•PEACHES•

month one

Annie could tell it that very night. Her stomach twitched wildly in her sleep and her eyes flitted quickly behind her closed eyelids as she dreamed. She couldn’t rest. Not with the images of a single fish swimming rapidly in the Mississippi River haunting her sleep.

She tossed and turned and passed her hand over the bedsheets to seek comfort in her husband.

But he wasn’t there.

Smoke had left earlier that day—just before sunset. He and his troublesome brother caught the first train up North, and Annie was so beside herself. She understood, but she couldn’t feel resolved. Not with how things went down. Not with how tears ran down their faces as they made love for the last time that very morning. Not with how she was dreaming of fish and thinking of her baby girl at the same time.

Annie’s grandmother had equipped her with a plethora of root-working knowledge and tools to be a strong and spiritual woman. All her life she’d heard her grandmama tell a woman that she had dreamed of fishes, and nearly nine months later, that same woman would birth a baby.

That is how it was the last time Annie was pregnant: the very night her baby was conceived, Annie dreamed of Lake Pontchartrain. There was one calm and tiny li’l fish swimming in circles around her legs as she rinsed her feet in the still murky water. The fish touched her timidly—told Annie its name in a reserved voice. It was the same name she and Smoke always said they would give to their first baby girl.

But as Annie tossed against the bedsheets, she found that this fish dream was very different from the first one she had.

Her mind was unsettled.

Disrupted.

Annie knew it was a clear sign that her child was set to be a rambunctious little one. Her and Smoke’s firstborn had all of her parents’ best qualities.

She was quiet like her papa—observing the work around her and taking everything in.

She was keen like her mama—able to discern things even at her little age.

Grieving her meant not only grieving the life she’d lived but also the life she deserved to experience. They never got to see her walk. Never got to celebrate her on her birthday. Never got the chance to see how she’d grow into herself.

This baby—Annie predicted—would be just like their uncle. When she woke up the next morning, her bedroom was charged with a sly energy—similar to Elias’ (and Elijah when he allowed himself to loosen up a bit). It amused her and filled her with a joy she never thought she’d have again. She was ready for the handful her baby would be.

For an entire month, Annie went about her life, cradling her belly as she envisioned her future. Smoke was only supposed to be gone for two months, set to return after scoping out the Chicago scene.

He promised that he didn’t want to plant no roots. He just desired a new environment to allow his grief to subside. She understood. He wanted to flourish outside of Mississippi’s borders so that he could provide for Annie and their household. As he cried into her neck while they fucked, he promised to write home biweekly. Promised to come home in two months. Promised that she would always be his home. So Annie let him go.

She understood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

month two

Grief set in real heavy on Annie’s heart. She had yet to receive a letter from Elijah, and the whole pregnancy thing had her even more saddened by the loss of her sweet baby girl.

Annie spent most of her days curled up in front of her altar, praying for Elijah’s safe return, calling out to her ancestors for a sign of his love and of the breath in his body.

But she received nothing.

Annie didn’t know if he and Stack had even made it up North at all because he had promised to write. And Smoke didn’t go back on his promises, especially the ones he made to her.

She didn’t know what to do. She had no address to send her own letter to. There was no way for her to get in contact with the man she loved. Every idea she came up with was like shooting in the dark. They had no Chicago family, didn’t have a real plan on what they were going to do when they got there—or at least that’s what they told her.

Elijah and Elias just left.

Elijah left her.

So Annie saddled with praying and working root and doing the things she knew best. She spent so much time begging for a man she didn’t even know was still alive, but she’d do whatever she could until she found him, because Elijah was hers.

When she wasn’t curled up in front of the altar, Annie was down on her knees at the grave of their daughter. She cried tears of anguish and wailed long into the night. When she first dreamed of her baby, she never thought that she’d have to deal with the pain of burying her child. She had experienced a mother’s worst nightmare, and now she was going through it all alone.

As she groveled at the small patch that held her daughter’s tiny body, she doubled over even more when she felt that tinge in her belly.

Their baby was growing.

It reminded her of those first moments of her baby girl’s life. How they shared a body and blood. How they were one. How Annie had lost her after fighting so hard to get her power to take hold.

She was so angry with Elijah for leaving them. All three of them.

But she told him that she understood because, at the time, she did. That need to get away from it all had often found her, but she just couldn’t bring herself to run like he had. She had her daughter’s grave to tend to. She had a life growing inside her—a life who’s daddy didn’t even know they existed.

The situation angered her more than she felt comfortable with. She’d never been truly angry with Elijah. She always saw him as her sweet love who could do no wrong; But now, as she cried to her baby girl and cradled her bulging stomach at the same time, she was enraged with him.

How had he so easily come to that decision without consulting her first?

The day he left, Annie woke to her husband’s side of the bed being cold. She called out his name to which he didn’t answer. She scrambled to her feet and slowly walked toward the front of the house. Looking out the front window, she saw Elijah and his brother in a heated debate.

Hushed voices.

Angry bared teeth.

Necks snapping as they challenged each other.

“Why you ain’t said nothin’ yet, nigga,” Stack yelled, pushing Smoke’s shoulder with force. The older twin’s nostrils flared up and his fists clenched, nails pressing into his palms.

“ ‘Cause how do you tell yo’ woman somethin’ like this,” his voice broke, showing his raw emotion. “She ain’t gon’ understand. She just ain’t. I can’t be here in this house. In this grief. In all this stupid fuckin’ emotion.”

“So you just gon’ leave without sayin’ shit?”

Annie’s bottom lip trembled as she neared the door. Leave? And go where?

Things had been so uncertain since their baby died. The house brewed with an emptiness that made their hearts beat slow and tired. They missed the liveliness of their love. They missed the gentle cooing of their baby girl in the early morning hours.

But she never thought he’d leave. And it didn’t sound like he was planning to take her with him.

Annie kept nearing the door, trying to be as quiet as possible to get whatever information Elijah clearly wasn’t ready to relay to her.

“Get yo’ fuckin’ head in the game! We leavin’ today, Smoke,” Stack screamed far too loud at the anger he was feeling towards his brother’s stupidity. He had already said goodbye to Mary, and even though it was originally his idea to go to Chicago, Elijah came to him saying that he was finally ready to commit to the idea.

Stack’s admittance that they were leaving that day caused Annie to forget where she was, forget that she was meant to be quiet.

She gasped. Quiet and low.

But he heard.

Smoke snatched the front door open to see Annie with her hand over her mouth and tears streaming down her face. His own resolve crumbled as he saw the way she gazed upon him with a look of disappointment and betrayal. This is what he hoped to avoid.

“A-annie,” he tried to reach for her, but she pulled back.

“Elijah,” she shook her head at him. “You leavin’ me?”

Thinking back on this two months later—pregnant, grieving, and angry—Annie was more livid with herself for forgiving him for his folly. She so easily accepted his apology and just let him lay with her as a goodbye—“something to keep yo’ mind on me while you up in that big city.”

She was foolish, especially since he still wasn’t home and she hadn’t gotten word from him. She was already going through so much with the death of their baby and now she had to make sure that the child inside of her was healthy and well nourished.

She couldn’t be erratic.

Couldn’t think too many foul thoughts.

But she was alone without her husband and the father of her children.

She was upset and rightfully so.

She promised herself that when he came back, she’d have more dignity. She couldn’t let him back in without groveling and pleading for her hand back.

Two months. He said he’d be back in two months.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Ocean Boulevard was already humming when Annie’s Uber rolled up to the resort.

Bikes lined the street in clean chrome rows, engines rumbling low, the air thick with salt, exhaust, and the sugary smell of funnel cakes. Neon signs blinked in broad daylight like they refused to be ignored.

Bree pressed her face to the window. “Beach lookin’ real mix-and-match, but we cute so I ain’t worried.”

Tiff had her phone out, already recording. “Day one of Bike Week with my emotionally unavailable bestie…”

“I’m not emotionally unavailable,” Annie muttered, shoving the door open.

The heat hit immediately, thick and clingy. She tugged her small suitcase onto the curb and fixed the strap of her crossbody bag. Her braids were pulled up into a high ponytail, gold hoops glinting whenever she moved.

Jayla slid out behind her, smoothing her sundress. “Okay, ground rules,” she said, in the tone that meant she’d already had enough of their foolishness. “No gettin’ arrested, gettin’ lost, and no wakin’ me up at three in the morning unless somebody dyin’.”

“Or unless somebody gettin’ some dick,” Bree danced while sticking out her tongue.

“There will be none of that,” Annie cut in quickly.

Three pairs of eyes swung to her.

“Bitch…” Bree folded her arms. “You in Myrtle Beach. During Bike Week. In a matching set with your titties sittin’ high, and you talkin’ about abstaining.”

“It’s not abstaining,” Annie saidqosw, tugging down her crop top. “It’s… boundaries.”

Tiff cackled. “Okay, therapist. Say you hate men and go.”

“I don’t hate men.” Annie paused. “I just don’t trust ’em.”

That quieted them for a beat. Bree’s face softened.

“Frenn, we know.” She bumped Annie’s shoulder. “But this is a fun trip. No exes, no stress, no cryin’ in the bathroom over some fuck nigga who ain’t worth the mascara. You don’t gotta fall in love—”

“Hell no,” Annie muttered.

“—you just gotta have fun. Laugh. Eat. Shake a little ass. That’s it.”

Annie exhaled, letting the sounds of the strip wash over her. Engines revving. Someone on a mic hyping up the crowd. Laughter rising from a cluster of people taking pictures on a row of bikes.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Fun. I can do fun.”

