her crack.

Zariah’s moans pitch frantically while her hands claw his shoulders, gouging fresh welts into the flexing traps. Her Legs hook his waist and she locks her ankles to pull him deeper, pussy clenching, ridges pulsing hot inside, and her words tumbled desperate to coach him through. 

“This yo’ pussy, Smoke—cum in yo’ pussy, big daddy...fill this pussy up, give it all...show me who this pussy belong to. Tear it up, big daddy…stretch me out…ahhh–nnghhh–big ass dick…oh…big dick—yes, right there, right there, don’t stop, stroke it—yessss.” Her voice cracks husky, hips bucking in a counter-rhythm. 

Smoke’s groan shreds guttural, throat raw cords straining as his eyes bore into hers unblinking, heavy-lidded slits flaring wide with the lock. His muscles are cable-tight across his shoulders, biceps ballooning veins livid under her rake, traps bunching while his quads quake to brace the final drives. That big dick swells thicker mid-thrust, tip flaring to kiss her depths, and he erupts—balls drawing up tight, contracting, pulsing thick-hot ropes to flood her clenching channel and paint her walls white. His thrusts stutter shallow, grinding his thick seed deeper, damn near churning it to froth with her cream, that veiny beast jerking erratic against the flutter, that pussy milking every drop while an overflow seeps slow down her ass. His groan drags endless, chest heaving bellows against her neck, forehead dropping to hers sweat-slick as the last pulse fades, his body a heavy drape over her pinned frame. 

Smoke eases his thick, curved dick out of Zariah's soaked pussy inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge and stretch as he pulls free. The wet slide leaves her entrance fluttering, slick with their mixed fluids. He stays close, one broad hand resting on the curve of her hip while he watches her body settle.

“You took all that dick so good for me, baby. Real good. My pretty girl handled every inch. See? Ain’t gotta fight me all the time. C’mere, pretty girl.”

Smoke leans down and presses his lips to her forehead, then again just above her brow, then once more near her hairline. Three kisses that linger each time.

“Stay right there. Don’t move.”

Smoke stands, his heavy frame casting a shadow over her sprawled form. Zariah lies on her side like a goddess, long legs slightly parted, rich brown skin glowing with sweat and satisfaction, full lips curved in a lazy smile from being fucked so thoroughly. Her narrow waist and soft hips look even more inviting in the afterglow. Smoke steps away toward the bathroom first, turning on the jacuzzi tub so warm water starts filling with steady jets. The sound of bubbles fills the space. He then leaves the room entirely to head for the kitchen. 

On his way out. He glances back at her again. 

“Stay right there. I'll be back to get you in a minute.”

About ten minutes goes by and Zariah’s phone rings while she’s still sprawled on the bed, freshly fucked and glowing. She reaches for it lazily, answering with that professional tone she keeps for work. 

“Hey, it’s Z. Ellie…hey. Yeah, I’m here. What’s going on?”

Ellie, her publicist starts rattling off a packed schedule—more shoots, events, back-to-back bookings for the next month. Zariah listens, nodding along even though no one can see her, her voice calm and composed.

Smoke walks back into the room carrying the tray with her herbal tea and water. He sets it down, eyes locking on her. That look says everything without a word. He steps closer, takes the phone right out of her hand, and brings it to his ear.

“Ellie, right? Listen, she gon’ need a week off. Clear the next seven days—yes, a week. Y’all can make it happen.” His voice is final. He hangs up before the publicist can reply.

Zariah sits up a little, mouth opening to protest. “Smoke—”

He leans in and kisses her, slow and with tongue, cutting off whatever she was about to say. When he pulls back, his hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing her full lower lip.

“You gon’ need some rest and relaxation. I plan to fuck you and eat that pussy in every room of this place. You hear me?”

Zariah stares at him, that familiar tension flickering between them—her independence brushing up against his weight. Smoke doesn’t move. He just waits, eyes steady on hers. Slowly, she melts, no need to fight him when truthfully she could use a little break. And seven full days of back-to-back sex with her big, bad, man? Hell yeah. 

“Say it. Yes, daddy.”

Zariah exhales, shoulders softening the way they do when she chooses to meet him. Her voice comes out quiet but clear. 

The Chevy C/K sat beneath a leaning pecan tree at the edge of the road, engine off, windows rolled halfway down. Mississippi night pressed close from every side. Thick. Damp. Full of insects crying out in the dark fields beyond the ditch line. Smoke had one arm hanging outside the driver’s window, his cigarette burning between his fingers while the radio glowed green across the dashboard. 

Marvin Gaye’s voice filled the cab like the smoke from his cigarette. Smooth. Hurting. Reaching. 

When you left, you took all of me with you…

Smoke shut his eyes. 

The song had been playing for damn near seven minutes already, but he couldn’t make himself turn the dial. Couldn’t move. Every word felt aimed straight at his chest like Marvin was somewhere in the dark talking only to him. 

Smoke leaned his head back against the seat and exhaled through his nose. Annie’s face kept rising up behind his eyelids anyway. The look she had given him before he walked outta that house. She didn’t get loud or scream. That would’ve been easier to take. 

Nah. 

It was the disappointed quiet that stayed on a man longer than a shout ever could. His thumb rubbed against the steering wheel while the strings climbed higher in the song. The ache in Marvin’s voice made the inside of the truck feel too small all of a sudden. 

Smoke thought about Annie standing in that kitchen earlier, yellow dress tied around her waist while grease popped in the skillet. Earth, Wind, & Fire had been playing from the radio on the counter. She’d asked him something simple. Asked if he was gonna be home tomorrow evening or running around with Stack again. 

Should’ve been an easy answer. 

Instead, he got sharp with her. Started talking like she was tryna control him when really all she wanted was time with her husband. 

Now here he sat in the dark like a fool while Marvin Gaye sang every feeling he’d been too hardheaded to say out loud. Smoke dragged the cigarette deep, then flicked it out of the open window into the treeline. His jaw tightened. 

The radio crackled faintly. 

Baby…baby, please…

“Damn,” Smoke whispered to himself. 

His throat burned suddenly, and it wasn’t from the cigarette. It was from truth. 

Because the song wasn’t just about missing somebody. It was about realizing too late that your pride done carries you someplace empty. And the longer he sat there, the more he could picture Annie alone in that house. Probably curled on that sofa with her arms folded under herself. Probably pretending she wasn’t waiting for headlights to pull back into the front yard. 

That woman loved him down to the marrow. 

Stayed with him through nightmares, bad moods, long silences, and hands that shook some nights when sleep wouldn’t come right. Annie knew parts of him nobody else got close enough to touch, and somehow she still looked at him with those beautiful pools of brown like he was the best thing to ever enter her life. Especially when she ain’t need him. She chose him. 

Smoke swallowed hard and looked down at the keys hanging from the ignition. Marvin’s voice climbed again, ragged and pleading, stretching across the night air like somebody refusing to let go. 

A slow exhale left Smoke’s chest. Then, he nodded to himself. 

“Aight,” he spoke quietly. “Aight.” 

He reached forward and turned the key. The truck rumbled alive beneath him while the song played low through the speakers. Gravel cracked under the tires as he pulled back onto the road, headlights cutting through the dark Mississippi trees. 

Back toward home. 

Back toward Annie. 

The backroads home stretched long beneath the Chevy tires. Two narrow ribbons of black cutting through the Delta while Marvin kept singing through the speakers. WDIA must’ve known what he was going through because they played Distant Lover again for those that missed it the first time. Smoke drove with one hand on the wheel and the other rested against his thigh, thumb tapping slow against his Wrangler jeans every now and then to the melody. 

The smell of wet red clay dirt drifted through the open windows along with honeysuckle and something green from the fields. Every so often, the headlights caught the silver flash of frogs leaping across the road or the pale glow of rabbit eyes vanishing into the brush. 

Smoke barely noticed any of it. His mind stayed on Annie. Stayed on the curve of her hips earlier that evening. The hurt she tried to hide in her voice. The way she had gone silent after he snapped at her. 

That had followed him all night. 

The truck bounced lightly over uneven pavement while he reached forward and turned the radio up just a little more. Marvin sounded torn clean open now. 

