growing pains

Smoke stood up without a word.

No announcement. No request.

Just the sound of his breath—deep and guttural—as he rose to full height.

Delphine blinked, still heaving, still pulsing between her thighs, body weak from the orgasm Stack had just wrung out of her. Her lips were parted. Her skin was glowing. Her eyes found Smoke, and something shifted in the air.

He was stroking himself now.

Slow. Silent. Purposeful.

That thick, curved dick glistened at the tip, heavy in his grip, veiny and flushed. The way it bent slightly to the left…Jesus.

It looked like it was made to ruin. Made to jump on. 

Delphine’s mouth opened wider—a breath, a whimper— but she didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to.

Smoke walked toward her, steps steady, thighs flexing with each one. His jaw was tight. His eyes locked on hers until she couldn’t look anymore. She looked down. Then back up. And when he reached her—still on her knees, still dazed—he moved her.

Gently, but with force. Like she belonged to him.

“Turn around,” he spoke, voice low like thunder in the bones.

She obeyed.

Hands on the floor, knees wide. She arched for him without thinking—deep. Like her hips knew what he needed. Her back curved until her spine sang. Her ass raised high, thighs parted, her pussy swollen and soaked, glistening in the lamplight. Behind her, Smoke exhaled like he’d been holding it for days. He dropped to his knees. Gripped both her cheeks in those twitchy, work-worn hands. Spread her apart just to look. Just to stare.

“Ain’t never seen nothin’ like this,” he whispered, “It’s too much. And I need every inch of it.”

His voice broke a little at the end.

Then—slowly—he pressed in.

It was thick.

Too thick.

That curved head stretched her open inch by inch, teasing the rim of her soaked entrance before sliding in slow. The stretch was a burn and a pulse—a deep, aching slide that pulled a strangled moan from her chest.

“Mmmmhhhnnn—oh fuuuuck—” she cried, nails scraping the floor.

The curve dragged against her front wall—just under her belly—lighting her up like a struck match. Every nerve ending screamed.

“It’s that curve,” she gasped, “Oh my fucking goddness—lawd—it’s hittin’—it’s hittin’ everythin’—”

Smoke didn’t say a word. Just grunted low—that quiet, dangerous sound—and slid in deeper.

Until his hips pressed flush against her ass.

She was hot. Tight. Wet.

He felt her clench around him the second he pushed in—her body trying to keep him out and in at the same time. He almost came right then.

“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead dropping to her back for one breath, “You feel like heaven, Delphine. Shit, woman…”

He gripped her hips like a young man about to lose control—thumbs digging into the dimples of her back, forearms flexing as he pulled out slow…then thrust back in hard.

The ripple of her ass broke him.

He watched it bounce with every stroke. Watched his thick ass dick disappear into her and come out dripping.

“I swear to God,” he muttered, “this pussy gon’ break me.”

Stack hadn’t moved. He was standing to the side now, hand wrapped around his dick, eyes locked on to Delphine’s creamy pussy.

“Look at you,” he said, voice thick with lust, “Pussy eatin’ him up already. You archin’ like it’s the only way to breathe.”

He stepped closer, watching Delphine’s pussy take every inch of his brother.

“You feel that, sugar?” he said, “This your fault. Bent up like a bitch in heat. Mouth open, droolin’, takin’ dick.”

Delphine moaned so loud it echoed.

Smoke’s thrusts got harder. Not faster. Just deeper. Meaner. Each stroke pulled a sob from her throat—not pain, but pleasure too deep to hold in. Her breasts bounced beneath her, sweat pooling between them. Her pussy was a mess—lips swollen, slick spilling down her thighs, creamy and loud.

“Keep talkin’, Stack,” she whimpered, “Make it nastier. I need to feel how filthy I look.”

“You a nasty bitch,” Stack growled, “couldn’t wait to have dick in your holes, huh?” 

Smoke slapped her ass once, hard, the sound cracked through the room. Then he gripped it again and fucked her through it.

Delphine screamed.

Smoke’s grip on her hips tightened, his dick buried to the hilt. The stretch had her trembling, gasping, eyes fluttering. But then,  he paused.

Just for a breath.

She felt his hand slide up her back—slow—until he took hold of her shoulder. His other hand stayed low, spread across her hip like it belonged there. Possessive. Controlling. Holding her open.

“Look at me,” he growled.

Delphine turned her head, her curls wild, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, and locked eyes with him over her shoulder.

His face was twisted in restraint. Sweat on his brow. Lips parted, chest rising like a man struggling to hold back the flood.

“You feelin’ what you made me do?” he whispered, “You feel this pussy tryin’ to keep me in?”

Before she could answer, Stack stepped in front of her.

His dick was thick, hard, long—still wet from her hand, glistening with precum. He stroked it slow and leaned down, brushing it against her lips.

“Mmm,” he smirked, “Feed that filthy mouth, baby.”

Delphine moaned, a hungry, grateful sound, and wrapped her lips around him. Smoke was still behind her, deep and pulsing. Stack in front, groaning as her mouth wrapped around his tip. Delphine? In the middle, owned, open, and completely alive. Smoke’s hand clutched her shoulder harder, and he started to move—slow and deep, pulling almost all the way out, then thrusting back in with a grunt.

“You gon’ make me lose it,” he growled, “Gon’ fuck you so good, you forget your fuckin’ name. Forget how to bake them cobblers.”

Delphine moaned around Stack’s dick, drool slipping from the corners of her mouth. She reached up, stroked him while she sucked, then pulled off with a wet pop, eyes blazing.

“Elijah…” she gasped, voice slurred with lust, “You feel that? That curve hittin’ my walls? Gon’ make me squirt all over your goddamn balls.”

Smoke’s eyes darkened. His thrusts grew harder.

“Yeah? You wanna soak me, baby?” he hissed.

“Uh huh,” she whined, still stroking Stack’s dick with one hand while her other braced the floor, “You keep fuckin’ me like that and I’ma lose it. You want that? Wanna see this pussy leak for you?”

Smoke leaned forward, his chest brushing her back, “Don’t threaten me with a good time now.”

She whimpered—the angle was too much, the pressure unbearable. Stack ran his thumb along her bottom lip and chuckled.

“She tryna talk shit with her mouth full of dick,” he muttered, watching the tears bead in her lashes.

“I love this nasty pussy,” Smoke growled against her ear, fucking her through it, “I own this pussy.”

Delphine locked eyes with him again. Nothing but want. Nothing but filth, “Then take it,” she begged, “Take it ‘til I drown you.”

Smoke did just that. Pounding her back in. 

And then, she came.

Her body seized, thighs shaking violently as she squirted with a cry that rattled the walls. Her pussy clenched around Smoke so tight he groaned loud, hips stuttering.

“Fuck—Delphine—”

He barely held it back.

Stack moaned, stroking himself faster, watching her fall apart between them. Smoke had just pulled out, his curved dick dripping, his chest rising hard. Delphine lay there on all fours, twitching, gasping, her thighs slick and shining. Her mouth was still parted, eyes glassy, pussy clenching around nothing as her orgasm echoed in the air.

And Stack?

Stack was starving.

“Fuck this.”

He moved in fast, scooping her up like she weighed nothing. Her body went limp in his arms, all jelly and heat and wrecked nerve endings. But when he laid her down on the mattress—her hair spread out, tits bouncing, thighs still glistening—she looked up at him and smirked.

That did it.

Stack climbed over her, grabbing her legs and spreading them wide—so wide her knees nearly hit her shoulders. He pinned her down with both hands behind her thighs, leaned in close with sweat shining down his chest, and lined himself up.

“Been waitin’ on this pussy,” he growled, “Too fuckin’ long.”

He pushed in.

The second his tip breached her, he saw stars.

“Fuuuuuuuck.”

It was hot.

Hotter than he imagined.

Wet like nothing he’d ever felt—that perfect glide, that velvet grip, that clench that pulled him in deeper than he thought was possible.

“You kiddin’ me?” he gasped, jaw tight, eyes rolling back, “This pussy got a heartbeat.”

He bottomed out slow, groaning so loud it shook the bedframe. Her walls fluttered around him, like her body didn’t know whether to take him or push him out.

“Goddamn, Miss lady…You just tight on this dick, huh?”

He didn’t give her time to speak.

Didn’t give her time to think.

He started pounding.

Rough. Deep. Rhythm locked like thunder in a storm. He drove into her like he’d been starving for her since the day they met—his hands locked behind her thighs, pressing her legs back until her knees framed her ears.

The mattress squealed.

Her ass bounced with every thrust.

His dick slapped wet into her like it belonged.

She couldn’t breathe.

The stretch was different this time—longer, deeper. Like his dick touched the very bottom of her stomach and stayed there. Her eyes flew open, back arching, breath punched right out her chest.

“STACK—! Oh my God—”

He was pounding her open like he had a point to prove— and he did.

That he could fuck her better.

That he could own her.

That this pussy would remember him.

She felt every vein, every drag, every merciless slam of his hips. And her walls? Already soaked from Elijah, they clung to Stack’s dick like they didn’t want him to leave. 

“Shit, shit, shit—baby you feel too good!” she cried, nails digging into his arms.

He leaned over her, still pounding, gritting his teeth through a grin, “Yeah? This what you wanted, huh? This what you need? Been playin’ ‘round to get it like this huh?”

He slapped her ass from underneath and rolled his hips just right—a grind and thrust combo that had her screaming.

“You think Elijah filled you up?” he taunted, sweat dripping onto her tits,  “I’ma leave you ruined.”

Her legs folded back, her breasts bouncing, her belly trembling. His hands on the backs of her thighs, holding her open like a man obsessed. Stack was cussing under his breath now, voice dropping into something filthy.

“Pussy grippin’ me like it’s begging me to keep fuckin’. You tryna milk my nut, baby? That it?”

Delphine could barely form words, “I—*oh God—*you hittin’ my—uhhhn!”

Her hands clawed at the sheets, mouth open, hips lifting to meet every thrust.

And Stack? He leaned down and whispered filth in her ear between gritted teeth.

“I’m gon’ nut so deep, you taste me when you swallow.”

Stack had her folded, laid flat on her back with her legs pushed damn near to her shoulders. His grip never wavered, hands locked behind her thighs like he was mounting a prize, using every muscle in his body to drive her through the mattress. He was deep—so fucking deep—that each thrust made her stomach jump, her moans hitched and breathless.

“You still takin’ it?” he muttered through gritted teeth, “Still lettin’ me ruin this pussy?”

Delphine couldn’t even speak. Just gasped, whined, clutched at the sheets. That’s when he looked up. Eyes catching the mirror at the side of the bed.

And goddamn…

Her legs were wide, her stomach trembling, her pussy stretched around every inch of his dick.

Tits bouncing. Lips parted.

His own reflection grinning down at her— sweaty, wild, completely unhinged.

“Look,” he panted, “Look at that.”

Delphine turned her head, and when she saw what he saw, she gasped.

Eyes wide. Lips parted in disbelief.

She looked back at Stack, then down at where they were joined, that long, veiny dick still pounding her like it hadn’t even started trying yet.

“I can’t believe you got that much dick,” she moaned, “Shit—how the fuck you fit all that in me?”

Stack grinned, sweat dripping off his brow, “You took it, sugar. Every inch. And you still squeezin’ me like you want more. Like a greedy bitch.” 

He slammed in deep—all the way to the hilt—hips grinding for that extra pressure.

“You want more?”

“Y-yeah—fuck—”

“Then say it.”

“Make me cum on that long dick, baby. Do it.”

Stack growled. That’s all he needed. He shifted his angle, pushed her thighs back further, and slammed into her like he had a mission. His hips snapped against hers fast, heavy, relentless, the sound of it echoing. Her pussy squelched around him, dripping down the curve of his balls.

“That’s it. Gimme that cum, baby. Fuckin’ gimme it.”

Delphine’s body arched, hands flying to his back, nails digging deep. Her mouth fell open—a scream caught in her throat.

“I’m c-cumming—oh my GOD—”

And then it happened.

Her back lifted clean off the bed, toes curling, thighs locked around him as her pussy clenched and pulsed— soaking his dick in another hot, messy release.

She screamed his name.