Bree grinned. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Come on, y’all. I saw a daiquiri stand with our name on it.”

They wheeled their suitcases inside the suite, immediately breaking into arguments about which bedroom was theirs and who was banned from sleeping near the snorers. Annie moved through the chaos with a smile and a knot in her chest she didn’t plan on acknowledging.

Fun. No men. No feelings. Easy.

She repeated it to herself until it started to feel possible.

Later that afternoon, the strip was hotter and louder, like someone had turned the whole beach up a notch.

They’d checked in, changed tops twice, and were finally squeezed around a high-top table outside a bar advertising TWO-FOOT DAIQUIRIS and 10 WAYS TO WING IT.

“First toast of the trip,” Bree declared, lifting her plastic cup. “To good food, good drinks, and ZERO men with audacity.”

“Cheers to peace, amen,” Annie echoed.

“And to me catching everything on camera. Content finna content,” Tiff added as they all clinked cups.

Annie took a long pull of her drink. The sugar hit first, then the rum, spreading warmth down her chest. It was nice. Loud, crowded, but nice. The music was up, the sky was clear, the ocean was right there. For a minute, she let herself imagine she really was the version of herself she kept posting about online—unbothered, healed, glowing.

“Okay, bathroom,” Tiff said, hopping off her stool. “Y’all comin’ or I’m gonna get kidnapped.”

“Comingggg,” Bree sang. 

“I’m good,” Annie said. “I’ll hold the table.”

Jayla slid off her seat with a sigh. “Come on, content queen. I’m comin’ too.”

They disappeared into the bar in a swirl of perfume and laughter, leaving Annie alone with her drink and her thoughts. She scrolled absently through her phone for a minute, enjoying the breeze.

“Hey lil mama.”

She didn’t have to look up to know the tone. She’d heard it a thousand times. But she looked anyway.

The man standing a little too close to her stool had on scuffed leather gear—a vest too small for him, patches that looked ironed on instead of earned, and boots that squeaked every time he shifted his weight. He held a half-empty beer like it was part of the outfit.

His smile hit her first—a wide flash of chunky gold teeth, badly fitted and dull, the kind that didn’t shine so much as… glare.

The kind of gold that made you think the teeth underneath probably smelled like old pennies and hot breath.

His breath moved the air around her, humid and sour-sweet, like he’d been mixing beer with cheap cinnamon gum. His cologne was doing battle with his natural scent—and losing.

He leaned in, chain swinging across his chest, grin widening, those gold slabs catching the neon lights in the worst way.

“You by yo’self,” he said, voice already assuming she was interested.

Annie fought the urge to physically recoil. Her soul tried to leave her body.

“No,” Annie said. “I’m with friends.”

“That right?” He looked toward the bar doors like he was about to audit her claims. “They left you all alone, tho’.”

“I’m good,” she said. “They’ll be right back.”

He set his beer down on their table like he’d been invited. “What’s your name?”

“Annie,” she lied smoothly. It wasn’t a lie, but it felt like one, because she sure wasn’t giving him the real version of her. “You?”

“Gator,” he said. “You from here?”

Gator? On brand.

“Visiting,” she said. “Girls’ trip.”

“Oh, you one of them hot girls,” he said, laughing like they were in on a joke together. “I see you. Let me get you a shot.”

“I’m good with this,” she said, lifting her daiquiri. “Appreciate it, tho’.”

He flagged the server anyway. “Two shots of tequila.”

She stared at him. “I said I was good.”

“C’mon, it’s Bike Week,” he insisted. “Live a little.”

He was smiling, but there was a tightness in it now, something like annoyance bleeding through. The last man she’d dealt with had smiled like that too—right up until she told him no.

Annie slid off her stool. “Actually, I gotta go find my friends.”

He reached out, fingers curling around her wrist before she could step away.

It wasn’t rough, not yet. But it was possessive. And it lit up every warning nerve she had.

“Why you actin’ like that?” he asked. “I’m just tryna to talk.”

“’Cause you in my space and I ain’t ask you to be. Let me go.” she said, low.

He didn’t. Not right away.

It was daylight. There were people everywhere. In theory, she was safe.

In practice, her pulse kicked hard, and she felt her throat go dry.

“Let. Me. Go,” she said again.

He let her go with a scoff, but when she turned toward the sidewalk, she heard his steps fall in behind hers.

“Girls’ trip, huh?” he said. “I can show you ‘round. You got a bike?”

She ignored him and walked faster, weaving through the crowd until the bar noise thinned. Up ahead, a line of those little bright-colored scooter taxis was idling at the curb, drivers leaning back like they had all day.

Relief washed through her.

She beelined for the closest one. “You drivin’? Please tell me you drivin’.”

The driver sat up, eyeing her, then flicked a glance past her shoulder at Gator. “I’m about to be off,” he said.

“I’ll tip you extra,” she offered. “I just need to get back up the strip. To—” she named her resort.

He hesitated. “You been drinking?”

“A little,” she admitted. “I’m fine, though. I just don’t want to walk.”

He looked past her again, at Gator hovering a few yards back, pretending to be interested in a T-shirt stand.

“You got a helmet?” the driver asked. “Police been on our ass out here. They see you on with a helmet, they’re gonna give me hell, not you.”

Annie’s mouth opened, then shut. No. She did not have a helmet. She had lip gloss and a portable charger and a tiny bottle of setting spray. Nothing useful.

Behind her, she heard Gator call, “You need a ride, I got chu!”

Her skin crawled.

“Nope,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.

She spun in a quick circle, scanning. The curb was lined with bikes, chrome gleaming, handlebars wide. Some had helmets looped over the grips, some resting on seats.

Her gaze snagged on one in particular—a black full-face helmet sitting solid on the seat of a big, beautiful black bike parked closest to the taxi line.

She’d seen the signs all up and down the strip: WEAR YOUR HELMET. Even the scooter stands had little paper notices taped to their poles.

Is this a bad idea? Yes.

Is staying here with “Halitosis Gator” a worse one? Absolutely.

“Be right back,” she told the driver, and before she could overthink it, she hurriedly walked straight to the bike, snatched the helmet off the seat, and came sprinting back cradling it like it had always been hers.

The weight of it in her hands made it feel suddenly, stupidly real.

“I’m good,” she said to the driver, breath a little high. “See? Helmet.”

He looked from her to the helmet to the street, then shrugged. “Get in.”

She climbed into the back, fumbling the helmet on. It was a little big, padding pressing against her cheeks, but it covered her face, and that was the point.

Gator realized what was happening right as the driver twisted the throttle.

“Whoa, whoa, hol’ up—”

“Forgive me, Jesus,” Annie said urgently, fingers gripping the side rails. “Sir, Please. Go.”

The scooter lurched forward into the flow of traffic. The wind rushed past, cool and sharp. Annie looked back once, helmet visor turned toward the curb.

Marcus stood there fuming, getting smaller with every second.

The bike she’d robbed—because there was no other word for it now—was still sitting where she’d found it. Big. Black. Beautiful.

She winced.

“I’m gonna bring it back,” she told herself under her breath. “As soon as I get my life together.”

The driver didn’t care what she muttered; he had the road to watch. The scooter hummed up the strip, weaving around slower cars, ocean glittering to their right.

Annie let out a shaky breath and pressed the helmet a little tighter to her head, mind already spinning plans.

She could drop it back by the same bar later. Leave it on the bike and disappear before whoever owned it came outside. Or find some staff person, describe where she got it, and ask them to hold it.

She hadn’t thought that far ahead when she’d grabbed it. She’d only thought: get out.

“I’ll fix it,” she promised the universe, or herself, or the unseen owner of the stolen helmet. “I just needed an exit. That’s all.”

The stolen helmet sat heavy on her head.

Heavy with guilt.

Heavy with relief.

Heavy with a promise she already dreaded keeping.

A few blocks down, Smoke rolled to a slow stop at a red light, the deep purr of his bike settling in his chest.

Ocean Boulevard stretched ahead, crowded and bright. Bikes lined both sides of the street in every color and shape, riders in vests and tees, shorts and boots, chrome catching the midday sun.

Stack pulled up beside him, visor up, grin wide.

“You can go ahead and say I was right,” Stack called over the noise. “This better than sittin’ at the crib.”

Smoke adjusted his grip on the handlebars, indifferent. “I ain’t said nothin’.”

Jinx eased to a stop behind them, his matte-black bike growling low. Ghost rolled up last, already waving at a group of girls on the corner.

“Fellas,” Ghost said, dragging the word out. “We in heaven. Praise report.”

Stack laughed. “You say that every time we leave the city.”

“‘Cause it’s true every time.”

The light flipped green. They moved as a unit, weaving down the strip, taking in the scene. It was organized chaos—bikes, cars, pedestrians, music spilling out of bars, vendors shouting about T-shirts and fried Oreos.

Smoke should’ve felt irritated. Too many people, too much noise. He wasn’t a crowd person. He liked the ride itself—the road stretching out, sky open, nothing but the engine and his thoughts.

But he’d promised Stack he’d come. And the rest of the club was meeting up with them tomorrow anyway—half the chapter riding in from Georgia, the other half from upstate—so this was the warm-up run. Just the core four getting a feel for the strip before the full crew rolled in.

Jinx tapped his bars at a stop sign. “Prez called this morning,” he said. “They hittin’ the highway at dawn. Said he want us posted up by noon so we can bring everybody in together.”

Smoke nodded once. “Aight.”

Ghost lifted his chin. “Bet. Whole boulevard gon’ hear us.”

