trin.

Because if you didn't know, the fics ARE still available via reblogs on Safari and in online browsers like chrome, edge, etc! In the tumblr mobile app, they are accessible on reblogs as well but only if you follow this navigation:

"notes" in bottom left corner > 🔁 (reblogs) > "View post" on the bottom of a reblog.

I thought it may be helpful if we try to put everything in one place for convenience in the meantime.

Here's what I have so far:

You came to a short while later and blinked against the soft lighting. Snores drew your attention down towards Tyrone who was half on top of you. He made a cage that was near impossible to escape from. 

But you had to. Because he couldn’t see just how much he rocked your world. You had to run. He fucked you right to sleep. And you didn’t know what to do with that information. You reached nirvana between tears and wracking tremors but Tyrone had been the embodiment of demon time. 

And you loved it. Craved it. You’d finally gotten a taste and you were instantly hooked. Your curiosity definitely got you killed and the only thing you could think of was to flee. To be wherever he wasn’t. 

You carefully climbed out of his bed, picking your way out from underneath his heavy, warm embrace. He snored and shifted in bed. You paused, heart hammering in your chest. But he didn’t make any other move.

You breathed a sigh of relief and then slid across his dark sheets. Your feet touched the ground before the rest of your body followed and you huffed from all of the extra rolling around. 

You liked a good tumble, but that was as far as your athletic endeavours went. He must’ve climbed in right after you. Next to his bed, he had a small curved desk with a desktop computer. Notebooks, balled up pieces of paper, pennies, and his camera lay on the table and you had the urge to snatch your tape. 

But…no. You weren’t ashamed of it. You believed Tyrone when he said that he wouldn’t show it to anyone else. You’d been neighbors more than half your life. It had just been a coincidence that you stumbled onto his porn channel. And well, you never left. 

You searched the floor for your shorts and your shirt, your bra, and your panties. Your toe ran into the post of his bed and you groaned quietly, hopping in place. You hopped one too many times or must’ve made another sound because Tyrone rolled over in bed. 

His eyes half opened but he only adorably sniffed in his sleep. He swatted at his face like something bugged his nose and then settled onto his back. You didn’t dare move until he took a deep breath and snored. 

Whew. You tip toed towards the door, body inching to get away. You stopped near the door to calm your racing nerves when you heard the bed squeak.

Your head turned just as Tyrone sat up in bed. He got up lazily, like he had all the time in the world. You locked eyes with him, though you had a hard time looking away from that beautiful dick as it thickened with each passing second. 

Your mouth went dry just at the thought of what all he did to you with that thing. Tyrone earned every piece of coin he earned from his videos. 

“Who said I was done with you?” Tyrone asked.

You shrieked just as your pussy clenched with painful need. You were still sore from the earlier session. There was no way that you could survive more tonight. You held your clothes over your body and bit your lip. Welp. You were definitely caught with your ass out. 

“Ah,” you said but stopped short.

“Can’t even think of a lie, can you?” He asked and then laughed. He got out of the bed, taking long strides towards you. He snatched your clothes out of your hands and tossed them across the room. 

A loud clang made you flinch but you didn’t dare look away from Tyrone’s face. Fury danced behind his wicked brown eyes and you shivered at all of the dark, nasty thoughts likely dancing across his thoughts. Yours only echoed his, your belly quaking with the memory of how deep he got. 

“I thought you didn’t really fuck the same girl twice?” At Tyrone’s lifted eyebrow you quickly added, “Like from what you told me earlier.” 

Tyrone reached out and grabbed your throat. “You think you just any ole girl?” He asked. He was so close, his breath faintly smelled like weed. It only made your clit dance. Your buzz was still there, a little fuzzy, but enough to keep you good and relaxed. 

You shook your head. “Use that sexy ass voice,” he commanded. 

“No, I just thought...like if you wanted an out…” 

Tyrone smirked. He moved his hand up your neck so that he could cup your jaw. His thumb traced your bottom lip and he couldn’t resist planting a kiss. His eyes darkened and he growled low, in the back of his throat. 

“I ain’t ask for an out. Your safeword is ginger,” he said, his voice rumbling with dark retribution. 

Your eyes widened as he grabbed your wrist and tugged you towards the bed. He pushed you down and turned you over onto your stomach. You tried to move but Tyrone barked at you to stay still. 

He left you in that position while he did something behind you. Every time he crossed the room, you felt a whoosh of air against your aching pussy and you felt like you were going to burst from anticipation. You had no idea what he was doing but he needed to be done quick. 

Tyrone put his laptop down in front of you. “What are you doing, Ty?” You asked. He was starting to worry you. 

He clicked through his computer until he accessed his video player. He plugged in his camera and then hit play. 

Your eyes bugged out as Tyrone played back your sex tape. “Oh my god!” You stuttered. You didn’t know if you wanted to scoff or laugh, but the combo of the two escaped your lips. Was he serious? 

“Smile for Daddy,” Tyrone’s voice said over the tape.

“Oh my god,” you groaned. You looked behind you at Tyrone who stroked his dick while he looked at your ass.

“Safe word?” He asked. 

“Ginger,” you whimpered. 

You heard Tyrone slap your ass before the sting burned against your asscheek. You gasped but the burn soon bloomed, radiating heat throughout your body. Your pussy clenched as it turned pleasurable in your mind. 

“Fuck,” Tyrone groaned. He smacked your ass a few times, never hitting the same spot twice. “I’m recording this one too.”  

Your thighs shook as your ass burned with his spanking. It felt so fucking good, you felt like you were going to cum on the spot. 

“Fuck, look at that pretty fuckin’ pussy,” his voice said on the recording. 

“Mhhm,” Tyrone agreed with himself as he admired your pussy now. You wiggled your ass and he delivered a few more smacks. 

He spread your asscheeks to survey his handiwork. You were sure you were dripping but with him examining you like this, spread open, on camera, had you soaking the bed with desire.

“Been waiting to get in this pussy,” he said. 

“What?” You screeched. 

“What, you think I wasn’t imagining all the nasty shit I wanted to do this?” He groaned as he watched your arousal drip from you. You were wanton, overcome with the need to rut and be fucked. To be fucked by him specifically. 

“Oh fuck, Tyrone!”  You yelled on the tape. You clenched around Tyrone’s fingers and he chuckled darkly. 

“You like the way you sound? Begging for this dick?” He asked. 

“Mhhmm,” you moaned. Your eyes couldn’t leave the screen. Tyrone must’ve had a magic camera because you’d never felt sexier. You were just in the moment, watched as your face twisted and you bit your lip to stave off the pleasure. 

Tyrone smacked your ass and you moaned from the pain. “Use your words,” he growled.

“I can’t,” you said.

Tyrone grabbed your hips and widened your legs. He used his free hand to gather up some of your essence on his thumb. He circled your anus, pushing his thumb inside. You moaned, drool escaping your lips. Tyrone increased his strokes with his other hand, fingers deep inside. “Shit, shit, shit,” you moaned. 

“Did you know you taste good?” Tyrone’s voice on the tape kept going. 

“Please, Ty, I can’t,” you said. You fell forward onto your face, no longer able to hold yourself up. Not while he was playing you like a well tuned instrument. Like he knew which strings to stroke to produce the perfect sound. Your fingers dug into the dark sheets, pulling them towards you like that would help. 

You moaned in time with yourself on the tape. Your pussy clenched the closer you got to your orgasm but Tyrone slowed his fingers. “Wait, nooooo,” you moaned, trying to wiggle your ass to move yourself on his fingers.

Tyrone withdrew completely and then flipped you onto your back. He slid between your thighs, pinning your wrists to the mattress. 

“Oh now you can speak,” Tyrone said, lifting an eyebrow at you. His rich, dark skin was so smooth. His stubble drove you insane. His eyes were feral as he looked down at you. 

“Please, no more,” you pleaded.

“You know what to say to get me to stop,” he said.

You whined and shook your thigh. Tempted, oh so tempted, but this was everything you had ever wanted. How many fantasies had you cum to, listening to his filthy words in his videos? 

“Please let me cum,” you whimpered. 

Tyrone smirked and leaned down to kiss you, his tongue pushing in to tangle with yours. You made out like you were dying of thirst. Like he wasn’t close enough. 

“Let Daddy hear you,” Tyrone said on camera. 

You giggled. “Please, please, Ty. Please, I wanna cum again,” you said. 

Tyrone leaned up and grabbed his dick. He lined himself up and then slid inside. You hissed as your still sore pussy welcomed him in, but fuck you felt like you were floating. 

Tyrone moaned when he slid all the way down to the hilt. He paused for a moment, wiggling his hips back and forth. He found a good rhythm, not too fast, but not too slow either. He moved his hand to your neck and applied pressure.

“This my fuckin’ pussy now,” he growled.

“Yes, Daddy,” you moaned, nodding for good measure. You didn’t know where he had the camera focused now, but you could hear yourself cumming on camera. Your eyes rolled in the back of your head as you came to the sound and from Tyrone’s long dick filling every inch of you.

You felt the veins in his dick on every slide. The ridges stroked against your inner walls and you moaned and cursed. “Shit, shit,” you cried out. 

Tyrone increased his strokes, pounding into you. “Fuck, I need to fill this pussy up,” Tyrone groaned. 

“I can’t no more,” you cried. 

Tyrone leaned down, lifting the pressure from your neck for a beat. “But you already are. So you can,” he whispered. He never slowed, never stopped pounding like he wanted to lay a stake in your womb. 

“Look at yo pretty ass” he groaned. 

You grabbed onto his arm as it tightened around your throat once more. Tyrone leaned forward so that his sweaty chest rubbed against your nipples. His light smattering of chest hair rubbed against your oversensitive skin. 

You were beyond words. You could only hold on as Tyrone fucked you silly. You stared at him, locked eye to eye, while he ruined your pussy for all others. No one else would ever compare. No one else could bring you to the edge over and over, all in one night. 

You’d lost track of how many orgasms he hand delivered and was intent on delivering more. 

You slapped against his arm as you felt another orgasm coming. Your lower belly tensed and tensed like a cobra ready to strike. Two more strokes and you came undone on his dick, soaking him with a fresh wave of essence. 

The smell of your filthy sex filled the room. Combined with the moans and dangerous words pouring from the tape, it was enough to throw you in a long, continuous orgasm that felt like it was never going to end.

You didn’t have time to be scared. Didn’t have time to prepare. Tyrone continued fucking you, following close behind. He grunted as his cum filled you up again. You felt so full. More than you ever thought possible. 

“There’s my good little, bitch,” he cooed. 

You sighed in relief. You made it. You took everything he gave out. You slumped against the bed and Tyrone kissed both of your cheeks. He kissed his way to your ear and licked the lobe. “But you gon’ learn to listen to me,” he growled in your ear. Just for your benefit.

You groaned. No more. Stick a fork in you two times, you were dead.  But you were a simple glutton for punishment. 

“Can get a nigga used to this. You cum so pretty,” Tyrone’s voice called out from the tape. Tyrone flipped you over just in time to catch the tears slipping down your face on screen. 

Tyrone slipped back inside like he belonged there. He gripped your hips and pounded away once more, fingers digging in for purchase.

“You know I’m cummin’ in this shit, right?” Tyrone groaned on camera. 

You clenched around Tyrone’s dick and he chuckled. “Who knew I had the perfect cum dumpster living next door all this time?” Tyrone groaned. 

The tip of his dick kissed your G-spot and you exploded around him, crying out into the room with every last breath inside you. Tyrone came immediately after, filling you to the brim once more. 

He bent over you, the cold bite of his sweaty skin made you flinch. But he dropped a few kisses to your shoulder blades, your back, your neck. He massaged your ass while he softened and gently pulled out.

You cried, too sore to do much else. Tyrone cooed at you. He disappeared and you must’ve passed out because soon, he shook you awake. 

He picked you up and carried you to the bathroom where he ran a hot, bubble bath. He lowered you in and then slipped in behind you. He held you close while he gently wiped you down, pushing the wash cloth between your legs to clean up after himself. 

You were too pliant and fucked out to do anything but hum. “How will I ever wake up from this?” You asked, fingers tracing the hollow of his throat. 

Tyrone kissed your cheek. “Ain’t no waking up from this,” Tyrone said. “This is my pussy now,” he said. He kissed your cheek and bid you to sleep.

“Maybe I need to tie yo rabbit ass down,” or whatever he said while you drifted off to blissful, restful sleep.

Thanks for reading! Read where it began: Part 1 | The Secret Tyrone Files

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Sister Marigold Baptiste was born in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, in a shotgun house that smelled of starch, sweat, and scripture. Her mother kept the windows open but the curtains closed, her apron tied tight and her rules tighter. Her father was a deacon—stern, long-winded, and quick with a leather belt that hung on a nail by the front door. Not for show. For discipline. For correction.

There wasn’t much softness in the house beyond the quilting in winter and the gospel music that played low on the radio while her mother shucked peas and hummed. Everything else—clothes, posture, mouth, behavior—was pressed sharp and tight like Sunday pleats.

“The devil lives in idle hands and hips that sway too hard,” her mother would say.

By the time Marigold turned fifteen, she had learned to make herself small.

To close her knees when seated.

To drop her eyes when men looked too long.

To silence her laugh when it felt too full.

She was a quiet beauty—the kind that bloomed beneath layers. Skin the color of pecan shells, smooth and even. Lips full enough to tempt, but pressed thin in discipline. Her eyes were what people noticed most—dark, wide, deep-set and watchful. She wore them like a burden. Like she saw too much and dared not speak it.

The Church Raised Her, Then Took Her

Greater Calvary Holy Temple Church of Deliverance had been her second home since she was old enough to walk. Pentecostal. Strict. Spirit-led. A sanctuary full of shouting, swaying, and tongues—followed by rules that stitched your life together like a straight-backed dress.

Marigold was a model child of the congregation. By eighteen, she taught the girls’ purity class. By twenty-two, she caught the eye of Reverend Obadiah Baptiste, the newly promoted assistant pastor. He was tall, quiet, pious to a fault, with a strong voice and calloused hands. He offered her marriage, stability, and a place beside him—not as a wife of passion, but as a First Lady of virtue.

They wed in the summer of 1905.

And over the next twenty years, Marigold became the standard.

The First Lady.

The teacher.

The listener.

The one who visited sick mothers and wayward sons.

The one who pressed her skirts, smiled without teeth, and kept her voice at a modest octave.

The Women of the Church

They called her Sister Marigold like it was a title of honor.

They admired her posture, her modesty, the way she never raised her voice or let her hair loose in public. Her bun was always firm, her collar always buttoned, her lipstick nonexistent. They trusted her to lead them, and she did—with a tender firmness.

But even among the women, there was distance.

She was loved, yes.

Respected.

But not known.

None of them knew that Marigold had once stood behind the outhouse at fourteen and pressed her fingers between her legs, curious and trembling.

None of them knew that she sometimes lingered in the back pews after service, breathing in the leftover musk of men who had shouted and danced in the Spirit.