“Elias! Oh fuck—Elias, I’m fuckin’—”

He didn’t stop. Rode her through it like he was born in her body. Felt her squeeze and flutter and drip, and grinned down at her like a man possessed.

“Look at you,” he groaned, hips grinding, “Grown ass woman cummin’ like a virgin. Dick too much for you, huh?”

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Just laid there wrecked—chest heaving, mouth slack, eyes hazy. Delphine was laid out, legs open, body soaked and twitching. Her pussy still pulsed from the orgasm Stack had just pounded out of her—slick and shining, clenching around nothing now but aching for more. Stack pulled out slow, dick glistening with her cream, chest heaving like he’d just run through a battlefield.

And Smoke was standing at the foot of the bed.

Dick. Just. Throbbing.

Hung low but bouncing with tension—that slow, deep curve twitching, thick veins pulsing down the side. His balls were heavy and drawn close, his jaw tight, breath ragged like he couldn’t hold back much longer.

Delphine’s eyes dropped to it and moaned, barely able to lift her hand but she reached. Smoke climbed onto the bed without a word, moved between her thighs, and lined himself up again.

He pushed in slow.

Real slow.

Just to feel her again.

And God…she clenched the second his head slipped in.

Like her body recognized him.

Welcomed him back.

“Mmmf—” Smoke groaned, eyes fluttering shut, “She still tight…still warm…” He slid deeper, hands gripping her hips, “She still fuckin’ squeezin’ me like she ain’t just been filled.”

Each slow stroke pulled a fresh wet sound from between her thighs—her walls sucking him in, wetter now than ever, like her body was thanking him for coming back.From the side, Stack chuckled darkly, still standing at the edge of the bed, wiping sweat from his neck.

“Pussy good, ain’t it?” he said, voice slick with pride, “Like diggin’ for gold. Every stroke hit somethin’ precious.”

Smoke didn’t crack a smile,  just nodded, slow and grim, still thrusting deep and steady.

“It’s dangerous,” he muttered, “This pussy… make you lose your mind.”

Delphine moaned, head rolling on the pillow, “Y’all talkin’ like I’m not even here,” she slurred, smiling lazy, “But I am. And I love the way y’all talk about me.”

Stack moved closer, rubbing his cock slowly, still thick and twitching, “Course you do. You nasty,” he grinned, “You need to hear how good you been fuckin’ us.”

Delphine’s eyes locked on Smoke’s face.

He was trembling now—arms tight, eyes dark, thrusts shallower.

She reached up, cupped the back of his neck, and whispered, “You close, baby? You gon’ cum for me? Gon’ keep slow-fucking my pussy with that fat dick?” 

He didn’t answer, just groaned, rhythm faltering.

Stack stepped up, still stroking, “Hop out,” he said, voice low but urgent, “I need to feel her again. While she’s still warm and wrecked.”

Smoke hesitated—then pulled out slow, dick wet and twitching, already drooling at the tip. Stack climbed back in fast, turning Delphine to her stomach, lifting her hips.

Back arched. Ass up. Pussy still leaking.

He pushed in deep from behind and groaned loud—loud enough to echo.

“Shit…she feel even better now,” he hissed, “You fucked her open for me.”

He started to stroke—deep and dirty—while Delphine moaned into the sheets, her ass bouncing, her body surrendering again.

“Goddamn, baby,” he muttered, biting his lip,  “Pussy missed me.”

Delphine turned her head, hair wild, and grinned back at him, “It did, baby…it missed both y’all. But I want it now.”

They paused.

“What you want, sugar?” Stack asked, breathing hard.

She pushed up on her elbows, turned her head to look at both of them.

Eyes dark. Smile filthy.

“Stand up,” she said, “Both of you. I wanna see you stroke it. Want all that cum on me. My tits, my belly, my mouth—don’t care where. Just give it to me.”

Smoke moved first.

Stack followed.

They stood on either side of the bed, dicks wet and heavy in their fists, pumping hard, fast—desperate now. Delphine sat up on her knees, tits bouncing, mouth open, tongue out.

“Mmm. Lemme see what y’all been holdin’ back.”

They didn’t last long.

Smoke groaned deep—the sound he only made when he couldn’t fight it anymore—and his strokes got sloppy.

“Ohhh fuck—fuck—Delphine—”

Stack cursed, jaw tight, hand flying fast over his shaft.

“Here it come—shit—look at her, she want it—”

And then—

They both exploded.

Smoke first—thick spurts painting her chest, her shoulder, her collarbone.

Stack followed—long, hot ropes of cum across her tits, her stomach, the curve of her throat.

Delphine moaned, eyes fluttering, body jerking at the heat.

She rubbed it in.

Everywhere.

“Y’all done now?” she whispered, licking a drop from her bottom lip, “Or y’all still hungry?”

The room was thick with sweat and sex, the scent of cum still clinging to the sheets when Delphine stood up—slow and aching—her body glistening with everything they’d left on her.

Smoke reached for her waist.

Stack, for her arm.

But she shrugged them off gently, already sauntering toward the bathroom, hips swaying, thighs still trembling. She didn’t even glance back.

“Come on,” she said, “Y’all made the mess. You gone clean it.”

They followed.

The bathroom was dim—golden lamp light, warm tile underfoot. A clawfoot tub with old brass knobs. She turned it on herself, water sputtering to a soft, steady warmth.

“Get my soap,” she said, nodding toward the shelf, “The good one. Wrapped in gold foil. Smell like honey and cardamom.”

Smoke peeled it open. Stack reached for the matching oil. Both men moved like she’d cast a spell. Delphine stepped into the bath and exhaled, head tilted back, arms hanging limp at her sides.

“Neck first,” she said, “Use both hands.”

They obeyed.

Smoke’s hands cupped her shoulders, warm and wide, dragging slow suds down her collarbones. Stack pressed behind her, rubbing the lather into the nape of her neck, down to the slope of her spine.

She purred, “Mmm…just like that. Use your thumbs, baby. Don’t be scared of her.”

They worked down—arms, breasts, belly—slow, careful, delicate. Stack cupped her tits while Smoke rubbed circles into her hips. She lifted one leg and let Stack hold it up, foot braced on the edge of the tub while he lathered her calf, her thigh, the soft behind of her knee.

Then came the center of her.

Smoke knelt in front of her—that curved dick softening now but still heavy between his thighs—and cleaned her pussy like he’d never seen one before.

Gentle. Thorough. Respectful but filthy.

“Mmm,” she moaned, “That’s it, baby. Right between my lips. Clean all that mess y’all made.”

He ran the soap up her slit with two fingers, then rinsed it with his palm, massaging soft until her legs quivered again.

“Don’t forget between my cheeks,” she added, shifting slightly, “That’s my favorite part. So tender.”

Stack slid behind her and reached down, his big fingers spreading her open while Smoke stayed low, watching her pussy twitch under the heat.

“Delicate, now,” she whispered, “That spot too sensitive after a good fuckin’.”

They took their time. She let them. And when it was done, when the soap suds slithered down her curves, she grabbed Smoke by the chin and kissed him slow.

Deep. Wet. Dirty.

Then Stack, grabbing his jaw, tasting herself on his tongue. She dropped to her knees between them as the water dripped off her curves, arms stretched wide, mouth slightly parted.

“Rinse me.”

They took a bucket perched on the floor by the tub, slow and careful, and let the water cascade over her—her breasts, her thighs, her belly. She closed her eyes and let it fall, hips rocking gently under the spray, body glowing under their hands.

They were quiet for a long moment, just the sound of the water and their breathing.

Then Stack spoke, voice lower now, more serious, “Why he don’t fuck you like he should, Delphine?”

She didn’t look up. Just smoothed water over her thigh and answered softly, “He used to,” she said, “Used to love it. Every inch of me. Couldn’t keep his hands to himself.” She chuckled—bitter, fond, “Used to eat me on the porch swing. In the pantry. Said I tasted like sugar and sin.”

Stack’s brows raised. Smoke’s hands paused.

“But that changed,” she said, finally looking up, “Suddenly I was too much. Too hungry. Too wet. Too loud. Called me a Jezebel for wantin’ to suck his dick. Said no wife of his should ever touch herself.” She sat back on her heels, palms on her thighs, still glowing, “So I stopped askin’. Started waitin’. And when he gone…I feel most alive.” She smiled,  slow and filthy, “Roamin’ the house with nothin’ on. Sippin’ peach liqueur. Blowin’ smoke through the kitchen window. Playin’ with my pussy ‘til I can’t walk straight…then doin’ it all over again.”

Stack groaned, head tipping back, “Lord have mercy…”

“She gon’ be the end of us,” Smoke muttered, voice husky.

Stack steppped forward, dick hard again, still wet, “You hear what she just said? She playin’ in it like it’s a damn pastime,” he smirked, “Talkin’ ‘bout strollin’ the ranch naked, fingers deep, legs shakin’. Goddamn, woman.” He knelt, brushing her curls back, “You a whole miracle. You know that?”

Delphine looked at him, then at Smoke—who hadn’t said much, but was staring.

Eyes slow, lips parted, jaw tense.

He dragged his eyes over every inch of her.

“Say it,” she whispered.

He licked his lip, voice soft but raw, “You from another world.”

Smoke’s words still lingered in the air. 

“You from another world.”

And for a moment, everything went still. Then Delphine laughed—soft, low, like velvet sliding over heat.

Not mocking.

Knowing.

She rose from her knees in one fluid motion, water still dripping from her thighs, her hips swaying as she stood tall between them.

One hand planted on her wet hip.

Her eyes? Heavy-lidded, hungry, sultry as sin itself.

“Mm-mm. Look at y’all.”

She let her gaze travel down—from Smoke’s chest to his thighs, to where his dick still stood half-hard and glistening, twitching from the weight of her. She stepped forward, stood in front of him, chest nearly brushing his, lips parted just so. Then—slow as honey—she dragged a single finger down his chest.

From collarbone to navel.

Smoke’s abs clenched.

His dick jumped.

“Mmm,” she purred, “I like that you don’t talk much.” She looked up at him through thick lashes, voice syrupy and soaked in heat, “’Cause your dick do most of the talkin’ for you. And baby…I heard every word.” She stepped closer—licked her lips, slow and filthy— and let her voice drop to a whisper, “Can’t wait to feel that curve in my belly again. Rub my clit while you stretch me out and watch me squirt all over you.”

Smoke grunted. Couldn’t help it. His hand came down heavy on her ass. A full, greedy palm grabbing a handful of wet flesh.

“Shit,” he muttered, low and breathless.

But Delphine was already turning. One slow pivot. One sway of her hips. And she was facing Stack now who stood back against the sink, arms crossed, dick twitching again, that damn smirk tugging at his lips.

She stepped in close and ran her finger down his mouth.

“You talk big,” she whispered, “And you can back it up.” She leaned in, lips brushing his jaw, “But I plan on changin’ that.”

He chuckled—bold, amused, arrogant to the bone.

“You do, huh?”

Delphine just arched a brow. Then slid two fingers past his lips.

Slow. Deep.

“Suck.”

Stack froze. That smirk faltered.

For a second, just a breath, he hesitated, and that was all she needed to see.

Her smile bloomed like a sin.

Stack locked eyes with her, then wrapped his lips around her fingers—warm, obedient, tongue flicking over her knuckles. Delphine’s eyes sparked. Her laugh was low, delighted, dangerous.

“Mmm. That’s better.”

She pulled her fingers out, slick with spit. Turned and walked away from both of them—naked, dripping, radiant. Left them both standing there hard and humbled, watching her hips roll as she vanished down the hall like a storm that promised to come again.

Steam still lingered in the bathroom, clinging to the mirror and curling into the corners. The air smelled like cardamom, slick bodies and sex, all of it settling heavy in their lungs as silence stretched between the men.

Smoke moved first.

He grabbed a fresh towel off the rack and wrapped it around his waist—slow, methodical, like his bones had forgotten how to move. His skin glistened, dotted with trails of water and the ghost of her touch. He kept his eyes low as he tucked the towel in place, jaw locked, lips pressed tight.

Stack sucked his teeth, low and drawn-out, like something hot was still sitting on his tongue. He reached for a towel too, wrapping it around his waist. He didn’t move for a while, just stood there with his hands braced on the counter, staring down at the sink like he was waiting to see her reflection in the water.