They pulled into a lot near a bar with an outdoor patio and killed their engines. As soon as Smoke cut his, the noise of everything else rushed in.

Ghost swung off his bike, stretching. “First stop: drinks and somethin’ fried.”

Jinx glanced around, taking stock. “And a plan for if you get us kicked out of shit.”

“I’m a gentle soul,” Ghost protested.

Stack snorted. “You a liability, nigga.”

Smoke took his helmet off, setting it carefully on the seat. He wandered toward a lemonade stand near the boardwalk, content to let his boys argue.

He wasn’t thinking about his bike, or the helmet he’d just left. He wasn’t thinking about much at all.

Which was why he missed the moment the girl in the yellow crop top and high-waisted shorts snatched his helmet and took off running.

He heard the reaction though—shouts, laughter, someone yelling, “She gone!”—and he turned just in time to catch the blur of a scooter taxi disappearing into traffic.

Stack broke into loud, delighted cackles. “NAH. HELL NAH. AIN’T NO WAY. Thirty minutes into Bike Week and yo’ shit got got!”

Ghost wheezed. “She was real smooth with it, too.”

Jinx’s eyes swept the nearby crowd. A half-dozen people still held their phones up, either laughing or replaying something.

“Anybody get that on video?” Jinx called, raising his voice just enough. “Black helmet, yellow top—she ran right past y’all.”

A woman in a rhinestone tank tapped her boyfriend. “Baby, you got it, right?”

He nodded, already stepping forward. “Yeah, I caught the whole thing, bro.”

He held his phone out to Smoke.

Smoke took it, jaw ticking once as the clip started.

The girl—was weaving away from a man grabbing at her, irritation stamped across her face. She looked around fast, eyes sharp, calculating.

Then she spotted his bike.

Without hesitation, she snatched the helmet and sprinted toward the curb. The scooter driver hesitated, then let her jump in. She ducked her head, tugging the helmet on crookedly right before the taxi peeled off into traffic.

Stack nearly fell over laughing. “OH, SHE BOLD-BOLD. She stole yo’ shit like she been practicin’!”

Ghost slapped Smoke’s back. “Legend behavior. I respect her.”

Jinx folded his arms. “She moved like she meant it. Efficient.”

Smoke replayed the video once more, studying every second.

He didn’t look angry.

He looked interested.

“I’ma find her,” he said quietly.

Smoke watched the last second of the clip—Annie ducking into the scooter, helmet askew, braids flying—and the video ended with the taxi disappearing into traffic.

He didn’t move for a moment.

Didn’t blink.

Stack leaned over his shoulder, grinning like a demon.

“Ohhh she got you good. Picked YOUR bike out of all these? That’s personal.”

Ghost shook his head, laughing. “Bruh. She stole that shit like it was her birthright.”

Jinx tapped the screen where Annie had shoved the helmet on. “She didn’t even adjust the strap. That’s not theft, that’s flight instinct.”

Smoke replayed the last two seconds again, thumb dragging slowly across the screen.

Her face flashed by—brown eyes sharp, mouth set, jaw tense, breath fast.

Not reckless.

Not malicious.

Just… cornered.

And decisive.

He felt something tighten low in his jaw—a barely-there flicker of… what?

Interest?

Curiosity?

Something.

Stack slapped Smoke’s chest dramatically.

“Aye, you smilin’?”

Smoke’s expression didn’t shift. “No.”

“You definitely smilin’,” Ghost insisted. “That’s yo’ ‘I’m intrigued’ face.”

Jinx nodded. “You only look like that when somethin’ bothers you in a way you wanna understand.”

Smoke finally handed the phone back to the guy who’d recorded it.

“Good lookin’ out.”

“No problem, man,” the guy said. “She was fast. Like, Olympic fast.”

Stack threw his hands up. “She bad, too?! Look at God.”

Ghost elbowed Smoke. “You gotta admit—she smooth. Didn’t hesitate. Saw opportunity and fuckin’ took it.”

Smoke picked up his lemonade, took a slow sip, and looked at the street where the scooter had vanished minutes earlier.

“I ain’t mad,” he said simply.

“AIN’T MAD?” Stack yelled. “That helmet ain’t cheap!”

Jinx raised a brow. “So you fine-fine wit this?”

Smoke slipped the lemonade straw from between his lips and shrugged once. “I’m fine.”

Ghost stared at him. “That’s the scariest fine I ever heard.”

Stack threw an arm around Smoke’s shoulders. “So what’s the move? You want us to canvas the boulevard? Set up a sting operation? Make wanted posters?”

Smoke brushed Stack’s arm off. “Relax.”

“Relax? RELAX?” Stack gasped theatrically. “She made yo’ shit look like community property in front of all these people!”

Smoke ignored him. He looked down the strip again, scanning the heavy flow of pedestrians, then the bike rows, then the curb where the scooter lane ran.

It wasn’t anger sitting in his chest.

It wasn’t irritation.

It was something steadier.

Cooler.

Focused.

He set his lemonade down.

“I’m gon’ find her,” he said quietly.

Calm. Certain.

Stack’s jaw dropped. “Oh lawd. He activated.”

Ghost pumped a fist. “Yesss sir. Captain Save-a-Helmet.”

Jinx just nodded once like it was inevitable. “She won’t be far.”

Smoke ran a thumb across his bottom lip, eyes tracking the flow of the crowd.

She’d come back.

Or he’d find her first.

Either way…this wasn’t done.

“Okay, this is already too much,” Annie said a little later, clutching the helmet tighter to her hip.

The scooter driver had dropped her near their resort. She’d hustled upstairs, dropped off her bag, and rejoined her girls on the strip, helmet still in hand.

“You saved your own life with a petty crime,” Bree said, unbothered. “I respect it.”

“I stole a man's helmet,” Annie hissed. “During Bike Week. That’s psychotic.”

Tiff had been replaying the video on her phone, howling every time Annie snatched the helmet. “The comments already goin crazy. Somebody said you rob bikes for sport.”

“I hate it here,” Annie muttered.

The guilt was sitting heavy in her chest. Yes, “Gold Mouth” had been doing too much. Yes, she’d felt cornered. But that didn’t change the fact she’d snatched property and dipped.

She planned to find the bike—drop it back, apologize, try not to die of embarrassment. The strip was long, but there were only so many rows of sleek black bikes with matte tanks and shining chrome—

Her heart did a stupid little jump when she saw it.

“There,” she said, pointing.

The bike was parked near an outdoor bar, big and black and polished. The spot on the seat where the helmet had been was empty.

Annie swallowed and started toward it, clutching the helmet. She could leave it and run, but that felt cowardly. She wasn’t scared of men, she reminded herself. She was just sick of them.

She’d be quick. Put it down, walk away—

“You lost?”

The voice came from just behind her. Low and calm and close enough to stir the tiny hairs at the back of her neck.

She froze, fingers tightening around the helmet. Then she turned.

He was tall — stepping out of the afternoon light like he’d been carved from it. Broad shoulders filled out a fitted black T-shirt under a soft, broken-in leather riding vest, patches stitched on with the kind of wear that said earned, not bought. Ink curled up one arm in clean, sharp lines, disappearing beneath the sleeve. A heavy silver chain rested at his throat, catching the sun every time he breathed.

His skin was deep brown, smooth, warm-toned, the kind of skin light loved. His jaw was strong, beard neat, mouth full but set in a flat line that didn’t give her a damn thing to read. His eyes — measured, dark, almost bored — barely flicked over her before returning to the helmet in her hands like he already understood exactly what happened and was waiting to see what stunt she’d pull next.

And that was the worst part.

He didn’t look pissed.

He didn’t look confused.

He didn’t look impressed.

He didn’t look anything.

And somehow that made him even finer.

The leather gloves hooked in his belt, the chain on his wallet, the heavy biking boots, the soft rumble of confidence in the way he stood — all of it worked together in a way she did NOT have time for. Not today Satan. Not during Bike Week. Not while trying to be a reformed woman for at least seventy-two hours.

Her stomach dropped.

Her irritation spiked.

Because why was this man this damn beautiful while she was actively returning stolen property like a criminal on probation?

She hated that her chest tightened when he breathed.

Hated him.

Well… not him.

Just the fact he was fine as fuck while staring at her like she was a minor inconvenience.

Annie cleared her throat. “No.”

His gaze flicked to the helmet in her hands, then back to her face.

She lifted it a little. “I was bringing it back.”

“Oh.” His mouth did this slow, almost-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How generous.”

Smart ass mouth. Of course.

“I didn’t mean to steal it,” she said quickly. “I mean, I did, but only because some nigga was all in my face and grabbed me, and I had to get away, and your bike was just there being convenient—”

She stopped herself. She was rambling, and he had the nerve to look faintly amused now.

“You done?” he asked.

She bristled. “Whatever. Look. Here.” She thrust the helmet into his chest. “You got your property back. Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” he said.

“That’s your relaxed face?”

He shrugged. “Most people don’t see it when they run off with my shit.”

She hated that her cheeks warmed. Hated it more that he noticed.

Before she could decide whether to cuss him out or sink into the pavement, Bree’s voice cut through the noise.

“ANNIEEEEEE, BITCH! HURRY UP!”

She glanced over her shoulder. Bree, Tiff, and Jayla were waving frantically at a booth where a man with a microphone was hyping something up. A small crowd had formed.

“Last call for the Bike Week Bash Scavenger Hunt!” the man shouted. “Cash prize, VIP passes, custom jacket—who’s signing up?”