But every moment that I spend with you…I treasured it like it was precious jewels, oh, baby…

Smoke let out a dry breath through his nose. 

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself. “I hear you.” 

His hand tightened around the wheel. Truth was, he’d been carrying too much lately and letting it spill onto the wrong person. Stack had noticed it too. The short fuse. The pacing. The way Smoke has started sleeping less again. Some nights Annie would wake up and find him sitting on the edge of the bed staring into darkness like he forgot where he was. 

But, Annie never pushed. Never made him feel weak for it. 

She just stayed. 

That woman had held him together more times than he can count. And he knew better than to take that kind of love lightly. By the time he turned onto their dirt road, the cigarette smell had faded from his shirt some, replaced by night air pouring through the cab. The house came into view between the trees. Warm yellow light glowed through the front windows. 

Smoke’s chest tightened at the sight. 

Home. 

The truck rolled to a stop beside the porch with a crunch of gravel. Smoke cut the engine, but this time he didn’t sit there thinking. Didn’t stall. Marvin was still singing quietly while Smoke reached over. And shut the radio off altogether. 

Something I wanna say—

The porch light buzzed overhead while he climbed out the truck. Crickets screamed loud in the grass. Somewhere deeper in the fields, a blues guitar drifted faint through the dark from somebody’s radio a mile off. 

Smoke walked toward the house slowly at first, Red Wing work boots heavy against the dirt path. 

Then quicker. Like his body already knew where peace was waiting.

The screen door creaked when he opened it. Inside, the house smelled like grease, cocoa butter, and the tiniest trace of Annie’s perfume still hanging in the air—Avon Occur! A single lamp lit the living room beside the sofa. 

And there she was. 

Curled beneath one of the afghans in her yellow house dress, asleep on her side with one arm tucked beneath her cheek. 

Smoke stopped right there in the doorway. 

His entire face softened. 

Annie looked like she’d tried to stay awake for him. The television flickered silently across her brown skin while a magazine rested half-open near her hip. Her bare feet peeked out beneath the blanket, toenails painted deep orange-red. A color Annie called grapefruit. 

Smoke swallowed hard. 

Lord. 

He stood there for a long second just looking at her breathing. Then, he crossed the room quietly. The floor creaked beneath his weight, but Annie only stirred a little when he crouched beside the sofa. Her forehead pinched faintly like she could feel him there even in sleep. 

Smoke reached out and brushed his knuckles against her ankle beneath the blanket. 

“Baby,” he said with a whisper. 

Annie blinked away gradual, eyes still cloudy with sleep. For a second, she just stared at him like she wasn’t sure if he was really there. 

Then, her expression shifted. She wasn’t angry. No attitude. Just tired hurt. And somehow, that felt worse. Smoke lowered his eyes briefly before looking back at her. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The words came rough. Real rough. Like they scraped his throat coming out. 

Annie remained quiet, watching him carefully from beneath sleepy lashes while the television light danced across both their faces. Smoke rested his forearms against his knees and shook his head once. 

“You ain’t deserve how I talked to you earlier.” His voice stayed low and steady. “I was wrong.” 

Annie looked at Smoke for a long moment before she pushed herself up against the arm of the sofa. The afghan slipped down into her lap, yellow fabric wrinkled beneath it, and Smoke could see where sleep had pressed lines into her cheek. 

Her eyes stayed on him the whole time. Tired eyes. Pretty eyes. Eyes that had watched him leave and still hoped he’d come back through the door anyway. 

Cicadas cried outside beyond the screen windows. 

Finally, Annie spoke. 

“You know what hurt me the most?” 

Her voice came quiet from sleep, thick and warm around the edges, but there was ache sitting beneath every word. 

“It wasn’t even what you said.” 

Smoke’s jaw flexed. 

Annie pulled the blanket closer around herself and looked down at her hands for a second before meeting his eyes again. 

“It’s how fast you pulled away from me.” 

That landed hard. Smoke felt it straight through the center of his chest. 

Annie shook her head lightly, swallowing before she continued. 

“I asked you one little thing, Elijah.” 

The sound of his name in her mouth always did something to him. Especially like this. Hurt. Honest. 

“All I wanted to know was if my husband was gon’ be home with me tomorrow.” Her eyes glistened faint under the lamp light. “And you looked at me like I was tryna trap ya’.”

Smoke dropped his gaze to the floor.

Because she was right. Every bit of right. 

“I know you been carryin’ things,” Annie continued carefully. “I know some days still get heavy for you. I ain’t blind to that.” She pressed her lips together briefly. “But baby, you shut me out so fast lately.” 

The room felt smaller suddenly. Closer. Smoke rubbed a hand slowly over his mouth, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. 

“I ain’t mean to.” 

Annie gave a tiny sad smile at that.

“I know you ain’t mean to.” 

And somehow, that made it worse too. Because she understood him so well. 

Too well. 

Smoke looked up at her finally, eyes dark beneath tired lids. 

“I just…” He exhaled hard through his nose. “Feels like every damn thing been pullin’ at me lately. Stack needin’ me for this and that. Folks actin’ crazy at the shop. Money. Bills. Nightmares still crawlin’ up on me outta nowhere.” He shook his head once. “And then you ask me somethin’ simple and my mind hear it wrong.” 

Annie listened without interrupting him. Smoke’s voices lowered further. 

“Like I’m failing somewhere.” 

That made her expression soften immediately. 

“Oh, baby.” 

She reached for him instinctively. Like she always did. Her fingers slid into his hand, warm and familiar, and Smoke looked down at them joined together like he needed the reminder. 

Annie squeezed gently. 

“You think wantin’ my husband home means you failin’ me?” 

Smoke didn’t answer right away. That silence answered enough. Annie’s face crumpled just a little around the eyes before she shook her head. 

“No.” Her thumb stroked slowly across his knuckles. “No, honey. That ain’t what I be sayin’ to you at all.” 

Smoke finally looked back at her. Annie’s voice turned softer. A deep southern softness that wrapped around bruises. 

“I miss you even when you standin’ right in front of me sometimes.” 

That nearly broke him. 

“You leave before the sun come up. Come home carryin’ the whole world in your shoulders. Half the time you staring off somewhere else even when I’m talkin’ to you.” Her eyes searched his face carefully. “And I know you tryin’. Lord knows I do. But sometimes I just want my man with me. That’s all.” 

Smoke’s throat worked hard. Annie shifted closer on the sofa, blanket falling aside completely now. Her hand slid up his wrist until she could touch the side of his face. 

“You ain’t gotta carry everything alone.” 

The roughness in Smoke’s face cracked a little then. Just enough for her to see it. He leaned into her palm without thinking twice.

Tired. 

So damn tired. 

“I don’t know how to stop sometimes,” he admitted. 

Annie’s eyes watered immediately at the honesty in that. 

“Well…” She gave the smallest trembling smile. “Maybe you start by coming home sooner.” 

A short breath escaped Smoke then, relief touching him for the first time all night. He turned his head and pressed his mouth into the center of her palm. 

“I can do that.” 

Annie’s fingers tugged gently on his kinky hair at the base of his neck, holding him there. 

“I don’t need perfect, Eli,” she whispered. “I just need you.” 

I just need you. 

The words settled over him like Sunday morning light. 

Smoke looked at Annie like he was trying to hold onto every piece of her at once. Her hand still rested against his face, thumb brushing lightly near the corner of his beard.

Then, Annie spoke again.

“And the babies need you too.” 

Smoke’s eyes lowered immediately. 

Annie’s voice remained gentle.

“Aminah been askin’ if you gon’ make it to her school singing next week.” A tiny smile touched her mouth despite everything. “She practiced that whole little song in front the mirror three times today.” 

That pulled something deep in Smoke’s chest. 

Annie continued softly. “Micah carried your work boots through the house this evening talkin’ ‘bout he wanna be just like his daddy.” She shook her head faintly, amused through the sadness. “Almost busted his little behind over them heavy things.” 

Smoke huffed quietly through his nose at that, emotion climbing hard into his throat now. 

“And Imani…” Annie’s face softened all over. “That baby hear your truck before anybody else do. Every evening she wobble straight to the window lookin’ for you.” 

Lord. 