None of them knew that she dreamed—still—of the sound a belt made when it snapped through air.

The Marriage

Obadiah loved her the way one might love a hymn—reverently, distantly, never with urgency.

They did not make love.

They performed union.

It was quiet. Closed. Predictable. Their attempts at children had long since passed. The doctor said her womb “tilted wrong,” like a broken shelf. Obadiah took it as divine redirection and turned to fasting instead of fucking.

Marigold learned not to ask for more.

But her body still asked.

Quietly.

Late at night.

Alone under cotton sheets.

How She Dresses

Marigold’s clothing was armor.

Muted colors. Long hems. Sleeves to the wrist even in July.

She wore foundation garments that flattened her curves, even though she had a body that defied modesty—broad hips, full breasts, thighs that swayed even in prayer. She bound herself in linen and silence, because if the world couldn’t see her, maybe the hunger would stay hidden too.

But no matter how she dressed—

No matter how tight the collars or dark the dresses—

Her body still whispered: Touch me.

—-

Before the signs. Before the sermons sharpened with fire. Before she gathered the women in white and pressed hymn books into their hands like shields—

There was only her.

Sitting alone in the church pew at dusk.

And him, just outside the window.

She had heard the stories long before she saw him. The women in town whispered with both shame and delight when his name passed their lips.

“He a devil in a fedora, girl.”

“Talks like honey, but his hands like to bruise.”

“He got them whores calling out scriptures while he bend ‘em over.”

Elias Moore.

Better known as Stack.

A man too pretty for his own good. Skin like river-soaked chestnut, always glistening like the sun had claimed him. Eyes slow and heavy-lidded, like he was always plotting something.

He smiled with wicked dimples.

He laughed with his chest.

And when he walked, it wasn’t just a step—it was a rhythm. Swagger and power and temptation braided into one. He wore his shirts open when the heat got thick. Slacks always hung low on his hips, like he didn’t care if the world saw where he kept his sin. He didn’t walk past the church—he lingered. Smoked slow. Let his voice carry over the fence like molasses poured too thick.

And Marigold hated it.

She hated how close The Blackline sat to the church—right up against it, like it had been placed there just to test the faithful. From the upper prayer room window, she could see the whole front of the building. The porch where girls laughed, lips painted red. The long wooden bar where women perched like sirens.

Sometimes she could even see him.

Holding a woman by the throat, gently, as he kissed her hard enough to melt bones.

Slapping ass like he was beating drums.

Leaning over one of the girls, back arched against the window frame, her legs trembling as he drove into her from behind—Marigold had seen that.

That was the first time she truly looked.

She hadn’t meant to.

But her eyes locked.

And he had seen her.

Stack looked right at her through that thin lace curtain, kept fucking that woman without missing a beat.

He grinned. Bit his lip.

Never broke rhythm.

Marigold had fallen to her knees and begged forgiveness that night.

But the image never left her.

The church sounded different after that.

Quieter.

As if the air inside had grown shy from the things she carried in her mind.

She tried to tell herself he was unholy.

That his girls were Jezebels and he was a false king.

But even the sound of his voice from blocks away made her legs clench.

Deep. Gravel-dipped. Smooth as a backroad sin.

She told herself he was dangerous.

He was lust. He was wrath. He was everything her Lord told her to run from.

But she didn’t run.

She protested.

Because protesting was the only way to get close enough to hate him up close.

And secretly, shamefully…

She wondered if he could tell she was already his.

—-

The first time Sister Marigold Baptiste stood outside The Blackline, the sun was high and merciless, burning through her starched collar and making the sweat gather between her breasts beneath her blouse. She didn’t flinch. She never did.

She held her sign upright:

REPENT. THE DEVIL PLAYS THE BLUES.

The other women flanked her like scripture—clean, pressed, expressionless. Wives of deacons. Church mothers. One girl just sixteen, trying not to fidget in her stockings.

They stood in silence, no shouting. That was the Baptist way. Pentecostals let the Spirit do the hollering. And from within the walls of that wicked place, the Spirit was moving—but not how Marigold had ever known.

Laughter spilled through the brick. Low music. A woman’s moan, so rich and brazen it made the sixteen-year-old next to her gasp and murmur a prayer. Marigold closed her eyes. Just for a second. The smell that floated from the door was thick—sweet and wrong. A mix of cologne, old smoke, and something darker. Something carnal.

And then—

he stepped out.

The door opened and Elias Moore—known to sinners as Stack—strode onto the porch like he’d been sent to test her will. Tall. Shirt hanging open. Suspenders draped low around his waist. Chest slick with sweat, like he’d just come off somebody’s body.

And she was for certain he did.

He dragged a hand over his hair, tipped his chin toward them, and smirked.

“Sister Baptiste,” he purred, slow and low, “Ain’t Sunday meant for worship? Or is that why you came… to be tempted?”

REPENT!

SINNERS!

UNHOLY!

Stack grinned wide, “Didn’t the Lord tell y’all to rest on the seventh day?”

Marigold’s lips tightened.

“There’s no rest for the wicked,” she replied, voice low and firm.

Stack stepped down one stair, just close enough that she could see the muscles flex in his chest with each breath. His left pectoral jumped and Sister Baptiste felt a shiver run down her spine.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he spoke, “I ain’t slept since Friday.”

The girls inside laughed from the doorway.

One of them—barely dressed in silk and shadow—leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and popped her gum.

“He ain’t lyin’ neither. Gave me three hallelujahs last night!”

Laughter. High, wild.

Marigold didn’t flinch, but her grip on the Bible at her waist tightened.

Stack cocked his head, tongue flicking between his teeth.

Filthy.

“Y’all got signs. We got hips and heat. Gotta admit—we winnin’.”

She didn’t respond. But when he walked back toward the door, he turned and said, quiet enough just for her:

“Don’t come to the gates of hell if you don’t want the devil to notice you, Sister.”

Then he disappeared inside.

That night, long after the protest had faded and the street had emptied, Marigold came back.

Not to protest.

Not to preach.

Just to look.

She stood in the alley beside the church donation crates, pretending to sort through a box of hymnals. From there, she had a clear line of sight to the side door of The Blackline.

It was open.

The heat inside poured out in waves. Women in red and gold stepped through the light, laughing, hair pinned up and glowing. One pulled a man in by the collar and kissed him so deep he nearly dropped his drink.

Marigold’s throat tightened.

She wanted to be disgusted.

She wanted to feel righteous.

But all she felt was hungry.

The way the women laughed—not politely, but fully. Loud and loose and alive. The way they walked, thighs unashamed. Bodies moving like they knew the power of being watched. Touched.

Then he appeared again.

Stack.

Leaning in the doorway. Cigarette in hand. Shirt off now, just his bare chest shining under the amber light. A girl ran her hand down his stomach. He let her. Barely noticed her.

Because he was looking into the dark.

Right at her.

She stepped back instinctively, heart hammering. Had he seen her? Could he?

She didn’t wait to find out.

Marigold turned, lifted her skirt just enough to step over the gutter, and walked away fast—back toward the rectory, back toward her husband, back toward silence. But her thighs were slick, her heart was pounding, and her chest was full of something she hadn’t felt in decades.

Not holiness.

Heat.

—-

The next day, Marigold was locking the church doors.

It was quiet on the block. The women of the congregation had gone home, choir rehearsal had been dismissed early, and even the usual clamor from The Blackline hadn’t reached full swing yet. She adjusted her gloves. Tugged them up to the wrist with a frown carved into her brow, her Bible pressed firm to her chest.

And then she heard it—

“So it was you.”

That voice.

Low. Slow. Dipped in sin and thick enough to smear across the inside of her thighs.

She turned.

There he was.

Elias Moore. Leaning against the church’s brick side like the house of the Lord couldn’t burn him down. Shirt open, sweat-slicked chest gleaming, suspenders hanging loose against his hips. A cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit.

His fedora shadowed his eyes, but not his smirk.

Not those dimples.

“You gone pretend you wasn’t watchin’?” he asked.

“Excuse me?!”

Her voice cracked. Not from fear. But from knowing.

Stack didn’t step forward. Not yet.

He just shifted his weight, rolled the cigarette between his fingers.

“That night…upstairs in the prayer room. Curtain cracked just enough. You was starin’ down at me while I was givin’ Peaches a good stretch against the window.” His grin widened, “And I knew it felt hotter than usual that night. Turns out it was you heatin’ up the glass.”

Her mouth parted.

“You filthy, unholy—”

“Say it again,” he interrupted, stepping off the wall.

One step. Just one. And her back hit the locked church doors.

“Say it again while your thighs clench.”

Her hands tightened around her Bible.

He was close now. Not touching, but close. She could smell sweat, leather, and that deep heat he always carried like a curse. His voice dropped.

“You peekin’ through windows now, Sister Baptiste? Hmmm?”

He cocked his head, tongue grazing the inside of his cheek like he was savoring her shame.

“You touch yourself after? Say a prayer with wet fingers? You imagine it was you bent over that sill? Your sweet holy mouth stretched open while I whisper all the ways I’ma ruin you?”

She gasped, but it wasn’t from offense.

It was the image.

The truth of it.

She tried to speak. Her lips trembled. Her knees weakened.

Stack stepped in just enough to let the buckle of his belt graze the hem of her skirt. His voice lowered again—filthy now, syruped with grit.

“Ain’t gotta watch through glass anymore, baby. You want a seat at the show, I’ll let you ride front row.”

Marigold’s breath stuttered.

He leaned in—nose brushing hers—and whispered.

“Or better yet…you can be the whole damn act.”

And then—like a devil disappearing into smoke—he stepped back, straightened his suspenders, and lit his cigarette without another word.

As he turned to walk away, he called over his shoulder:

“Next time you wanna see me fuck, just knock.”

—-

Her house was always quiet.

Not peaceful—just quiet in the way a tomb is quiet. Every corner was neatly pressed, every chair perfectly placed. No music played past sundown. No laughter echoed from the walls. Only the ticking of the hall clock and the occasional creak of old pine floors.

Sister Marigold Baptiste’s house smelled of lemon oil, starch, and ivory soap. The curtains were lace but thick. The wallpaper faded at the seams from years of sunlight, but no one dared replace it. Everything inside her home existed the way the church said it should: untouched, unbothered, unwavering.

The kitchen was clean. Too clean.

Not a spice jar out of place. No open jars of jam. Just tins sealed tight, cast-iron pans shining with lard that hadn’t been used in a week. Dinner had been plain—boiled greens, cold cornmeal, baked fish with barely any salt. Reverend Baptiste ate in silence, chewing slow, pausing only to murmur a prayer between bites.

Marigold sat across from him, her napkin folded just so in her lap.

No conversation.

No affection.

When he was done, he stood, kissed her forehead like a dutiful cousin, and retreated to the den to read scripture by lamplight.

“You staying up long?” he asked without looking.

“A little while,” she replied.

“Don’t let the bathwater run too hot. It weakens the body.”

“Yes, husband.”

And he disappeared behind the door like he always did.

The bathroom was cooler, tucked at the back of the house. A clawfoot tub sat in the corner, porcelain clean. She lit a single oil lamp, let her shadow stretch across the white tile, and ran the water slowly.

The scent of lavender and castile filled the air.

She slipped out of her house dress—gray with faint pinstripes—and hung it neatly on the hook.

Beneath, she wore a girdle and cotton chemise. Plain. Functional. She peeled them off slowly, folding as she went, revealing brown skin still soft, still untouched, still full. Her breasts were heavy, her hips wide, her thighs generous. But all of it had been hidden so long it hardly felt like hers.

She stepped into the tub and sank down, eyes closed.

The water was too hot. She didn’t care.

She leaned back and let the warmth kiss her neck, her collarbone, the creases behind her knees. Her hair stayed pinned up—until she reached for it.

The pins slid free one by one, clinking against the porcelain. Her coils tumbled down, thick and dark, brushing her shoulders.

She never let it down unless she was alone.

Not even for Obadiah.

He never asked.

Later, in the bedroom, she stood before the mirror in her nightgown. It was floor-length, high-necked, with pearl buttons and long sleeves. She had three of the same gown. White. Cotton. Worn thin at the seams.

She unbuttoned it only to her chest, then paused.

The mirror caught the curve of her waist, the shadow between her breasts. The lamp behind her made the fabric look sheer in places. Her thighs pressed together.

Her gaze dropped to the dresser drawer.

The Bible sat on top.

Beneath it, hidden in a box of old handkerchiefs, was a folded white cloth—a scarf she used during prayer, or when the Holy Spirit moved in service.

Her fingers hovered over the drawer pull.

She didn’t open it.

She slid beneath the sheets alone. Obadiah was already snoring faintly in the next room. He hadn’t touched her in years. Not out of cruelty—just disinterest. She had long ago accepted that her body was not for pleasure.

But still…

Stack’s voice lived in her mind.

Don’t come to the gates of hell if you don’t want the devil to notice you.

She turned on her side.

Her thighs clenched.

Her nipples ached.

Her hand moved beneath the covers. Then stopped. Hovered.

She couldn’t.

Not yet.

She stared at the ceiling and whispered, almost bitterly.

“God help me.”

But deep inside her, something whispered back.

I don’t want help.

I want to burn.

—-

The sanctuary was packed.

Wooden fans waved in slow rhythm, stirring the heat but not chasing it. Women in wide-brimmed hats dabbed at their foreheads with monogrammed handkerchiefs. Men in wool suits shifted in their pews, sweat trickling beneath starched collars. The choir was just finishing “Draw Me Nearer”, their voices heavy with spirit, but even heavier with July humidity.

Sister Marigold Baptiste sat front and center, her back straight, her hands folded neatly over her lap. Her prayer scarf lay draped across her knees. Her lips were closed. Eyes forward.

But her mind—her mind was somewhere else.

The night before.

Stack’s mouth.

His voice.

The way he stood in the doorway like he’d been sent to tempt her specifically.

She could still see the sweat on his chest. The way it beaded low on his stomach before disappearing into those dark slacks. The way his tongue flicked between his teeth when he grinned at her like he knew.

And he did know.

She had turned away too slowly.

Walked too fast.

Her hips had betrayed her.

Her thoughts had betrayed her.

She crossed her legs now, knees pressed tighter than necessary beneath her Sunday skirt.

From the pulpit, Reverend Obadiah Baptiste raised his voice.

“The devil is bold in these final days! He sets his roots deep in music, liquor, lust—”

The word lust hit her like a slap. Her stomach fluttered.

“—he sends his foot soldiers to the corners of our city! Juke joints! Brothels! The so-called blues halls where women bare their bodies and men throw their futures into bottles!”

The Blackline.

He meant The Blackline.

Everyone knew it.

Some nodded. Some hummed in agreement.

But Marigold sat still, her pulse thudding in her ears.

Her eyes drifted—not to the pulpit, but to the congregation. Somewhere near the back, two young women leaned into each other, whispering behind gloved hands. She recognized one of them—used to be in her girls’ purity class.