Bree pointed at Annie, then at the man, then did a little dance.

Lord.

Annie turned back to Helmet Guy. “Okay. We good here?” She shoved the helmet into his hands. “Have a blessed weekend.”

He caught it easily, fingers wrapping around the edge. “You owe me.”

Her head snapped up. “For what?”

“For making me chase down a fuckin’ video to see who robbed me,” he said. “For stress. For emotional damage.”

She stared at him. “Not you tryin’ to do therapy billing.”

He just looked at her, gaze flat and unreadable, that almost-smile hovering.

Smoke barely had time to respond before footsteps approached behind him.

Stack, Ghost, and Jinx rolled up as a loose unit, each clocking Annie, the helmet, and Smoke’s expression.

Stack whistled low. “Ayeeee, is this ‘Thief Barbie’?”

Annie’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”

Ghost grinned. “My nigga here ain’t shut up since you dipped. Had us out here combing the strip lookin’ for yo’ ass.”

“LIES,” Smoke muttered.

Jinx nodded once. “Not lies.”

Stack leaned in like a messy auntie. “Mmhmm. So YOU the one who had my brother out here narratin’ trauma? Thought he was in a documentary.”

Annie glared. “Y’all real nosy.”

Stack smiled wide. “We family-oriented.”

Smoke rolled his eyes and jerked his chin at them. “Go sit down somewhere.”

Jinx shrugged. “We’ll be nearby.”

And just like that, they drifted toward the nearby patio rail — close enough to watch, far enough not to hover.

Just then Bree appeared at Annie’s side, breathless.

“GIRL!”

Annie flinched. “Oh my God, what?”

“Jayla talkin’ ’bout her stomach hurt and she sittin’ out—now we uneven! COME ON!”

“Uneven for what?” Annie demanded.

Bree pointed at a booth where a crowd was forming around a loud man with a microphone.

“The scavenger hunt! They’re closing sign-ups!”

Annie blinked. “Girl, no. I’m not—”

Bree ignored her, eyes cutting to the man with the helmet. She smiled slow. “Hi.”

He nodded once. “What’s up.”

Bree elbowed Annie. “This him?”

“This who?” Annie asked, playing stupid.

“The man whose helmet you stole off his bike like Grand Theft Auto,” Bree hissed under her breath. “Hey, King. Thank you for your service.”

Annie wanted to evaporate.

The man—he still hadn’t offered a name—watched the chaos with an air of quiet amusement. Then he shifted his grip on the helmet and looked at Annie.

“You still owe me,” he repeated. “You wanna make it right? I’ll be your partner.”

She opened her mouth to say no, but Bree heard the words “partner” and “him” in the same sentence and damn near levitated.

“YES. Yep. Yup. Perfect. Thank you, Lord!”

“Bree—” Annie hissed.

“Nope!” Bree clapped her hands. “Jayla can barely stand in the sun without complaining, Tiff is gonna get distracted by every fine nigga in a vest—you are the only reliable person left. Go.”

Annie glared at her.

Then glared at Smoke.

Then glared at the universe.

And he was watching her quietly.

“If you scared, you can say that,” he added mildly.

Annie’s spine straightened. “I’m not scared.”

“Then it’s settled,” Bree said, clapping. “Helmet Boy is in. Let’s go.”

“Helmet Boy?” he repeated.

Annie exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t encourage her.”

He chuckled. It was a small sound, but she felt it in the base of her throat.

“Name’s Smoke,” he said simply.

Of course it was.

“Annie,” she offered.

“Nice to meet you, Annie,” he said. “Try not to steal anyone else’s shit today.”

“I make no promises,” she shot back.

His mouth curved a little more. “Good.”

The scavenger hunt started with a blast of feedback from a cheap microphone and a man in a neon T-shirt yelling into the crowd.

“Rule rundown, one more time! Teams of two. You’ll complete as many tasks on this list as you can in three hours. Each task is worth a certain number of points. Highest score wins five thousand dollars, two VIP passes, and a custom Harley jacket. Y’all ready?”

The crowd roared.

Annie held the laminated list between them, shoulders brushing Smoke’s. She’d insisted on social distancing when they walked from his bike to the booth; somehow, that space kept shrinking.

“First task,” she read. “Steal the giant foam shark.”

Smoke raised a brow. “That one.”

Across the way, a massive inflatable shark was zip-tied to the roof of a vendor booth, bobbing above a handwritten sign: SHARK WEEK SALE!!!

“Not ‘steal from yo’ fellow man,’” she murmured. “Look at capitalism.”

“You scared?” Smoke asked, glancing down at her.

“Of some Styrofoam animal?” She scoffed. “Please. Watch this.”

They strategized quickly—Annie would distract the vendor, Smoke would liberate the shark. It went smoother than it had any right to.

Annie leaned over the table, lashes fluttering just enough. “So, quick question. Y’all got any of that Creole seasoning that’s actually Creole? ‘Cause half y’all be callin’ everythin’ Cajun.”

The vendor blinked. “Uh—well, this mix right here—”

Stack, Jinx, and Ghost had followed at a distance, pretending to shop but very obviously watching.

Ghost whispered, “She got vendor-boy hypnotized. Look at his posture. She dangerous.”

Stack snorted. “She finna make Smoke forget his own mama name.”

Jinx nodded thoughtfully. “He’s already compromised.”

Smoke ignored all three. He walked past behind the vendor, slow and steady, reached up, and unhooked the shark from one of the zip ties. He slung it over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

The vendor didn’t notice a thing.

Tiff filmed the whole operation, giggling into her phone. Bree did a silent victory dance. Jayla shook her head.

By the time the vendor realized his shark was gone, Smoke and Annie were halfway down the boardwalk, slipping into the crowd with a five-foot foam fish bobbing over their heads.

“That was unethical,” Annie said, grinning despite herself.

Smoke adjusted the shark, not even a little out of breath. “You worried about ethics now?”

“Growth is a journey,” she replied.

His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “You got jokes.”

“You kidnapped a shark,” she pointed out. “I’m not the problem.”

Stack jogged up behind them, laughing so loud people turned.

“SMOKE. YOU A CRIMINAL. I’m callin’ Mama.”

Ghost slapped the foam shark. “This the dumbest shit we ever stolen and I love it.”

Jinx looked at Annie. “Impressive teamwork.”

She blinked. “We’ve been partners for two minutes.”

“Exactly. Next task,” Smoke said.

The second one was oddly simple and somehow worse.

“Kissing photo under the SkyWheel,” Annie read, heat crawling up her neck. “Ten points.”

Stack leaned over Jinx’s shoulder like they were sports commentators.

“Look at my brother tryna play it cool,” he whispered loudly.

Ghost nodded. “He nervous. I can smell it.”

Smoke shot them a look deadly enough to silence a choir.

They backed up immediately.

Smoke looked up at the towering Ferris wheel ahead, lights glowing even though the sun was still out. Couples clustered beneath it, some already kissing for their own hunts.

“Easy,” he said.

“For who?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “We can fake it. Don’t gotta be real.”

Her pride flared, blocking her throat. “I’m not pressed to—”

“Tiff can’t zoom in on the lips from that far,” Bree inserted helpfully. “Just get close. You ain’t kissin’ this man for real.”

“Thank you for your input, Director,” Annie snapped.

She weighed her options. Ten points was a good chunk. It would help them win. And it wasn’t like she hadn’t kissed a boy before.

This wasn’t that. This was a game.

She squared her shoulders. “Fine.”

They stepped into position under the arch of the SkyWheel, just inside the line of shadow. Tiff backed up with her phone ready.

“Okay,” Annie said briskly, trying not to look up into Smoke’s face. “We’ll put our foreheads together. You put your hands somewhere that’s not offensive. We’ll fake the rest.”

“What’s offensive?” he asked.

She colored. “Don’t worry about it. Just… waist. Shoulders. Nothing below the equator.”

His mouth twitched. “Got it.”

He stepped closer, slow enough that she could have changed her mind. She didn’t. Her heart tapped a restless rhythm against her ribs as he placed his hands at her waist, palms wide and warm through the thin fabric of her top.

She exhaled without meaning to. His thumbs shifted, just barely, in response.

She reached up and set her hands on his shoulders, then slid them a little higher to rest around his neck. He was solid under her fingers, heat radiating off him in waves.

“Y’all are stalling,” Bree called.

“Shut up, ho,” Annie muttered.

“On three,” Tiff said. “One. Two—”

Annie pressed her forehead to Smoke’s. Their noses brushed. They were close enough now that she could see the flecks of lighter brown in his eyes, could smell the faint mix of soap, cologne, and something that just felt… warm.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth for a fraction of a second. His own eyes tipped lower, following hers.

Tiff snapped the picture.

Nobody moved.

The noise of the strip dulled for a heartbeat, everything slowing. The wheel rose above them, turning steady. Engines revved in the distance. A seagull cried somewhere overhead.

Smoke’s fingers flexed just a little at her waist.

Annie realized she was staring and tore her gaze away, stepping back.

“That counts,” she said, voice a touch too bright.

“Definitely counts,” Tiff confirmed, checking the photo. “Oh, this is cute-cute. Y’all look in love.”

“In what?” Annie choked.

“In denial,” Bree added.

From somewhere behind them, Stack’s voice floated through the crowd:

“WHAT I SAW WAS CHEMISTRY!”

Ghost added, “Ten points AND a love story! Y’all so cute!”

Jinx: “They’ll deny it.”

Annie wanted to throw herself into the ocean.

Smoke didn’t even turn around. He just looked at Annie for a second longer, then nodded toward the list.