Neither of them said a word. Not until Stack finally straightened and looked at his brother. His face was flushed. His lip still had the faintest shimmer from her fingers. He tapped the counter once with his knuckle, then let the question roll out slow.

“We in trouble?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

He looked at him, sure—just lifted those dark eyes, still thick with whatever storm was swirling inside—but said nothing. Not even a blink. Stack let out a dry breath, scrubbed a hand down his face, and shook his head hard like he was trying to knock the taste of her out of his mouth. He stepped toward the bathroom door, then cracked it open just enough to peek into the hall. She wasn’t there. But the scent of her still was. And somewhere down the hallway—muffled but unmistakable—he could hear her humming.

That sound slid right down his spine.

“Shit,” he whispered, glancing back at Smoke, “I don’t know how I’m ‘pose to keep tame when August get back.” He paused. Wet his lips. His voice was quieter now, more exposed, “She got me sprung.” He leaned against the doorframe and let the truth tumble loose, “Ain’t never had nothin’ like that. Pussy too good. Too wet. And she take it, man. Don’t flinch. Don’t run. Just look you dead in the eye while you fuck the breath out her.” He shook his head again, softer this time, “Gon’ have a good time on the Langston ranch.”

Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared. That look—blank and unreadable on the surface—masked something deeper. A slow boil. Something primal curling under the skin. He wasn’t as loud as his brother. Not as smooth or easy in the way he carried himself. But when he looked at Stack now, it was like he was trying to bury a growl behind his tongue.

He knew.

They both knew.

This wouldn’t be the last time.

Not with Delphine walking that house like she owned it. Not with her humming like that all carefree and half-naked in a room full of August’s clothes, wearing that dangerous smile behind closed doors.

Smoke didn’t just want her. He needed her.

He’d never tasted anything like her before. The way she came apart under him loud and soaked and arching into his mouth like she was born for it. He loved the way she rode the edge and fell off hard, the way her pussy gripped him like she wasn’t ready to let go. He could still feel it—that squeeze, that flutter, that slick mess she left all over his dick and his face. He didn’t even know a woman could cum like that. Could gush like that, shake like that, kiss like she was biting into something ripe and forbidden.

And the way she sucked him…

He swallowed hard, throat working slow.

She’d knelt in front of him like she had a point to prove. Hands steady, lips wet, tongue wrapping around his dick like it was the last thing she’d ever taste. Sucked him like it fed her. Like he was sweet and thick and worth the jaw ache. He’d felt her tongue talk to it. Swirling, flattening, pulling, lips sealing tight. He’d damn near blacked out. Stack was still muttering something, but Smoke wasn’t hearing it anymore.

His fingers flexed at his sides.

He turned without a word and walked out, the towel knotted low on his hips, leaving damp prints on the hardwood behind him.

The hallway was dim, but her room was lit. A crack of gold beneath her door. And there it was—her hum.

Low. Sweet. Aimless.

The kind of sound you made when you were soft with yourself and sore in all the right places. That sound made his dick twitch again. Hard. Slow. Demanding. He exhaled, jaw tight. Somewhere behind him, Stack laughed to himself. A quiet, breathy thing that sounded part curse, part praise as the bathroom door clicked shut.

Smoke didn’t laugh.

He stood there for a long second, pulse thudding behind his dick, that ache crawling up the back of his neck.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t say her name.

Just closed his eyes and listened.

The clink of a pot lid settling into place was the only sound for a moment, until the needle dropped on the old blues record spinning in the corner. That low warble of guitar and heartbreak slid through the kitchen like a lazy tongue—thick, slow, and a little nasty. Delphine adjusted the stove flame, then leaned back, hip cocked, and took a long pull from the slim cigarillo pinched between her fingers.

The smoke curled up soft as silk.

Dinner was easy tonight, just warming up the stewed chicken and rice from yesterday, plus a mess of buttered string beans in the skillet. She wasn’t really hungry for food. Not yet. Something else had her stirred up. She swayed a little in front of the stove, letting the heat touch her thighs. She was barefoot. Skin dewy. A fresh layer of oil slicking her calves and the backs of her knees. She’d just bathed. Let those boys rinse her down like she was their damn dessert. And now?

Now she felt like the house itself was humming in time with her.

She wore nothing under the robe.

Apricot satin, tied tight just beneath her breasts, the fabric tugged against the outline of her body, clinging to her hips, showing the soft swell of her ass every time she turned. Her breasts jiggled with every step. Every sway. And sway she did—hips rocking in rhythm to the scratchy croon of the record, her body dancing without her even meaning to. She’d pinned her hair up in loose curls, soft tendrils falling near her temples. The lipstick was unnecessary. It was a deep, wet red, bright against her skin but she’d applied it anyway. For herself. For how it made her feel. She lit another match, sparked her smoke again, and smiled as the flame caught. The back door was cracked open, letting the country night air whisper through the screen. It was muggy and still, but the breeze touched her thighs like a lover. Cicadas sang in the dark, their hum mingling with the blues and the scent of simmering garlic and herb.

And she? She was glowing.

She twirled once in the middle of the kitchen, ass bouncing beneath the robe, tits moving soft and full, cigarillo balanced between her lips like something sacred.

“Mmm,” she purred to herself, dragging a hand down the front of her robe, pausing just beneath her breast, “Ain’t felt like this in a long damn time.”

She was prepping for her girls’ lunch the next day, jars of peach liquor she’d been experimenting with lined up on the sideboard, each tinted with something different. Hibiscus in one. Mint in another. A touch of cinnamon bark in the last. All of it smelled sweet and dangerous, like her. They’d come by noon tomorrow. The girls. The real ones. The ones she trusted enough to drink and gossip with. Not the bitter hens from town who clutched their pearls and whispered behind fans. No, these were women who knew how to laugh with their mouths open and didn’t flinch at the word “dick.” Women who liked their food seasoned and their men obedient.

Delphine dipped her finger in one of the jars, tasted it off her tongue, and grinned. It wasn’t just the drink. Wasn’t just the music or the breeze or the way her skin still tingled.

It was them.

The twins.

“Mmm…”

She turned slow, hips still moving, and leaned back against the counter.

She could still feel them.

Smoke, quiet and serious, fucking her like her body had instructions etched beneath the skin. That thick curve dragging against her belly, those rough hands pulling her apart just to look at her. The way he grunted low when she squeezed him just right. The way he went still when she sucked his dick like he was floating outside of time.

And Stack…

Lord.

The way he talked while he fucked her, lips right by her ear, saying things she wasn’t supposed to like but damn sure did. The way he filled her—all the way—and laughed when she gasped. How he held her legs back and fucked her deep like he had all the time in the world and not a drop of mercy to give.

She had sucked them both like she’d been starved. Let them use her mouth. Let them use her everywhere.

And the part that really did it?

The sneaking.

The thrill of August not knowing. The rush of knowing he’d never touched her like that. Never made her squirt. Never made her laugh while she came. Never had her creamin’ like that, wrung out and grinning with her legs in the air.

But these two young bucks?

They had her lit.

She could fuck.

She could suck.

She could get her pussy ate until she forgot her name.

And best of all?

She could do it again.

Whenever she wanted.

“Mmm…lawd have mercy,” she whispered, dragging a hand down her breast, rubbing slow.

She bit her lip, smiling at the feel of her own fingers, thighs clenching beneath the satin. She rolled her hips against the counter, eyes half-closed. The cigarillo sat between her fingers, burning slow. Behind her, the pot hissed as it came to a soft boil. And in the living room, the record spun on. A woman’s voice howling about men who leave and come back

just to taste the same sweetness twice.

The satin robe hugged her deep and soft, cinched at the waist, still clinging damp to her thighs in places she hadn’t bothered to pat dry.

She didn’t have to say it twice.

“Boys! Come on down. Supper’s ready.”

She heard movement upstairs, slow footsteps, the creak of floorboards, low voices and laughter that she’d bet had something to do with her. She smiled into the pot, then turned and walked toward the table, smoke trailing behind her like perfume. They appeared a moment later, both shirtless, both in soft cotton sleep pants that hung low on their hips. Skin still flushed from their wash. Muscles relaxed but ready. Eyes heavy, slow-moving. Stack wore a lazy grin; Smoke didn’t grin at all, just let his gaze slide over her before taking the seat she pointed to with a flick of her wrist.

“Clothes from the bunkhouse still hangin’ on the line,” she said casually, walking past them, “Y’all sleepin’ in the guest rooms again tonight. Try not to snore.”

That made Stack smirk again. Smoke just nodded. She busied herself at the counter, slicing cornbread, plating the warm leftovers, pouring two tall glasses of her new peach blend over ice. It wasn’t strong enough to knock a man over, but it’d keep him honest. Just sweet enough to make his mouth water for more. She carried it all to the table.

“Eat,” she said, voice low and syrupy, “And help yourselves to some of that rolled-up herb by the jar. I don’t mind.”

They did.

Smoke leaned back first, striking a match and lighting up slow, drawing from the hand-rolled joint with his eyes half-closed. Stack followed, puffing with ease, the room filling quick with the earthy scent. Delphine sat across from them. Not eating. Just watching.One leg crossed over the other. One arm draped over the chair. Her robe had shifted just enough to hint at what she wasn’t wearing underneath. She smoked and watched them chew,  slow, appreciative bites, like men who’d been fed twice in one night.

“Y’all eatin’ like I ain’t just had you both between my thighs less than two hours ago.”

Stack grinned wide, mouth full, “Worked up a second appetite.”

Delphine took another drag and let the smoke roll from her lips, “I got a question.”

Both men looked up.

She met their eyes, one at a time, voice low and deliberate.

“Where y’all learn to eat pussy like that?”

Stack chuckled, didn’t miss a beat, “Girl back in Pine Bluff used to pull me behind the juke on Saturdays. She’d let me play in it but said I couldn’t fuck ‘til I learned how to treat it with my mouth first.” He puffed his joint and shrugged, “I listened. Practiced. Learned what made her shake. Started likin’ the taste. Got good at it.”

Delphine raised her brows, impressed, “Mmm. I believe it. You eat pussy like you tryna ruin it.”

Stack smirked, “That’s the goal.”

Then her eyes drifted to Smoke. He’d gone quiet again. Drawing slow from the smoke. Elbow resting on the table, jaw tight like he was weighing whether to speak.

She waited.

“What about you, baby?” she asked, a curl in her voice, “Where you learn to use that tongue?”

He blinked once. Dragged from his smoke. Then, “Only tried once,” he said, “Back in Chicago. Years ago.”

Stack raised a brow.

Delphine tilted her head, “And?”

Smoke exhaled through his nose, “Didn’t like it.”

Delphine’s lips curled, teasing,  “You? With that mouth?”

“She ain’t taste right,” he said simply, “Ain’t smell right either.”

That made Stack bark a laugh. Delphine laughed too—a deep, sexy little sound—her head tipping back.

“Ooh, you nasty.”

Smoke didn’t laugh. He looked at her, eyes low, the joint resting between his fingers.

“You different.”

Her smile softened just a little.

“Yeah?”

“You made me want it,” he said, voice quiet but tight, “Made me need it.” His eyes stayed on hers. Fixed. Steady, “I wanted to taste you so bad it ached.”

Everything stopped.

The air. The music. The sound of chewing. Even the smoke seemed to hang mid-air. Delphine’s fingers froze on her glass. Her breath caught, sharp in her throat, and for a moment she swore her heart skipped just a little.

She didn’t blink.

Just stared at him, lips slightly parted, thighs twitching under the table. Stack looked between them both, a slow grin forming like he felt the shift in the room.

But Smoke just kept looking at her like he already knew what she was thinking.

Delphine leaned forward in her chair, letting the robe part just enough to tease the swell of her cleavage. She set her elbow on the table, her wrist dangling, the cigarillo glowing between her fingers.

Her voice dropped low, “Y’all know I stay busy around this ranch, right?”

Stack looked up, curious. Smoke didn’t move,  just watched her, eyes heavy, jaw tight, dick already twitching beneath the table again.