Now she wore lipstick.

Had her hair curled in waves.

Her stocking seam wasn’t even straight.

Loose, they would’ve called her once.

But now?

Marigold couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop thinking…

Is she the kind he touches? The kind he holds against the wall and fills with all that heat?

She felt her pulse in her thighs.

Her drawers dampening.

Her breath shortening.

She opened her hymnal.

Then closed it again.

Reverend Obadiah’s voice rose.

“We must be vigilant! The enemy does not rest. He preys on the flesh. He makes you think what’s unclean is sweet. He poisons the tongue and quickens the loins!”

Quickens the loins.

Marigold bit the inside of her cheek.

She thought of Stack’s belt, the sound it made when it slid from his trousers. She thought of being bent over her own prayer bench, her face pressed to the wood, tears and desire mixing together. She thought of him punishing her for every wicked thought.

And then—God help her—

She ached.

When the sermon ended, she stood with the others, but her hands trembled against the back of the pew. Someone asked her if she was all right.

She smiled.

Small.

Tight.

“Just the Spirit moving,” she said.

And the woman nodded.

But the Spirit didn’t move that way.

Not in the places she felt it.

—-

The house was darker than usual.

Marigold moved through it like a ghost, the hem of her nightgown brushing the wooden floor. The fabric clung to her legs with every step, the humidity making her feel bare even in layers.

Obadiah had gone to bed after prayer.

He didn’t ask if she was coming.

He never did.

She lit a single lamp in the bedroom. Its golden light pooled on the quilt, casting her shadow across the wall—long, full, womanly. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and stopped.

The collar of her gown had come loose. One button undone.

She didn’t fix it.

Instead, she moved to the bed and sat at the edge.

Her thighs were already pressed together.

She hadn’t touched herself in nearly two decades. Not since her wedding. Not since the night before Obadiah laid beside her, turned his back, and told her that—

the flesh is weak but the Spirit must lead.

But tonight?

Tonight the flesh was singing.

She leaned back on the pillows, let her legs fall open just enough to feel the cool air kiss the heat between them. Her gown rode up, soft cotton rising over bare knees.

And her hand…

Trembled as it slid down.

Over her hip.

Across the curve of her thigh.

Down between—

Wet. Soaked. Drenched unholy.

She gasped softly and bit her lip.

Her fingers circled slow, teasing herself like she was learning, like she didn’t already know what her body craved.

Then, without meaning to, she whispered—

“Elias…”

Just once.

Then again.

“Stack…”

Her free hand clutched the sheet.

Her mind filled with him—shirtless, belt loose, tongue flicking fast between his fingers. His voice telling her she was a sinner. That she needed to be broken. That he’d show her what forgiveness felt like.

She pressed deeper.

Slid her fingers in slow, the way she imagined he would—rough but careful. Her hips lifted. Her jaw fell slack. Her moans were breathy, choked, but steady.

And when she came—

It rolled through her like a hymn.

Silent.

Trembling.

Whole.

She collapsed back into the pillows, heart racing, mouth open in the dark.

The shame would come later.

But in that moment?

She was free.

—-

The sun rose cruel and bright.

By mid-afternoon, the church women were out again, signs in hand, heat sticking to every inch of cotton and conviction. The usual hymns were humming—faint, forced, fraying at the edges.

Marigold stood among them, Bible against her chest like armor.

But something had changed.

She couldn’t stop remembering how her hand moved beneath her gown. How his name had spilled from her mouth. How her knees had shaken when she whispered, “Yes, Stack…” like a confession.

Her skin still tingled.

Her guilt sat high on her chest.

She almost didn’t come today.

But she did.

She always did.

The Blackline’s door creaked open. The music dipped.

And there he was.

Stack.

Leaning against the frame, shirt undone, vest open, sweat licking the dip of his collarbone.

But today…he wore a belt.

Not fastened.

Draped over one shoulder.

A heavy, black leather belt with a silver buckle that glinted when it caught the sun.

He stepped down the stairs, slow as sin. Took one drag of his cigarette and let the smoke curl around his words.

“Afternoon, saints.”

Cordelia laughed from inside, peeking over the top half of the door like a devil in silk.

“Look like we got a holy protest, Stack! You bring your scripture?”

“Better,” he said, pulling the belt off his shoulder.

He let it hang from one hand, low and loose, like he didn’t need to use it—but might.

His eyes locked on Marigold.

Everyone else disappeared.

He said nothing.

Just snapped the belt once.

CRACK!

The sound sliced the silence. Birds scattered from a nearby wire. One of the younger church women jumped.

But Marigold?

She stood frozen.

Hands clenched at her Bible. Chest rising. Lips parted. Her thighs pressed together so tightly it hurt.

Stack grinned.

“You keep showin’ up, Sister. You sure you ain’t here for the beatin’?”

The women gasped.

Cordelia howled with laughter.

“Ooh, he nasty!”

Stack stepped closer—close enough that she could smell the musk and cologne on his skin.

He leaned in, belt still swaying in his grip.

“I’ll put you over my lap and teach you what obedience really feel like.”

“You’re disgusting,” she hissed.

“And you wet.”

Her breath caught.

His voice dropped lower.

“You came last night, didn’t you? Whispered my name into that pillow? You think I ain’t know?”

Marigold turned to leave, nearly stumbling.

But as she walked away, he called out.

“That belt’s waitin’, Sister. And I don’t miss a mark!”

The other girls clutched each other, laughing and gasping, their heels clicking as they darted back inside, fanning themselves with cocktail menus.

And Stack?

He stayed where he was.

Belt in hand.

Watching her hips sway like they were already sore.

—-

The night air was thick.

Not warm. Not cool. Just heavy—like breath held too long.

Marigold lay on top of the covers, her nightgown clinging to her skin like confession. She had left the windows open and the fan on, but no breeze stirred. The room was still, the kind of stillness that listens.

Obadiah was in the next room again. They hadn’t shared a bed in years. The excuse had always been prayer, back pain, fasting, a calling toward celibacy. She never questioned it—not out loud. But tonight, lying alone beneath the shadows of her own house, Marigold wanted to scream.

Instead, she whispered.

“God help me.”

But the prayer felt thin. Hollow. Something she said out of habit more than hope.

She let her hand rest lightly against her stomach.

Then drift lower.

Over the soft slope of her belly.

Between her thighs.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

Her eyes closed. Her breath slowed.

And she slipped into a dream.

It began like always—The Blackline behind her, signs in hand, sweat rolling down the valley of her back beneath her blouse. The other women were chanting something, but the sound turned watery, slow, like hymns in molasses.

Then he appeared.

Stack.

Sweat-slicked. Bare-chested. A cigar between his lips and a belt in his hand.

Not coiled.

Loose.

He said nothing at first.

Just circled her.

Slow.

Predator-like.

Marigold’s body stood still in the dream, but her thoughts raced—heat blooming low and fast, like a match to oil.

“Say you want it,” he spoke low and seductively.

She shook her head.

He chuckled.

“You already bent.”

And she was.

Bent over a pew.

Hands flat.

Breath shaking.

Nightgown raised.

The belt touched the curve of her ass—not a strike, just a whisper.

Then another.

Then the crack.

SMACK.

She gasped.

He pressed his hand to the sting.

“You take it so good.”

Another strike.

And another.

Her legs trembled. Her pussy dripped.

He bent low behind her, kissed the place he’d punished, and growled:

“Beg me for it.”

In the dream, she did.

She heard her own voice—breathy, broken.

“Please…Elias…I need to be punished. I want it. Make me feel it…”

He shoved his fingers between her thighs.

“You already do.”

She woke with a jolt.

Soaked.

Panting.

Shaking.

The sheets beneath her were damp. Her thighs slick. Her heart thudded like sin behind her ribs.

She sat up, pressing her palm to her mouth.

The shame was instant. Sharp. But underneath it…

Something else stirred.

Need.

Need that wasn’t fleeting.

Need that was coming back for her.

—-

The church was empty.

The hymnals had been closed. The final amen had drifted up like smoke into rafters built on faith and long-suffering. The women had left in pairs, heels clicking, voices hushed with evening gossip. Even the deacons had gone, muttering about supper and the rising heat.

Only Marigold remained.

She stood alone at the pulpit, hands clenched around the edges, her chest rising and falling faster than the sermon should have left it.

The sanctuary was warm. Too warm.

Her scarf clung to the back of her neck. Her blouse stuck between her breasts. Sweat trickled along her ribs and she hated it— hated the way the stillness felt sinful, hated the way her thoughts burned.

Not with holiness.

But with him.

With Elias Moore.

With the way her body had come hard and soaked the night before, whispering his name like he was the one baptizing her in bed.

She had scrubbed herself twice this morning. Prayed twice before noon. But nothing could cleanse her skin of the memory of how it felt to want something so violently it made her sob in the dark.

And now—

Now the sound from across the street was louder than ever.

The Blackline was pulsing.

Low bass. Laughter. Rhythm. Lust.

Every note that drifted from those cracked doors felt like temptation calling her by name.

It wasn’t just music—it was mockery.

“I ain’t yours,” the beat seemed to say.

But you wanna be mine.

She stormed from the church before she could talk herself down.

The street was almost empty, save for the soft hum of nightlife and the thick heat of late summer settling like syrup.

Marigold didn’t stop at the gate.

Didn’t pray at the stoop.

She walked right across the road like a woman possessed, her skirt swinging with fury, her heels striking the pavement like rebuke.

When she reached the side door of The Blackline, it was already open.

He was already there.

Stack.

Leaning in the doorway, shirt half-open, suspenders low, a glass of dark liquor in one hand and that goddamn grin carved into his face.

“Well, well. Thought I smelled judgment comin’.”

She didn’t blink.

“You—”

Her voice broke, rage clenching her throat.

She stepped inside. Just a few feet. Just far enough to feel how hot the air was. How real he looked up close.

“You disgusting, vulgar, filthy man.”

He took a sip, unbothered.

“Guilty.”

“You stand out here like the devil himself, throwin’ filth at me in front of women who look up to me! You embarrass me. You—”

“You embarrass yourself, Sister,” he cut in, low and sharp, “All that fire in your voice and none in your husband’s bed. You mad at me ‘cause I noticed what he’s too scared to touch.”

She stepped closer.

Furious.

Breath shaking.

“You think just ‘cause you walk around with your chest out and your belt hangin’ like a weapon, you can say whatever you want to me?!”

He licked his bottom lip slow.

“Nah, Sister. I say what I say ‘cause every time I do—you clench. Just like you doin’ right now.”

Her hand flew—open-palmed, angry—but he caught her wrist mid-air.

Fast. Gentle. Firm.

She gasped.

He didn’t let go.

“Wanna hit me? Or wanna beg me?”

Her chest rose hard. Her cheeks flushed.

She tried to pull away, but he stepped in, the heat between them thick as sin.

“Tell the truth, Sister Marigold.”

His voice dropped.

“You touched yourself after I brought out that belt, didn’t you?”

She froze.

“You put your hand between them holy thighs and thought about me bendin’ you over.”

She shook her head, trembling.

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” he whispered, “I ain’t mad at you. You human. Just like me.”

“You’re not like me,” she snapped, trying to pull free again.

He didn’t let go.

“Not yet.”

Their eyes locked.

For a moment, the room was nothing but breath and want.

Hatred like kindling.

Desire like flame.

Then she finally yanked her wrist away and backed toward the door.

“You’re gonna rot in hell,” she spat.

He smiled, slow and deliberate.

“Only if you rot beside me, Sister.”

She turned and fled.

But he watched.

Watched the sway of her hips.

Watched the tremble in her spine.

And knew—next time, she wouldn’t run.

—-

At first, it felt like a blessing.

No signs.

No scripture-chanting at dusk.

No Sister Marigold standing tall at the curb, eyes sharp, mouth tight, Bible pressed flat against her chest like it could guard her from what he made her feel.

Stack leaned against the doorframe of The Blackline that first night she didn’t show, puffing a cigar with the girls buzzing behind him. Cordelia was laughing with her head thrown back. Odessa slipped between patrons like a serpent in silk. Mirabel twirled to the band warming up on stage.

But something was missing.

Something in the air didn’t bite the same.

No judgmental stares to push against.

No tight lips to tease.

No heat pressed beneath holy layers for him to unpeel with his eyes.

“Where the Bible Brigade at?” Cordelia asked, sauntering past with her hand on her hip, “Y’all finally scared ‘em off?”

“Maybe she laid hands on herself too hard,” Lana snorted, “Repented and ruptured.”

Laughter followed. Girls trailed into the night. Smoke curled up toward the moon.

But Stack?

He just watched the street.

Empty.

Clean.

Too damn quiet.

Days passed.

Then a week.

No protests.

No hymn humming.

No hard swallow from the Sister trying not to look at his chest when he stood in the sun. He didn’t say it aloud, but Stack started stepping out earlier in the evening—just to see. Lighting his cigarette before the music even started. Lingered near the gate. Checked the alley beside the church.

Nothing.

The following Friday, Cordelia caught him staring again.

“She ain’t comin’, baby,” she said, leaning into his space, “You broke her. Or maybe she finally realized how bad she wanna be broken.”

He didn’t answer.

Just clenched his jaw and lit another match off the brick.

“Or maybe,” Liza June chimed in, “she been touchin’ herself too good to risk fallin’ at your feet.”

Mirabel laughed behind her palm, “She’ll be back. Them holy ones always come back once they realize God ain’t the only one who likes to watch.”

But Stack didn’t laugh.

He stepped out to the edge of the porch, scanning the street again.

Still nothing.

No swishing skirt.

No pinched lips.

No belt-worthy tension bottled up in righteous fury.

Just the faint echo of her voice in his memory.

You’re vulgar. You embarrass me.

He licked his teeth.

Then muttered under his breath.

“Come back and say it again, Sister. I’ll give you somethin’ to be ashamed of.”

That night, when the club quieted and the music dipped into blues low and sweet, Stack sat in the corner booth alone. A girl tried to slide in beside him—he waved her off.

He nursed his glass, watching the door.

Wondering if maybe she really wasn’t coming back.

And why, in the deepest part of him, that thought felt like a loss.

—-

The Blackline ran smooth that night.

Liquor flowed easy. Music was hot and low. The girls were moving slow enough to tease and fast enough to earn. Every booth had company. Every room had noise.

And Stack?

He was restless.

He sat at the bar, swirling his drink, one elbow propped, watching the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

Cordelia was on stage, hips rolling slow, her voice a slow burn against the upright bass. Mirabel was on her knees at a table, flirting like a preacher’s daughter with a knife behind her back. Liza June was tucked between a businessman’s thighs, hand sliding up slow with a smile that promised sin.

Stack had broken every one of them.

He knew the moment it happened for each:

When Cordelia had dropped her robe and whispered, “What do you want me to do first, boss?”

When Mirabel had spread her thighs on his desk and asked if he wanted to watch or taste.