“Next task.”

The third one was what separated the bold from the foolish.

“One rider from each team has to ride the bull,” Annie read. “Whoever stays on the longest gets twenty points.”

They’d followed the painted arrows on the ground to a bar with an outdoor patio. In the center of the fenced-in space, under a canopy of string lights, a mechanical bull sat waiting, surrounded by cheering spectators and a DJ playing loud country rock.

Stack leaned against the railing, eyes lighting up when he saw the task. “Oh yeah. We got this. Who ridin’ for y’all?”

Smoke opened his mouth, but Bree was already pointing at Annie. “She is.”

Annie’s eyes flew wide. “No I’m not.”

“Yes you are,” Bree insisted. “You got the knees and the core. We need the points.”

Smoke cut in slowly. “She don’t have to do that. We can skip it.”

Annie stiffened.

He wasn’t being rude. He wasn’t laughing. He sounded serious. Protective, even.

It poked at something raw.

“I can ride a bull,” she snapped.

Stack looked delighted. “Is that right….”

Annie ignored him, facing Smoke. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do. You don’t know me.”

Smoke held up one hand. “I don’t. I just meant—”

“Well now you gon’ learn,” she said.

She handed Bree her bag before she could talk herself out of it, marched to the sign-up table, and put her name down.

The host gave her a once-over, eyed the crowd, and smirked into the mic. “Alright, we got a brave one! Give it up for… Annie from…” He glanced at the form. “Louisiana!”

Annie climbed onto the padded mat, then onto the bull. The synthetic leather was warm from the sun, the metal handle cool under her palm. She swung one leg over, settling her weight, adjusting her grip.

“You sure?” the host murmured, low enough only she could hear.

Annie set her jaw. “Turn it on.”

The machine started slow, rocking gently. She moved with it instinctively, rolling her hips to stay balanced as it picked up speed.

The crowd reacted immediately—whoops, whistles, laughter. Somebody yelled, “Okay, girl!” Another, “Don’t hurt nobody!”

From the edge of the pen, Tiff had her phone up, screeching. Bree was doubled over, hands on her knees. Jayla covered her face.

Smoke stood behind the railing, arms folded across his chest, expression carved out of stone. 

On the surface.

Inside, his mind had gone white.

Smoke’s brain:

…Lord.

Jesus.

Nope. Don’t look. Don’t you look at her.

He looked.

Of course he looked.

Like he ever stood a chance.

Smoke kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, fingers digging into the crook of his arms. He didn’t ogle; that wasn’t how he was built. But he couldn’t look away either.

She rode better than half the people he’d seen try this. No wild flailing; she moved in sync with the machine, muscles working smooth under her skin, braids whipping behind her. Her laughter, low and genuine, cut through the music.

She looked free up there. No guard, no edge, just joy. It was doing something to his chest. 

Her hips rolled with the rhythm of the bull, not jerking against it but moving with it, all fluid control and instinct. Every tilt of her body had a purpose. Every shift of her weight looked like she already knew what the machine would do before it did it.

His hands curled around the rail in front of him, knuckles flexing once, twice, like he needed something to hold on to. The crowd got louder, bodies shifting and blocking his view in flashes, and every time someone stepped in front of him he leaned just slightly to the side—never enough to look pressed, but enough to keep her in sight.

And Smoke felt that awareness hit him low.

His chest tightened. Heat crept up the back of his neck.

Smoke’s brain:

Why she movin’ like— okay. Okay. Turn around. Turn around.

(does not turn around)

He didn’t look away.

Couldn’t.

He let out a slow breath, jaw tightening as he watched her lean back just enough to counter the buck, her smile bright and wild.

“Oh she RIDIN’—” Stack leaned in close. “You good, bro? You look stressed.”

Smoke didn’t blink.

“I’m fine.”

Ghost wheezed. “Nigga holding on by prayer….literally”

Jinx, quiet as always, shook his head. “Smoke, you ain’t blinked yet.”

When she shifted forward again, gripping with her thighs, hair flying, body snapping perfectly with each jerk of the machine—Smoke’s grip on the rail tightened like he was the one fighting not to fall off.

The bull jerked harder, trying to throw her. Annie laughed out loud, tightened her grip, and leaned into the turn. Her body snapped with the motion, steady, confident.

Smoke’s brain:

Oh my God.

Stop.

STOP.

Please get off that fuckin’ bull before I embarrass myself in public.

Why she ridin’ it like she tryna prove somethin’? Girl, just fall off. FALL OFF—

(she in fact did not fall off)

The buzzer finally sounded. The host hit the controls and the bull slowed. Annie threw one arm in the air as she dismounted, landing lightly on the mat.

The patio erupted.

Smoke’s brain:

Don’t smile like that.

Not at the crowd. Not at anybody.

Lord, she dangerous.

Annie hopped down, hair a little wild, cheeks flushed from exertion and heat. She strode back to their group with her head high—

—and her friends LOST THEIR MINDS.

“OKAY BODY CONTROL!” Bree hollered, damn near bouncing out of her sandals. “Where you learn to do THAT?!”

Tiff had her phone up already. “Hold on, HOLD ON—Annie, bae, that wasn’t ridin’ the bull, that was CHOREOGRAPHY. Beyoncé who?”

Jayla clutched her chest. “You stayed on longer than that grown man with the knee brace!”

Bree grabbed her hand, spinning her in a little circle. “YOU BETTER RIDE THAT BULL LIKE IT OWE YOU MONEY!”

Tiff zoomed in dramatically. “Teach me! TEACH ME THE FORM! The hip placement! The core engagement! The—”

“Tiff, please,” Annie groaned, but she couldn’t hide the grin breaking through.

Jayla fanned her with a menu. “Girl, you ain’t got no business movin’ like that with all these men around. Half this patio about to fall in love.”

Bree pointed at Smoke behind her. “Starting with HIM.”

Annie refused to look at him at first. “Y’all want me to combust in public?”

“Yes,” Tiff answered immediately. “Content.”

Annie rolled her eyes, but her pulse kicked anyway.

Finally, she drew in a breath, turned—

—and found Smoke already watching her.

Heat crawled up her neck.

“…Well?” she managed, trying for casual and failing.

He looked at her — really looked — and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“You did good,” he said.

“That’s all?” she challenged.

He held her gaze for a long, charged second.

Then leaned in, murmuring low so only she could hear:

“That’s all I’m sayin’ in public.”

Her breath hitched.

Heat shot straight through her.

Smoke finally let himself breathe.

But Stack?

Stack was losing his entire mind.

“OH MY GOD you shoulda SEEN my niggas FACE! I ain’t NEVER seen you fight God this hard!”

Ghost howled. “He had his hands on the rail like he was holdin’ onto salvation!”

Jinx sipped his drink. “He blinked one time in three minutes. Impressive.”

Annie’s smirk deepened.

She lifted the task card, voice soft.

“Next task.”

Smoke ignored all of them. 

Mostly.

Smoke’s brain, final verdict:

…yeah. Nigga you in trouble.

Time blurred after that.

They raced from one end of the strip to the other, foam shark bobbing above their heads, task lists getting marked off with frantic checks.

They got handcuffed together for a “ride or die” challenge and spent thirty minutes bumping shoulders and arguing over which stall had the cheaper funnel cakes.

They rode his bike for a “photo at the far pier” task, Annie clinging to his waist so tight he could feel every shaky breath.

They moved through the noise and lights like a two-person unit, each hour knocking another brick out of the wall she’d built around herself, each quiet glance from him driving a wedge into his usual calm.

Annie learned he didn’t talk much but listened hard. He learned she talked to fill the silence so she wouldn’t have to sit with her thoughts.

They didn’t say any of that out loud. They didn’t have to.

It showed up in the spaces between tasks—the way she’d unconsciously lean toward him when a crowd pressed in, the way his hand would hover close to her back without lingering unless she shifted closer.

By the time clouds started gathering over the ocean and the wind picked up, they were ahead on points and behind on emotional distance.

Which was why, when trouble found her again, it hit harder than before.

She separated from him for maybe five minutes.

They were at a stall selling bandanas and beaded bracelets, and Smoke had gone to check on something with Stack. The handcuffs were off by then, wrists still a little sore from where the metal had pressed skin.

Annie was arguing with Bree over colors when she heard his voice.

“Look who it is.”

Her spine locked up. Gold Mouth.

She turned slowly. The man from earlier—the grabby one from before the helmet—stood a few feet away, beer bottle in hand, smile sloppy.

He looked worse now. Sweat damp on his T-shirt, eyes glassy.

“I knew I’d see you again,” he said. “Thought you said you wasn’t from ‘round here.”

Annie’s jaw clenched. “I said I was trying to enjoy my trip.”

“Me too.” He took a step closer. “Thought maybe we could enjoy it togetha. You ran off earlier. That wasn’t nice.”

Bree shifted closer to Annie’s side, voice low. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Annie replied, though her pulse had already jumped. “I told you no. That ain’t changed.”

He waved that off. “Don’t be like that. I’m just tryna talk.”

“You drunk,” she said. “And I ain’t interested. Move on.”

Something flickered in his expression. The charm dropped.

“You was all in my face befo,” he said. “But now you too good to talk?”

“I was never in yo’ face.” Her voice sharpened. “You stepped in mine.”

He grabbed for her wrist again.

He didn’t get to close his fingers.

A hand wrapped around his forearm from the side, grip firm but not crushing, pulling him away in one smooth motion.

Smoke.