“I’m always doin’ somethin’,” she said, slow and syrupy, “In the garden. Out with the chickens. Cleanin’ this big old house up. Sweepin’ the veranda, hangin’ sheets to dry. Cookin’ hot meals. Bakin’ all kinds of shit for them church women that don’t even like me.” She took a slow drag, eyes locked on Smoke, her lips barely parting as she exhaled, “Sometimes I brush the horses. Sometimes I milk the cows.” She smiled. Not sweet — but slick. Dangerous, “And baby, I get to sweatin’.”

Stack leaned back, already smirking. Smoke’s lips parted just enough to breathe.

“Sweat just poolin’ down my back,” she drawled, “Drippin’ right between my titties…”

She reached up with her free hand and dragged a finger slowly between the soft mounds of her breasts, trailing it all the way down to the tie of her robe.

“Down the back of my thighs. Curlin’ behind my knees.” She tilted her head and her smile got filthier, “And you know where else it drip to?” She spread her legs a little under the table — not wide, just enough to send a signal, “Right on the pussy.”

Stack let out a low whistle, sat back in his chair, and shook his head. But Delphine was watching Smoke. He hadn’t blinked. Not once. His tongue peeked out, wetting his bottom lip slow like it moved on its own. His mouth looked fuller. Like the words she just poured out had filled him. Like she’d already fed him again without ever lifting a fork.

“Hot like this in the Delta?” she continued, voice dropping another notch, “It gets sticky. Mucky. I be walkin’ round this house with a wet spot in my drawers and ain’t nobody to eat it.” She paused, flicking ash from her cigarillo, “So tell me, baby.” Her eyes didn’t move from his face.Her voice went quiet. Real quiet. But still thick, “What you think I taste like then?”

Smoke shifted. Unconsciously. His thighs tensed beneath the table, and his hands curled into fists like he didn’t know what else to do with them. His lips parted, tongue sliding along the inside like he was trying to chase the idea.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Delphine just chuckled low, “That gal you had in Chicago must’ve had one of them city rats crawl up and die in her. But down here?” She leaned in further—right up on him—her voice close enough to lick, “Down in the dirty Delta…this pussy got the right amount of funk to make your dick salute.”

And with that, she stroked his thigh under the table—just once—with her nails light and slow.

Smoke grunted.

Stack choked on his drink, laughing, eyes wide, “Goddamn, woman…”

But Delphine was already rising.

She took her time standing, smoothing her robe over her hips, twisting the knot a little tighter just to tease. She walked back to the kitchen, hips rolling, the sway enough to make a man’s jaw ache.

Over her shoulder, she spoke without looking, “I’ll be up late. Gotta prep for my girls’ lunch tomorrow.” She opened a cupboard, pulled down another glass, casually rinsed it, “I’ll need y’all’s help servin’. Be on your best behavior.” She glanced back, lips parted in a wicked little grin, “So get some rest. And dream about it.”

Then she turned the faucet off, lit another match, and disappeared into the pantry like nothing had just happened.

Later, the guest room was dark except for the faint silver of moonlight spilling through the thin curtains. Smoke lay on his back, one arm under his head, the other draped over his stomach. The sheets were twisted around his legs, sticky with heat, and no matter how many times he shifted, he couldn’t get comfortable.

Sleep wouldn’t come.

His body was restless. His mind louder than the cicadas outside.

Delphine’s laugh.

Delphine’s mouth.

Delphine’s taste.

Every time he shut his eyes, he was back between her thighs, his tongue deep, her thighs shaking around his ears while she told him exactly what he was doing to her. He groaned under his breath and flipped onto his side.

Still nothing.

The house creaked softly. It was late, damn near two in the morning, and everything should’ve been still.

But then he heard it. A soft shuffle of bare feet in the hallway. Smoke sat up slow, listening. The sound was gentle, almost playful. Low voices. A woman’s breathy laugh—restrained, but still warm.

Delphine.

He moved without thinking. Silent. Careful. He cracked the door open just an inch. Enough to see the two figures at the end of the hall standing near her room, shadows cast by the dim lamp near the stairs. Stack had one hand braced on the wall above her, the other lightly touching her waist as he leaned in close. Whispering something that made Delphine tilt her head back a little, her smile soft and wicked in the low light.

She touched his shoulder.

Stack dipped his head, whispering more, his mouth damn near touching her ear. She laughed, that low, gorgeous laugh she only let out when she was in her element, then took him by the hand. And together, quiet as thieves, they disappeared into her room.

Smoke’s jaw clenched. His chest tightened in a way he didn’t want to name. He shut his door. Harder than he meant to. He leaned on it, eyes closed, breathing slow but the ache didn’t leave. It didn’t settle. It only got heavier, spreading down his stomach, tightening in his groin.

Her words from dinner swarmed him.

“Sweat drippin’ right between my titties…down my back…right on the pussy.”

His breath caught.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. His dick was already hard, stiff and throbbing like a man knocking against a locked door. He tried to think about something else. Anything else. But all he could see was Delphine on her back, thighs open, that pretty curl of her smile right before she told him she wanted to feel his curve in her belly again. All he could smell was her—that humid, sweet funk of a woman who works outside under the Delta sun and sweats in secret places.

God…

He wanted that smell.

Needed it.

More than he needed sugar. More than he needed breathing space. If he could live with his face between her legs, he would. Happily. Quietly. Forever. His fingers curled in the sheets. Now he needed something.

A fix.

A hit.

Something to hold onto. Something to bury his face in so he wouldn’t go insane hearing Stack in her room.

Her drawers.

Just the thought of them made him shudder. Would they be damp at the gusset after a long day? Would the fabric cling to her? Cotton, probably. Or silk. Something soft. Something that held sweat real well. Would they smell like peaches and salt and the heat under her folds? Would the crotch be dried creamy some days? Sticky others?

He swallowed hard.

His dick throbbed.

He imagined holding them in his fist, the fabric cool at first, then warm, imagined lifting them to his face and inhaling until his eyes rolled back. He imagined sucking the crotch. Letting it sit on his tongue like something sweet and forbidden, just to get a taste when she wasn’t near. He hissed through his teeth, lifting one knee, trying to ease the pressure but making it worse. He was harder than a baseball bat now.

He wanted to get up.

Wanted to go down that hall and pick up any piece of clothing she’d left behind.

Wanted to—

No.

He forced himself back down onto the bed, lying flat, staring at the ceiling. He dragged a hard breath in through his nose and exhaled slow, trying to settle the pulse between his legs.

It didn’t help.

But exhaustion was creeping up around the edges, heavy and grinding. Eventually, after a long stretch of listening to his own ragged breathing, he shut his eyes. Sleep took him rough and sudden. And even then, Delphine was still there. In every corner of his dreams.

Every breath.

Every ache.

The weather broke just enough to be merciful.

The Delta sun had been ruthless all week, but by late morning the breeze picked up—soft and warm, rustling through the wide leaves of the magnolia trees and stirring the scent of honeysuckle from the edges of the garden. The sky was open and high, that pale blue that promised heat but held back the worst of it. Delphine had set the table beneath a shaded stretch of her backyard, an open space framed by the curve of the veranda on one side and the garden rows on the other. The cloth was linen, pressed clean. The dishes were mismatched on purpose, chipped florals and gold-rimmed heirlooms that made it look effortless, not fussy. She’d arranged vases of peach blossoms and rosemary. She knew the scent would carry. She wanted it to. There were pitchers of her special peach liquor chilling in carved glass, sweating gently in the heat.

And Delphine looked like the day had been made for her.

She wore a fitted sundress the color of a pale citrus peel—soft and golden, like the moment right before dusk. The neckline dipped just enough to tempt and tease, the bodice cinched her waist tight, and the hem flirted with the tops of her knees when she moved. Over it she tied a half-apron, crisp and white, trimmed with embroidery. Her diamond studs sparkled at her ears. A thin gold chain glinted at her neck. Her lipstick—candy-apple red, wet and intentional—matched the shine on her fingernails. Her hair was pinned up in swooping curls, not a single one out of place, even in the heat.

And those heels? Nude patent leather. Low enough to stay elegant. High enough to make her ass sit up like a promise.

She was, in short, a vision.

All smiles, all Southern belle—all magnolia and menace.

They came one by one, like the beginning of a slow-moving storm—each woman sharp in her own way, eyes shaded beneath hats or lashes, smelling faintly of powder and purpose.

Mrs. Josephine Clay arrived first, as she always did, fan already in motion, hat wide, perfume thick with gardenia. She was slim-shouldered and tall, with dark skin and a high voice that stretched vowels like molasses. Her dresses were always silk, always floral, and always clinging somewhere they shouldn’t. She ran the best millinery shop in town and knew everything worth knowing. But when Delphine spoke, Josephine only nodded, fanned slow, and filed it away.

Birdie Franklin followed next, hobbling a bit, but fast with her mouth. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight knot and wrapped in a pink scarf. She wore a navy dress with her measuring tape draped like a stole and shoes she’d worn for decades. Her fingers were long and knotted, but strong enough to whip fabric into miracles. Birdie had known Delphine back when she was Delphine from Mobile, and not just Mrs. Langston. That meant something.

Eunice Carter came last, quiet as ever. The town librarian wore lavender linen and thin-rimmed spectacles. She carried a lemon pie in one hand and a novel tucked under the other, hidden in the folds of her clutch. Her eyes missed nothing. Her voice rarely rose. But when she leaned in to whisper, the whole table listened. Delphine trusted her more than most.

They hugged Delphine. Complimented her dress. Made soft remarks about the roses, the liquor, the color of the linens.

And then the men arrived.

Elijah and Elias were in uniform. 

Delphine had pulled them aside that morning before the sun had fully risen.

“I want you pressed and clean,” she said, “No foolin’. Best slacks. Button-down shirts. No undershirts showin’. And I’m givin’ you these.”

She’d dug through August’s old things.

Found two bow ties.

Red for Elias.

Blue for Elijah.

She tied them herself.

“You here, you my men. You represent me,” she said, “You help. Act like it.”

And they had.

Now they stood just off to the side, fresh-faced and proper, sleeves rolled, shirt collars stiff, bow ties neat. Stack—Elias—grinned like he couldn’t help himself, even while holding a tray. Smoke—Elijah—stood quieter, eyes scanning, body loose but ready. He held a pitcher of liquor like he was guarding something precious.

Delphine clapped her hands once.

“Ladies, these are the Moore boys. Elijah and Elias. They’ll be helpin’ serve this afternoon. Ain’t they handsome?”

The women turned in unison. Eyes dragged down both men.

Birdie’s brow lifted, “Mm. Which one’s which?”

Delphine smirked, taking a long sip from her glass, “Can’t you tell?”

Josephine chuckled behind her fan,  “I can now.”

Eunice glanced once, twice, then smiled without showing her teeth. “Their father, Adam, was a fine man too. Troubled…but fine.”

The meal was light, summer fare. Smoked catfish salad. Pickled okra. Delphine’s pimento cheese deviled eggs. Peach cobbler baked that morning, already cut and cooling on the sideboard. The women sipped. The liquor was warm and strong, and the conversation flowed. Smoke and Stack moved between them, pouring drinks, fetching napkins, leaning in close when asked.

They stayed quiet—but they listened.

They caught names of women in town who’d spoken ill of Delphine. Heard whispers about who was still bitter from last year’s contest. And when they had a chance, they murmured it low in her ear:

“Mrs. Addison said you bought your prize cake last year.”

“Fanny Jenkins still mad about the chess pie. Said the judges must’ve been drunk.”

Delphine just smiled.

“Let her be mad,” she said, licking her fork slow, “I’d be mad too if I came in fourth place with a dry-ass sponge cake.”

The women turned the talk toward this year’s Delta Sweet Tooth Jubilee.

“You enterin’, Delphine?” Eunice asked softly.

Delphine raised her brows, took a long sip of her drink, “Might.”

Josephine leaned in, “We all know you gon’ win.”

“Unless I decide not to.”

They knew she would.

She always did—except the one time she “accidentally” submitted the wrong cake.

Her specialties were legend:

Brown butter praline cake with crackled sugar edges.

Blackberry jam layer cake with whipped bourbon cream.