Smoke shut his eyes briefly. 

Too much love sittin’ in one house waitin’ on him. 

Too much trust. 

His calloused hand came up to cover Annie’s where it rested against his cheek, holding it there while he fought to steady himself. When he opened his eyes again, they looked wetter than before. 

“Ain’t no good at this talkin’ shit,” he admitted. 

Annie almost smiled. “I know.” 

Smoke shook his head once, breathing rough through his nose. 

“But I am sorry, Annie girl.” His voice dropped deeper. Honest. Stripped clean. “For tonight. For pulling away. For makin’ you feel alone when you ain’t supposed to.” He swallowed hard. “You my wife, Annie.” 

The way he said it sounded sacred without trying to.

Final. 

“You hear me?” 

Annie nodded slowly, eyes shining. Smoke leaned closer, forearms resting against her knees while his thumb stroked the side of her hand. 

“I love this house.” His gaze drifted around the room briefly before returning to her. “Love our babies. Love hearing ya’ll runnin’ ‘round here actin’ wild.” A tired smile touched him for half a second. “Love knowin’ you waitin’ on me.” His jaw flexed. “I just…” He searched for the words carefully. “Sometimes I get so wrapped up making sure everybody straight that I forget the whole reason I work so damn hard is already here.” 

Annie’s eyes softened so much it almost hurt to look at her. She reached for him again immediately, rubbing her hand across the broad span of his back beneath his shirt. Strong back. Working man’s back. Carrying too much all the time. 

“You don’t gotta prove your worth every second of the day, Eli.” 

Smoke exhaled shakily. 

Her fingers moved steady up and down his spine while his own hand slid across her thigh absentmindedly beneath the blanket. Slow strokes. Familiar strokes. Grounding strokes. Built from years together. 

They stayed like that for a while, just looking at each other. Years sitting inside those looks. 

War. 

Babies. 

Hard winters.

Bills folded on kitchen counters.

Slow dancing in socks.

Crying together in the darkness. 

Holding each other through every version of life they survived. 

Smoke stared at Annie like he still couldn’t believe she chose him. And Annie looked back like she’d choose him every single time again. 

Then, Smoke leaned forward. His hand slid from her thigh up to her waist while he pressed his forehead lightly against hers first, eyes closing briefly as if he needed to feel close before anything else. 

Then, he kissed her. 

Deep. It wasn’t ushed. It wasn’t heated for the sake of heat. 

It was needed.

A kiss a man gives when he finally comes home to himself. Annie melted into him immediately with a soft sound against his mouth, her fingers curling tighter at the back of his neck while Smoke held her close enough to feel her heartbeat through the thin yellow fabric. He kissed her like apology. Like relief. Like gratitude. Like a man worn thin by the world finally reaching the only place that ever made him feel whole again. 

When the kiss finally broke, Annie rested her forehead against his, noses brushing lightly while both of them breathed the same warm air between them. Smoke’s hands remained at her waist, thumbs brushing against the fabric gathered there like he still needed reassurance she was really in front of him. 

Annie smiled first. Small. Sleepy. Full of love. 

“Come to bed, baby.” 

Smoke looked at her for another second before nodding once.

“Yeah.” 

Annie brushed one last kiss against the corner of his mouth before standing from the sofa. The afghan slid down behind her while she stretched lightly, yellow dress pulling across her hips and thighs beneath the dim living room lamp. 

Smoke watched her the whole way. 

Lord, he loved that woman. 

Annie glanced back at him halfway down the hall, catching him staring, that tired little smile returned again. 

“Don’t sit out here brooding all night neither.” 

A faint grin tugged at Smoke’s mouth then. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

Annie shook her head softly at him and disappeared into their bedroom, leaving behind the scent of her perfume, cocoa butter, and home. 

Smoke stayed on the couch another minute after Annie left. 

Just breathing. Settling himself. 

He leaned forward slowly, elbows resting on his knees while he rubbed the back of his neck with both hands. 

Provider. 

Protector. 

Husband. 

Father. 

The weight of those things never left him. But tonight reminded him why he carried it in the first place. 

Smoke stood finally and cut the television off. Then, he reached over and cut the lamp light. Darkness settled through the living room except for the kitchen light glowing faint down the hall. 

The old wood floors creaked beneath his boots while he moved quietly toward the children’s room. 

The door sat cracked open already. 

Inside, moonlight spilled pale blue through thin curtains laying across toys scattered near the wall and little shoes kicked carelessly beside the dresser. 

Smoke paused in the doorway. 

Aminah and Micah were sprawled across the bunk beds without a worry in the world. Micah slept on the bottom bunk flat on his back, one skinny leg hanging halfway over the mattress while one of his comic books rested open on his chest. The Jungle Action Comic Series “Panther’s Rage.” Uncle Stack picked up from some comic shop in Atlanta on one of his business trips. Aminah slept above him curled beneath her blanket with one long braid hanging over the edge of the bed. 

Smoke shook his head lightly at the sight. Then, his eyes moved toward the crib in the corner. 

Imani. Fast asleep with her tiny fists tucked near her cheeks. 

Smoke’s entire expression softened again. He crossed the room carefully, every movement quieter so he wouldn’t wake them. First, he stopped beside Micah, lifting the comic gently from the boy’s chest before laying it on the floor nearby. Smoke bent and pressed a kiss against Micah’s forehead. 

“Love you, boy.” He whispered. 

Micah only smacked his lips softly in his sleep. 

Smoke moved to the top bunk next. Aminah stirred faintly when he brushed his knuckles against her cheek, but she settled once he kissed her temple. 

“That my girl.” He whispered. 

Then, he made his way to the crib. 

Imani looked so small sleeping there. Her curls spread against the little pillow while the moonlight touched her round cheeks. Smoke rested both hands on the front rail and just looked at her for a second, emotion rising up all over again before he leaned down carefully. He kissed her forehead. 

Imani sighed in her sleep. 

Smoke closed his eyes at the sound. 

Lord, thank you.

When he straightened again, he stood there another moment looking over all three of his babies together. 

His family. 

His whole damn heart sleeping inside one room.

Then, he pulled the bedroom door nearly shut behind him before heading toward the back room where Annie waited. 

And the second Smoke stepped inside and saw his wife sitting there against the headboard with her hair wrapped up and her yellow dress slipping off one shoulder, something inside him settled completely.

Her eyes dropped immediately to his boots. Then to the dirt along the cuffs of his jeans. 

One brow lifted.

“No outside clothes in bed. Smoke.” 

The firmness in her sleepy voice made him grin before he could help it. 

There she go.

Back to herself. 

Back to them. 

Smoke leaned one shoulder against the doorway and chuckled low in his chest. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Annie pointed lazily toward the hamper near the dresser without another word. Smoke laughed softly through his nose and obeyed. 

He unlaced his boots first and set them neatly by the wall before peeling off his socks. Then came the jeans, heavy belt clinking softly in the quiet room, followed by his faded T-shirt. Warm brown skin stretched over muscle, old scars cutting pale against his chest and shoulders from another life Annie never judged him for. 

She watched him the entire time. Not even trying to hide it. Smoke caught her staring and smirked.

“You supposed to be sleep.”

Annie settled deeper into the pillows.

“You supposed to be listening.” 

That made him laugh again. 

Lord. 

Smoke tossed his clothes in the hamper and headed into the small bathroom connected to their room. Annie listened to the familiar sounds while fighting sleep. Running water. Cabinet creaking open. Toothbrush bristles against teeth. 

Domestic sounds. 

Marriage sounds.

Sounds you stop noticing until one night they’re missing. 

Smoke washed his face, letting cool water clear the last of the heaviness from his mind. When he looked up afterward, droplets clung to his beard and lashes. 

For the first time all day, he looked calm. 

By the time  he came back into the bedroom, Annie’s eyes were half closed. Still waiting on him anyway. 

That hit him straight in the chest too. 

Smoke crossed the room and reached over to switch the lamp off. Moonlight poured through the curtains in silver strips. 

The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he climbed in beside her. 