He stepped between them without any fanfare, body angled forward just enough to block Annie from the man’s line of sight completely.

“That’s enough,” Smoke said quietly.

The man yanked his arm back. “Who the fuck is you, nigga?”

Smoke’s eyes were flat now, emptied of even the faint amusement he’d shown earlier. “She said no. You heard her the first time.”

“Oh, this yo’ bitch?” the man scoffed.

Smoke didn’t flinch.

But something behind his eyes sharpened—like a blade being turned just enough to catch the light.

“No,” he said calmly.

“But if you ever disrespect her again, I’ll make sure you never open your muthafuckin’ mouth for anything but breathin’. And even that gon’ be hard.”

The man’s jaw twitched. He took a half-step forward—

And froze.

Because Smoke wasn’t alone.

Stack moved in on his right.

Ghost slid into place on the left.

Jinx stepped up behind him, expression unreadable.

A wall.

Silent. 

Controlled. 

Unmoved.

Stack nodded once, voice low. “He meant ever word, nigga.”

Ghost folded his arms. “Try him.”

Jinx didn’t even bother speaking—his look was enough.

The moment stretched.

The man swallowed, scoffed weakly, and backed away, muttering under his breath before disappearing into the crowd.

Smoke didn’t watch him leave.

He only turned slightly, checking Annie with a glance that was quiet, calm, and entirely for her.

“You good?” he asked.

She hated that her throat felt tight. Hated that his concern didn’t feel condescending, or possessive, or anything but real.

“I had it under control,” she said, even though they both knew that wasn’t really an answer.

“I know,” he said. “Still not letting nobody grab on you.”

That sent something sharp through her, somewhere behind her ribs.

“You don’t even know me,” she blurted.

He met her gaze steadily. “I know enough.”

The rain chose that moment to start falling, big cold drops spattering against pavement and skin.

“Shit,” Bree said. “Okay, God, we get it. Break it up.”

“Y’all better get to cover,” Stack added as thunder rolled low. “The sky look like it got hands.”

Smoke glanced toward the beach, where people were already scattering. “Come on.”

He didn’t grab Annie’s hand. He didn’t have to. She followed anyway.

The underside of the pier was dimmer, cooler. Wooden beams rose around them, waves crashing just beyond the shadow line as the rain came down in sheets.

They caught their breath under the boards, the rumble of the ocean mixing with distant music and muffled shouts of people running for shelter.

Annie wrapped Smoke’s jacket closer around herself. He’d tossed it over her shoulders as they ran. It hung heavy and warm, smelling faintly of his cologne and motor oil and something that felt grounding.

“Thank you,” she said, voice low.

“For the jacket or the rescue?” he asked.

“Both,” she admitted, staring at the wet sand instead of his face. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make you play bodyguard.”

He leaned one shoulder against a pier post, watching the water. “You didn’t make me do anythin’. I chose to.”

She shifted her weight, restless. Less than a day ago, she’d been promising herself she wouldn’t let any man get close enough to disappoint her again. That she was done hoping for basic decency.

“You don’t have to be nice to me,” she said. “I’m not… looking for all that.”

“What’s ‘all that’?” he asked gently.

“Feelings,” she said. “Plans. Expectations. Any of it.”

“Didn’t say nothin’ about expectations,” he replied. “And I didn’t help you ‘cause I wanted somethin’ back. That’s not how I move.”

She looked at him then.

His gaze didn’t waver.

“You safe with me,” he added. “Even if you never see me again after this weekend. That’s just what it is.”

The knot in her chest—resentment, hurt, bone-deep tiredness from her last situation—shifted a little.

She didn’t tell him about the messages left on read, the apologies that never came, the way she’d twisted herself into someone else’s idea of enough and still ended up discarded.

She just swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”

Thunder cracked, closer now. The rain pounded heavier.

For a moment, it was just them and the ocean and the wet wood and her heartbeat loud in her ears.

“You cold?” he asked.

“A little.”

He moved closer, careful and slow, giving her time to step away.

She didn’t.

He set one hand at the edge of his jacket, straightening it around her shoulders. His fingers brushed her collarbone, warm against her skin.

Her breath caught.

His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back.

From up the beach, Bree’s voice cut through the moment. “THE SHARK IS BLOWING AWAY!”

Annie jolted. Smoke huffed something that was almost a laugh.

“Duty calls,” he said.

“Twenty points,” she replied faintly.

They took off running again, feet kicking up sand, the almost-moment folding into something that hummed just under her skin.

They barely made it to the finish line by the end of the three hours, soaked through, edges frizzing, foam shark worse for wear.

“We got it!” Annie panted, slamming the completed checklist onto the table.

Smoke dropped the shark beside her, water slinging off its rubber skin. Stack, Bree, Tiff, Jayla, Ghost, and Jinx crowded behind them, a loud mismatch of friends and strangers now joined by shared chaos.

The judges flipped through the pages, tallying points.

“Team… ‘Grand Theft Helmet’,’” the man read, squinting. His eyes flicked to Annie. “That y’all?”

Bree lifted a hand. “That’s us.”

“You really named us after my crime?” Annie muttered.

“You’re infamous,” Bree replied. “Embrace it.”

The man tapped his pen a few more times, then raised the mic.

“All right, y’all. We got a winner,” he announced. “By ten points, first place goes to… Grand Theft Helmet!”

The cheering hit Annie in a wave.

She didn’t think. She screamed and jumped, launching herself at the nearest solid thing.

Smoke.

He caught her like it was instinct, hands finding her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist. For a second, the whole world shrank to the feel of his arms around her, the steady strength under her touch, the way his chest shook with his own laugh.

She realized what she’d done and hurriedly loosened her grip. He set her down, slow, hands sliding away with reluctance she pretended she didn’t feel.

The prize was a fat envelope of cash, two laminated VIP passes, and a black leather jacket with the Bike Week logo embossed on the back. Smoke held the jacket out.

“You should take it,” he said.

She shook her head. “We won ‘cause of you.”

He gave a short laugh. “You the one who rode the bull and stole the shark.”

“Okay, first of all, you stole the shark,” she said. “I was moral support.”

“Keep it,” he insisted. “Look better on you anyway.”

She swallowed, fingers brushing his as she took it. “Thank you.”

Their friends fanned out to argue over who got what cut of the prize money. Schedules were made on the fly—meet here later, hit this club tonight, don’t go anywhere alone.

At some point, the conversation shifted to showers and naps. Faces blurred as people split off in different directions.

Eventually, it was just Annie and Smoke again, on the sidewalk by her resort, the noise of the strip a steady roar around them.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You staying here?”

“Yeah.” She nodded to the glass doors. “We’re on the sixth floor.”

“Good view?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she said. “You’d have to see it to know.”

His mouth ticked up at the corner. “That an invite?”

She shrugged lightly, ignoring the way her heart stuttered. “Consider it a… gratitude tour. Cleaning your karmic debt.”

“I got debt now?” he asked.

“You been talkin’ ‘bout emotional damages all day,” she reminded him. “Seems only right I pay you back.”

He studied her for a beat, the steady weight of his gaze doing things she didn’t have the vocabulary for.

“I’m not…” she started, then paused. “Listen. I’m not lookin’ for nothin’ serious. I don’t do vacation sneaky links.”

“Okay,” he said simply.

“I mean it,” she added. “I just got out of some bullshit, and I’m not interested in… whatever that was, ever again.”

“I hear you,” he said. “I’m not asking you for forever.”

“What are you asking for?” she asked cautiously.

He stepped closer, close enough that the crowd seemed farther away all at once.

“Tonight,” he said quietly. “Good company. Good view. No pressure.”

She searched his face, looking for the angle. The expectation. The hungry entitlement she’d come to associate with any man who wanted something from her.

It wasn’t there.

He just looked like a man who’d spent the day at her side, laughing and running and protecting her when she needed it, and now wanted to see it through to whatever ending she chose.

She exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

His eyes softened. “You sure?”

She nodded. “Come up in ten. If my friends haven’t kidnapped me by then.”

He huffed a laugh. “If they have, I’ll send a wellness check.”

“Put your number in my phone,” she said, digging it out and handing it to him. “So I know who’s violating my quiet time.”

He typed quickly, passed it back, and tapped his own pocket when his phone buzzed.

“I’ll see you in a minute, Annie,” he said.

She turned to go, jacket heavy in her arms, heart beating faster than a day of running could justify.

She’d almost made it through the doors when he called her name.

She glanced back.

He raised a hand, pointing two fingers at his eyes, then at her, a silent little promise.

She rolled hers, trying not to grin. “Nigga you corny.”

He just smiled and walked away.

Her friends descended the second she hit the room.

“What’s his social security number?” Bree demanded.

“Did y’all kiss for real?” Tiff asked.

“Is he staying the night? I need to plan my sleep,” Jayla added.

Annie dodged every question, showered fast, and changed into a soft tank top and shorts. Before they could pin her down again, she slipped onto the balcony, Bike Week jacket over her shoulders.

The view wasn’t even that special—just the strip below, wet pavement reflecting neon signs, people moving in clusters, occasional flashes of chrome as bikes rolled by.

It felt different, though, knowing he was somewhere out there.

Her phone buzzed.

Smoke: I’m downstairs.

She answered: 6th floor. End of the hall.

“Don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do,” Bree called as she eased back inside, voice sing-song.

“You wouldn’t blink,” Annie replied.

“Exactly.”

She rolled her eyes, heart thudding louder with each step toward the door.

When the knock came, it was soft. Two taps, enough to let her know it was him.

She opened it.