Sweet potato chess pie with a caramel swirl so rich, one judge proposed marriage.

But while all this was happening…

Delphine made a show of picking up forks slow. Bending low across the table to pass dishes. Swaying her hips just enough when walking back to the kitchen. She’d lock eyes with Smoke across the yard, tongue flicking out to taste a bit of cobbler with a hum. She’d press a hand to Stack’s forearm when passing a glass, her thumb stroking just once before letting go.

They were serving but she was feasting.

And they knew it.

The sun had dipped just enough to cast long, warm shadows across the back lawn. The last of the peach liquor glimmered in half-empty glasses, and the ladies’ laughter had softened to lazy murmurs as they readied themselves to leave. In the kitchen, the twins worked silently, their sleeves rolled, fingers rinsing fine china in sudsy water while the radio hummed low from the corner. The screen door creaked open and shut as dishes were passed in, the scent of cobbler and heat still lingering in the air.

Stack leaned against the counter, towel in hand, his bow tie slightly loosened but still knotted. He looked easy. Content.

Smoke stood beside him, jaw flexing. Tense. Quiet.

He didn’t look at him when he spoke.

“What if I came down to her room last night?”

Stack turned his head, wiping a dish dry, “You didn’t.”

“But what if I did?”

Stack shrugged, casual, “Then you’d have seen what I seen.” He set the plate down and looked Smoke full in the face, grin pulling at the corner of his mouth, “She couldn’t sleep. Neither could I. So she sucked my dick to help me settle down.” He said it smooth, like he was telling him about a nice dream. Like it wasn’t real. Like it didn’t matter, “Mouth soft, slow…Had me knockin’ out like a baby soon as I got back to bed.”

Smoke didn’t respond. Just stood there, stiff, arms flexed at his sides.Then he turned, not saying a word, and walked out the back door.

Out front, the women were gathering their fans and clutch bags, straightening hats and offering soft thank-yous. Delphine glided down the porch steps like it was a stage, one hand on her hip, her heels barely making a sound in the gravel.

The twins stepped out to see them off, Elijah still tight, Elias still smiling.

“Thank you, Elijah,” Eunice said, with a knowing little nod.

“And you too, Elias,” Josephine added, eyes not-so-subtly dipping to Stack’s forearms. “Ya’lls mama did something right.”

Birdie leaned in close to Delphine, “Lord, if I was twenty years younger, I’d snatch one of them up and not look back.”

Delphine laughed, kissed her on the cheek, “Girl, if I was ten years older, I’d still keep ‘em both.”

The women howled. Then slowly, finally, they loaded into the car, the engine coughing to life as they rolled down the gravel path, still laughing, waving through the open windows.

When the car turned out of sight, Delphine turned on her heel. Walked slow. Hips moving just a touch more than necessary. She stepped right up to them, lips still red and glistening, eyes low.

No words.

Just hands.

She reached down and stroked each of them—one hand on Smoke, the other on Stack—right through the fabric of their slacks. Soft. Firm. Claiming. Her touch was discreet, but the pressure was not.

Stack bit his lip, eyes fluttering. He looked down at her hand like it was a miracle.

Smoke closed his eyes. Grunted. Low and quiet.

Delphine’s smile widened, slow and satisfied, “Y’all served just right.”

She pulled back, smoothed her dress, and was already turning away when—

They heard it.

A car.

Another engine.

Slower. Closer. Familiar.

Delphine paused. Her smile dropped. The silk of her posture went still. She stepped toward the road, eyes narrowing through the shade trees. A black touring car. Dust curling up behind it. It rolled into view, slow and deliberate.

Delphine stood at the edge of the yard, hand on her hip, eyes fixed on the curve in the road.

She felt it before she saw it.

A soft hum at first. Then a slow roll of dust. Then the black touring car, steady and deliberate, pulling up the long gravel drive like it had every right to. Smoke and Stack were just inside the screen door, towels thrown over their shoulders, sleeves rolled up from clearing the table.

They froze when they saw it too.

Delphine didn’t flinch.

August’s car.

He was home.

Early.

She just smoothed the front of her dress, straightened her apron, and waited.

“Shit,” Stack muttered, already tugging his red bow tie loose, “Ain’t he early?”

“Take it off,” Smoke said, low.

They both yanked their bow ties off quick, stuffing them into their pockets.

The car came to a stop. The engine cut. And the door opened.

August Langston stepped out.

He unfolded from the driver’s seat like the whole car had been built around him—tall, heavy in the shoulders, sun-browned, wearing a work shirt rolled at the elbows, suspenders stretched tight over his frame, dark trousers dusted at the hem. His boots hit the gravel with a solid thud. Shined. Heavy. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his brow, but not his stare.

That stare lingered. On the twins. August squinted a little, eyes sharp beneath the brim.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked.

Stack gave a small nod, “Afternoon, Mr. Langston.”

Smoke echoed it, “Sir.”

August’s gaze didn’t shift.

Then he nodded once, quiet.

Delphine moved toward him, that soft, polished smile stretched across her lips, “You back early.”

“Had business in Greenwood cut short.”

She leaned up, arms lightly grazing his shoulders, lips puckered for a kiss. But his hand came up. Thumb pressing against her mouth. Wiping. When he pulled back, it was streaked red.

He frowned, “What you doin’ wearin’ the shade of a street walker?”

Delphine blinked. Pulled back just slightly, “August, it’s just lipstick.”

His eyes drifted down.

Saw the red nails. The matching toes peeking out of her heels.

His voice stayed low, “And the polish too?”

She rolled her eyes, smiling again but not soft this time, “It’s paint, baby. I ain’t settin’ no traps with it. It’s just hot, and I felt like bein’ pretty.”

He looked past her for a second, toward the garden, toward the porch.

Toward the twins.

“How things been around here?”

“Just fine,” she said, “The boys been helpin’ out. Keepin’ things sharp.”

Stack smirked, couldn’t help himself, “Oh we been helpin’ alright.”

Smoke nudged him hard in the ribs.

August looked at them again. Longer this time. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. That silence sat heavy. Suspicious or not, it lingered.

Then he turned.

Walked up the steps, past them, boots echoing on the wood. Delphine stayed at the bottom, eyes flicking between her husband’s back and the two men who’d just served her friends tea and dessert with bow ties around their necks and her hands on their thighs.

Inside, they heard the tap of glass against the sink.

Water running.

August’s voice carried, “I’m headin’ into town. Need to pick up some feed and get the oil checked on the truck.” A pause. Then, “Y’all come with me.”

Smoke and Stack glanced at each other.

Delphine didn’t say a word.

She just tilted her head slightly and let the screen door slam softly shut behind her.

The sun sat like a brand over Clarksdale, pressing down hard on the rooftops and wooden porches of the town, making the dirt roads hiss with heat. It was the kind of afternoon where sweat clung beneath collars, where shirts stuck to backs like second skin, and even the flies moved slower, drunk off the Delta humidity.

The town was split clear down the middle, as most Southern towns were under Jim Crow. One end boasted white storefronts with polished windows, red-white-and-blue bunting strung up like pride banners, and wide walkways the patrolmen liked to stroll two at a time. Suits and parasols crowded the sidewalks there. White women fanned themselves while white men smoked cigars and talked politics, banking, or cotton futures.

But the other side—the Black side—was alive.

It was tighter, louder, dustier. Wooden storefronts lined the road, some sagging with age but full of heart. Signs painted by hand, creaking ceiling fans above doorways, and the sharp perfume of hot grease, tamales, and smoked meat drifting from the food stands near the corner of Jefferson and Willow. Babies hollered. Radios buzzed out scratchy blues songs. Someone was always laughing or hollering down the street, and somebody else always watching, making sure nothing got out of hand. Even joy had to be watched under white law.

That was where August Langston’s old black Ford rolled in, the engine coughing through the heat like it needed a drink. Smoke sat shotgun, long legs stretched and arms folded. Stack was in the back, one boot propped up, fingers drumming on his knee. August drove like he always did, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, jaw set, eyes half-squinting against the glare.

“I’m gon’ get the oil checked over at Pete’s,” August said as he pulled over, “You two handle the feed over at Chow’s. Tell Bo I need three sacks of the sweet grain and one cracked corn.”

“Yes, sir,” Stack answered, swinging the door open before the truck even settled.

Smoke just nodded, hopping out the other side, the heel of his boot crunching into sunbaked gravel. They crossed the street, cutting through the bustle and dust of Clarksdale’s Black quarter. The air was thick with sweat and smoke, church gossip and bootleg liquor, catfish bones and collard greens. A woman near the corner was selling homemade hot tamales from a tin cart, wrapped in corn husks and stacked in cloth-lined boxes. They steamed in the heat, spicy and rich, one of the few meals folks could buy cheap and fill their belly with.

“Damn,” Stack muttered, licking his lips, “Ain’t nothin’ like Clarksdale tamales.”

A group of white officers passed at the edge of the road, swinging their clubs a little too loose, looking at everything like it belonged to them. The Black folks quieted slightly—just long enough for the men to pass—then picked up again, the rhythm only slightly disturbed. That was the way of things. Keep your head down when they walked by, then lift it back up once they gone.

Bo Chow’s store sat halfway down the block, shaded by an overhang strung with bells and wind chimes that jingled softly in the breeze. The sign above the door read: CHOW’S FAMILY MARKET–Established 1901—the paint faded but proud. Inside, it smelled like spices, oiled wood, and fresh produce. Bo Chow stood behind the counter, laughing with Cornbread, who leaned against a stack of flour sacks, his massive arms folded, grinning wide like he ain’t had a worry in weeks.

Bo looked up first.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said with a grin, stepping out from behind the counter, “Look who finally crawled back from the sticks.”

Smoke smiled and stepped in for a handshake, “Bo.”

“Smoke,” Bo nodded, then looked at Stack, “You still ugly, Elias.”

Stack laughed, “Still prettier than you, Chow.”

Cornbread let out a wheeze of laughter, slapping his knee, “These boys done brought trouble with ‘em, I can smell it.”

Bo clasped Smoke’s hand tight. He was shorter than the twins by a few inches, with glossy black hair slicked back, and a fitted vest over his rolled sleeves. His jaw was sharp, eyes steady, the kind of calm man folks came to trust with both their groceries and their secrets.

“You know, my mama still talk about y’all,” Bo said, moving around the counter to grab the order, “Always askin’ if you two been eatin’ enough.”

“We been eatin’ alright,” Stack said, smirking.

Cornbread’s brow ticked up, “You sure about that?”

Bo chuckled again, tossing the last sack onto a dolly, “Especially if they stayin’ at the Langston place.”

“The Langston Ranch?” Cornbread asked, “August got y’all workin’ hard?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Smoke replied, voice low.

That’s when Cornbread leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper, “Where that hot piece of ass Delphine Langston live?”

Stack’s mouth opened, ready to brag, but Smoke stepped in quick with a hand to his chest.

“Chill,” Smoke said under his breath, eyes cutting, “Ain’t everybody need to know.”

Stack clicked his tongue, backing off. “I was just sayin’—”

“Don’t.”

Bo glanced between them, something knowing in his smirk, “Uh huh.”

At the far end of the store, a young man moved in and out of the backroom, helping unload crates of catfish from a delivery truck. He moved quiet, efficient. A little too quiet.

“Who’s that?” Stack asked, nodding toward the boy.

“That’s Noah,” Bo said, “Noah Batiste. Been workin’ here a couple months now. Real quiet, church-boy type. Came back to town right before the storm broke.”

They watched Noah work for a moment. He was young—couldn’t be more than twenty—but carried himself with a stillness that made him seem older. He didn’t look up once, just kept stacking boxes, moving catfish from ice to crate, hands swift and sure. His skin was smooth and deep brown, his curls cropped tight, face locked in some quiet rhythm that only he could hear.

Bo handed them a receipt and nodded toward the door.

“Tell August he still owe me for that wrench set he never picked up.”

“Will do,” Smoke said, grabbing one end of the dolly.

As they pushed the sacks of feed out the door, Cornbread hollered after them, “Y’all better come by the house next week! Mama said she gon’ fry some green tomatoes and make that cane syrup bread y’all used to beg for.”

Stack grinned wide, “Say less. We’ll be there.”