When Liza had crawled between his legs, a virgin with a filthy mouth, and said, “I wanna learn the hard way.”

He broke them all in his own time.

Not through cruelty.

Not with force.

With heat. Voice. Hunger. Control.

He trained them with looks, commands, the press of his hand low on their backs.

And they loved him for it.

But Sister Marigold?

She was the one he hadn’t touched.

Not yet.

She was the tightest lock he’d ever seen—and Stack was a man who collected keys.

He wanted her bent and begging.

He wanted to peel the starch off her, inch by inch—until her thighs were open, her mouth was filthy, and she was asking for what she used to condemn.

“Break her slow,” he muttered to himself, “Make her feel every crack.”

He imagined her again—nightgown clinging, thighs wet, mouth forming his name like it was the only scripture that still moved her.

He’d take her in steps.

First, a kiss—shocking, deep, with his fingers pressed just under her jaw.

Then, his belt—not striking yet, just dragging the leather over her thighs, slow enough to make her tremble.

After that? He’d have her on her knees, not praying. Watching her lips wrap around his fat dick like she’d been made for it.

“She’ll cry the first time,” he said aloud, “But not from shame.”

He stood from the bar and walked into the back hallway where it was quiet. The music dulled behind thick walls. His office door loomed at the end, but he didn’t go there.

He leaned against the wall.

Lit a fresh cigarette.

And stared at the front door like it might open and reveal her.

Come back so I can watch you fall apart.

And this time?

He wouldn’t stop her.

He’d make sure she never wanted to stand again.

—-

The fellowship hall smelled of deviled eggs, Pine-Sol, and slow-cooked rice. The women of Greater Calvary bustled between tables in church dresses and lace gloves, laughter echoing off whitewashed walls and pressed tin ceilings.

Marigold sat at the center table, her napkin folded neatly in her lap, hands poised around a glass of sweet tea that had already begun to sweat. She wore a soft peach blouse with a high neck and a gray skirt that fell to her ankles. Her hair was pinned back tighter than usual. Not a coil out of place.

She smiled where she was expected to smile.

Laughed when the timing called for it.

But her stomach was in knots.

Not from nerves.

From hunger.

Sister Ruth tapped her fork against her plate to get everyone’s attention.

“Ain’t this a blessing? We don’t gather enough outside of service. Just us womenfolk.”

A few amens fluttered through the room.

They went back to talking, eating, asking about children and neighbors and sore knees. Sister Lula mentioned her husband’s failing eyesight. Sister Anita bragged about her eldest joining the choir. Sister Bernice, always the sharpest tongue, leaned forward with a knowing squint.

“Y’all notice we ain’t protested outside that juke in two weeks now?”

That silenced the table for a moment.

Marigold’s fingers tightened around her tea glass.

“The Blackline,” Bernice continued, “Devil’s playground. Smut in stereo. Music that make your hips move without permission.”

“Mmm-hmm,” another woman agreed, “One of them girls strutted right past me on Saturday night. Smelled like bourbon and fornication.”

Laughter.

Someone muttered, “The jezebels multiplyin’.”

“What happened to our witness?” Bernice pressed, “We supposed to be light. But we ain’t marched by in days.”

Eyes turned, slowly, toward Marigold.

She smiled. Stiff. Careful.

“The Spirit led me to rest a while,” she said softly, “Let the dust settle.”

Ruth nodded, “That’s wise. Don’t want our protest to become performance.”

But Bernice’s eyes narrowed.

“Still. I heard that Stack Moore said somethin’ vulgar last time. Real shameful. Called out your name, Sister Marigold.”

Marigold’s throat closed.

“Is it true he said he’d—what was it—bend you over a pew and teach you obedience?”

Gasps and scandalous giggles rippled across the table.

“Men like that,” Ruth said, fanning herself, “need a swift stone to the head, like Goliath.”

“Or a woman to put him on his knees,” someone murmured.

They laughed again.

But Marigold didn’t.

She reached for her water. Took a small sip. Let it rest on her tongue like wine in a chalice.

They didn’t know.

They didn’t see the way her thighs pressed together beneath her skirt.

They didn’t hear the way her breath caught.

They didn’t feel the way her skin burned remembering the belt he held, the way his voice sounded like sin wrapped in syrup.

Say you want it.

I’ll break you slow.

She swallowed and placed her glass back down, careful not to let her hand tremble.

“The devil has always used noise to distract the saints,” she said.

The women muttered in agreement.

But inside?

Marigold was buzzing.

Not from fear, but from want.

And she knew it wouldn’t be long.

Soon, she’d walk down that street again.

Not as a protestor.

But as a woman ready to be broken open.

—-

The parlor was dim, lit only by the warm flicker of an oil lamp and the last dregs of daylight bleeding through lace curtains. The house was still. Even the floorboards had gone quiet. Reverend Obadiah Baptiste had retired early, as always. He didn’t ask why she stayed behind in the parlor, kneeling at the small altar near the window with her scarf wrapped around her shoulders and her knees pressed into the worn rug like penance.

He never asked anything of her anymore.

Which made what she was about to ask of God feel all the heavier.

She had been kneeling for nearly an hour.

Back straight. Hands folded. Bible in her lap.

Whispers had long since turned to pleas.

“Lord, I rebuke it. Take the thoughts. Take the hunger. Purify my flesh…even if it withers.”

Her voice cracked.

Her fingers trembled.

Her thighs ached from being pressed so tight together for days.

She hadn’t touched herself since that night in bed.

Not once.

Not when she woke up sweating from dreams. Not when her breasts ached from wanting to be kissed, held, bitten. Not when her thighs clenched so hard she saw stars.

She thought denial would purify her.

But it only made her crave more.

And he was everywhere.

Elias. Stack. The devil in skin.

He lived behind her eyelids.

The way he stood with his shirt open and belt hanging loose, his voice low and slow, eyes full of fire.

Wanna hit me or beg me, Sister?

Say you want it. I’ll wait.

She hadn’t said it.

Not then.

But in her head, she said it every night.

Tears welled.

She opened her Bible, but the words blurred.

She pressed her forehead to it, whispering through clenched teeth:

“Why can’t I stop thinking about him?”

Her breath hitched.

The tears came harder.

“Why does my body betray me? Why does your name feel weak next to his?”

She covered her mouth.

She hadn’t meant to say that last part aloud.

She gasped.

And then she broke.

The tears came—hot, silent, wrenching. Her shoulders shook. Her face crumpled against the worn leather of the Good Book as though it could absorb the filth inside her.

But it didn’t.

It just sat there.

Like it always had.

Still. Unmoving.

While she burned.

She stayed there for what felt like forever.

Not praying.

Just breathing.

And finally, whispering the one truth she couldn’t outrun anymore:

“I want him.”

Not in marriage. Not in courtship. Not in righteousness.

“I want to be ruined.”

She let the words sit in the dark air. And this time, no voice answered back.

Only the distant, rhythmic pulse of The Blackline across town.

—-

The air outside the church was thick with Mississippi heat and choir song.

Women stood in small circles on the front lawn of Greater Calvary, fanning themselves with paper programs and sharing the latest on husbands, births, and backsliders. Their skirts were long, hems brushing the dirt. Their sleeves reached wrists. Not a bit of flesh where it could help it.

And still—

Stack Moore watched them like it was a burlesque.

He was leaned back against his black Buick at the far corner of the block, shirt open halfway down his chest, belt undone at the top, one foot crossed over the other like sin had manners. His fedora was tipped just enough to shade his eyes, but the glint of mischief could still be seen clear as day. A rolled cigarette hung lazy between two fingers.

He licked it once—slow.

Twice—slower.

Then smiled.

“Damn shame,” he muttered, “how holy a mouth can look when it’s meant for filth.”

He didn’t move.

Just stood there, licking and rolling like he was thinking of something far less sacred than salvation.

Then she came out.

Sister Marigold.

Her Bible clutched close, lips tight, spine straighter than judgment. She walked like royalty in a battlefield—chaste but carved like a woman who wasn’t made to be untouched. That skirt hugged her hips just enough to tempt a gaze.

And Stack gave in.

“Mmm,” he hissed through his teeth, low and hungry, “That walk could raise the dead.”

She didn’t look at him—but her steps faltered.

He watched her go, watched the sway, and when she passed the edge of the church gate, he called out:

“Don’t walk like that if you don’t want a man prayin’ on his knees behind you, Sister!”

Gasps cut through the churchwomen like wind through reeds.

Marigold didn’t break stride—but her jaw clenched so tight it could’ve split wood.

Stack just smiled, rolled his cigarette between his lips, and tipped his hat slow.

Then turned.

And strolled into the mouth of The Blackline like he was the one leaving worship.

The air was cooler inside, humming with jazz and slow motion. Cordelia was behind the bar in a silk wrap and no bra, pouring bourbon like she was serving confession. Peaches was perched on a stool with her legs wide, red lipstick freshly applied and conversation just as hot.

They spotted Stack the moment he entered.

“Lord, look who just finished leering at the flock,” Peaches teased.

“You see the way Marigold walkin’?” Cordelia added, “Like she don’t know she got two whole sermons sittin’ on her hips.”

They laughed, loud and knowing.

Stack didn’t even sit. Just leaned on the bar and grinned.

“She hold her mouth too tight,” he said, plucking the cigarette from his pocket, “Scared if she pout, somebody gon’ see what them lips really made for.”

That made Peaches slap her knee.

“You a fool, Stack.”

“Nah,” he drawled, “I’m just waitin’. Holy don’t mean hard. Just means it ain’t been touched right.”

Cordelia leaned closer.

“Heard some girls from church came in here last week,” she whispered, half thrill, half scandal, “Young things. Fresh-faced. Left with stockings down and men on they knees under tables. Sucking.”

Stack blinked, then he smiled, slow, wicked.

“Church got better altar calls than I thought.”

Peaches licked her straw.

“You know who else I bet be hidin’ somethin’ under them skirts? Marigold. Tight drawstrings don’t mean dry. Just mean she screamin’ behind her eyes.”

Cordelia whistled.

“Ain’t no preacher man alive know how to handle all that body. She don’t need a pastor.”

“She need a wolf,” Stack finished.

He lit his cigarette, eyes low and voice thick.

“And I got teeth.”

—-

The Blackline’s upstairs office was smoky and dim, the only light coming from the desk lamp and the sliver of moon slicing through the blinds.

Stack was reclined in the desk chair, sleeves rolled up, shirt open. He was flipping through the tally book with one hand and rolling his toothpick between his lips with the other—still damp from his post-bath grin.

The door creaked open.

Smoke stepped in, tie loose, vest gone, the scent of vanilla and woman still clinging to his skin.

“Look at you,” Stack muttered without looking up, “Ain’t even need to ask where you been.”

Smoke gave a small smirk.

“You jealous, little brotha?” Smoke taunted.

“Mmm,” Stack drawled, slow and slick, “Ain’t touched pussy in eons. Walkin’ round here pussy drunk. That lil’ thing got you spellbound. What she got between her legs, a holy ghost?”

“Least I tasted it,” Smoke shot back, “Had her legs on my shoulders till she went to sleep,” he said, voice deep and smooth, “You ever eat a woman so slow she dream ‘bout it twice?”

Stack scoffed, grin twitching. He stood up and leaned in the office doorway, smirking with his toothpick caught between his teeth, watching Smoke pour himself a glass of bourbon.

Stack raised a brow, “Say what now?”

Smoke didn’t look up.

Didn’t smile.

Just took a sip and leaned back in his chair, cool and unbothered. Smoke met his gaze then—steady, bored, and deadly.

“You the one leering through church windows like a starving hound,” he said, voice low, “That holy woman got you pressed up against the glass like a boy who never learned what to do with his hands.”

Smoke kept going.

“You talkin’ slick, but you ain’t even tasted what you obsessin’ over. All them dames in here throwin’ pussy and you sittin’ in your car waitin’ for a woman who don’t even speak your name unless it’s followed by ‘hellfire.’”

Stack chuckled deep, but it was tight in his chest.

“She gonna say my name,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Smoke said, mouth tipping into a lazy smirk, “Right after you make her come so hard she forgets the Book of Psalms.”

He took another sip.

“So don’t talk to me about bein’ pussy-whipped when you out here tryin’ to baptize in backshots.”

Stack chuckled, slapped the book shut.

“Yeah? That little thing got you lit up like a Sunday candle. Been hummin’ her name since last week.”

Smoke leaned against the desk, arms folded, eyebrow raised.

“And you over here sweatin’ behind windows and doorways for a woman who still tucks her blouse in with a cross ‘round her neck.”

Stack’s grin dropped just a little.

“Say what you want. That woman’s mouth tight ‘cause she afraid to let it moan.”

“Nah,” Smoke said, slow, “She tight ‘cause you ain’t broke her yet. And it’s killin’ you.”

Stack looked away, flicked his toothpick once.

“You don’t know what the fuck you talkin’ about.”

Smoke chuckled, deep and low.

“Don’t I? You watch her like a dog at the fence. Lickin’ your lips every time she quote scripture.”

“So?”

“So next time you jack off thinkin’ ‘bout Sister Marigold, try not to say ‘amen’ when you nut.”

Stack barked a laugh despite himself.

“Fuck you.”

Smoke shrugged.

——

The sanctuary was nearly empty.

The last of the women had gone an hour ago, the scent of their perfume and powder still lingering in the air. A few hymnals lay closed across the pews. The lamps were low. The cross above the altar cast a long shadow down the center aisle like a wound still bleeding.

Sister Marigold Baptiste stood alone.

She was collecting donation slips. Fixing the flowers in the vestibule. Pretending she was busy and unbothered when truly, her body was still humming from what she almost did in the alley the night before.

She turned to reach for a stack of folded linen.

And froze.

The door creaked.

Bootsteps echoed—slow, deliberate.

He didn’t call her name.

Didn’t announce himself.

Just let the sound of his walk fill the air, followed by a lazy, Southern drawl that settled like sin against stained glass.

“Ain’t no service tonight. You stayin’ back to pray for me, Sister?”

Stack Moore.

She turned so fast the linen slipped from her hand.

“What are you doing in here?”

He stood just past the back pew, the brim of his hat dipped low, shirt unbuttoned at the chest, sleeves rolled like he’d come straight from work—or a sin he didn’t regret.

“Saw the light was still on,” he said, slow and easy, “Thought maybe somebody holy could teach me somethin’.”

“You need to leave,” she whispered, trying to sound firm, but her voice shook.

He didn’t.

He walked.

Each step toward her made her pulse trip faster. He passed the pews like they weren’t even there, eyes locked on her the whole way.

“Where your holy preacher husband at?” he asked, stopping a few feet short.

“He’s home.”

“Home?” Stack repeated, cocking his head, “And you out here by yourself? In the dark? In this big ol’ church?”

He smiled without warmth.

“Ain’t wise, Sister. Lotta crazy niggas and worse out there. Crackers too. You shouldn’t be alone.”