He stood in the hallway, hands in his pockets, T-shirt a shade darker from where rain had caught him earlier, his forehead still a little damp from the rain.

For a second, they just looked at each other.

Then he smiled a little. “View check?”

She stepped aside. “Come see.”

He followed her inside, nodding politely at the chorus of greetings and side-eyes from her friends, then stepped onto the balcony with her.

From up here, the city looked softer. The noise dulled, the lights smearing into pools of color on the wet road. The ocean was a dark stretch beyond the strip, waves rolling in steady.

“It’s nice,” he said.

“It’s okay,” she replied.

They stood in companionable silence for a beat, the cool night air wrapping around them. He saw her shiver a little and offered her his jacket.

“How you feelin’?” he asked.

“Tired,” she admitted. “But it’s the good kind. I haven’t laughed that much in… a while.”

“That so?”

“Don’t get a big head,” she warned. “You were tolerable at best.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Appreciate the review.”

She turned to face him fully, hands fidgeting with the edge of the jacket. “I meant what I said earlier,” she reminded him. “About not wanting anything serious.”

“I know,” he said.

“I’m not… I can’t do another situation where somebody tells me all the right things, then disappears as soon as I get comfortable.” She swallowed. “I promised myself I was done chasing potential.”

“I ain’t mad at that,” he replied. “You deserve somebody who shows up how they say they will.”

Her throat tightened.

“Look,” he went on, voice low and careful. “I can’t speak on whatever dumb shit the last nigga did. All I can tell you is who I am right now. I ain’t here to sell you a dream. I’m here because I like being around you. You make me laugh. You held your own all day. You look good in my jacket.” His mouth tipped. “And I want to kiss you. If you want that too.”

The directness of it… the simplicity… disarmed her more than any line could have.

No promises he couldn’t keep. No declarations he hadn’t earned.

Just want, laid out clean and honest.

She stared at him for a long second, palm pressed flat to the drum of her own heart.

Then she stepped closer, sliding her hands up his chest, fingers curling at the base of his neck.

“I want that too,” she said.

He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath since the first time she’d stolen from him.

His hands found her waist, thumbs pressing into the fabric of her tank just above her waistband.

“Good,” he murmured.

Then he kissed her.

It was nothing like the almost-kiss under the SkyWheel. That had been a snapshot, a frozen moment for a friend’s phone.

This was warm and slow and deep, his mouth fitting over hers in a way that made the rest of the world dissolve. She curled her fingers into the collar of his shirt and tugged him closer, opening easily when his tongue brushed against her bottom lip.

His hands slid up, one splaying at the small of her back, the other curling around her ribcage, holding her like he wanted to commit the shape of her to memory.

She felt herself melt, all the tight, defensive angles of her body softening as he kissed her again and again, each one a little less cautious, a little more certain.

When they finally broke apart, her forehead dropped to his chest, breath coming short.

“Okay,” she murmured. “That was… that was….”

“In a good way?” he asked, voice rough at the edges.

She smiled against his shirt. “So far.”

“Then I can live with it,” he said.

They went inside together, door closing gently behind them, the sounds of the strip fading into a distant hum.

What happened after that wasn’t wild or rushed. It wasn’t some movie montage of clothes flying and sheets tangled.

They moved from balcony to bed in a series of small, deliberate choices—her fingertips at the hem of his shirt, his quiet “this okay?” when his hands slid under her tank, the way she nodded and pulled him back down when he would’ve stopped to make sure.

The room was quiet except for the hush of the ocean far below and the low hum of the air conditioner. Moonlight spilled across the bed in silver bars, catching on the slow rise and fall of their breathing.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmured at one point, lips brushing the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

Nobody had asked her that before. And meant it.

She told him. He listened.

Annie’s fingers curled around his wrist, guiding his hand lower.

“Here,” she whispered, pressing his fingers between her legs, letting him feel how slick she already was. “Start slow. Just… trace me.”

He obeyed instantly, two fingers gliding up and down her seam, learning the shape of her, the way she swelled under the lightest pressure. His touch was reverent, almost shaking.

“Like that?” he asked, voice rough.

She nodded, hips rolling into his hand. “Circles now. Firmer.”

He followed every direction. When she shivered, he paused.

“Keep going,” she breathed. “Don’t stop unless I say.”

Minutes blurred. She showed him exactly how she liked to be touched—how to flatten his fingers, how to crook them just inside her and curl until her back arched off the bed. When her thighs started trembling, she pulled his hand away, brought his soaked fingers to her mouth, licked them clean while he watched with dark, hungry eyes.

Then she pushed him onto his back.

She crawled up his body, knees bracketing his shoulders.

“I want your mouth,” she said. “Slow. Flat tongue. No sucking… yet.”

He groaned, hands sliding up her thighs to steady her—never to guide. She lowered herself onto his tongue and exhaled when he traced her exactly the way she’d taught him. She rode his face in long, lazy rolls of her hips, setting the pace, rising off him entirely when he got too eager.

“Still,” she warned, and he froze, breathing hard against her until she sank down again.

When she was close—so close—she fisted his head.

“Now,” she gasped. “Suck. Hard.”

He did. She came with a low, broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, pulsing against his tongue until the aftershocks left her boneless.

She slid down his body, kissing him deep and filthy, tasting herself on his lips.

His dick was flushed dark, leaking against his stomach. She wrapped her hand around him, stroked once, slow and firm.

He hissed, hips jerking.

“Condom,” she said against his mouth.

He didn’t answer with words. Just a low, desperate sound as he twisted, reaching down the side of the bed. His fingers scrabbled blindly over the floor, knocking aside one of his shoes, cursing under his breath when he couldn’t find the pocket fast enough.

Annie couldn’t help it—she let out a breathy little laugh against his shoulder, the sound warm and teasing.

“Fuck, fuck—”

She kissed the spot beneath his ear, voice soft but edged with a smile. “You good. I’m not going anywhere.”

Then, there they were, his jeans. He dragged them closer by the belt loop, fumbled the wallet out with one shaking hand, nearly dropping it. Leather snapped open, he found the foil square, and while leaning back on the bed, handed her the foil packet with shaking fingers. 

She tore it open with her teeth, rolled it down his length while he watched, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jump.

When it was on, she straddled him again, lined him up, sank down just the head.

He groaned her name like it hurt.

She stayed there, teasing, circling her hips.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

His eyes snapped open, wild and blown.

“Don’t thrust,” she said. “Let me.”

She took him in inch by inch, slow and deliberate, until he was buried to the hilt and they both had to breathe through it. Then she started to move—long, grinding rolls that dragged her clit against his pelvis on every downstroke. His hands hovered at her waist until she guided them to her breasts.

“Touch me. Gentle… then harder when I say.”

He obeyed, thumbs brushing her nipples in slow, reverent circles, waiting for her signal.

Annie’s breath hitched. She cupped her own breast, lifted it toward his mouth.

“Suck,” she said, voice low and rough. “I want your mouth on me. Hard.”

The second the word left her lips, something feral flashed across his face like he’d been starving for permission. He surged up, spine curling, and closed his lips around her nipple with a hungry groan that vibrated straight through her. No hesitation. No gentle teasing. He sucked hard, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. His hand cupped the other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers in perfect, punishing rhythm with his mouth.

“Fuck—yes—like that,” she moaned, grinding down harder on his dick, chasing friction.

He switched sides without being told, latching onto the other breast like he’d been dreaming about it for years—wet, open-mouthed, desperate. The sounds he made were filthy: low growls against her skin, the wet pull of his mouth, the way he couldn’t stop himself from moaning every time she rolled her hips and took him deeper.

She was losing it now, rhythm faltering, pleasure coiling tight and hot low in her belly. She fisted his hair, yanked his head back just enough to see his face—lips swollen, eyes blown black, spit shining on his chin.

“Don’t stop,” she ordered, voice shaking. “Keep sucking while I come.”

He dove back in, relentless, and she shattered.

Her second orgasm slammed through her like a wave, back arching, thighs clamping around his hips as she clenched around his dick in hard, pulsing waves. She cried out—raw, broken, his name tangled in it while he kept his mouth sealed around her nipple, sucking her through every aftershock until she sagged against him, trembling and breathless.

Only then did she kiss him, messy and deep, tasting herself on his tongue again, and whisper against his swollen lips:

“Now. Hard as you want. I want to feel you lose it.”

The words snapped something in him.

He flipped them in one smooth move, still buried deep, and drove into her with a ragged groan. He drew back slow—so slow she felt every dragging ridge of him, then slammed home in one deep, punishing stroke that punched the air from her lungs. The bedframe cracked against the wall. Again. Again. He set a brutal, perfect rhythm—hips snapping, skin slapping, the wet sound of her taking him echoing in the quiet room.

She arched up to meet him, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.

“More,” she gasped. “Don’t slow down.”

He growled—actually growled— and gave her exactly what she demanded. One hand shoved under her ass, tilting her hips so every thrust kissed that spot inside her that made her see stars. His other arm braced beside her head, caging her in, letting her watch the strain in his shoulders, the sweat beading at his temple, the desperate clench of his jaw as he fucked her like he’d been starving for it.

She slid a hand between them, fingers finding her clit, circling fast and sloppy. The pressure coiled again, impossibly fast, white-hot.

He felt it the second she started to tighten, groaned her name again, and sped up, relentless, chasing the squeeze of her body but refusing to tip over first.

“Cum, Annie,” he panted against her mouth. “Let me feel it. Let me—”

She broke. Her third orgasm crashed over her so hard her vision whited out, back bowing off the bed, walls clamping down on him in long, milking pulses. She sobbed his name, nails raking red lines down his back.