The sun hit them again like a hammer as they walked back down the street, wagon creaking beneath the weight of grain. Behind them, the music picked up from the tamale cart—some old blues tune humming soft—and the town breathed around them like a thing alive. Smoke didn’t say much, but his thoughts were already back at the ranch. Back with Delphine. Back with her scent still living under his nails.

Stack nudged him once, voice low, “You think August know?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

He just kept walking.

August Langston had returned, truck engine rumbling low as he stepped out in his usual clean but rugged style. The grain sacks hit the bed of the truck with thick, dusty thuds. Smoke and Stack worked in sync—shoulders flexing under rolled sleeves, boots planted firm on the hot gravel. August didn’t say much. Just circled the truck once, inspecting the feed like he was checking cattle, hands behind his back, slow steps, eyes sharp.

“Sweet grain?” he asked.

“Three sacks,” Stack confirmed, wiping his brow.

“Cracked corn?”

“Right there,” Smoke said, giving a chin nod.

August gave a grunt of approval and reached into his pocket to light a cigarette. Just as he struck the match, a soft ripple of voices floated across the street.

Three women in summer dresses and lace gloves were approaching the doors of Chow’s, parasols cocked just so. Their stockings shimmered faintly in the sunlight, heels clicking light across the dusty wooden sidewalk. All of them had that particular look Clarksdale women wore when they were about to say something they knew was wicked—but were gonna say it anyway.

“Did you hear?” one of them whispered, fanning herself slow.

“Girl, I heard. Sunday’s the one,” another replied, “Said the new Delta Darling comin’ out hot.”

The third woman shushed her, eyes darting toward the street, “Hush now. Don’t be speakin’ that out loud.”

The first one just smiled with a wicked glint in her eyes, “You scared it’s gon’ be your name in bold this time?”

They disappeared into Chow’s with a tinkle of the doorbell and the lingering scent of lilac talcum and rumors. Stack leaned an elbow against the truck bed, cocked his head. And just like that, the moment passed. The women disappeared into the shade of the shop, parasols folding like secrets. August lit a cigarette, climbed into the cab, and turned the key. The truck sputtered to life, smoke curling up into the air like a warning.

The ride back to the ranch rolled out quiet. Dust rose behind them in pale gusts, curling at the edges of the road like old paper. The land stretched wide and sun-stained. Fields divided by race and memory. Tamales wrapped in waxed paper. Grease-slick cornbread. Collards cooked down with vinegar and fatback. August kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the windowsill. When he finally spoke, it was like something he’d been holding for a while.

“You boys gon’ pay a visit to your uncle while you back?”

Stack stretched his legs out, resting a boot on the dashboard, “Hadn’t planned on it.”

Smoke didn’t look up, “Ain’t much to say.”

“Mm.” August exhaled, smoke curling out the side of his mouth, “He been travelin’ lately. I ride with him time to time. Revival tents, rural churches. Pine Bluff, down to Monroe…sometimes farther. Folks say he got a callin’ on him.”

Smoke’s eyes shifted, just slightly, “He always said he had a callin’ on our daddy too.”

“He tried,” August said, voice a little softer now,  “Tried to pull him out that street life. When he passed…Jedidiah took it hard.”

They rode a moment in silence. Wind through the windows. The sound of tires over gravel. 

“Hope he doin’ right by lil’ Sammie.” Smoke asked.

August nodded, “Yeah. Good boy, that one. Quiet. Smart. Walks with his head up. Jedidiah said he got his eye on college. Plays guitar too.”

That stirred something.

Stack sat up straighter, “He playin’ on that beat-up one?”

 August gave a dry chuckle, “Sho’ is. Still got ya’ll daddy guitar or ya’ll sold it?”

Smoke’s voice came low and flat, “We still got it.”

August cut his eyes at them, slow, “You do?”

“Wrapped in old cloth, up in the bunkhouse,” Stack said, “Been carryin’ it since we left from Chicago.”

August gave a humorless grunt, “That thing cursed, you ask me. Full of songs that broke men’s hearts and got ‘em shot in alleyways.”

“No such thing as a cursed guitar,” Stack said.

August flicked ash out the window, “Then you ain’t heard your daddy play it in the dark.”

Nobody said anything after that.

It had been three long days since August Langston returned to the ranch. Three long, hot, church-quiet days where everything ran smoother than molasses, but something just beneath the surface felt taut and waiting. August had the place humming like a mission camp. Horses were brushed down daily. Fence posts realigned. Smokehouse swept, water troughs scrubbed. He was up before the rooster, sleeves already rolled, barking orders with a calmness that didn’t quite match the heat in his eyes. He worked the twins hard, but fair. That’s what made it worse, they couldn’t even call it cruelty. Just efficiency. Measured. Unblinking.

And he was always there.

Watching.

Not just watching like a man checking labor but like a man memorizing. Smoke noticed it first. The way August’s gaze would linger just a half-beat too long when Stack pulled his shirt off in the sun. The way his eyes trailed down the line of Smoke’s spine when he bent to wrench something loose from a fence post.

Not hungry exactly. Not lecherous. Just…haunted. And locked tight behind a jaw that didn’t move unless it had to. August didn’t speak much unless he was giving direction. Didn’t ask questions. But his silences were weighted, full of unsaid scripture and things a man probably couldn’t say out loud. Not in this part of Mississippi. Not even to himself.

In the stillness between tasks, with the barn half-shadowed and the cicadas whirring like a heartbeat, Stack was dragging a hay bale when August came up behind him.

“Need a hand?” August asked.

Stack wiped his brow with the back of his arm, “Got it.”

August didn’t walk off. Instead, he stayed nearby, thumb hooked into one suspender strap, eyes tracking the movement of Stack’s hands. He nodded at the muscles shifting in his arms—slow, appreciative, but not obvious enough to call out.

“Mama used to say,” August spoke, “a man who works the land with his own hands sleeps best. You boys sleepin’ alright?”

Stack gave him a wary side glance, “Fine.”

August’s eyes didn’t waver, “Mmm,” he said, “That’s good.”

Meanwhile, back near the house, Smoke was losing his goddamn mind.

Three days without Delphine had crawled across his skin like ants. He hadn’t tasted her, hadn’t touched her, hadn’t even smelled that sweet-cake heat between her thighs. She moved past him like nothing had ever happened. A knowing smile here, a gentle sway of hips there. All silk and sin wrapped up in a housewife’s robe. And it was fucking killing him. So when he slipped inside to use the washroom and passed the laundry basket sitting full in the hallway…

He didn’t hesitate.

Delphine’s things were piled high, slips, stockings, the faintest smell of powder and woman clinging to the cotton. He dug until he found it: a balled-up pair of white drawers, damp at the crotch from the heat of the day. Not soaked. Not delicate. Just…lived in. The kind of damp that came from walking, swaying, sweating. A woman’s heat sealed in cloth.

Smoke closed his eyes and brought them to his face.

The scent hit him like a blow—ripe, musky, sweet. Like molasses cooked down with skin and sweat. His knees damn near buckled. He shoved the drawers into his back pocket and made his way out the side door, headed for the bunkhouse before anybody could catch him.

He needed a moment.

Just one.

Out on the field, Stack and August were loading fence posts into the back of the wagon when Delphine appeared from the house with a pitcher and glasses balanced on a tray. Sunlight caught her red toenails, made her robe cling to the curve of her ass. Her hair was pinned up loose, a few stray curls licking the back of her neck. Her skin glowed with sweat and summertime gold.

“Figured y’all could use somethin’ cold,” she called, soft and syrupy.

August took the tray without speaking, nodding once in thanks. He poured himself a glass, drank deep, then returned to his place by the wagon.

Stack took his glass slow.

Delphine let her fingers brush his as she handed it over, lingering longer than needed. Then—bold as Smoke was sniffing in the bunkhouse—she turned her back to August and slipped a titty clean out her robe.

Just for Stack.

Quick flash. Round, dark, soft.

Then gone again under silk as she adjusted her sash and turned to walk away. Stack nearly dropped his damn lemonade. August didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he was looking the other way. Or maybe…maybe he’d never been looking at her at all. Stack licked his lips slow, eyes trailing her hips as she disappeared back toward the house.

“You alright?” August asked, lifting another post into the wagon.

Stack blinked once, “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Stack didn’t answer right away. He just drank the lemonade down to the bottom and let the glass hang from his fingertips, the pulp clinging to the rim like spit on lips.

Back in the bunkhouse, Smoke sat on the edge of his cot with Delphine’s drawers pressed to his face. Breathing hard. Dick stiff. Heart louder than a drum.

He didn’t even stroke himself.

Didn’t need to.

The scent was enough.

Enough to make him mad. Enough to make him crave. Enough to make him wonder what the hell was wrong with him that he could feel this sick with hunger for a married woman and still not give a damn. He tucked the drawers under his mattress. And sat there breathing, like a man in mourning.

The sun was starting to slip low behind the treeline when August stepped into the parlor, wiping his hands with a rag. His shirt was damp at the collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, skin smudged with sweat and earth. Delphine was dusting the mantle, hips swaying slow in a house dress the color of ripe plums. The radio was murmuring low in the background, some gospel song crackling through static. August didn’t look at her right away. Just cleared his throat.

“Elias and me gon’ run back into town,” he said, voice flat like always, “Bo said some new tools came in. Meant to pick up a few things earlier, but I forgot.”

Delphine glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised, “This late?”

“Won’t be long.” He folded the rag, tucked it in his back pocket, “You need anything?”

She shook her head, turning back to the mantle, “I’m fixin’ to take a bath. Long one. My feet been barkin’ all day.”

August nodded once, already heading for the door, “Lock the front when it gets dark.”

“I always do,” she said without looking.

He paused at the threshold, eyes lingering for a second too long. Not on her hips. Not on her neckline. Just on the way the room looked with her standing in it—warm, easy, too full of something he couldn’t name.

Then he was gone.

And Delphine, all alone now, exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for hours. She set the rag down, untied her apron, and headed down the hallway, the sound of her bare feet against the floor soft and certain as thunderclouds rolling in.

The bathwater was already running.

The screen door creaked shut behind August’s boots. Smoke didn’t move until he heard the truck engine fade down the gravel path—headed toward town. Smoke stood there in the stillness of the house. Shirt off. Chest rising slow. Eyes fixed up the stairs where soft steam still curled from beneath the bathroom door.

Delphine.

She hadn’t come out yet, but he could smell her—God, he could smell her. Honeyed soap and something thicker, deeper. Her. His mouth watered. His hands flexed. It’d been four long days since he’d tasted her—really tasted her—and the ache had settled so deep in his belly he felt sick with it. Sick and starving.

The doorknob clicked.

And there she was.

Delphine stepped into the hall wrapped in a towel barely clinging to her curves. Her legs were slick and glistening, thighs thick and soft, calves strong. Her skin still dewy from the bath, steaming in the leftover heat. Her hair was twisted and pinned high, exposing her whole neck, her collarbones, her pulse.

Smoke didn’t say a word. He moved.

She hadn’t even made it to her bedroom door before he caught her from behind, pulling her flush against him with a low, desperate sound in his throat.

“Mm—Elijah…” she breathed, startled only for a moment before the towel shifted beneath his fingers and she felt his lips on her shoulder, his mouth hot and trembling as he kissed along her neck, down to the slope of her back.

“You smell so damn good,” he muttered into her skin, “You don’t even know…”

“Lord, what’s got into you?” she teased, turning to face him, her towel slipping lower as she arched a brow.

He looked wrecked. Eyes dark. Jaw tight. His chest was rising like he’d run from the barn.

“I been waitin’ for this. Waitin’ for you,” he rasped.

Delphine’s lips curled slow, indulgent, “What you want, baby?”

Smoke didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Just spoke, “Wanna taste it. I wanna taste you.”

Her eyes glinted like honey in sunlight.

“Well then,” she said, walking backwards toward the chaise by the open window, “you best get on your knees.”

She dropped the towel as she sat—not shy, not this woman—and leaned back like a goddess called to worship. Her legs opened smooth and wide, her pussy soft and warm and still damp from her bath, pink and glistening in the dusky light.

Smoke dropped down like a man at church.