Instantly, Annie moved closer. Like muscle memory. Her head found his chest while one arm draped across his stomach beneath tue blanket. One strong arm pulled her snug against him while the other rested beneath his head. Annie’s fingertips slid slowly down the ridges of his abdomen, absentmindedly and sleepy. Smoke lowered his mouth to the top of her wrapped hair and kissed her there.

Long. Lingering.

“I love you,” he whispered into the darkness. 

Annie hummed softly against his chest. 

“Love you too, Elijah.” 

The fan whirled overhead and the crickets cried outside. Annie’s breathing started slowing little by little against him while Smoke stared up into the dark ceiling, holding his wife close and listening to the peace of his own home around him. 

Then came a soft knock. 

 Both of them blinked. 

The bedroom door creaked open before either of them could answer. 

Aminah stood there in her nightgown holding sleepy little Imani against her hip the best she could. Micah lingered beside her rubbing one eye with his fist, blanket dragging behind him across the floor. 

Smoke lifted his head immediately. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Aminah looked exhausted. 

“Imani woke up crying,” she whispered. “Then Micah got scared ‘cause of the thunder.” 

Right on cue, distant thunder rolled across the Mississippi sky. 

Annie sighed softly against Smoke’s chest. 

Because of course. 

Smoke pushed himself up onto one elbow while Micah shuffled further into the room. 

“I-I think there’s a m-monster in the closet.” Micah admitted miserably. 

Smoke looked at Annie.

Annie looked at Smoke.

Then both of them smiled at the exact same time. 

Family. 

“Ain’t no monsters in this house,” Smoke said, voice groggy as he held his arm out towards Micah. “Come on here, man.” 

Micah hurried over, climbing onto the bed from Smoke’s side while dragging his blanket behind him. The mattress bounced beneath his little knees before he collapsed dramatically beside his father with a tired sigh. 

Annie laughed softly under her breath. 

“Aminah, baby, bring your sister here before your little arms fall off.” 

Aminah nodded sleepily and crossed the room carefully with Imani tucked against her shoulder. Smoke reached out automatically to steady the baby while Annie pulled the blankets back further. 

“Lay her beside me,” Annie whispered. 

Imani fussed faintly when Aminah lowered her into the bed, tiny face scrunched up with leftover tears and sleepiness, but the second Annie gathered her close against her chest, the baby settled back down. 

Safe. 

Imani’s little hand grabbed hold of Annie’s nightdress while Annie kissed her curls gently.

“There we go,” she whispered. 

Smoke watched the sight from the other side of the bed. 

His whole world right there. Right here.

Aminah crawled in next, slipping beneath the covers beside Annie and Imani while Micah sprawled halfway across Smoke’s side already fighting sleep again. 

The bed suddenly became crowded as hell. Legs everywhere. Blankets twisted. One of Micah’s feet shoved directly against Smoke’s thigh. 

And still, somehow, it felt perfect. 

Annie looked over at Smoke in the darkness, amusement flowing in her tired eyes. 

“Well,” she whispered. “So much for us having room tonight.” 

Smoke snorted quietly. 

“I sleep better with ya’ll in here anyway.” 

That made Annie smile. 

The storm rolled deeper outside, rain beginning to tap lightly against the windows while the fan turned overhead carrying cool air through the room. 

Smoke reached across the bed until his hand found Annie’s beneath the blankets. 

Their fingers laced together naturally. 

Aminah was already asleep curled against Annie’s shoulder. Micah had one arm flung across Smoke’s stomach, knocked out almost instantly. And little Imani breathed tiny warm breaths against Annie’s chest while thunder rumbled far off across the Delta night. 

Smoke stared up at the ceiling for another minute listening to all of it. 

Rain.

His children breathing. 

His wife beside him. 

Home. 

Then Annie squeezed his hand once in the darkness.

Friday, June 20th, 2025

Annie is standing in the back of her shop, hands on her hips as she looks around the warehouse space. It was about 4:30 in the evening, and she hadn’t accomplished half of the things she wanted to get done. 

Her hand came up to her forehead as she looked at the stack of shipping labels waiting for her to pack and label orders. She knew she needed to start on them, but one glance at the stock shelves told her she’d run out before she finished. 

She felt the urge to start packaging more product from the batches she’d made earlier in the week, but she wasn’t sure what all she’d need, and it was beginning to overwhelm her.

“I’ll just pack what I can,” she murmurs to herself, making her way to the packing station. She puts an earbud in, turning on some soft music, hoping it’ll calm her and help her stay focused.

She looks through the orders and goes to grab what she’ll need to pack them, but as she makes her way over to the first shelf, she sees a half-full delivery box.

Irritation begins to bubble up in her chest when she realizes she forgot to finish packing the last box. She grabs the list that sat atop the products inside the box, scanning it to see what else needed to be added.

After filling it, she pushes it over to the rest of the boxes. She scans them, noticing that she hadn’t taped any of them closed, sighing softly.

She pinches the bridge of her nose as she takes a moment to center herself. She felt overwhelmed by all the emotions sitting in her chest at the moment. She was frustrated, her brain seemed to be scattered, and she wasn’t sure why. She’d been stretching herself thin for a while, but even more so the past few weeks. 

Business picked up now that summer was here, and Annie was taking on more than she could handle, though she’d never admit that to herself. The weekend of her date with Elijah was the last time she felt relaxed, and now, almost a full month later, she was feeling the weight of everything.

She seals the box she’d just finished packing and moves over to the other ones to double-check them. Yebba begins to play softly in her ear as she moves from box to box, and the race in her mind slows down just enough to calm her nerves. 

Just as she tapes the last box closed, her phone rings. She pulls her phone from her pocket, seeing Elijah’s name flashing across the screen. 

“Hello?” Annie answers when the call connects. She slips her phone back into her pocket before moving over to her desk. She can hear the wind coming through the phone, letting her know that he was outside.

“Hey, Sugar. I’m on my way. I just wanted to see if you needed anything.”

She smiles softly, resting against the side of the desk. “You could’ve texted me, ‘Lijah.”

“I know, I just wanted to hear your voice since I ain’t get to call earlier,” he replies, making Annie chuckle. 

“Where you stopping at?” she asks him.

“Where you need me to stop?”

“Elijah…” Annie sighs softly, crossing her arms. 

“Annie,” he responds in the same tone she used, making her roll her eyes.

She sits down at the desk, listening as she hears his car start in the background.

“I’m stopping at the gas station by that little bakery you like to go to. I can get you some of them little cookies cause I know you ain’t ate since breakfast.” 

She opened her mouth to protest, but as if on cue, her stomach growled. She leans back in her seat, smacking her teeth softly. 

“I did eat somethin’,” she murmurs, glancing over at the various snacks sitting on her desk. 

“What’d you eat?” he questions, and she can tell her already knows the answer.

“...Get me the lemon ones with the strawberry icing,” she says after a moment. Elijah chuckles softly.

“Aight. I’ll see you soon,” he says before ending the call. Annie sits there for a moment, a smile dancing on her lips. 

Elijah made a point of calling her every day during his break, which coincided with hers. He’d just started doing it last week, when he was having a particularly frustrating day. After back-to-back meetings with unyielding clients and incompetent architects, a ball of anger had wound itself up so tight in his chest that he was sure it’d never go away. 

That was, until he checked his phone and saw a text from Annie. She asked him to call her on his break, needing to talk to him about her deliveries. The moment her voice filled his ears, everything he was feeling melted away. What was supposed to be one call led to him calling her every day to ‘check in’. 

Today, though, he had an inspection that ran late, and he wasn’t able to call her. Annie assured him it was fine; him not calling made it easier for her to work through her break, knowing he’d make her sit down if he was on the phone. 

She’s pulled from her thoughts when she hears her name being called from the backroom doors.

“Annie?” Sequoia, a young college student who worked the register a few nights a week, calls out.

She looks over at the younger woman standing in the doorway. “What’s up? Everything okay out there?”

Sequoia nods softly. “Yeah, everything is fine. There’s a man out there who’s asking for you, though. He said something about his wife and an incorrect order.”

Annie sighs softly, already knowing who was waiting at the counter. The two of them go out to the floor, and Sequoia moves toward the aisles while Annie makes her way over to the counter.

“Hey, Mr. Richards. How can I help you?” she asks the older man who stood at the counter. 