She didn’t reply.

Couldn’t.

Because now he was closer, leaning against the edge of the pulpit like the weight of the Lord didn’t press on him. Like the church didn’t scare him. His fingers tapped the wood like a slow ticking clock.

“Let me ask you somethin’,” he said, voice low, “Why you protest?”

She blinked, “Because—because that place is a den of filth and—”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

He straightened, took a step closer.

“I said why you protest? Every damn week. You ain’t tired? Ain’t got better things to do than shout about sin to people who already made peace with it?”

Her chin rose, stubborn.

“It’s wrong what y’all do in there. Wrong what you allow.”

“Ain’t no one draggin’ them girls in. They come on they own.”

“Because you tempt them.”

He smiled.

“Maybe. Or maybe they just wanted somethin’ they never had before.”

He took another step. They were close now. His scent wrapped around her—tobacco, musk, sweat. Her knees locked, and her fingers gripped the edge of the hymn stand.

“Let me ask you one more thing,” his voice dropped an octave, “He touchin’ you right?”

She blinked, “Excuse me?”

“Your husband,” Stack said, tone dipping into something darker, “He fuckin’ you right? He get between them thighs and eat that holy little pussy ‘til you cry?”

Her hand flew up—instinctive. But he caught her wrist before it landed.

Not hard. Not cruel. Just firm.

She tried to pull away.

“Let me go.”

“Answer me.”

“You’re sick—”

“Nah. I’m just honest.”

He stepped even closer.

Now his chest brushed hers. His nose nearly touched hers. His breath was warm on her lips.

“I bet he don’t even know what you sound like when you moan.”

She was trembling.

He could see it.

“I bet he never made you cum on your knees with your face in the sheets beggin’ for more.”

“I refuse to fall into sin,” she breathed, trying to hold her ground.

“No,” he whispered, “You already there. You just don’t wanna admit it.”

She turned her face away, but he followed, slow as syrup, pressing the words right into her ear.

“Say the word, and I’ll take that belt off and give you what you really pray for when you touch yourself at night.”

Marigold broke free with a gasp.

She fled down the aisle, out into the night, her steps wild and uneven.

Stack didn’t follow.

Didn’t move.

Just stood at the altar, a devil in Sunday shoes, watching her run like the temptation hadn’t already claimed her.

—-

Marigold didn’t speak on the walk home.

Her shoes scuffed the dirt in hurried steps, her heart punching at her ribs, throat raw from the way she had almost said his name. Not his title. Not “Mr. Moore.” But his name.

Elias.

The name sat like a bruise under her tongue.

The street was quiet save for the chirping of crickets and the distant throb of music still bleeding out of The Blackline. Even from here, she could feel it—the bass of blues pulsing like a second heartbeat between her legs.

She hated that she could tell which song was playing.

She hated that the memory of his scent was still clinging to her skin.

She hated that her thighs were slick.

She crossed the porch and unlocked the door with trembling hands.

The Home of a Preacher’s Wife

Their house was modest. Clean. Prim.

Lace curtains. Polished oak floors. A hand-carved cross above the mantle. The air was still, as if the walls themselves bowed under the weight of Scripture.

There were no pictures of passion. No laughter in the corners. Just discipline and devotion.

And silence.

Her husband was asleep already. His plate from supper still on the table, barely touched. A folded napkin. His Bible resting beside his chair like a faithful shadow.

She walked past it all.

Into the bathroom.

She locked the door.

Turned the knob on the tub and let the water fill hot and fast, her hands working in jerks as she undressed. She folded her clothes slowly—habit—but her fingers shook so badly she dropped her camisole on the floor.

She stepped into the tub and sank beneath the heat.

It burned.

She didn’t flinch.

She needed it to.

Letting Down the Veil

She washed her skin like she could scrub away memory.

His breath on her cheek.

His words like fingers trailing down her spine.

Say the word, and I’ll take that belt off and give you what you really pray for when you touch yourself at night.

Her thighs clenched.

Her mouth trembled.

When she rose from the bath, steam curled around her like a ghost.

She wrapped herself in a towel and walked to the bedroom.

Her husband lay turned toward the wall, breathing soft and shallow. She watched him for a moment.

She didn’t feel love.

She felt guilt for not feeling love.

She moved to her vanity.

Pulled the pins from her hair.

Let the thick, dark coils fall down her back in a heavy wave.

The image that looked back at her in the mirror wasn’t the preacher’s wife.

It wasn’t even Sister Marigold.

It was something else.

Eyes wide.

Mouth parted.

Skin still flushed from fire.

She slipped on her nightgown—thin cotton, high collar—and slid into bed.

But sleep didn’t come.

Her thighs pressed tighter.

Her breathing shallowed.

Her hand slid beneath the covers—and paused.

No. No. No. No.

Tears burned.

She turned onto her stomach and bit the pillow.

Don’t. You. Dare.

But her hips rolled once.

Twice.

She whispered his name into the linen—once.

Twice.

Bit down until the shame stung harder than the pleasure.

And when she finally came, it was with a stifled cry and the crushing weight of her own betrayal.

—-

The Blackline was quiet for now.

The crowd had emptied in the early hours, their perfume and sin still hanging thick in the walls. Upstairs, behind a hidden panel in his office, Stack’s private quarters were dark but warm with steam.

He stood at the mirror, body still wet from the bath. A white towel clung low around his hips, water beading down the carved slope of his chest, across his stomach, slipping past the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the fold of cotton.

He moved slow. Controlled.

A comb in one hand, the tin of pomade open beside the basin. He slicked his thick black hair into place with steady strokes, jaw clenched just slightly, eyes locked on his reflection.

The girl behind him watched in silence.

Mirabel.

Newer than the others. Quiet but sharp. Loyal to him in a way that was unspoken. She had already laid out his shirt and slacks on the bed. His shoes shined to a spit-polish black. She didn’t speak. Just moved around him like a soft breeze. Waiting. Watching.

Stack stared at himself.

Flicked his wrist and smoothed his part with precision.

“Mmm,” he muttered low, the memory hitting him again.

Her face.

That holy little mouth twisted in fury.

The heat coming off her skin.

The sound of her breath when he leaned close.

Sister Marigold.

“I bet he don’t even know what you sound like when you moan.”

His dick twitched beneath the towel.

Mirabel noticed.

Didn’t say a word.

Just moved forward on silent feet and sank to her knees behind him.

Stack didn’t stop her.

Didn’t need to.

Her hands eased the towel loose. His dick fell heavy and rising.

She took him in hand, warm and obedient, lips parting around the crown like a sacrament.

Stack closed his eyes.

Leaned forward on the vanity with one hand braced against the wood, breath hitching as her tongue circled just right.

But it wasn’t her he saw.

“Yeah…that’s it,” he groaned, “Right there…holy mouth…”

He could see Marigold on her knees.

Hair unbound.

Cross still hanging from her neck while her lips stretched around him, tears sliding down her cheeks, not from pain but shame.

Desire.

Her hands gripping his thighs. That tight mouth forced open for the first time in her life.

And he’d teach her.

How to suck.

How to use her throat.

How to beg while choking on him.

Mirabel bobbed deeper. Sucked harder. Moaned softly around him like a good girl.

But Stack’s body was tight with something darker. Rougher.

He bit down on a groan, hips twitching once—twice—and then he spilled, mouth open, eyes rolled, thinking only of Marigold.

His fingers dug into the wood.

His breath shuddered.

And he smiled.

“Lord help her,” he whispered, “She don’t even know what she in for.”

you shouldn’t have gone over there.

you should’ve stayed with the ache, stayed with the guilt, sat in your bed and stared at the ceiling until it all rotted outta you. but instead, you knocked on stack’s door the next day with your hood pulled low and your eyes still puffy from crying.

he opened it like he was expecting you.

didn’t say nothing at first—just stepped aside, let you walk in. the place smelled like him: cedar, sweat, smoke. like danger dressed in cologne. he watched you pace his living room with that same cocky little smirk like he already knew why you came.

you turned to him, arms crossed tight. “i’m pregnant.”

stack blinked. once. then again.

“…what?”

you swallowed. “i’m pregnant.”

his tongue slid across his bottom lip, slow, thoughtful. “and you think it’s mine?”

you flinched, but nodded. “timeline don’t lie.”

he stared for a long time. then stepped close. “and you told smoke?”

“yeah.”

“how’d that go?”

you looked down. didn’t answer.

stack reached out, lifted your chin with two fingers. “he put hands on you?”

“no. he walked out.”

stack nodded, jaw tight. “good.”

you pulled away. “don’t act like you get to be protective.”

his eyes narrowed. “don’t act like i don’t still got love for you.”

you hated how that made your heart twitch.

you hated even more how you didn’t stop him when he stepped closer, his hand sliding up your side like it belonged there.

“i should go,” you whispered.

he leaned in anyway. “you want me to stop?”

your body said no before your mouth could lie.

he kissed you slow at first, hands gripping your hips like he needed proof you were real. like he still remembered every inch of your body—and he did. his tongue dragged across your bottom lip before dipping in deep, pulling that soft, hungry moan out your throat.

he pushed you against the wall, hands yanking your hoodie off, lips dragging down your neck. he bit you, not hard—just enough to remind you he wasn’t elijah. he didn’t move soft. didn’t ask. he took.

“been dreamin’ about this pussy since the day i left it,” he growled, lifting you like nothing and carrying you straight to the couch. “you’ll look better pregnant.”

you gasped, legs spread as he dropped between them.

“legs open. tongue out.”

you obeyed, breath shaking.

he spit in your mouth, slow and dirty, then kissed you again—let you taste both of you like he loved the way shame coated your tongue. his hand was between your thighs now, thumb dragging through your slick folds, teasing your clit until you were whining and shifting, already too sensitive.

“look at you,” he smirked. “already soaking my fingers. this pussy missed me, huh?”

you nodded fast, whimpering, “yes, yes—fuck, stack, please…”

he chuckled low, tongue trailing down your belly, fingers still working you open. “ain’t even fucked you yet and you beggin’. that’s crazy.”

he licked a long stripe up your slit, moaning like you were the one feeding him. then he buried his mouth in you—loud, wet, nasty. his spit dripped down your ass, chin coated in slick as he sucked your clit, tongue dragging side to side like he was tryna ruin you all over again.

“taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he muttered. “don’t run from it.”

you were crying now, body twitching. he had you wide open, back arched, moaning his name so loud you forgot your own. and when he finally pulled away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, his dick was already out—thick, veiny, curved just right.

you climbed on top without being told.

cowgirl.

his hands gripped your thighs tight as you sank down, your walls pulling him in so slow it made you both groan. he was big—he always was—but this time? it hit different. fuller. heavier. like your body was tryna remember every inch of what you swore you left behind.

“ride this dick,” he grunted, choking you just enough to tilt your chin up. “make it up to me.”

you bounced slow, then faster, moaning loud as his hands smacked your ass and guided your rhythm. your nails dug into his chest. he fucked up into you hard—wet slaps echoing around the room, your cries spilling like sin in the silence.

“you gon’ let me nut in it again?” he asked, low, breathless. “you already mine now. you might as well take it.”

you nodded fast, mouth open, eyes rolling. “yes, yes—give it to me—please, stack—fuck!”

he flipped you over fast, slamming into you now, backshots deep and brutal. your ass bounced with every stroke, and he leaned down, whispering filth into your ear.

“that’s right. take this dick. you love this shit. always been a nasty lil’ thing.”

you were a mess—drool on the pillow, eyes glassy, hands gripping the couch like it was your only anchor.

“who pussy this?” he growled, choking you again, tighter now.

“yours—fuck—it’s yours—”

he nutted deep inside, moaning rough, holding your hips down as your walls milked every drop outta him. and he didn’t pull out.

he didn’t even move.

he just stayed inside you, breathing heavy, forehead pressed to your shoulder.

“we gon’ get a test,” he said into your skin. “but i already know that baby mine.”

you didn’t argue.

because in that moment…

you knew it too.

you didn’t tell stack you were leaving. just got dressed slow, your thighs still shaking, your mouth swollen from kissing and crying too much. your stomach felt heavier now—not just from what he left inside you, but from what was growing there. a truth that couldn’t be undone.

you got home and the silence was thicker than usual.

smoke was in the bedroom. back turned. shirtless, bare shoulders tight with tension. he didn’t say anything when you walked in, didn’t look at you. just sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at his palms like they were holding something too fragile.

you stood in the doorway, heart pounding.

“elijah,” you said, voice soft, almost apologetic.

his head tilted just slightly. “you keep callin’ me that like you ain’t the one who broke me.”

your lips parted, but nothing came out.

he turned then—slow, deliberate. his eyes met yours, and for the first time, they weren’t calm. they weren’t patient.

“i was gon’ marry you.”

your breath hitched. “what?”

“i had the ring.”

his voice didn’t shake. it was steady. flat.

“had it in the drawer for two months. been waitin’ on the right moment. waitin’ on you to be ready. stupid of me, huh?”

your knees buckled a little, but you held yourself up.

“elijah…”

he stood.

walked toward you slow.

when he stopped in front of you, his hand came to your jaw, fingers curling under your chin, lifting your face up to his. his touch was still gentle, but his expression wasn’t.

“i can’t look at you the same.”

you swallowed hard, eyes burning. “i know.”

“but i still want you.”

you blinked. “what?”

his thumb dragged across your bottom lip.

“i still wanna feel you. taste you. remind you what real love feel like.”

you should’ve stepped back. should’ve said no. but your body leaned forward like it was magnetized to him. like guilt and grief and longing had melted into one big need that only he could quiet.

“take it off,” he said, voice low.

you untied your hoodie slow, dropped it to the floor. he watched your hands, not your eyes. he was watching how you trembled. watching how shame still clung to you like perfume.

“turn around.”

you obeyed.

his hands slid over your hips, slow and firm. he leaned in, mouth brushing the back of your neck.

“you smell like him.”

you froze.

but he didn’t stop.

his lips trailed lower, tongue dragging between your shoulder blades. he kissed your spine, then turned you back around. you expected him to be angry. rough. but he wasn’t. he was quiet. slow. and it made it worse.

“get on the bed.”

you climbed up, sitting on your knees. he stripped, slow. deliberate. his body was all muscle, carved lines and sharp edges softened only by the warmth he used to carry for you. he climbed up behind you, tugged you gently into his lap.

“you want this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

you nodded.

he held your chin again. “say it.”

“i want this. i want you.”

he kissed you then, slow and deep, mouth dragging over yours like he was tryna drink you down. your moans came out breathy, full of want and guilt and ache.

he laid you down, settled between your thighs. his hands moved with purpose—rough but reverent. he licked through your folds once, twice, then buried his mouth there, soft but firm. his tongue knew you. remembered you. his fingers curled up inside, slow, deep, pressing your spot just right while he sucked your clit with steady heat.

you were crying again, moaning loud, hips lifting off the sheets.

“you gon’ come for me,” he muttered into your pussy. “come with my name on your tongue.”