He didn’t rush.

He pressed one hand to the inside of her thigh, steadying her. The other cradled under her ass, pulling her forward just enough.

Then he kissed her.

Slow at first. Full lips parting as he molded his mouth to her. French kissed her—yes, kissed—his tongue sliding along her folds in a wet, devout stroke. He moaned low into her cunt, letting the sound vibrate against her clit before licking again, mouth wide, tongue flat and patient.

Delphine hissed through her teeth, hips jerking, “Mmm… you missed this pussy, huh?”

Smoke didn’t answer.

He sucked her lips into his mouth, tongue circling the sensitive flesh, then flattened it again and licked her like he meant to memorize her. Again and again, in slow deliberate swirls. When his tongue reached her clit, he kissed it. He kissed it—full-lipped, wet, slow—before curling his tongue around it and sucking, soft at first, then deeper. Like he was drinking her.

Delphine’s head dropped back. Her thighs started to tremble. He looked up at her once, eyes heavy, lips slick. He didn’t speak, but the hunger in his eyes said everything. She rolled her hips forward, hands gripping the edges of the chaise. Her voice dropped to a needy whisper. 

“Don’t stop, baby…that’s it. Just like that.”

Smoke moaned against her, pressing deeper. His tongue moved in slow circles, his lips sealing over her clit like he was making love to it, savoring her. One hand reached up, fingers spreading her wide so he could go lower, kissing all of her—every fold, every inch, every drop. Wet sounds filled the room, slick and filthy beneath her soft whimpers.

“Oohhh—you gon’ make me squirt, Elijah,” she warned, breath hitching, “I mean it. You gon’ get flooded.”

He groaned again, mouth still working, not backing down.

Delphine’s thighs clamped around his head as her whole body seized, and sure enough—

She gushed for him. Warm, sweet, pulsing over his mouth.

Smoke took it. All of it.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just kept licking slow, proud, messy.

When she finally stopped trembling, when she slumped back with her chest rising like a storm just passed, Smoke pulled back—face glistening, lips wet, jaw clenched.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, staring up at her with that wild look again.

Delphine smirked, eyes still half-lidded, voice syrupy and smug, “You taste what you needed?”

Smoke shock his head, slow. Then climbed up between her legs again.

“Nah,” he said, voice hoarse, “I ain’t done.”

Delphine hadn’t even caught her breath when she felt him again, Smoke easing her legs apart with his large, work-rough hands. His palms were warm against her slick thighs, thumbs spreading her gently but deliberately.

“Still twitchin’,” he muttered, more to himself than her, “Still wet for me…”

Delphine blinked slow, lazy from release, but then she heard it, a bird outside. A rustle. A wagon wheel creaking far down the road.

Her eyes flicked toward the window.

“Elijah—”

“I know,” he rasped, “Ain’t gon’ get caught.”

He pressed her knees wider, kept her open with one firm hand while the other guided her hips forward on the chaise. She shifted, just a little, leaned toward the window, legs parted and bent at the edge, her elbow bracing behind her, one hand reaching out to the sill so she could keep watch through the gauzy curtain. Sunlight hit her brown skin just right. Her pussy glistened, open and trembling. Still dripping from the first round.

Smoke didn’t give her a chance to brace.

He buried his face between her thighs like he belonged there. His mouth locked onto her again, wetter, messier, more needy. He licked up every drop she gave him and then some, tongue stroking slow over her entrance, then dragging upward to her clit. His lips parted, and he French kissed her again—lips open, tongue rolling soft and filthy, making little slurping noises with every pass.

Delphine’s breath caught. Her head tipped to the side. She gasped, mouth open but no sound came out—just a hitched breath and a moan that got stuck in her throat.

“Ooooh…” her voice finally broke free, shaky and soft.

Her toes curled against the cushion. Her body shook.

Smoke didn’t slow. He licked her like a man with no shame, no manners—just hunger and devotion. His spit mixed with her slick, dripping steadily down between her ass cheeks and pooling into the velvet of the chaise.

“Goddamn this pussy so good,” he groaned into her folds, pulling back only to talk filth before diving back in, “So fuckin’ pretty…taste like peaches and cream…got me suckin’ like I’m starved.”

Delphine moaned louder, toes curling again. Her hand dropped to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, “You gon’ make me do it again…”

“I want you to,” Smoke growled, licking deep, then curling his tongue right beneath her clit, just where he knew she couldn’t handle it, “You feel that?” he whispered, breathing hard against her slit, “That little twitch right there? Mmm. That’s it, baby…give me that.”

Delphine’s head rolled back. Her thighs tried to close, but he held them open with sheer force—hands gripping her thick thighs like they were his to claim.

“Fuck, you got me losin’ my mind,” Smoke whispered, tongue flattening wide across her folds in slow, wet circles, “Can’t think straight…been dreamin’ ’bout this pussy every night.”

She could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears, the heat building in her again. Her eyes rolled up. Her mouth stayed open. She stared out the window, watching the stillness of the land while inside, her body was a storm.

“Talk to me,” he begged, his voice rasping and full of want, “Tell me how it feel.”

“So good,” she whimpered,  “Too good, Elijah…too fuckin’ good—”

He sucked her clit deep into his mouth, holding it there with the flat of his tongue rolling around it while he moaned into her.

Delphine moaned loud this time. Her hand slammed down on his head and held him there. And he took it. All of it. Let her ride his mouth while she arched and cried out, her juices spilling down his chin. When she finally dropped her hand and slumped, thighs trembling and chest heaving, Smoke wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—then sucked her slick from his fingers slow.

He looked up at her, wrecked and smiling.

“Still ain’t done.”

Delphine hadn’t even sat up fully when Smoke stood and grabbed her—one swift, greedy pull, and she was in his arms, breath caught, legs limp from climax.

“Elijah—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, voice like gravel softened by honey, “I told you, I ain’t done.”

He walked her to the vanity, then past it. Delphine blinked, disoriented, lips parted. Then she realized—he was taking her to the edge of the bed. Not to lay her down. But to bend her. Smoke turned her slow, positioned her in front of the bedframe’s footboard, and pressed her down.

“Put your hands there,” he said, voice low, “Arch it.”

She did—chest flush to the bed, ass high, legs just parted. Her towel had long since fallen, hair pins shaken loose. Her thick curls were beginning to tumble down her neck in damp spirals. Skin still warm from the bath. Glistening. He damn near tore his close off his body. Smoke stepped back to admire the sight—his jaw flexing, his dick standing up thick and hard, curving. He reached down, wrapped his hand around the base, and hissed.

“You see what you done did, Mrs. Langston?” he muttered, dragging his tip along the seam of her soaked folds,  “Got me hard just from tastin’ you.” He spread her again, thumbs parting her slowly, watching her open for him. Her pussy was flushed and messy—wet from his mouth, slick from her release, twitching with anticipation, “Goddamn, Delphine…” he muttered, stroking himself once. Twice.

Then—slow—he pushed in.

She moaned loud, gasped, tried to lift her head, but he laid a firm palm between her shoulders and eased in deeper.

“Mmh…oohhhh baby…”

He wasn’t rushing.

He rolled his hips into her in long, heavy strokes. Deep. Feel–that–thick–curve–in–your–belly deep. That spot curved good, where he fit just right, where she felt it behind her bellybutton, behind her ribs, where her vision blurred and her mouth fell open.

“Shit, you feel this dick?” he grunted behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other slipping down to grip her ass tight, “You feel me hittin’ that spot?”

Delphine tried to answer, but all she could do was moan—soft, unsteady, and full of pleasure. Her hands clawed at the blanket. Her toes curled. Her body rocked forward with each slow thrust.

Smoke bent down over her back, chest brushing her spine.

“I said…you feel that, Mrs. Langston?” he whispered in her ear, breath hot and thick.

She nodded, desperate, “Y-yes, baby…I feel it…feel all of it…”

“I dream ’bout this pussy,” he rasped, fucking her slow and deep, the sound of his strokes filling the room—wet, thick, heavy,  “Every night. Wake up hard and mad and hungry. You ain’t even gotta say nothin’. Just bend like this. Just give it to me…”

Delphine whimpered, pressing her ass back into him, chasing the stroke, “Mmhm,” she moaned, “Right there, baby—don’t let up off this coochie.”

“You like it like that?” he whispered, eyes locked on the place they met, watching her take him over and over, “You like that wood hittin’ the back?”

“Yes, Elijah,” she cried out, “You got me feelin’ full…like I’m gon’ burst.”

Smoke growled. His thrusts deepened—still slow, but harder now. The room filled with the smack of skin, the rich moans from Delphine’s throat, the growled curses he let out with every roll of his hips.

“Bend that back deeper,” he ordered, voice all gravel now, “Gimme that arch.”

Delphine adjusted, arching deeper, hands fisting the blanket. He slammed back into her, right on that curve. Her scream cracked in the back of her throat.

“Right there! Oh God, baby, don’t stop—don’t stop—”

Smoke gritted his teeth and reached around to rub her clit while he stroked.

“Cum on this dick then. I want you to shake, you hear me?”

Delphine’s moans turned high and airy, body jerking, thighs quaking.

“Elijah! I—I’m gon’—”

“Cum then,” he growled, fucking her through it. “Let it go, Delphine…”

She came hard, clutching the blanket, eyes rolled back, mouth open. Smoke followed with a broken groan, grabbing her hips and grinding deep. He almost spilled inside her. His thighs trembled. He stayed there for a long moment, buried deep in her, panting hard.

And still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull out.

Delphine was breathless when she climbed off him, thighs trembling. But Smoke didn’t move—just sat back on the chaise, legs wide, chest slick with sweat, his dick still hard and glistening with her.

His hand lazily stroked it, thick fingers dragging up the length, slow and sticky.

“C’mere,” he said, voice low, eyes molten.

She came.

Climbed into his lap like she belonged there—knees sinking into the cushion, thighs spreading wide to straddle him. Her pussy hovered over him, leaking onto his stomach as she reached down and guided him in.

The moan they shared was quiet but deep.

She sank slow, head tilting back, her mouth parting around a silent gasp as he filled her all over again. Her folds swallowed him, inch by inch, until she sat flush against him—no space, no mercy. His hands gripped her ass instantly, wide palms claiming both cheeks, thumbs pressing into her soft skin like he couldn’t believe he was holding her again.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice strained.

Delphine arched over him, back like a bow, breasts high and heavy, nipples brushing his chest. Her hands slid to his shoulders, fingers clinging like she was holding on to the last thing keeping her grounded.

But she wasn’t in control anymore.

Smoke was.

His hips rolled up slow—deep—and stayed there.

Pressed into her like a stretch, like a filling. Then he pulled back. Just to the tip.

And rolled in again.

Delphine’s mouth dropped open. Her breath hitched. She could feel it—that warm drip every time he stayed deep. Her own slick spilling down to the base, wetting his lap.

Her voice trembled, “Elijah…I’m leaking…”

“I know,” he whispered, “Feel it runnin’ down my balls…”

He grinned dark and rocked into her again, deep and wet. She melted, arms wrapping tight around his neck, hips twitching.

The chaise creaked under them. The window breeze stirred her hair. She looked out through half-lidded eyes as he kept up the rhythm—slow stroke, deep hold, wet drip.

Over and over.

Her body trembled every time he held it in.

Her thighs shook.

She was nothing but putty in his grip.

Then—without warning—he bucked up fast, three quick, hard thrusts that made the wet sound of their bodies fill the room, followed by a crack as his hand smacked her ass.

She yelped, head jerking back, eyes rolling shut.

Smoke just smirked and rolled deep again, “You like that?” he asked, low and teasing.

Delphine nodded, lips parted, breathing ragged.

“I know you do,” he said, slapping her again.

Another yelp. Another deep grind. She was leaking down his thighs now. Slick and heat and surrender.

Her voice shook as she spoke, “Elijah…honey…I feel so full…”

“You are,” he growled, holding her still, locking her down on his lap with his hands gripping her ass tight,  “You full of me. Look at that drip, baby. You makin’ a mess all over me.”

She whimpered, forehead pressed to his, “I can’t…I can’t take much more…you done wrung me dry.” 