“Hey, Annie. Michelle sent me up here with this,” he says, reaching into the bag and pulling out a container of shea butter. “She said it’s not the right one, and she wants me to get the whipped one instead.”

Annie smiles empathetically. “I’m sorry about that. Let me see if we have some over there, and I can get that fixed for you.”

“I already checked the shelves, there wasn’t any over there,” the older man says, shaking his head. 

Annie nods. “Okay. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to make more product this week, so we don’t have the one you’re looking for right now. I can return this one for you now, or you can come back next week, and I’ll have some for you.”

The older man shakes his head softly. “There’s no way I can get some today? I came pretty far to get here.”

“No, sir. I’m sorry you had to drive all this way, but I don’t have any ready to be sold. What do you say I return this for you, and I’ll ship some out to Ms. Michelle, free of charge?”

He sighs softly but agrees reluctantly. Annie processes the return for him and sends him on his way.

Sequoia walks up to the counter when she sees the man walk away, her eyebrows raised.

“How’d that go? He seemed upset when he came in.”

“It went just fine,” Annie chuckles. “His wife has been shopping with me for a while, but they don’t live in town, so she doesn’t come in often. He was upset, but I think that had more to do with the fact that he’s goin’ home empty-handed than with the order being wrong. I must’ve mixed up shipping labels or somethin’, cause she got the wrong product.”

“You know I don’t mind helping with all that, Annie. You runnin’ yourself so thin you’re starting to mix things up.”

Annie sighs softly. “I know, but I don’t want you feeling overwhelmed either. This is supposed to be an easy job for you between classes,” she says, shaking her head softly.

“Well, it’s summer now, so I don’t mind taking on more work, or more hours,” she replies, smiling coyly. Annie smiles at the girl, rolling her eyes softly.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she concedes just as the door opens.

Annie looks up just as Elijah steps through the door, and her smile widens when they make eye contact. Sequoia glances toward him, then back at Annie. 

She looks back and forth between the pair, noticing the way they’d zoned in on each other, and smiles when the realization hits her.

“Okay, Annie,” she says teasingly, pulling Annie’s attention away from the man. 

She smacks her teeth softly, the smile not leaving her face as she looks at him again.

“Let me go…straighten something,” Sequoia says, laughing softly as she moves away from the counter.

Elijah walks up a few seconds later, and Annie walks around the counter to meet him.

“Hey, Sugar,” he says, setting the bag from the bakery on the counter. 

“Hey, Elijah,” Annie replies, her voice soft as he reaches forward and grabs her hands.

“You doin’ alright?”

“I’m still the same as I was when you called me 20 minutes ago,” she replies, lacing their fingers.

He chuckles softly, leaning forward to leave a kiss on her cheek. 

“I got you the cookies you wanted,” he tells her. Annie smiles and reaches for the bag.

“Thank you,” she hums, opening the bag. Her eyes widen when she notices a few other pastries in the bag.

“What’s all this?” she asks, reaching in and pulling out a wrapped slice of cake.

“When I ordered the cookies, the lady said, ' Only Annie orders these,' and when I told her they were for you, she put a bunch of other stuff in there too. That cake is mine, though,” he says, taking the slice from her hand with a smile on his face.

Annie lets out a soft laugh as she watches him unwrap the slice, his smile unwavering.

“Is that the rum cake?” she questions, and he nods.

“Yep. I ain’t had a slice of it in years, I just know it’s good,” he says, breaking off a piece to eat. 

He groans softly at the taste, his eyes fluttering closed as the cake melts in his mouth.

“Woah,” he murmurs after swallowing, looking down at the slice.

“It’s good, right?” Annie questions with a smile on her face.

He looks up at her and nods. “It tastes just like my granny’s recipe,” he replies, a soft smile finding his face.

“You want some?” he asks her, breaking off a piece when she nods.

He holds the piece up to her mouth, making Annie pull her head back slightly with a chuckle.

“Lijah, you can’t feed that to me out here. I’m workin’,” she says, glancing around the store.

Elijah smacks his teeth softly. “Aight, let’s go in the back, then.”

He grabs Annie’s hand and leads her to the back of the store, and she can’t stop a small giggle from escaping.

Elijah walks over to Annie’s desk and leans against it. He watches as Annie sets the bag of sweets down before grabbing her hand and guiding her to stand between his legs.

She smiles softly, leaning in slightly when he lifts the piece to her mouth again. 

His hands find her waist as he watches her eat the cake, her arms coming up to rest on his shoulders. 

“How was your day?” she asks.

“It was fine, busy as usual. Got a little hectic after lunch, but it’s all good now that I’m lookin’ at you.”

Annie laughs softly. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” he hums, pulling her closer. Annie leans down and pecks his lips softly.

“I missed you.”

“You just saw me earlier this week,” Annie replies, making Elijah smack his teeth.

“Yeah, on Monday. It’s Friday, that’s too long without seeing your pretty face in person,” he tells her, pecking her lips a few more times.

“How was your day?” he questions.

“Busy,” she starts, pulling back slightly. “Didn’t make much progress on packing orders, because I need to make more product. Didn’t get to make any product because the store’s been busy.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been helping you, I know what needs to go where. If you want, I can take the deliveries while you get some more stuff done here,” Elijah offers.

Annie shakes her head. “I can’t ask you to do that, but thank you.”

“You’re not askin’ though, I’m offering.”

“No, Elijah. You’re doin’ enough just coming and helping me out. It’s also the only time we get to spend together lately,” she says, murmuring the last part. 

“Oh, you like spendin’ time with me?” he questions with a smirk, pulling her closer to him.

“Yeah, I guess,” Annie replies, rolling her eyes playfully.

“I think I’m gonna go ahead and start looking to hire someone for my deliveries again, I feel like I’m overworking myself too much,” she says.

Elijah hums softly, straightening up as a thought crosses his mind.

“I might have someone for you.”

“Oh?” Annie says curiously.

 “Yeah. My little cousin, Sammie. He goes to school here. He went home for a few weeks after the semester ended, but he’s coming back up here for summer classes, so he’s gonna be staying with my mama.”

Annie nods, contemplating his words. “How you know he wanna work, though?”

“The way he been blowing up me and Stack’s phones about money, I’m sure he’d love to make some of his own. He’s coming up this weekend, actually, you can meet him Sunday.”

“Lijah, I’m hangin’ with Mani and Jay on Sunday.”

“Oh yeah, that is right,” he says, sighing softly. 

“Well, Stack is hosting a watch party for the finals at his place on Sunday. You and the girls can come.”

Annie raises an eyebrow in curiosity. “Stack know you inviting us?”

“He actually asked if I was bringing you. I’m sure him and his thirsty ass friends won’t mind a few more girls in the room,” Elijah chuckles. 

Annie shakes her head, laughing softly. “Alright, I’ll ask them and let you know,” she tells him, though she knows they’ll be there.

Sunday

“Janelle, for the last time, you look fine!” Imani says, rolling her eyes.

“Don’t rush me! I ain’t say nothin’ when you were hogging the bathroom doing your hair,” Janelle replies, continuing to adjust her shirt in the mirror.

Imani huffs, bumping Janelle with her hip in hopes of freeing up some space in front of the mirror.

“Y’all are ridiculous,” Annie murmurs from her bed as she sits and watches the two of them.

“That’s easy for you to say, Annie. You got a man there waitin’ for you, I’m trying to catch one,” Janelle says, wiggling her eyebrows.

“I would’ve made y'all get ready in the guest room if I knew y’all were gonna come in here acting like we still in college.”

Janelle looks back at Annie with raised eyebrows. 

“I know you not talking, like you weren’t just on the phone with me before your date freaking out because your t-shirt was too plain,” she retorts, making Annie’s jaw drop.

“Look how you acting right now, though, just to go see Stack’s friends,” Imani says without missing a beat as she fixes her hair in the mirror.

Annie laughs as she watches the two of them start going back and forth. When she asked them if they wanted to go to the party, they immediately agreed, jumping at the opportunity to do anything other than wake up before noon for brunch.

Annie was excited, but nervous, as the time for them to leave got closer. She’d spent the past few hours with the girls, and being around Janelle was enough to make anyone excited for whatever they were getting into with her, but the fact that her friends were going to meet Elijah lingered in her mind.

