Warnings: Toxic relationship dynamics, explicit language, emotional manipulation, jealousy, verbal fights, explicit sexual content.(not a full one)
A/N:it's my first time writing smut and not a full one so bare with me
The front door didn't slam. I made sure of that.
I closed it with the kind of soft click that says I'm not giving you the satisfaction. My keys went into the bowl by the entryway. One at a time. Clink. Clink. Clink. The air in the apartment was thick, like the stillness before a thunderstorm, and I could feel him in the living room before I saw him.
Jermajesty sat on the couch, phone in hand, thumb scrolling with exaggerated calm. He didn't look up.
His voice was flat. The kind of flat that has knives underneath.
Now he looked up. Those dark eyes moved over me slow, cataloging. My leggings. My cropped hoodie. The way I'd done my makeup before leaving. His jaw tightened.
It wasn't a question. I laughed. I couldn't help it. The sound came out brittle and mean.
"I was with Tasha, you paranoid piece of shit."
Jermajesty stood. Six-foot-two of muscle and bad attitude unfolding from the couch like a threat. "Tasha posted on her story an hour ago. You weren't in it. Try again."
My stomach dropped. Just a little. Just enough to piss me off more.
"So you're tracking me now? Monitoring my friends' social media?" I stepped closer, chin tilted up. We were chest-to-chest now, my five-foot-five to his towering frame. "That's not crazy at all, Jermajesty. That's totally normal boyfriend behavior."
"Don't turn this around on me." His voice cracked on the last word. Not with sadness—with pressure. Like something straining against a dam. "I called you six times. Six. You couldn't text back? Couldn't say 'hey, I'm alive, I'm not getting railed by some other dude'?"
"Maybe I didn't want to talk to you. Maybe I needed space from your suffocating bullshit."
The word suffocating hit him like I'd thrown something.
"No, fuck you. You don't get to interrogate me every time I leave this apartment. You don't get to treat me like I'm some—some cheating whore just because your ex broke your brain."
The air changed. Something flickered behind his eyes—hurt, raw and unguarded—before it hardened into anger. "Leave Kiana out of this."
"Oh, we're protecting Kiana now?" I was shouting. When did I start shouting? My throat was already raw from it. "Kiana who fucked your best friend in your car? That Kiana? The one you keep comparing me to?"
"I don't compare you to—"
"You do! Every fight, every accusation, it's her ghost you're wrestling with, not me." I shoved his chest. Both palms, hard. He barely moved. "I'm not her, Jermajesty. I'm not going to hurt you like she did. But you're so goddamn determined to make me the villain that you're doing it for me."
The words hung between us, electric and wrong and exactly what I wanted to say. His grip on my wrists tightened—not painful, but firm. I could feel his pulse hammering against my skin. Or maybe that was mine.
"You want to hit me?" His voice dropped low. Dangerous. "Go ahead. Throw the first punch like you always do. Get it out."
My fist connected with his shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to say I hate you right now. Then again, his chest, and again, and suddenly I wasn't punching anymore, I was just hitting him with open palms while tears burned down my face, ugly crying, the kind where you can't breathe through your nose and everything comes out in ragged gasps.
"I hate you. I hate how much I love you. I hate that you don't trust me."
When my arms gave out, trembling and weak, he pulled me into his chest. One hand cradled the back of my head. The other pressed flat against my spine. I sobbed into his shirt, nose full of his scent—cedar deodorant and the faint spice of whatever cologne he'd put on twelve hours ago.
"I'm sorry," he murmured into my hair. "I'm sorry. I'm fucked up. I know I'm fucked up."
"You're my fucked up," I choked out.
His laugh was bitter and wet. He was crying too, I realized. Silent tears tracking down his jaw and into my hair. We stood there in the living room, holding each other like survivors of a shipwreck, and I didn't know where the fighting ended and the loving began. Maybe there wasn't a line anymore. Maybe there never had been.
We moved through the apartment still tangled together, shedding clothes like snake skin. My hoodie hit the hallway. His shirt caught on the doorframe. By the time we reached the bedroom, I was in just my bra and leggings, and he was shirtless, all that warm brown skin and the muscle that lived beneath it.
The fight wasn't over. It just changed shape.
Jermajesty kissed me with the same intensity he'd been yelling at me with ten minutes ago—hard, demanding, like he was trying to prove something. His teeth caught my bottom lip. I gasped and he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding against mine.
My back hit the mattress. When had we gotten to the bed? His body covered mine, heavy and hot, one thigh pressing between my legs. I arched up into him without meaning to, without thinking, my hips grinding against the hard muscle of his quad.
"Tell me you're mine," he said against my throat.
"Yours, Jermajesty. Only yours. Always yours."
The words were a surrender and a victory both.
He unclasped my bra with practiced fingers, dragging the straps down my arms, and then his mouth was on my breast. Tongue circling my nipple until it peaked. Teeth grazing just enough to make me hiss. His hand worked my other breast, thumb stroking, palm kneading, and I was already wet. Already aching. The fight had lit something in both of us, a fire that needed to burn itself out.
My leggings came off. My panties followed. I was naked beneath him now, exposed and unashamed, and the way he looked at me—really looked—made my breath catch in my chest.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he said. Not smooth. Not sexy. Just honest, almost reverent. "Even when you hate me."
"I never hate you. That's the problem."
His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. Then he was kissing down my stomach, my hipbones, the inside of my thigh. I felt his breath on me, warm and deliberate, before his tongue parted my folds.
My fingers twisted in the sheets.
He licked me slow at first. Exploring. Tasting. His tongue dragged from my entrance to my clit and swirled there, and I made a sound I didn't recognize—high and desperate, my hips lifting off the bed. He pinned me down with one forearm across my pelvis.
Two fingers pushed inside me. Curled up. Found that spot that made my vision white out at the edges. As you now both understood that this night will be very long
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