“You gon’ take it,” he whispered, kissing her mouth soft, “You gon’ take it all.”

He just kept grinding.

Slow. Deep. Like molasses poured warm over something sinful. His hips circled from below, rolling her forward, lifting her, and then dragging her back down onto him with every thick stroke. But he never pulled out. He just stayed inside, held deep, until Delphine moaned—soft and choked and helpless.

Then he’d do it again.

She was perched on him, legs splayed over his, knees trembling as she tried to hold herself up. Her spine curved like a drawn bow, her hands planted to his chest for balance, head tilted just enough to see out the window—though her eyes weren’t seeing anything.Her mouth hung open. Her breaths came shaky. Every time he rocked in and held it there, she leaked again.

He felt it.

The warmth sliding down his balls. Dripping into the soft cushion beneath them. Her pussy so wet and swollen he could barely move without hearing the messy slip of it.

And Smoke was loving it.

“Look at you…” he whispered, dragging his hips in slow again—circling deep, holding, “Leakin’. All on me. All over my lap.”

Delphine moaned again, voice small, eyes glassy.

“Got that grown woman pussy,” he groaned, eyes locked on her tits swaying with every rock, “Not that lil’ girl shit. This real. This that stretch-me-wide, make-a-man-cry type’a pussy.”

Delphine whimpered. Her body tried to roll forward, but he held her there—hands gripping her ass, one sliding up her back to guide her posture, make her arch more, tilt more, give him more.

“I love this pussy,” he whispered, grinding up again, making her cry out soft, “You feel that, baby? Feel how deep I am?”

“Uh-huh…”

“Don’t lie. Say it.”

“You…deep, baby,” she panted, “So deep…”

He dragged his hips again, but this time slid forward on the chaise just a little—and when he did, her whole body shifted. Her hips tilted higher. Her folds spread wider.

Delphine gasped, “Oh— God…Elijah—”

“That’s it,” he grinned, grinding up right there, “Open like a peach for me. Drippin’. So damn wet.”

Her arms collapsed for a second. She caught herself on his shoulders, nails digging in. Her head dropped forward, curls falling loose around her face.

Smoke just kept rolling.

Deep. Slow. Then hold.

And every time he did, her pussy pulsed and dripped.

“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes glued to the spot where they met. “Makin’ a mess with that grown woman pussy. You feel that stretch? That ache? That sweet, nasty fullness?”

She nodded, tears in her lashes from how overwhelming it was.

“You love when I just hold it there, huh?”

“Y-yes…”

“You like me sittin’ all up in this married pussy like it’s mine. You do.”

Delphine whimpered again, eyes spaced out, lips trembling, “It is yours…” she whispered.

That broke him.

His hands clamped down on her ass and he rocked up hard, burying himself deep and holding it—deep enough to take her breath, deep enough to make her voice catch in her throat.

“You say that again,” he growled in her ear.

She moaned, nearly crying now, “It’s yours…it’s all yours, baby…”

Her head was tipped back now, curls wild and stuck to her skin. Her spine arched like worship, her hands still gripping Smoke’s shoulders, knuckles pale. Her thighs shook with every grind, and her mouth hung open in a silent cry every time he held it deep.

And Smoke was close.

So close.

But he wasn’t rushing. Still grinding, still circling his hips with that perfect pressure. Still holding himself right at the back of her walls—so deep she could feel the curve of him pressing into her from the inside. Filling her. Feeding her.

“You feel that?” he groaned, his voice thick with heat and control, “That pulse right there? That’s me ‘bout to lose it…”

Delphine moaned, biting her lip hard as her pussy clenched again, dripping more.

“Elijah—baby— I…I’m gon’—”

“Yeah?,” he growled, thrusting up deep and hard once—then holding again.

She cried out, head slumping forward, forehead to his. He kissed her, sloppy and open-mouthed, all tongue and breath.

“You gon’ give it to me,” he whispered, “At the same time. You hear me? We gon’ cum together.”

Delphine nodded weakly. “Please…please, I can’t hold—”

“Hold it,” he demanded, his voice gritted now, body shaking, “I feel it. You close. I’m right there. Right fuckin’ there, baby…”

His arms wrapped tight around her waist. His mouth pressed to her ear. And he slammed into her again.

One stroke.

Two.

And then—that third one—he stayed. Buried. He groaned from his gut, body seizing, cock twitching so hard she could feel him shoot. Her name stuttered off his lips in a broken prayer.

“Del… Delphine… fuck—!”

That was it.

Delphine burst around him, her walls milking him, leaking over his thighs, the sound of her release loud and filthy as her hips jerked and her body trembled in his arms.

She didn’t even make a sound at first.

Just clung to him. Wide-eyed. Mouth open. Dripping.

Then the moan came—long, deep, shaking from her throat like it had been buried for years.

“OoohhhGodYESSS—”

He held her through it.

Held her close while his cock twitched deep inside her, still releasing, still stretching her. Held her while her body collapsed in waves, wetness pooling beneath them, her hands fisting his hair as she rode the last tremble.

They breathed together. Panting. Holding on.

Sticky. Sweaty. Silent.

The only sound was the soft creak of the chaise and the Mississippi wind curling lazy through the open window. And when Delphine finally moved—just a little, just enough to look at him—Smoke kissed her again. Not with heat this time, but with something slow. Something sweet.

“You meant that?” he asked, still inside her.

She blinked at him, dazed, “Meant what?”

“That this pussy mine?”

Delphine smiled with her eyes closed, body weak, voice no louder than a hum, “You earned it. For now.” 

Delphine was still seated on him, dick buried deep, their skin tacky with sweat and slick, her thighs trembling around his hips. She blinked down at him, curls hanging wild around her face, and arched one of those wicked brows. 

“Smoke, baby…you gon’ let me up off this dick?”

His hand came up slow, slid behind her neck and pulled her down into a hot, wet kiss, tongue snaking into her mouth like he owned it. He popped her ass heavy while he kissed her, both hands gripping her cheeks afterward, spreading them wide in his palms.

She gasped into his mouth. Pulled back and gave him that look.

That look.

“You hooked on this grown woman pussy, huh?” she taunted, breathy, “Think you fuck me better than Stack?”

Another smack. Louder. Meaner.

Delphine moaned into a laugh, her lashes fluttering. “Mmm. That hit a nerve. You know I plan to fuck him some more too, right?” she whispered, dragging her fingers through his hair, nails scratching light at his scalp.

Smoke’s nostrils flared. But he stayed calm. Eyes low. Voice thicker than syrup, “I know,” he said, “But I’ma always remind you who fuck better.”

She rolled her hips once, slow and teasing, before finally lifting off him with a wet, obscene slide. His fat pecker slapped back against his stomach, thick and still dripping. Her pussy—pink and fluttering—glimmered between her thighs, leaking down both legs. She turned and arched her back, hands on her knees as she spread herself and looked back at him.

 “That what you want, baby? You wanna look at what you did?”

Smoke sat up slow, licking his bottom lip, then gripping her cheeks again to spread her wider. His thumbs slid between her folds.

“Goddamn,” he spoke low and husky, “It’s so pretty.”

Delphine shivered at the praise, biting her lip, “Pretty and messy?” she smirked.

He looked up at her, eyes dark and hungry, “You soaked me,” he growled. 

“That dick so damn thick,” she purred back, “Opened me up like I ain’t never been before.”

Smoke stood without warning, grabbing her thighs and lifting her right off the ground. Delphine gasped, legs locking around him. He kissed her again—sloppy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and groans. He backed her up against the wall this time. One of her legs slid down while the other stayed hooked. His cock rubbed against her slick folds again, leaving a trail of wet heat as he rutted between her thighs.

“Mmm…you hard again?” she teased against his lips.

“Still inside you,” he grunted.

He slipped the head back in, just the tip, just enough to feel her squeeze. He didn’t thrust. Not yet. They were too caught up. Too tangled. And too loud.

Which is why they didn’t hear the front door open.

Didn’t hear the heavy boots.

They didn’t hear August’s voice.

Not at first.

Not until it came again—louder this time, cutting through the house like a blade through silk.

“Delphine?”

Silence snapped like a whip.

Delphine froze—still slick, still leaking, legs trembling from aftershocks.

Smoke froze too, his arms still around her thighs, the head of his cock still nudging her soaked entrance like he wasn’t done.

“Delphine!”

His voice echoed up the stairs.

Heavy footsteps followed.

Alone.

Just August.

Delphine’s eyes went wide, “Shit.”

She shoved at Smoke’s chest. “Put me down. Hurry, Elijah!”

Smoke blinked, still dazed, still drunk off her. “What?”

“He’s comin’ up the damn stairs, Elijah!” she hissed, scooping his shirt and trousers off the floor and throwing them at him in a panic. “Tuck your dick and hide!”

She pointed to her closet.

Smoke raised an eyebrow like he might ignore her—like he might just let it all come to light—but the look on her face said don’t you fucking dare.

She was already halfway into her robe, tying it tight around her waist when the first stair creaked.

“Delphine!” August barked again.

Smoke ducked into the closet, clothes half-pulled on, his body still damp with her.

The scent of sex hung thick in the room—syrupy and raw—but Delphine flung open the window, praying the breeze would do its part.

By the time the bedroom door creaked open, she was seated calmly at her vanity, pinning curls like nothing at all was wrong.

August stood there, squinting at her. “You ain’t hear me calling you, woman?”

Delphine didn’t look up, “Was fixin’ my hair.”

August stepped in. Paused. Eyes narrowed as they swept over her skin—still flushed, a little too slick, a little too radiant.

He sniffed once, slow.

Then again.

“What you up here doing?” he asked.

Delphine turned slightly, batting her lashes in the mirror, “Told you. Fixin’ my hair.”

He didn’t buy it.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“You been up here touchin’ on yourself, Delphine?” he said flatly, “What I tell you about that?”

In the closet, Smoke held his breath, listening, jaw tight.

Delphine didn’t flinch.

She rolled her eyes, voice syrupy and sharp. “Yes, holy husband of mine. Yes, I been up here stuffin’ my fingers in my pussy like a Thanksgiving turkey. Ain’t like you do it no more.”

August’s jaw twitched.

“Don’t play with me, woman.”

“Who playin’? You the one sniffin’ round like you caught me red-handed. Ain’t nothin’ in here but perfume and regrets.”

He stepped closer, “I let you flaunt around here in your little dresses like some whore—the least you can do is respect my wishes.”

Delphine laughed.

That pretty, dangerous kind of laugh.

She turned her head just enough to glance at the closet. Just for a beat.

Then back to August.

“August,” she said sweetly, “You so worried about what I’m doin’ in our home…why don’t you tell me what you been doin’ on all your little church trips?”

That hit the mark.

Hard.

August went quiet.

Still.

Then his hand lifted and jabbed a finger toward her face, teeth clenched, “You my wife. You do what I say. Hear me?”

Delphine stood slowly, hand on her hip, one brow raised.

“Oh, I hear you just fine.”

She leaned in, voice like honey laced with arsenic.

“I’ll do what you say, long as I get to keep cookin’ that food that get you full…and keep my mouth shut. Deal?”

They stared at each other for a long moment. August’s fists balled tight at his sides.

Then he stormed out without another word.

Door slammed behind him.

The floor shook.

The silence that followed was thick as molasses.

Then, from the shadows, the closet door cracked open.

Smoke stepped out—shirt open, pants still unbuttoned, chest rising and falling like he’d held his breath the whole time.

He looked at her.

“What the hell was that about?”

Delphine didn’t answer right away. She walked over, straightening her robe, lips twisted in a sly smile.

“My power,” she said softly, slipping her tongue into his mouth.

The kiss was quick.

Dangerous.

Dripping with everything she wasn’t supposed to say out loud.

Then she pulled back, licking her bottom lip.

“Get dressed, baby,” she whispered, smoothing down his collar, “I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come down.”

She turned and left the room, hips still swaying like she hadn’t just almost been caught fuckin’ the help.

Smoke stayed where he was, watching her disappear.

He tugged his pants the rest of the way up, but his mind was racing.

What the hell did she know about her husband…that August didn’t know about himself?

And more importantly—

What else was she planning?

Because whatever it was…

Smoke wanted in.