Before she can get too deep in her thoughts, Imani starts talking to her.

“How much time until we leave?” she asks, and Annie checks her phone.

“Ten minutes.”

Janelle groans softly. “Annie, can I please borrow that yellow top you got in your closet? This one ain’t doin’ it for me.”

“Girl, you look good in that,” Annie says, chuckling softly as she stands up from the bed.

“But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll get it for you.”

Annie walks into her closet, her eyes immediately finding the halter top Janelle was referring to. She takes it back out to her friend, who quickly changes into it.

“Thank you,” Janelle says dramatically, making Annie roll her eyes.

“I don’t know why you doin’ all this.”

“She probably thinks Mikel is gonna be there,” Imani says, cutting her eyes at Janelle.

“This ain’t about him,” Janelle responds, her face neutral as she fixes the shirt in the mirror.

“It better not be! You got on a shirt I ain’t even worn out yet, I would hope it ain’t for a nigga that had a baby on you,” Annie says, folding her arms.

“It’s not! I ain’t worried about him no more. Besides, Imani needs to worry about who touching her cooze tonight and leave mine alone,” she replies with a smile. 

“Girl, go to hell,” Imani shoots back, rolling her eyes as she grabs her purse. 

Annie shakes her head, grabbing her bag. “If y’all are done, it’s time to go,” she says as she makes her way out of the room.

They make their way out to Annie’s car, and Annie pulls her phone out when she gets in. She shoots a quick text to Elijah to let him know they’re on the way.

Imani speaks up from the backseat when Annie puts her phone down.

“Is it just gonna be us girls there, or will there be others?”

“There’ll be other girls there,” Annie says, looking back at her friend. 

“Okay, good. A party full of niggas doesn’t sound fun, even if it is to watch a basketball game,” she says, making Janelle chuckle. 

“You got a point there. Especially if all of them are Stack’s friends.”

Annie starts the car. “Some of Elijah’s friends are gonna be there, too,” she says.

“Oh, you should’ve led with that!” Janelle replies.

Annie shakes her head as she pulls out of her driveway.

“Is this gonna be your first time meeting them?” Imani asks, to which Annie nods.

“You nervous?”

Annie glances at Imani through the rear-view mirror, taking a moment to think.

“A little, but it’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about the two of y’all meeting him.”

Janelle laughs. “Why, friend? You think we gon say something crazy?”

“Yes, especially you,” Annie says, looking over at her friend as she stops at a light.

“You act like I’ll say something crazy,” Janelle scoffs, smacking her teeth softly.

Annie looks back at Imani, who’s already looking at her. They both look at Janelle, making her roll her eyes.

“I thought y’all knew me better than this,” she says, folding her arms. “I’d at least wait until the third or fourth time.”

Now it was Annie’s turn to roll her eyes. The light changes, and she continues driving. The ride from her place to Stack’s was almost 30 minutes, which felt like nothing to the women, as their conversation carried on while music played softly throughout the car.

They caught up, talking about work, life, and the random guys Janelle had encountered while out on the weekends over the past month. She and Imani poked and prodded about Elijah, but Annie didn’t have much to tell, making her realize just how much of the past month she’d spent working.

“It’s a good thing we said yes to this, then. Cause knowin’ you, we’d have gone to brunch, and you wouldn’t have even mentioned sticking to our plans when you know you wanna see him more than us,” Imani says, her eyes not even lifting from her phone.

Annie smacks her teeth, glancing in the mirror as she turns left. 

“So y’all would’ve been okay with me canceling on y’all?” Annie asks, and the sounds they make answer for them.

“Antoinette, you know good and well the answer is hell no,” Janelle says, letting out a soft chuckle. “I don’t know what Imani talkin bout back there. I’m glad you found a man, but I need my time with you, too,” she jokes.

Annie smiles softly, glancing over at her friend. “I know I’ve been working a lot, but hopefully that’ll change soon, and I’ll have enough time for all three of y’all.”

Annie glances down at the gps to make sure she’s going the right way, so she doesn’t see the broken glass in the road. 

It’s quiet for a few minutes as she continues driving, the girls falling into a comfortable silence, until a warning bell chimes through the car. Annie looks down at the dash with furrowed eyebrows, noticing the tire pressure light had come on. 

An animation appears on the screen, letting her know the front tire on the driver’s side was going flat. She sighs softly, pulling onto the shoulder. 

“What happened?” Janelle asks, looking around with raised eyebrows.

“The tire’s going flat. I must’ve driven over something,” Annie says, putting the car in park.

She pops the trunk and glances in her side mirror, making sure nothing’s coming before she opens the door. 

She gets out, checking the tire and seeing that it was indeed flat. She decides to check the others as well, and once she sees that they’re fine, she goes to the trunk. 

Annie opens the trunk and lifts the floor liner to reveal the spare tire, but she frowns softly when she notices the missing tire jack kit.

She drops the liner, leaning down to look further into the trunk, but she doesn’t see it. She pauses, trying to think of where it could be in the car, smacking her teeth when she remembers that she took it out when she started delivering products herself. She could picture the bright red bag sitting in the corner of the backroom of her shop, exactly where she sat it as she told herself that she’d put it back.

She lets out an annoyed huff as she closes the trunk, making her way back to the driver’s seat.

“I’m gonna have to call somebody, I don’t have the stuff I need to change it,” she says to the girls as she grabs her phone.

Janelle watches as Annie scrolls through her contacts, her thumb hesitating over names before moving on to the next.

“Ann…” she calls out, her hand moving to the center console. Annie looks up at her, the frown lines between her brows prominent. 

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Annie murmurs. “I just- I normally do this myself, so I’m not sure who to call. I can’t believe I forgot to put it back in the car.”

Imani and Janelle look at each other, having a silent conversation, while Annie looks down at her phone. 

“Annie,” Imani calls, making Annie look back at her. “First, take a deep breath, it’s fine. The spare is there, right?”

Annie nods.

“Okay then. I know you have roadside assistance; you seem like the responsible adult who’d pay for that,” she continues lightly, making Annie squint her eyes in amusement. 

“I do,” Annie says, her tone a little lighter.

“Great, but don’t call them, they’ll take forever to get here,” Janelle says, making Annie raise an eyebrow.

“Then who do you suggest I call?”

“Uh, Smoke,” she replies like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. 

Annie pauses at her friend’s answer. She hadn’t even thought to call him, but now that he was in her head, she wasn’t even sure why he wasn’t her first thought. She opens her mouth to say something, but the words don’t come out.

“Mhm, go ahead and call him,” Janelle says as she looks back down at her phone.

Elijah’s leaning against the bar in Stack’s entertainment room when his phone rings. The stoic look on his face transforms into something warm when he sees Annie’s name on the screen, and he doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Elijah,” Annie replies shakily, clearing her throat softly, which makes Elijah raise an eyebrow.

“You okay? You ain’t get lost, did you?” He asks lightly, not wanting to beat around the bush as his concern rose at her tone.

Annie sighs out a laugh. “No. I’m going the right way. Or, I was. I, um…”

Elijah stays quiet as he waits for her to finish. As he listens, he hears the wind blowing and cars passing, letting him know she was outside.

“My tire went flat.”

Elijah immediately goes to grab his keys and find Stack as Annie continues to speak.

“I think I drove over something? I was gonna change it, but I didn’t realize I forgot to put my jack back in the car, and since we’re not too far from Stack’s, I was hoping you could come help me change it?” she asks, feeling the need to explain everything to him in hopes of convincing him to come.

“Okay. Send me your location, I’m on the way, baby,” he says.

“Ok,” Annie replies, and there’s a moment of silence. Elijah grabs his keys from the kitchen, and Stack is already there messing over the wings on the island. 

Elijah’s phone vibrates against his ear, and Annie starts talking again.

“I sent it…thank you, Elijah,” Annie says softly.

“You don’t need to thank me, Annie. If you need me, I’m coming.”

His words land heavily, and Annie can’t ignore the feeling in her chest as he says them. They say their goodbyes, and Elijah lets Stack know where he’s going before heading out.