Only then did he let himself go.

He buried his face in her neck, hips stuttering, and came with a deep, guttural sound—long, thick pulses inside the condom that she felt even through the latex. He kept moving through it, grinding deep, riding every aftershock until they were both trembling and oversensitive.

When it finally passed, he collapsed half on top of her, breathing like he’d run miles. She could feel his heart hammering against her ribs.

He pressed a shaky kiss to her collarbone, then her throat, then the corner of her mouth.

“Jesus, Annie,” he whispered, voice raw. “You ruinin’ me, girl.”

She smiled into his sweat-damp hair, legs still wrapped tight around him, holding him exactly where he was.

“Good,” she murmured. “That was the plan.”

After a while, with their breaths steady and their bodies pressed chest to chest, Elijah finally broke the quiet.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

She nodded against his neck, fingers tracing the chain at his throat.

“More than okay.”

He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the corner of her mouth.

“Tell me if that ever changes.”

“I will,” she whispered.

They fell asleep tangled in sheets that smelled of sex and salt air, the ocean still murmuring below.

Morning arrived with a pounding knock somewhere in the suite — not Annie’s bedroom door, but the main door leading into the shared living area.

“HEY!” a familiar voice called through the walls. “You alive, bruh? We tryna get breakfast before Ghost eats the table!”

Smoke blinked awake, momentarily disoriented by the floral curtains and unfamiliar ceiling fan.

Then he felt the weight of Annie’s arm draped across his stomach and remembered everything at once.

Another knock—louder this time—followed by Bree’s irritated shout from the common area:

“WHO BANGIN’ LIKE THEY PAY RENT?!”

Smoke sighed. Annie groaned and buried her face in his side.

“Who is that?” she mumbled.

“Stack,” he said.

She made a muffled noise, something between a groan and a curse.

Out in the suite, Tiff’s voice rang out:

“HELLO? People SLEEP in here!”

“Not anymore!” Stack yelled back. “Open up before I call security!”

Annie laughed weakly. “Your people are unhinged.”

Smoke just shook his head.

Another round of knocks rattled through the suite walls.

“You can go,” she muttered. “Tell him you’re fine and let me fake my death.”

Smoke lifted the blanket and nodded toward her chest. “I’m in yo bed. Hard to pretend you weren’t here.”

She groaned. “God.”

He eased himself out of the bed, grabbed his jeans from the floor, and pulled them on. Annie sat up, braids wild, she pulled the sheets up from her lap to cover her exposed breasts.

He cracked the bedroom door just enough to peek into the shared living area.

Stack’s grinning face was RIGHT THERE, inches away.

“Took you long enough,” Stack said, trying to look past Smoke. “We got food waitin’ and—”

He leaned to the side, saw Annie sitting up in bed, and froze.

Then his whole face lit up.

“OHHH. Oh, we in LOVE.”

“Goodbye,” Smoke said and pushed the door to close it.

Stack jammed his foot in the way. “Relax, I got manners. Mornin’, Annie!”

From further in the living area, Bree gasped. “OH MY GOD, HE AIN’T GOT NO SHIRT ON.”

Tiff followed it with, “Annie, girl, you a WHORE and I support you.”

Ghost leaned into view, grinning like an idiot. “Ayeeee. Okay Annie! I see you.”

Jinx raised a hand once, respectfully. “Peace.”

Smoke exhaled. “I’ll meet y’all downstairs. Go.”

Stack finally backed up, still talking. “Don’t take too long! And wear a shirt — the aunties in the lobby can’t handle all that chest!”

Smoke shut the bedroom door firmly.

When he turned back, Annie was sitting there blinking sleepily, pillow creases on one cheek, lips swollen, hair an absolute mess.

She looked soft. Happy. Wrecked in the prettiest way.

“Well,” she said. “They’re… special.”

“That’s one word for them.”

She chewed her lip. “You gotta go.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You probably got plans with your girls too.”

“We were supposed to hit the beach,” she said. “And then a day party. They are going to COOK me alive.”

“You’ll survive,” he said. “You tough.”

She snorted. “I don’t feel tough right now.”

“Good,” he said softly. “You ain’t gotta be all the time.”

She stared at him…

“You keep sayin’ shit like that,” she warned, “I might like you.”

“Can’t have that,” he said lightly. “You allergic to feelins, remember?”

“Severely.”

He walked back to her, leaned down, and pressed a slow kiss to her forehead. Then another — soft and lingering — to her mouth.

“When you think about this trip,” he murmured, “I want it to feel good. Simple as that.”

Her breath hitched. “So far… so good.”

He grabbed his shirt and moved toward the bedroom door, hand on the knob, when she spoke again.

“Smoke?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated. “If I text you after this weekend… you gon’ answer? Or you a ghost-er?”

He met her eyes, steady and certain.

“I don’t run from good things,” he said simply. “So if you hit my phone? I’m there. No pressure.”

Her fingers curled in the sheets. “Okay.”

He nodded once, slipped out into the hall, and closed the door softly behind him.

The girls held their ambush for exactly thirty seconds.

The moment Annie emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around her, Bree threw herself across the bed.

“You had SEX,” Bree accused, finger pointed dramatically. “On day ONE. You’re a liar, a fraud, and also my hero.”

“I didn’t say that—” Annie tried.

“You didn’t have to, bitch,” Tiff cut in, already scrolling through her phone with purpose. “We heard the PREVIEW.”

“Tiff—”

“No, because look.” Tiff turned the screen toward them. “THE WAY y’all kissed on that balcony? The way he grabbed your waist? I filmed it in cinematic mode. I got the director’s cut, the extended edition, AND the behind-the-scenes.”

Annie’s soul left her body. “Why were you filming?!”

Tiff shrugged. “Because the vibes were IMMACULATE. Criterion Collection energy. Oscars. Sundance. I’m submitting y’all to A24.”

Bree slapped her thigh. “A24 is crazy!”

Tiff kept going, wild with power.

“And if the balcony kiss was the TRAILER? Babaaaayyyy, I can only imagine what y’all did when the doors closed. That was an NC-17 fade-to-black if I ever saw one.”

Annie covered her face with both hands. “I hate y’all so much.”

“You love us,” Tiff corrected. “Even though you be lyin’ about your abstinence era.”

Jayla sat in the armchair, sipping her coffee. “Is he at least nice?” she asked.

Annie thought of the way he’d stepped between her and the drunk. The way he’d wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. The way he’d asked, Tell me what you like and meant it.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “He is.”

Bree caught the shift in her voice and softened. “Uh-oh. We in trouble.”

“We not in trouble,” Annie insisted. “He understands the assignment. We had fun. That’s it.”

“For now,” Tiff said under her breath.

Annie didn’t answer. She busied herself picking out a swimsuit, ignoring the way her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She glanced at the screen anyway.

Smoke: You eat yet?

A smile tugged at her mouth before she could stop it.

Annie: About to. You?

Smoke: Stack tried to order for us. I took his menu away.

Smoke: Y’all hittin’ the beach later?

Annie: Yeah. Why?

Smoke: Might ride by. Make sure you ain’t out here stealin’ from nobody.

She rolled her eyes, thumbs moving faster than her brain.

Annie: I only steal from men who deserve it.

Annie: You safe. For now.

The three dots appeared, blinked away, appeared again.

Smoke: I’ll take that.

Bree leaned over her shoulder to read the messages, then squealed into a pillow.

Jayla sighed. “Lord, here we go.”

Annie lay back on the bed for a moment, phone pressed to her chest, the hum of the city drifting in through the balcony door.

She’d come here swearing she was done.

Done trusting. Done hoping. Done opening up for people who didn’t know what to do with her heart.

And maybe this would just be a weekend. A bright, ridiculous, beautiful blip in a long line of days.

But as she closed her eyes, she could still feel the ghost of his hands at her waist, still hear his voice under the pier, low and steady.

You safe with me.

For the first time in a long while, that didn’t feel like a trick.

It felt like a starting point.

“Fun, huh?” Bree said, dropping down beside her.

“Fun,” Annie agreed.

She let herself smile, just a little, and didn’t try to bury it this time.

So.....what did ya'll think? 🫣 Would you be interested in a part 2? I would dive into the Biker lore of it all. See what Smoke and his club members are up too. 🤭

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Your brain was putty, your legs numb, as they draped over Carmy’s shoulders. He moaned against your slick folds, the vibrations causing you to arch and push further into his eager mouth. The small office was filled with the filthy sounds of his wet sucking and your whimpers.

“Carm, shit… m’close…”

You curled your fingers into his messy hair, pulling just enough so that he got the message and moved from tonguing your entrance back to your swollen clit. His gorgeous blue eyes were locked on your face, the way your mouth gaped and your eyes fluttered as he ambushed you with pleasure. He knew by the way your thighs twitched around his head, your gasps becoming higher pitched and desperate, he had you exactly where he wanted you.

You whine pitifully when he pulls away just enough to speak. His thumb replaces his tongue, rolling over your abused clit in firm circles.

“Gotta be quiet, sweetheart, want everyone to hear how needy you are? Fuck…”

As quickly as he stopped he was back at it, sucking at you with renewed vigor. You bit down on your balled fist, trying and failing to contain your needy moans. Two fingers slipped inside your slick walls was all it took for you to succumb to the divine torture, the pleasure of your orgasm rolling over you in waves.

His fingers worked that sensitive spot inside of you, his husky voice whispering words of sweet praise against your skin.