“smoke—fuck—please, i’m sorry, i’m sorry—”

he pulled back.

“you ain’t sorry.”

he flipped you over, pulled your ass up, then pushed inside you in one deep, cruel stroke.

you screamed. body arching. hands gripping the pillow like it could save you.

his hand wrapped around your throat, but it wasn’t rough—it was grounding. his other hand came around to rub your clit while he fucked you slow, steady, deep.

“this my pussy,” he whispered against your back. “you forgot, but i’ma remind you.”

“it’s yours—it’s always been yours—”

he bit your shoulder hard enough to bruise.

“say my name.”

“elijah—fuck—elijah!”

his thrusts got sharper. rougher. his fingers circled your clit faster.

“who’s baby in your belly?”

you choked on the moan. “i don’t know—i don’t know—”

he stilled inside you.

then whispered, “i hope it’s mine.”

and then he fucked you until you couldn’t think.

until your body shook with release, until his cum filled you up thick and hot, until his lips were on your neck and his voice was in your ear, saying—

“i still love you.”

even if he didn’t know how long he could live with that.

you didn’t speak for three days.

not to smoke. not to stack. not to anybody.

you moved through the apartment like a ghost, stomach tightening more every morning, your body forcing you to feel every inch of what you were carrying. you’d catch smoke watching you sometimes from across the room—his eyes softer now, like he’d already accepted something before the facts were even in.

but you couldn’t live in limbo.

you called your OB and made the appointment. prenatal bloodwork. dna test. paternity confirmation. modern science at war with your heart.

you didn’t tell smoke you were doing it.

you told stack.

he picked you up in silence, no music playing, just his fingers tapping slow on the wheel while you stared out the window, your hands cradling the little curve at the bottom of your stomach. the two of you didn’t speak until you were in the waiting room, legs crossed, staring at a wall full of baby posters.

“you nervous?” he asked, voice low, like he didn’t wanna wake the air between you.

you nodded.

“yeah.”

he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “me too.”

you swallowed, still looking at the wall.

“what happens if it’s yours?”

he didn’t blink. “i take care of mine. always have.”

you looked down at your lap, guilt twisting inside you like wire.

“you still with mary?”

“yeah.”

you nodded again. “okay.”

he paused. “but i ain’t gon’ let you raise my kid alone.”

you didn’t say thank you. you didn’t know how.

the nurse called you back, and everything moved quick after that—vials, swabs, paperwork, answers in seven to ten business days. stack stood in the hallway with his arms folded across his chest, watching like a man waiting to hear a verdict that might change the rest of his life.

when it was over, you walked out without looking at him.

he walked you to the car anyway.

“you wanna come back to mine?” he asked once you were inside.

you shook your head. “nah. i’m just gon’ go to my sister’s for a little while.”

his jaw flexed. “you tell smoke?”

“no.”

“you should.”

“i will.”

he nodded, then reached over and rested his hand on your belly.

and that was the first time you let him touch it.

you didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away.

you just let him feel what he might’ve made.

and that scared you more than the test ever could.

seven days later, the call came.

you were in the bathroom when the phone rang, toothbrush halfway to your mouth, still wearing one of smoke’s old shirts and nothing else. you picked it up with your heart already sinking, like your body knew what was coming before your ears heard the words.

“we have the results from your prenatal paternity panel,” the nurse said, voice soft but clipped, like she’d delivered too many of these. “are you in a space where you can hear them?”

you nodded, even though she couldn’t see you.

“yes.”

“the dna analysis shows that elias moore is the biological father.”

your breath didn’t come back. not even a little.

the call ended. you stood in the mirror, staring at yourself. the shirt hanging off your belly. the way your lips parted just slightly, trembling like they were tryna shape a truth you didn’t wanna carry.

you didn’t cry. not yet.

you just walked out the bathroom and straight into the bedroom, where smoke was laying down, one hand tucked under his head, phone in the other. he looked up when you walked in, eyes dragging over your face like he was scanning for something.

you sat beside him on the bed.

didn’t say anything.

he sat up slowly. “you alright?”

you looked at him. really looked at him.

broad chest. that same little scar above his left brow. everything about him was steady—had always been steady. the kind of man you thought didn’t exist anymore. and now you were about to take a sledgehammer to all of it.

you opened your mouth.

but he spoke first.

“it’s his, ain’t it?”

you froze.

his voice wasn’t angry. it wasn’t loud. it was something worse—quiet. resolved. like he already knew and had been holding hope in his hands too long.

you nodded. barely. “yeah.”

he closed his eyes for a second, jaw clenching just once. then he stood up and walked toward the closet. grabbed a duffel bag. started folding clothes without speaking.

you sat there, spine straight, stomach tight.

“what are you doing?”

he didn’t look at you. “you can’t stay here.”

“elijah—”

“nah.” he finally turned, dropping the bag on the bed. “you don’t get to say my name like that no more.”

you flinched. tears finally welling up now, hot and fast. “you said you still loved me.”

“i do.”

his voice cracked. your heart did too.

“but that don’t mean i can watch you carry his kid in my house.”

you stood up, moving toward him. “please. i don’t got nowhere else right now—”

“you got a sister.”

“elijah, please—just let me stay until—”

“you already made your choice.”

his voice wasn’t yelling. but it cut.

“go live with it.”

he walked past you. not rough. not violent. just… done.

and when the door closed behind you an hour later, your entire world felt smaller.

═══════ ═══════ ═══════

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐕𝐘𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐀.

𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 2; @longlivemalyce @nanamiismine @dameshaemonique

The bedroom was a mess of half-packed outfits, open suitcases, and shoes lined up in disarray. Annie was crouched near the edge of the bed, holding up two different swimsuits with a frown on her face while her phone balanced between her shoulder and cheek.

“I’m serious, Mia,” she said. “I need backup. I’m not going without moral support.”

Mia’s voice crackled through the speaker, dry and amused. “It’s just a weekend getaway. How bad could it be?”

“It’s Stack,” Annie replied flatly.

That shut Mia up.

“…Alright. Fair. Still... Kennedy’s gonna say no. You know she doesn’t do group trips.”

“Tell her I’ll make the pasta she likes.”

“Girl, you’re already bribing my wife?”

Annie threw the swimsuit onto the bed. “Yes, desperately. Smoke just told me that Stack’s girl is bringing a friend. So I’m not showing up alone like some ex with baggage.”

Mia sighed. “You are an ex with baggage.”

Annie flopped backward onto the bed. “I know. That’s why I’m trying to pack light.”

Smoke walked in, fresh out of the shower, a towel around his waist, a cigar unlit in one hand. He paused in the doorway, watching her with that steady, unreadable gaze.

Annie glanced up at him and raised a brow. “I’m bringing the navy set or the burgundy?”

Smoke’s eyes flicked to the bed. “Burgundy.”

Mia caught the tone in his voice and groaned over the phone. “Oh God, he’s there. I’m hanging up.”

“Tell Kennedy I’ll text her.”

“Uh-huh. Tell Smoke not to start anything he can’t finish.”

Smoke smirked as Annie ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed.

“You good?” he asked, setting the cigar down.

“No,” she muttered, sitting up. “I’m packing for a trip that I’m probably going to regret.”

Smoke stepped closer, slowly and deliberately. “You’ll be fine.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “You don’t get it.”

“I do.” He stopped in front of her and cupped her chin. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to him. Not to anyone.”

Annie leaned into his touch just a little.

“I know,” she whispered. “But I still want to look better than her.”

That made Smoke grin. And then he kissed her. 

-

The sky was a soft, lazy gray, just overcast enough to calm the road. The kind of weather that made hours pass quietly, letting the hum of the tires and the low beat of music do all the talking.

Annie had one foot tucked under her in the seat, phone in her lap, legs bare under a pair of soft black shorts. She scrolled through work emails she wasn’t truly reading and sipped from a green juice that had long since warmed up. Her hair was slicked into a braid. Her tank top hung off one shoulder.

She looked put together, but Smoke could feel it. The way she hadn’t said his name once. Not during the packing. Not on the drive. Not since she found out he’d be at the house. She was dodging that truth like it had claws. Floating on top of it like it didn’t still had teeth.

So she talked about everything else.

“…and you remember Deja from accounting?” she said, flicking a nail against her phone screen. “Tell me why she’s pregnant again, and nobody knows who the dad is. Again.”

Smoke chuckled under his breath, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on her thigh. “She consistent, I’ll give her that.”

Annie laughed, a real one, head falling back for a second. “You’re sick.”

Smoke chuckled low, eyes still fixed on the road. His thumb stroked a slow circle just above her knee.

She didn’t react at first. She was used to him touching her, palm wide on her skin, thumb dragging circles just above her knee. 

He watched her from the corner of his eye. The tension hadn’t left her shoulders. Her jaw was still too tight. Her foot was bouncing. She was running.

Then his hand slid higher, past her mid-thigh, and the hem of her black knit shorts. Fingers drifting with precision and no announcement.

“Smoke,” she muttered, glancing up.

“Shh.”

His fingers slid over her, parting her slowly, then dipped inside, two fingers curling deep with practiced ease. Annie's whole body stilled, then she melted.

She gripped the door for balance, the breath catching in her chest before her left hand reached for his arm instinctively, gripping tight with her diamond ring catching the light.

He stroked her gently at first, just enough to pull her breath into a higher pitch, her thighs trembling.

Smoke didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on the road. He was calm and focused. Like he wasn’t currently sliding two fingers into her while driving seventy-five miles an hour on a rural highway.

Annie tried to say something, but all that came out was a sharp inhale, her body leaning back into the seat.

“You need to relax,” he murmured, eyes still on the road. “Let go for me, baby.”

Her moan cracked free. “Oh my– fuck–”

Smoke smiled, just a little. His thumb found her clit and circled slow, the pressure perfect, rhythm tight, until her hips started to move on their own.

She bit her lip, trying to stay composed, but it was already unraveling. The angle of his hand, the slick drag of his fingers, the pressure of his thumb circling her clit like he knew her better than she knew herself. And he did.

She was trying so hard to keep her composure. But he knew what she sounded like when she broke.

“Don’t hold back,” he said, voice low. “I want it all. Right here.”

She clutched his forearm harder, nails digging in. And when he curved his fingers just right, she shattered. A choked cry spilled from her lips, her body curling into the seat, eyes wide and wet, thighs shaking violently around his wrist.

But Smoke didn’t stop; he kept going. Slow and steady. And when she whimpered, already too sensitive, he leaned in and kissed her shoulder without taking his fingers out.

“One more,” he said quietly. “You’ve been running too long. Let it catch you.”

She sobbed out his name, and it wasn’t long before the second wave slammed into her. It was deeper, hotter, wrecking her in his palm.

She slumped into the seat when it was over, breath shaky, lips parted like she was still trying to come back to earth. Smoke pulled his hand out gently, licked his fingers clean, then took her hand, the one with the ring, and kissed her knuckles slowly.

“Smoke–” she whispered, wrecked.

He finally looked at her then and smiled.

“You good, mama?”

She nodded, eyes glassy.

“Good,” he said. “Because the weekend’s just starting.”

-

The last year hadn’t always been smooth sailing. Actually, it had been more like a roller coaster than anything. 

The slam of the kitchen cabinet echoed down the hallway. Annie was barefoot in the doorway, arms crossed, face tight with frustration. Smoke stood near the sink, hands braced on the counter, cigar forgotten in the ashtray beside him.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she said, voice hard.

Smoke didn’t look at her. “Doing what, Annie?”

“This. Pretending like everything’s fine when we both know it’s not.”

He turned slowly, eyes darker than she’d seen them in months. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then act like it,” she snapped. “Stop holding shit in until it explodes. Say something. Yell. Be mad. Just do something other than stare at me like I’m a fucking burden.”

“You want me to say something?” he barked, stepping forward. “Fine. I’m tired of feeling like I’m option two. Like I’m just the man you fall back on when Stack’s too busy being a fuck-up.”

Annie’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious right now?”

“You think I don’t see it?” he went on, voice rising. “You’ve been grieving him while lying in my bed, and you think I’m not supposed to feel that?”

“That’s not fair,” she said, but her voice wavered.

“What part? The part where I let you keep us both because I thought love could stretch? The part where I watched you unravel over him for years and still gave you my whole damn heart?”

Annie blinked fast. Her throat was tight. “You think this was easy for me?”

“No, I think you made it easy for him.” His voice was sharper now. “You begged for his attention. You softened for him. But me? I was the one holding you when he didn’t show up. I was the one who loved you first.”

“I was with you,” she shouted. “I chose you.”

“No, you settled for me,” he growled. “There’s a difference.”

Annie’s face twisted in disbelief. “You think I don’t love you?”

“I think you loved him more.”

She laughed, bitter and sharp. “Wow. That’s rich coming from a man who doesn’t even talk unless I pull it out of him.”

“You always needed somebody loud to validate you,” he shot back. “Maybe that’s why you were never satisfied with me.”

Her whole body recoiled. “Fuck you.”

“You already did,” he said coldly.

There was a thick silence. The air between them cracked.

Her next words came out low, dangerous, and hurt. 

“You want to talk about settling?” she whispered. “Maybe I did. Maybe I needed something because I was tired of being second place to your silence.”

His nostrils flared.

“And maybe I needed someone who didn’t need to be the center of every goddamn universe to feel loved.”

Annie took a step back.

Smoke’s voice lowered, strained, and shaking. “You think you’re hard to carry, Annie? You are. But I did it anyway. I did it because I loved you. But this…this ain’t love anymore.”

Annie blinked fast. Her chest burned.

“You’re right,” she whispered. “Maybe it never really was, Elijah.”

The room froze. Smoke’s face changed. The hurt hit him like a slap.

“You wanna end it?” he asked, voice low. “Say it.”

She hesitated.

“Say it, Annie. Say you’re done.”

“I’m done.”

He nodded once. Took off his chain, the one she gave him two birthdays ago, and set it on the counter.

“Then I won’t come back.”

And she didn’t stop him. Not this time.

The apartment used to be the kind of quiet that comforted him. Normally, the lighting was dim with jazz bleeding through the speakers, and Annie would be somewhere in the next room. Her presence had always been a constant. Now the empty silence pressed against his chest like a hand he couldn’t move.

Smoke sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, the soft glow from his nightstand lamp casting long shadows across the room. The cigar between his fingers had burned out minutes ago, but he hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t been to sleep. 

His phone was facedown. Her contact hadn’t lit up in a month. And yet, her memory hadn’t shut up once.

His mind drifted past the silence, back to the dorm rooms with thin walls and even thinner mattresses. 

Back then, she used to make everything quiet. Back when he was barely more than a storm walking around in boots and low expectations. Annie had a way of softening the edges of his anxiety. Of showing up.

He remembered how she used to pack extra granola bars in her backpack, just in case he forgot to eat again during midterms. How she’d show up at his dorm uninvited with her laptop, crawl into his lap, and say, “I’m not leaving until you submit that assignment.”