It doesn’t take him nearly as long as it should have to get to Annie; the 15-minute drive was nearly cut in half with how fast he drove to her.

His shoulders were tight with tension from the moment he left Stack’s until he pulled up in front of her car on the shoulder.

The worry etched between his eyebrows fades when he sees Annie in the driver’s seat, laughing at something Janelle said to her.

Elijah sits there for a moment, looking at her before getting out. He goes to his trunk and grabs his jack, then walks over to Annie’s and sets it on the ground in front of her car.

He walks over to the driver’s side as Annie lowers the window. He rests his arm on the roof as he leans down.

“Hey, Sugar,” he says, making her smile up at him. He looks past her into the car, his eyes meeting Janelle’s before moving to Imani’s.

“Evenin’, ladies. Y’all alright?”

Both of the women nod, giving him kind smiles.

“Yes, we’re just fine. Your girl here was panicking for nothing,” Janelle says, making Annie roll her eyes.

Elijah chuckles softly. “Well, there’ll be no more of that. Y’all can sit in the cool air of my car while I get this changed,” he tells them, to which they agree.

He opens Annie’s door, holding his hand out for her. She lets him help her out, her grip on his hand not letting up as he pushes the door closed.

Janelle and Imani get out on the other side, their eyes landing on Annie, whose gaze was trained on Elijah. 

It’s quiet for a few moments before Imani clears her throat. 

“Well, since it doesn’t seem like she’s gonna introduce us, I’m Imani, and she’s Janelle. Nice to meet you, Smoke.”

Elijah gives them a nod. “Nice to meet y’all.”

Janelle smiles at Annie, noticing how close she was standing to Elijah.

“We’ll be in the car,” she says, and she and Imani walk off.

Annie watches them for a moment before turning her attention to Elijah, who was already looking at her with soft eyes.

“So, you were panicking?”

“No, I just…” Annie glances down for a second before looking back up at him. “I just wasn’t thinking straight for a moment. I forgot I emptied my trunk when I started doing those deliveries, so my kit isn’t in the car. That threw me off, so I just needed a moment,” she says. 

“You sure that’s all it was? You sounded off on the phone,” he questions with a raised eyebrow. 

Annie nods softly. “I promise, that’s all it was,” she says, leaning up to peck his lips.

“And I know you said it’s no need to thank you, but I want to anyway.”

“It’s nothing, Annie. Really,” he assures her, smiling down at her. “Now, let me get started so we can get out of this heat.”

Annie shows Elijah where the spare tire is in her car, and he gets started on changing it. Annie contemplates getting in his car as the sun beams down on them, but the soft grunts that leave his mouth as he loosens the lugs and the way his biceps flex underneath the sleeves of his shirt are enough to keep her standing there, watching.

Once he takes the last one off, he pulls the tire off. He rolls it to the side and grabs the spare, placing it on. 

“Baby,” Elijah calls, looking up at her. “You don’t gotta stand in this heat.”

Annie shifts slightly, glancing back at his car.

“I know,” she says. “Just wanna be here in case you…need somethin’.”

Elijah chuckles softly but doesn’t say anything as he makes sure the tire is pushed all the way back. 

“I need you to tell me why you were gonna change this on your own, when you dressed like that,” he says, his eyes raking over her body. She wore a white and blue cropped jersey with a matching blue skirt, which she paired with a pair of white and blue Dunks.

“I normally do it on my own,” she murmurs as heat creeps up her neck under his gaze.

“You done it in a skirt?” he questions, his eyes going back to the tire as he picks up the lugnuts.

Annie smooths her hands over the back of her skirt, letting out a short sigh.

“I didn’t think that far ahead,” she mutters, feeling defensive all of a sudden. “Like I said, I was doin’ what I normally do.”

Elijah glances up at her when he hears the change in her tone, taking in the frown she wears.

“I ain’t mean nothin’ by it, mama, just that you don’t have to do everything alone,” he says evenly.

Annie looks down at him as he keeps working, unaware of the way his words landed. The defensiveness bubbling up in Annie’s chest melted away as she watched him. 

Though his tone wasn’t anything other than the gentle one he always spoke to her in, his question about her clothes took her back to Isaac. 

Just as quickly as she went there, though, he brought her back to here and now. He’d been there for her since right after they met, helping out whenever she needed him to. 

“I know…it’s just gonna take some gettin’ used to.”

Elijah tightens the last lug one more time before standing up. He lets the car down and moves to the flat tire.

“Well, since you wanna help, how bout you come back here and hold the lining up while I put this inside?” he says, smiling softly at her.

She nods softly and follows him to the trunk. Her eyes follow him as she holds the lining up, taking in the way he effortlessly lifts the tire. His muscles flex slightly, the sleeves of his shirt riding up against the skin of his biceps, and Annie takes it all in, her lips pressed together.

Once it’s in, he steps back and dusts his hands off. Annie closes the trunk before turning to face him.

Elijah looks at her with that distinct expression of concentration he wore when he was thinking things over—his eyebrows creased, accompanied by a frown. “You’re gonna need to get that tire changed soon so you’re not drivin’ around on this spare for too long,” he tells her, and she nods.

“And Annie?”

“Yes?”

“When you get to work tomorrow, put that kit back in your car.” 

Annie smiles sheepishly, stepping up to Elijah. Her hands find his biceps as she tips up, planting a kiss at the corner of his lips. 

“I will,” she says sweetly, making the frown on his lips fade. 

“Man, these niggas fuckin’ up my parlay!” is the first thing Annie hears when she steps into Stack’s home.

They made it to his place near the end of the first quarter, and the groans and cheers that could be heard all the way at the front door hinted that the game was already heating up.

Janelle and Imani step inside behind her, and Elijah comes in last, closing the door.

The three women walk further into the house just as Mariah walks by the entryway.

She glances toward them and keeps walking for a second before stopping and looking back with a smile.

“Hey, Smoke! Who are these pretty ladies?” she questions as she looks between them.

Elijah steps up beside Annie, his hand finding the small of her back. 

“Hey, Mariah. This is Annie,” he starts, glancing at her with a small smile.

“And these are her friends, Janelle and Imani.”

Mariah’s smile widens as she walks closer to them.

“Nice to meet y’all! I’m Mariah, Elias’ girlfriend,” she says.

Annie smiles softly at her. “Likewise.”

“The game started maybe twenty minutes ago. I was headed to the kitchen to get somethin’ to drink, if you ladies wanna join me,” Mariah says. Janelle and Imani quickly agree, and the three of them leave Elijah and Annie standing in the foyer.

It’s quiet for a moment as Annie turns to look at Elijah. Their eyes meet, and they both smile after a moment. 

“She seems sweet,” Annie says, breaking the silence.

Elijah hums softly and nods. 

“She is.”

Annie looks around for a moment, pulling one side of her bottom lip between her teeth. Elijah watches her face as she does so, noticing the nervous tick.

“You good?” he asks softly, and Annie nods.

“Yeah, just a little nervous. I don’t know what to expect.”

Elijah raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Annie nods. “I mean, I’m not nervous about Stack, but your friends are a different story.”

“Ain’t no need to worry about them, Sugar,” he says, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I don’t bring just anybody to meet my people,” he smirks.

Annie rolls her eyes as her hands find his shoulders. 

“Alright, Elijah.” 

He chuckles softly, leaning down to leave a soft kiss on her lips. 

“Now, let me take you to meet some folks, and then you can get somethin’ to eat.”

Annie’s nerves melt away when they get to the entertainment room. Mariah and the girls were already there, mingling with people around the room, while Stack stood in front of the TV, yelling at the screen. 

Elijah’s hand finds the small of her back as they move through the room toward the bar. Along the way, they’re stopped by some of Eijah’s friends, and he introduces them to Annie. When they arrive at the bar, Elijah makes sure she’s comfortable before turning to lean against the counter.

He looks around the room, taking in the faces of those he hadn’t spoken to yet, noticing his closest friend from college, Jamal, was across the room talking with Imani. The two of them were standing closely, Jamal whispering something in Imani’s ear while she smiled.

He looks down at Annie, seeing that her eyes were already on the pair. She looks up at Elijah after a moment with a curious look.

“Who’s that?” she asks him, and Elijah smirks softly.

“That’s Jamal, my homeboy from school.”

Annie nods once, then goes back to looking around the room. Elijah stays planted beside her, putting faces to names for her as she looks around. 

After a while, Annie starts to feel hungry.

“Lijah, I’m gonna fix me somethin’ to eat,” she tells him as she stands up. He moves to follow her, but she stops him.

“I’ll be fine. You should catch up with your friends. I know you haven’t seen them in a while,” she tells him. He nods after a moment, and Annie leans up to leave a kiss on his cheek. 

She makes her way to the kitchen, where there are a few people standing around with plates. 

She makes her way over to the counter and grabs a plate. As she looks over the food, one of the women near her greets her.

“Hey, I’m Kiana,” the woman says, and Annie looks up at her. She smiles softly in return.

“I’m Annie, nice to meet you,” she replies. 

“Likewise. You from around here?”

Annie shakes her head. “No, I’m from Louisiana, but I’ve been here for a few years.”

Kiana hums softly. “I thought so, I hear it in your voice. I got cousins from the bayou. What part you from?”

“I’m from Baton Rouge, so you’re not too far off,” Annie says, her smile widening a little bit. Kiana nods, returning the smile.

“So, how you know the twins?”

Heat creeps up Annie’s neck as she begins to feel a little flustered, but she continues to appear calm.

“Elijah and I are seein’ each other,” she says softly, her eyes turning back to the food in front of her. She adds some pasta salad to her plate as she continues to listen to the woman. 

“Is that right?” Kiana says, her voice pitched up. Annie glances at her and nods.

“How about you?” Annie questions, moving on to the wings. 

“I went to high school with them,” Kiana replies, watching Annie closely. 

“Oh, so y’all go way back,” Annie says, making Kiana laugh. 

“You can say that, I guess. But you and Elijah must, too, if he wanted to bring you around these crazy people.”

Annie looks over at her. “I actually didn’t meet him until about two months ago,” she says softly, and the shock that flickers across Kiana’s face doesn’t go unnoticed. She turns back to the food as Kiana speaks.

“Oh, really? Smoke’s never brought a girl to any of their parties. At least not since Essence.”

Annie pauses for a second as she processes the woman’s words. She recovers quickly enough to make it look like she was deciding what dish to add to her plate next, but the words stick in her mind.

“Is that so?” she replies, adding more food to her plate. 

Kiana nods when Annie looks at her again. “You must be special, then,” she adds with a wide smile. 

“Well, I’m not gonna keep botherin’ you. It was nice meeting you.”

Annie watches for a moment as the woman leaves the kitchen, and at the same time, Imani walks in. She sighs, relaxing a bit as her friend walks up to her.

“Found you,” Imani says as she stops beside Annie. 

“You were lookin’?” Annie questions teasingly, making Imani smile.

“No,” she laughs. 

Annie gives Imani a knowing look when she hears the airiness of her friend’s tone.

“Girl…”

“What?”

Annie looks at her. The two of them stare at each other for a moment before Imani cracks a smile.

Annie smiles, then starts laughing. 

“Girl,” Annie says, making Imani laugh.

“I don’t know if it’s this punch, or what, but I’m gonna see where the night takes me,” Imani says with a smirk before leaving the kitchen.

Annie shakes her head as she grabs some utensils. She makes her way back to the entertainment room and sees Elijah still standing in the same spot, talking with some people. She makes her way back to where she was sitting before, catching his attention.

“You good? Got everything you wanted?” he asks, and Annie nods.

“Alright. I’ll be with Stack if you need me,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple.

At halftime, Annie lets Elijah know she’s stepping outside for some air.

Stack was sitting next to him, still ranting about Tyrese Haliburton tearing his Achilles in the first quarter, but he wasn’t paying him any attention.

“Nobody told you to bet all that fucking money on them niggas!” one of Stack’s friends says, and the two of them start arguing. Elijah checks his watch, seeing that it’d only been about 5 minutes since Annie went outside, but that was long enough for him to want to see her again.

He makes his way out to the patio, where Annie sits with a cup in one hand, scrolling on her phone.

She looks up when the door cracks open, smiling when she sees him.

“Hey,” she says warmly, making him smile softly as he steps out, closing the door behind himself.

“Just checkin’ on you,” he says, taking a seat next to her.

“I’m good,” she smiles. “Everybody’s been real nice. I got to talk to Sammie, too. I think I’ll be hiring him. I just wanted a moment of quiet after it all.”

Elijah hums softly, stretching his legs out and crossing them at his ankles. He rests his hands on his abdomen as he looks over at her.

“Yeah, I felt that. I can only take so much of Stack’s friends,” he says with a chuckle.

“I bet. It’s just a bunch of different versions of him sittin’ in one room,” Annie says, making Elijah laugh.

“Your friends, though, they’re nothin’ like you,” Annie says. 

Elijah raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. They real talkative. Not in an overwhelming way, though.”

Elijah nods softly.

“Yeah, I used to be a lot quieter overall when I was younger.”

Annie cocks her head to the side playfully, raising her eyebrows.

“How is that possible?” 

“It was easy with a brother like Elias. All he does is run his mouth.”

“Don’t I know it,” Annie quips, laughing softly.

Elijah shakes his head with a smile, looking out over the backyard.

“We were new in town, and our dad dyin’ was still weighing on me. Stack made friends easily, I didn’t,” he shrugs.

“That was until we met Kiana. She wouldn’t leave me alone, and now she’s like a sister.”

Annie smiles at that. “I met her in the kitchen earlier.”

Elijah’s head snaps in Annie’s direction, his eyebrows raised. 

“She ain’t say nothing crazy, did she?” he questions, a hint of panic in his voice.

“No,” Annie chuckles. “She just told me how long she’s known you. She was a little shocked that we haven’t known each other for that long.”

Elijah raises an eyebrow, sitting up.

“She say anything else?”

Annie swallows lightly, her shoulders stiffening, her eyes locking on his as she prepares for any reaction from him.

“Yeah. She said I must be special…that I’m the first girl you’ve brought around since Essence.”

Elijah’s shoulders stiffen. Annie notices the panic that flickers across his face, the way his mouth opens and closes, like he’s at a loss for words.

“Annie-”

“It’s fine, Elijah,” Annie cuts in before he can say anything.

“You had a life before me, it didn’t bother me. I won’t lie, though, it made me wonder why that is.”

Elijah looks at the ground as he gathers his thoughts. “Things ended badly between her and me,” he starts.

“We met in college, and dated for 5 years. After graduation, she stayed in Jackson, but she ain’t want to.” Elijah stands and walks to the edge of the patio, staring out into the yard.

“She couldn’t find her footing here, so she wanted to leave. I didn’t. My mama’s here, Elias is here. I promised myself I’d always be there for him when we were younger, and I’d already spent four years away from him,” he says with a gravelly voice, looking down.

Annie comes up beside him, snaking her arm around his. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat.

“Anyway, I guess she was sick of waiting for me to change my mind. She found a job out of state and told me she was leavin’, whether I came with her or not.”

Elijah glances down at Annie, seeing that she was looking out into the yard, a pensive look on her face. He nudges her slightly, making her look up at him. 

“I don’t want you thinkin’ I still feel some type of way about all that. It was over before it actually ended, looking back now. I was selfish then, and I let that guide how I moved.”

He grabs her hand, lacing their fingers and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I’ve spent the past few years focusing on work. I wasn’t looking for anything with anybody, until I met you,” he finishes, a soft smile ghosting his lips. 

Annie holds his gaze, searching his eyes for anything other than the sincerity that shines through them, smiling softly after a few moments.

“I’m glad us meeting has helped you slow down, then,” she tells him, her free hand coming up to rest on his cheek. 

“Me too. It’s been nice, not stressin’ myself out so much. Especially if it means I get to see you.”

Annie chuckles. 

“Mhm. In that case, I hope you’re not too busy on Wednesday evening. I’m makin’ Étouffée.”

Elijah leaves a few kisses on her lips.

 “I’ll be there, Sugar.”

A/N: Lolll, life been lifing and time has been speeding by, but we made it lmao. I hope you enjoyed!

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 hour 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 got 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.