She’d help him submit his assignments. Email his professors. Keep snacks in her drawer for the days he forgot to eat. Pull him out of his shell when he wanted to drown in it.

How she used to touch his face gently after his nightmares. Stroke his back. Press kisses to his neck. Whisper, “You’re okay, Elijah. You’re not there anymore.”

And he’d wake up sweating, heart pounding, breath tight. She’d wrap her arms around him and hum into the crook of his neck until his breathing leveled out. She learned him before he learned himself.

She never judged him for how quiet he was. She just understood. Even now, he could still hear her voice when she called him Elijah. And he let her in even when he didn’t let anyone else in.

He leaned back on the bed, eyes burning. She used to be the only thing in the world that ever made him feel safe. And somehow, he’d let her go.

-

She was sitting on the floor in her bedroom, hair in a loose bun, wrapped in an old hoodie that she forgot to give back. The wine on the dresser was half-full, but her thoughts were overflowing. A whole month and not one call from him or to him.

Her friends still thought everything was fine. She hadn’t told a soul. Every time Mia got close to asking, she changed the subject. Lied with a smile. Said they were “just taking time.” But there was no we anymore. Just the cold absence of a man who used to be her everything. And that was what hurt the most.

Smoke had always been there. Through her long hours, her promotions, her breakdowns behind the bathroom door. He’d run her baths before she even asked. Cooked her dinner when she forgot she hadn’t eaten. Took her phone when her clients stressed her out. Fucked her slow when she needed to remember how to breathe.

He didn’t take up space in her life…he held it. Even when she was cold or when her new job made her impatient, entitled, and hard to love.

She started turning bratty around the same time she started losing herself in work, snapping at him, dismissing the things he did, forgetting he was trying. But he never threw it back at her. He just tried harder.

Smoke didn’t make big gestures. He didn’t talk a lot. But he constantly showed up.

He was the one who held her when she fell apart at work. Who massaged her shoulders when the tension wouldn’t leave. Who made her feel beautiful on the days she felt like nothing. Who ran her bubble baths and poured her wine and kissed her slowly when the world felt too heavy to carry.

He was never loud about his love, but it was everywhere. And now, without it? She felt the silence like punishment.

So here she sat there on the hardwood floor, legs crossed, realizing she had no one to blame but herself for how far he drifted. Annie buried her face in her hands, her heart squeezing tight. She missed him. And for the first time, she wondered if missing him would be all she had left.

-

The line was longer than usual, but Annie didn’t mind. She had thirty minutes before her next meeting, and the place was quiet, tucked into a block of glass offices and tree-lined sidewalks.

She checked her phone, absently scrolling through emails, heels clicking softly as the line inched forward. That’s when she felt it. A presence. She looked up, and her breath caught in her throat.

He stood near the other end of the counter, waiting for his order. Wearing a charcoal suit with no tie and the sleeves rolled up. His watch glinted beneath a pressed cuff. He looked every bit like the man he had grown into. 

And when his eyes lifted and met hers, it was instant. Something between them broke and rebuilt all at once. He didn’t smile. He just looked at her long enough that her stomach tightened.

Annie turned back toward the register, pulse hammering. She ordered her coffee and breakfast sandwich quietly. And when she reached for her card, the barista shook their head.

“It’s already taken care of.”

She blinked. “What?”

The barista nodded toward the other end of the counter.

Smoke didn’t say anything. He just met her eyes again and gave a small nod. That was all. But it hit her harder than she expected.

They sat across from each other at a corner table, tucked away from the bigger crowd. It was quiet except for the soft background music and the clinking of silverware. They hadn’t seen each other in over a month.

Smoke stirred his drink slowly, thumb tapping against the side of the mug.

Annie looked down at her plate. “You didn’t have to pay for it.”

“I know,” he said, voice low. “But I still wanted to.”

She didn’t argue, but there was a beat of silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Smoke looked up, surprised.

“For what?”

Annie took a shaky breath. “For everything. For all the ways I made you feel less than. For falling into Stack’s trap when I knew better.”

Smoke’s jaw tensed, but not in anger, just pain.

“I should’ve known,” she whispered. “You were the one who always showed up. I just– I didn’t see it clear enough back then. And by the time I did, I’d already hurt you.”

Smoke stayed quiet for a second, but then said, “I didn’t handle everything right either. I held things in when I should’ve said them.”

She nodded. “Still, you didn’t deserve what I put you through.”

“You didn’t deserve what you were dealing with either.”

Their eyes met, but it was different this time. There was no begging. Nor was there any blame. Just two people who had lived through the worst of it and still found room to sit across from each other.

Smoke leaned forward slightly. “I think about you a lot.”

Annie looked down, lips twitching into something sad. “I miss you.”

He reached for her hand, just enough to hold. Her thumb was tracing his knuckles.

-

The house was gorgeous. There were vaulted ceilings, polished floors, warm lighting that poured across expensive furniture, and an open floor plan that made the whole place feel like luxury with no walls.

Annie stepped inside first, pulling her roller suitcase behind her, the soft clack of wheels on hardwood echoing under her sandals. Smoke followed close behind, a duffel in one hand and their wine bag in the other.

“Damn,” Annie said, looking around. “This place is beautiful.”

Smoke nodded, gaze sweeping over the high ceilings and curated decor. “Definitely not cheap.”

They wandered slowly, past the open-concept kitchen, into the living room, toward the hallway with several doors branching off. Annie turned the corner and immediately froze.

There they were, Stack and Crystal, half-naked on the couch. 

Crystal gasped, startled, scrambling for a throw blanket that barely covered anything. Stack didn’t move at first. His hand still rested on Crystal’s hip, but his eyes, his eyes locked onto Annie’s like time had slowed.

And he didn’t look guilty. He looked like he wanted her to feel something, anything. Like he needed her reaction. But Annie just blinked. Completely unbothered. She almost looked amused.

Smoke stepped in behind her, immediately reading the room. He caught Stack’s stare, the weird tension laced into it, and with zero hesitation, he gently turned Annie around by her waist.

“Let’s go,” he said under his breath, cool and calm.

Annie let him guide her out without protest. She didn’t say a word, but the silence spoke volumes. Stack’s stare burned into her back the entire way out.

Smoke led her down a hallway and into one of the guest suites tucked away from the noise and the tension.

The room was stunning, cool-toned linens, oversized windows, a king bed that looked hand-pressed, and a balcony overlooking the lake below. The en suite bathroom was even better, with marble tile, gold fixtures, and a rainfall shower big enough for two.

Smoke dropped their bags by the bench at the foot of the bed and wrapped his arms around Annie from behind.

“You good?” he asked, voice low against her neck.

Annie nodded, exhaling. “Please. I didn’t expect anything different.”

-

Annie sat cross-legged on the bed, still in her travel clothes but barefoot now, scrolling through the TV menu. Smoke was reclined against the headboard, one arm draped behind her, the other lazily scrolling on his phone.

Neither of them had said a word about the run-in with Stack and Crystal. They didn’t need to. It didn’t quite matter.

“So,” Annie said, clearing her throat, “we left off in the middle of the reunion, and I swear if Kenya gets one more dig in, I might actually switch teams.”

Smoke didn’t look up. “She’s messy.”

“You say that like you’re not dying to see how it ends.”

“I ain’t invested.”

Annie turned and gave him a look. “You literally asked me last week if Shereé ever got her damn joggers.”

Smoke cracked a small grin. “That was one time.”

“Uh-huh. You love the drama.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You watch it more than I do.”

He looked at her then, soft amusement in his eyes. “And I watch you watch it. That’s the point.”

Annie smirked and leaned into him, her fingers brushing his jaw as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was gentle. Like they’d chosen to be here, in this moment, instead of stuck in the past. But the peace never lasts long.

A knock on the door pulled them apart.

Annie groaned. “Let the chaos begin.”

Smoke stood to answer it, pulling the door open just as Mia and Kennedy stepped in with overnight bags and a bottle of wine. Mia sunglasses on and her energy was hot. Kennedy, by contrast, looked calm, amused, and slightly resigned to whatever drama her wife had dragged her into.

Annie hugged Mia tightly. “You came.”

“Of course I came. I don’t trust any situation that involves your ex, his new girl, and some mystery couple.”

“Please don’t get kicked out before tomorrow.”

“I’m not making promises we both know I won’t keep.”

Downstairs, Crystal’s friend, Nina, and her boyfriend had just arrived as well. They all made their way back down there to properly mingle with each other. The energy in the room was mildly awkward.

The introductions started off politely. But the moment that Nina started to eye Mia a little too hard, things got tense. Annie pulled Mia away to the kitchen before things got to be too much.

-

The dining table was set, candles lit, wine bottles uncorked, plates passed around. It should’ve felt like a peace offering. Instead, it felt like waiting for a spark in a room full of gas.

Annie sat at one end of the table, Smoke to her right. Mia and Kennedy sat across from them, doing a perfect job of being calm. Stack was at the other end, Crystal to his side, and Nina and her boyfriend sat between them, like the self-appointed royal couple of the group.

The conversation had started light. Vacations. Favorite shows. Someone made a joke about group trips being cursed, which, ironically, got the biggest laugh. But then Nina started asking questions. The kind that made everyone’s wine glasses pause halfway to their lips.

“So, Annie,” she said sweetly, slicing into her roasted chicken. “How long have you and Smoke been together?”

Annie’s eyes lifted slowly. Her smile stayed polite. “Since college.”

Nina blinked. “Oh, that’s cute. So, not sharing anymore?”

Mia’s fork clinked against her plate. Smoke didn’t look up. Just kept cutting his steak, slowly.

Crystal let out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Nina–”

“What?” Nina shrugged. “I just mean it used to be a…unique arrangement, right?”

“We grew up,” Annie said, tone even. “Some of us do that.”

That earned a chuckle from Kennedy.

Nina kept smiling. “Right. Growth is everything. I mean, not everyone finds peace when they finally pick someone.”

Annie raised her brows. “You’re right. Some people just pick…convenience.”

Stack set his glass down a little too hard. Crystal touched his arm lightly, her jaw tightening. Mia didn’t bother to hide her grin. The conversation stalled for a beat.

Then Nina turned her attention to Smoke. “And you, Smoke, you good with all this? I mean, no offense, but you don’t seem like the type to take that.”

Smoke finally looked up, steady and calm. “You asking ‘cause you’re curious, or ‘cause you want something to talk about later?”

Nina blinked while Annie smirked into her wine glass.

Mia let out a little “oop”, and Kennedy reached for her hand under the table to keep her still.

The rest of dinner was spent with overly loud sips of wine, surface-level conversation, and a lot of pointed glances passed silently between four of them.

-

Steam curled into the night sky as the jets bubbled around Annie and Mia. The hot tub lights glowed, casting both women in a soft blue and gold. A half-empty wine bottle floated on a tray near the edge, but their glasses were within easy reach.

Annie leaned back, arms stretched wide across the rim, her hair in a bun and her lashes still perfectly curled from earlier. Mia, on the other hand, had shed all physical signs of dinner, but her attitude was still on.

“I swear to God,” Mia said, swirling her wine, “if Nina tries you one more time, I’m snatching her by that cheap ass wig and drowning her respectfully.”

Annie burst out laughing. “Respectfully is crazy.”

“I’m just saying,” Mia shrugged, “I came here for peace. What I’m not doing is letting some recycled wanna be bad bitch try you about your relationship like she doesn’t smell like expired Dior and desperation.”

Annie snorted into her glass.

“No, but seriously,” Mia said, serious again. “Don’t let that girl get under your skin. You handled her at dinner, but I know you.”

“I’m fine,” Annie said. “Really. She’s just…”

“A fan,” Mia finished. “Heavy on the fan behavior.”

They both sipped. Then Mia grinned.

“So, anyway,” she said, lowering her voice, “I brought some of those honey packs I was telling you about.”

Annie blinked. “The what?”

Mia held up three fingers like she was swearing an oath. “Those TikTok honey packs? The ones that make your coochie hum like a Tesla?”

Annie chuckled while sipping her drink. “Mia.”

“I’m serious! I brought one for each of us. Me, you, Kennedy. I was gonna sneak one to Smoke, too, but he doesn’t need it.”

Annie flushed, but grinned. Just then, the back door slid open.

Smoke and Kennedy stepped out in their own swim attire, towels in hand. They were both used to the shenanigans of their women, so it was no surprise that dinner turned out the way that it did.

“Well, well,” Kennedy said, slipping into the water next to Mia. “Y’all been out here talking shit without us?”

“Obviously,” Mia replied, kissing her cheek. “And planning a little experiment.”

Smoke sank in beside Annie, arm sliding along the back of the tub behind her. Annie relaxed instantly, her thigh pressed to his under the water.

“What experiment?” Smoke asked.

Mia smirked. “I brought the honey.”

Kennedy shook her head with a smile. “I told you that stuff is probably illegal.”

“It’s legal…I think?” Mia said. “Anyway, I’m just saying, we’re all grown, and the tension in this house is high, why not let everybody go home happy?”

Annie covered her face, laughing.

Smoke leaned into her ear, voice low. “You down?”

“Don’t tempt me,” she murmured back.

The conversation turned playful from there, laughter echoing into the night as the group slowly unraveled into each other. For a moment, Annie forgot all about Nina, Stack, and the weirdness of it all.

-

The lake glimmered under the high afternoon sun, with just enough breeze to keep the heat from sticking. Everyone was outside, lounging and playing around. Music pulsing low from a speaker set on the dock.

Annie stood at the edge of the water, her toes curling into the wooden planks as she watched the group settle in. She wore a sleek burnt-orange bikini, high-cut with a wrap around her waist. Her curls were pulled into a puff, and her face was bare except for sunscreen and lipgloss. Her engagement ring was tucked safely in the little jewelry dish on her nightstand, back inside out of fear that she would lose it. 

“Don’t overthink it, baby,” Smoke’s voice came from behind her, low and teasing.

She turned. He was already shirtless and wet, standing waist-deep in the water. Swim trunks low. That calm, focused look on his face that always gave away his next move.

“I’m not getting in yet,” Annie warned, backing up.

Smoke raised a brow. “That wasn’t a question.”

Before she could react, he lunged for her quickly and held her in his arms. Annie shrieked, her body wriggling as she tried to pull away, but it was too late. He had walked them backwards until the water swallowed them both.

When they came up, Annie was gasping through her laugh, splashing him hard across the chest. “Why would you do that?”

“You needed to relax.”

“I was relaxed!”

Smoke smirked, water running down his shoulders.

She rolled her eyes but stayed close. Her arms looped loosely around his neck as they floated in the shallow water. His hands found her waist like they belonged there. Which, at this point, they did.

Meanwhile, on the deck, Mia watched the whole thing with her arms crossed and a margarita in hand. Kennedy was beside her, calm as ever, rubbing sunscreen on her legs.

Crystal and Nina were sitting nearby in matching swimsuits that were clearly curated for Instagram, and not for movement. Both wore full faces of makeup and had done a grand total of zero swimming.

“This is…fun,” Nina said, in a sort of sarcastic tone.

“Super fun,” Crystal added, sipping her sparkling water like it was tea. “I guess this is what people do to remember what a good relationship feels like.”

Mia didn’t turn to them, but with her ears on sonar mode, she heard everything. She didn’t blink or hesitate in the words she was about to say.

“I guess you need a vacation to remember what a good wig feels like, huh?”

Kennedy coughed to cover her laugh, Crystal blinked, and Nina narrowed her eyes.

Back at the water’s edge, Smoke had Annie hoisted onto a float, and she was trying to keep her balance while he nudged it from underneath.

“Don’t–” she warned, laughing. “Smoke, don’t tip it.”

“Say you love me.”

“I do love you. Don’t play with me–”

He flipped it anyway.

-

The dining room was dimly lit, warm-toned, and almost too quiet as everyone settled into their seats. The food was good, plated beautifully, smelled inviting, but the energy was off. 

Annie sat beside Smoke, her hand resting on the table, her wine glass just close enough to touch. The diamond on her finger sparkled under the overhead light, subtle but impossible to miss.

Stack noticed. His eyes would flick to her hand every time she reached for her glass. Next to him, Crystal had seen it too. She hadn’t said a word about it, not directly, but her smile was tight, her grip on her fork tense.

Nina, of course, was in rare form.

“So how long have y’all been engaged?” she asked sweetly, swirling her wine without looking up.

Annie looked over slowly. “A while.”

“That’s so nice. Some of us get that one good love, you know? Others just keep running in circles.”

Crystal’s jaw tightened. Stack shifted in his chair. Mia raised a brow, but stayed silent. She stored the rising tension and comment in her head for later.

Conversation continued in scattered bursts, half-forced, half-tipsy. Kennedy tried to change the subject, asking about the jet ski rental. Smoke kept a hand on Annie’s thigh under the table, grounding her. 

Then Nina struck again.

“I mean, I get it,” she said, addressing no one and everyone at once. “Some women like their men quiet and safe. Some of us like a little spice.”

Mia set her fork down slowly.

“Girl, what the hell are you talking about? Is this you trying to say something, or do you just like hearing your own voice?”

Nina tilted her head, sucking her teeth. “I’m just saying, silent men are nice, but they get boring real fast.”

“You must be bored a lot,” Mia said, dead calm. “Considering how often you’re in other people’s business.”

Crystal snorted into her wine.

Nina’s smile faded. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I did. I just don’t think you realize how you sound. Grown women who act like guard dogs? That’s usually insecurity.”

Mia stood up. Kennedy’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.

“Mia,” Kennedy warned. “Not at the table.”

“I’m good,” Mia said through clenched teeth, eyes locked on Nina. “But let the bitch say one more thing and I swear…”

Annie reached up, placing a hand gently on Mia’s arm. “Please. She’s not worth it.”

“She asking all these dumb ass questions. She don’t know you. She don’t know me. And if she did, she wouldn’t be talking right now.”

Nina raised her brows. “Touchy.”

Mia took a step forward. Kennedy and Annie both rose halfway from their seats, holding her back just as her chair scraped the floor.

“Mia.”

Stack cleared his throat. “Let’s not do this.”

“Why not?” Crystal piped up, her voice honeyed but icy. “You weren’t concerned about keeping the peace when you were staring at Annie’s ring for the last thirty minutes.”

The room fell into stunned silence. Stack froze. Annie looked down. Smoke didn’t move, but his hand on her thigh gripped just a little tighter. Mia slowly sat back down, still heated, still staring daggers across the table. Nina stayed quiet for once.

Crystal lifted her glass with a fake-ass smile. “To love, I guess.”

Nobody raised theirs. Nobody said a word. The toast died in the silence.

-

The kitchen was quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge and the soft tap of Annie’s nails against the marble counter.

She was perched on the edge of it in her short silk robe, loosely tied, with one leg swinging. Her eyes focused on Smoke, who stood in front of the open fridge like he was considering life’s deeper meanings.

Smoke stood across from her, also in his robe, barefoot, holding a small bowl of sliced fruit they hadn’t bothered touching at dinner.

He held up the gold foil packet between his fingers. “Still wanna try it?”

Annie smiled slowly. “You said we were sharing.”

“I’m a man of my word.”

Smoke walked in between her legs while he ripped the package open and held it out for her to take from him. Instead, she wrapped her lips around the small package and sucked until half of the golden liquid was gone. Their eyes remained locked on each other.

“It’s sweet.” 

Smoke took the pack from her and downed the rest. “We’ll see how sweet it gets.”

Smoke helped her down from the counter so they could make their way to their room to wait out however long it would take for the honey to start taking effect. 

As they walked back, with their robes loose, they passed by Mia and Kennedy’s door just in time to hear the unmistakable sounds of pleasure echoing through the wood.

Mia’s voice, muffled but dramatic: “I’m sorry, baby…oh shit– I’m sorry, I was just mad–”

Annie stopped mid-step.

Smoke kept walking, unbothered. “Guilt’s a hell of a foreplay starter.”

-

Their balcony was quiet, lit only by the moonlight and the dim outdoor sconces. They sat side by side in matching robes, nothing underneath, skin brushing every time they shifted.

The lake shimmered below, crickets filled the silence, but the air between them was tightening.

Annie licked her lips, her body suddenly too aware. Heat had started curling low in her stomach, her skin hypersensitive.

Smoke leaned back in his chair, legs spread, robe open just enough to tease.

“You feel that?” she murmured.

He nodded once. “Mmhmm.”

His eyes dragged over her body. Her thighs. Her collarbone. Her fingers rested on her knee. Annie shifted, crossing her legs, only for the fabric of her robe to part. Smoke’s jaw flexed. The air between them grew thick.

“You wanna go back inside?” she asked, voice a little softer now.

Smoke didn’t answer right away. He leaned in slowly, one hand on her thigh, the other sliding up her waist until it rested just under her robe, fingers splayed across bare skin.

“Nah,” he said. “I think we can start right here.”

Annie’s eyes fluttered closed for a second. When they opened, he was watching her like he already had her answer.

“Come here,” he whispered, voice raspy with something unspoken.

She stood and moved between until she was straddling him. It felt like second nature the way his hands traveled up and down her body and the way her arms wrapped around his shoulders. The pressure in her body bloomed with the sweetest ache, and the warmth between them turned sharp. He didn’t rush it just leaned in and kissed her neck all slow. And suddenly, that balcony didn’t feel too public anymore.

The night air was thick with heat, but Annie felt hotter than the breeze. His hand was around the base of her throat, thumb stroking slowly over her pulse. The honey pack was surely kicking in full gear now.  She could feel it in her chest, her gut, her clit, everything pulsing and too aware.

Smoke's other hand slid down her back, settling on the curve of her ass. He gripped it firmly, then slapped it once, hard enough to sting. Annie gasped, breath catching, her hips already rolling.

“Greedy already?” he murmured against her ear.

“It’s the honey,” she whispered, but she was lying. It was him. It was always him.

Smoke shifted, dragging her robe off her shoulders fully. He leaned in and placed kisses along the tops of her exposed breasts. He could feel her shudder from what he was certain was the feel of his mouth on her heated body. 

“You like that?” he asked.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He smiled. “Good.”

He slid her off his lap, stood her up, and turned her to face the railing. Her hands gripped the edge automatically. He pushed her robe open and bent her slightly.

“Stay there.”

He knelt behind her, kissing the inside of her thighs. Then he spit between her legs, fingers spreading her open as he licked her like he hadn’t eaten all day. Deep, slow, messy strokes with his tongue until Annie was shaking, gasping, grinding back into his mouth.

“F-fuck, I—”

He sucked her clit just right.

She came with a cry, legs buckling. But Smoke wasn’t done.

He stood and slid two fingers inside her, pressing up until she whimpered. His other hand wrapped around her throat again, pulling her back into his chest while he fingered her hard and fast from behind.

“I want that shit on my hand, baby. Come again, baby.”

And she did, wet and loud, her body jerking, a high-pitched moan spilling into the quiet night. He stood with the most focused look on his face. 

One strong hand between her shoulders, the other gripping his slick shaft. When he slid into her, it was deep and possessive. Her favorite combination. The kind of strokes that made her legs tremble from the first thrust.

“I missed this pussy,” he gritted out. “Missed the way it gives up for me.”

He started slow, just enough for her to feel him everywhere, then picked up speed. He had his hand on her ass, giving it a few slaps after some thrusts. Her cries were barely contained. Then came the choking again.

When she came again, she collapsed into the railing. He caught her, wrapped his arms around her, and kept fucking her through it until he couldn’t hold back. He came with a low groan, buried deep, both of them breathless. When it was over, he held her there a moment.

He decided to pull back when it seemed like both their bodies regulated themselves enough. He crossed the balcony to sit back in his chair from before. Annie’s legs were still trembling from the last orgasm, but she wasn’t done.

She looked over at Smoke, seated in the balcony chair, legs spread wide, his dick hard and glistening, chest rising slow. His robe had fallen completely open. There was nothing patient about the way he looked at her now, his eyes low, heavy with hunger.

She walked back to him, climbed into his lap without a word.

Smoke gripped her hips instinctively. “That what you want, baby?”

She nodded, lips brushing his. “I want to ride it. Let me.”

He leaned back, voice deep. “Do your thing.”

Annie gripped him with one hand, guided him to her entrance, and eased down slowly. Her mouth parted in a breathless moan, and his hands tightened as she took every inch.

“Fuck,” he growled, head falling back.

Annie started to move, slow rolls of her hips that made her clit drag right across the base of his stomach. She kept her arms wrapped around him, her mouth near his ear, her moans soft and unfiltered, sweet and filthy all at once.

He licked his thumb, reached down between them, and pressed it to her clit. Her breath caught. The pace stuttered. She ground harder, then started bouncing. Her thighs slapping against his with every rise and fall.

“Daddy, shit! Yes–”

“Good girl,” he growled, rubbing tight circles on her clit while she fucked herself on his lap.

Smoke watched her, his jaw clenched, hands guiding her rhythm. He loved watching her take control; how she started slow, built the pressure, then began to bounce harder, deeper, faster.

Annie cried out, leaned in, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her breath hot against his ear.

“I’m close again,” she whispered.

“Take it,” he said. “This yours.”

She came again, shuddering in his lap, tight, wet, clenching around him so hard it made him hiss through his teeth. The orgasm hit her sharp and sudden, a wave that made her body tremble and her cunt flutter around him. She slumped forward, clinging to him, eyes closed, mouth open.

“Too much?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not done.”

Annie dropped to her knees between his legs, robe slipping completely off her shoulders. She dragged her tongue from the base of his cock to the tip, then sucked him in with purpose.

Smoke leaned his head back against the chair, one hand gripping the armrest, the other fisting her hair.

“You tryna finish me off like that?”

She didn’t answer, just went deeper. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin, her eyes locked on his the whole time. She moaned around him, and the vibrations made his hips jerk.

He grunted, low and strained. “Don’t stop.”

She didn’t. And when he came, it was rough. His body tensing, a sharp groan ripping from his chest as he spilled across her tongue. Annie swallowed everything. Licked him clean. Then looked up at him like she knew exactly what she’d just done.

Smoke leaned forward, cupped her jaw, and kissed her slowly.

“Always mine,” he murmured.

She nodded, resting her head on his thigh, smiling against his skin.

“Always.”

-

The morning air was crisp and full of goodbye energy as everyone gathered at the driveway. Bags were being loaded, hugs exchanged, and the jet ski group chat began planning their next outing.

Annie stood near the car, clutching her travel bag, watching the others with a gentle smile. Smoke was right beside her, luggage at the ready. Mia and Kennedy were chatting with Smoke while Crystal and Stack talked quietly a few feet away.

An uneasy pause settled over the group.

Stack cleared his throat and walked over to Annie. “Can we talk?”

She nodded, slipping her arm out of Smoke's. “Sure.”

They stepped to the edge of the driveway, out of earshot.

“So, Annie,” Stack began, voice steady but low, “I wanted to say, I’m sorry. For everything. I never meant to hurt you like that.”

Annie closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “I forgive you.”

Stack’s relief was brief. “That means everything.”

She looked away, gaze distant. “But I…I regret us. I regret letting myself get tangled up for all those years. I wish I had never did that.” Her voice caught. She stopped.

Stack nodded slowly. Hurt flickered across his face. “I get it.”

They stood in silence for a beat, two people who once meant everything, now broken into something quiet.

Annie took a small step closer. “I hope you can forgive yourself, too.”

He offered her a sad smile. “I’ll try.”

They started to move back toward the others, but the moment was interrupted by a shout.

“Mia, stop!” Kennedy’s voice cracked across the yard.

Everyone’s heads snapped toward the porch just in time to see Mia, barefoot and furious, dragging Nina down the wooden front steps by her hair. Nina’s screams echoed, high-pitched and panicked, as she flailed in protest, trying and failing to get free.

“You trifling bitch!” Mia screamed, yanking harder. “Say one more slick thing about Annie! One more you bitch!”

Kennedy rushed down behind them, wrapping her arms around Mia from behind, trying to lift her off the ground. “Mia! Baby, let her go!”

But Mia was gone. She was pure adrenaline, rage, sharp and unforgiving. “This ho been running her mouth all weekend!”

Nina hit the bottom step hard, scrambling to sit up, clutching at her hair. “Get her away from me!”

Mia kicked off Kennedy’s grip just enough to spit, “Next time you speak on Annie, bitch, make sure you don’t have a wig I can rip off!”

Crystal was screaming, panicked, “Stack! Do something!”

But Stack just stood there staring, wide-eyed.

Smoke stood a few feet away, arms crossed, completely unfazed. He didn’t even blink. Annie stayed near the car, her hand on the door, eyes following everything but not moving to stop it. Because this wasn’t her fight. Mia had always been loud with her loyalty.

Kennedy finally got a solid grip and dragged Mia back toward the car.

“I’m good!” Mia yelled, yanking her arm from her wife’s hold. “Let me go. But I meant that shit!”

Kennedy opened the car door and physically pushed her inside. Mia stuck her head out the window before it closed and pointed directly at Annie.

“Call me, bitch. I got time.”

Then she disappeared into the car, and Kennedy peeled off seconds later, gravel spinning behind them.

The yard fell into stunned silence. Crystal was still breathing hard. Nina was crying, crumpled on the stairs. Stack looked like someone had just unplugged him from reality. Smoke calmly picked up the bags, walked around the back of the car, and loaded them into the trunk like it was any regular morning.

Annie didn’t say a word. Just walked to the passenger side. Smoke opened the door for her, kissed her shoulder, and helped her in like she was breakable.

Then he turned to Stack and said a simple, “Take care of her,” before closing the driver’s side door and starting the car. They pulled off without a second look. Because when it was over?

It was over.

-

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