✨

“You really lose sleep over this shit, huh?” he questioned. “Over my handwriting? Over my notes?”

“Over your ego,” you corrected. “That thing needs a full engineering team of its own.”

He scoffed, chuckling under his breath like you were both ridiculous…and slightly entertaining.

You flipped to the last page and held it up for him. “Erik. This says ‘fix later.’ That’s it. That’s the whole instruction.”

“Because I was gonna fix it later.”

“WHEN?” you snapped. “In the afterlife? During your reincarnation? Because—”

“Alright, enough.”

Both of you turned as your department director, Brayden, stepped between you with a look reserved for toddlers and chaos goblins.

“You two,” he said, pointing from you to Erik like he was conducting a traffic stop, “are doing a mandatory team-building retreat. Tomorrow. Mountains. Holiday Lodge. Pack a bag.”

You and Erik protested in unison.

“I’m not going with him.”

“I’m not going with her.”

Your boss didn’t even blink. “Too bad. You’re already booked.”

Erik crossed his arms. “I got real work to do.”

“So do I,” you quipped. “I have to fix his manuals before someone gets electrocuted.”

Brayden rubbed his temples like he was actively reconsidering his career choices.

“Listen. Cabin. Mountains. Two days. The storm hasn’t hit yet so you’ll make it up there just fine. Come back Monday acting like adults.”

Erik shot you a look, and you shot him one right back, both of you fighting the urge to stick out your tongue and shoot a bird.

Brayden sighed deeply. “Dear God. Please try not to kill each other.”

Erik leaned closer, dropping his voice just for you. “No promises, Y/N.”

You smiled sweetly and whispered back. “Good. Cause I ain’t promising shit.”

Erik’s truck rumbled through the mountain road like it had an attitude, which made sense, because its owner definitely did.

You sat in the passenger seat with your arms crossed, glaring at the windshield like it personally wronged you. Snowflakes drifted lazily against the glass, but the real chill was inside the car.

He hadn’t said a word since picking you up, so you didn’t either.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen before he broke the silence, exhaling sharply through his nose before asking, “You always breathe this loud?”

You turned your head slowly, giving him the driest look known to mankind.

“You always drive like an old-ass nigga?”

He gripped the wheel tighter, jaw ticking. “Woman—”

“What?” you snapped. “Speak up. I know you struggle with using your goddamn words.”

He muttered something under his breath that definitely wasn’t workplace appropriate.

As the drive continued, you caught him glancing at you more than once. At your thighs in those skin-tone-colored leggings. At your lips when you took a sip from the raspberry tea in your travel mug. At the way your ombré box braids fell over your shoulder.

He looked away every time, like it irritated him.

Good, you thought. It wasn’t your fault you were the sexiest person to ride in his passenger seat.

You checked the retreat itinerary on your phone. Brayden signed y’all up for damn near everything: workshops, icebreakers, and holiday mixers.

You groaned under your breath. “If they make me do one trust fall, I’m quittin’ on the spot.”

Erik snorted. “You don’t trust niggas anyway.”

“Especially not yo ass.”

“Good,” he muttered. “Keep it that way.”

There was another long moment of silence until you leaned forward to adjust the heat vent.

Erik grumbled, “Should’ve brought some goddamn noise-cancelling headphones…”

You didn’t even look at him. “Should’ve brought a fuck for me to give.”

His fingers clenched the wheel harder. “Oh, I got one,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah? Where? In the glove compartment?”

He pressed his lips together like he was physically restraining himself, but then the snow started picking up. Thick flurries and steady wind, and the road got whiter by the second.

Erik slowed down without you having to tell him. You hated that it was responsible and attractive all at once.

By the time the navy blue Silverado pulled into the lodge grounds, the sky was a full winter postcard. Dark grey clouds, drifting snow, and pine trees dusted like powdered sugar. It would’ve been beautiful if you weren’t stuck with him.

You hopped out before he even cut the engine. Snow crunched under your boots as you marched toward the main lodge. Erik followed, long strides eating the ground behind you. “You don’t even know where you going,” he called.

“I’d rather be lost in the snow than walk next to you.”

“Shit, me too,” he retorted. “A nigga already tired of all the noise you make.”

You didn’t flip him off, but it was in the front of your mind.

Inside, the lobby was warm and cozy with fireplaces, wreaths, and twinkle lights. A real winter wonderland, and neither of you cracked a smile once.

At the front desk, the receptionist beamed. “Welcome! Name?”

You gave your name, and Erik gave his.

She typed and typed, but her smile faltered. “Oh… okay, so… hm…this must be a glitch…I’m not—well, let me double-check something…”

Erik stepped forward. “What glitch?”

She winced at his agitated tone. “Well… due to the incoming storm, some guests canceled. Some rooms…uh…combined? And it looks like you two were assigned…the same room.”

You glared. Erik blinked. The receptionist swallowed.

“And…it also appears there’s only…one working room left in your cabin. With one bed. King-sized.”

Silence only lasted for half a second.

“I know you fuckin’ lying,” you complained.

“Hell nah,” Erik echoed.

The receptionist tried to smile again, but it was the kind people wear during emotional distress. “I’m so sorry, but everything else is booked because of the weather…and the storm is expected to hit harder tonight. You’re…um—lucky you made it up here at all.”

You and Erik turned to each other. You blinked. He glared. The receptionist slid the key across the counter like she was offering a peace treaty.

“Cabin 19,” she giggled nervously. “Have a wonderful holiday!”

The second you stepped outside the lodge, the cold slapped you like it had personal beef. Snowflakes stuck to your eyelashes, wind cut through your coat, and the path to Cabin 19 was a long stretch of frigid misery.

Behind you, Erik dragged both your suitcases with the casual strength of someone who never skipped a day in the gym. His long locs were dusted with snow, his breath fogging in the air as he muttered. “This some bullshit.”

“You volunteering for the couch when we get there?” you shot back, boots crunching.

“Couch? I’m not even sleepin’ in the same room as you.”

You snorted. “Man, be serious. You can barely handle cold weather with yo Oakland-raised ass. Your knees probably crying under those pants.”

He stopped walking and then slowly looked you up and down, long enough to be disrespectful, and then smirked. “Worry about your own knees, Mama. I heard you don’t like kneeling for too long anyway.”

You whipped around, scandalized. “EXCUSE ME?”

He shrugged, biting back a laugh. “I’m just saying. Lotta power in them thighs. Probably gotta conserve energy and shit.”

You threw a handful of snow at him. He ate the impact, dusted it off his chest, and smirked wider. “See? Aggressive for no reason.”

“NO REASON?” you snapped. “YOU STARTED IT, ERIK.”

“And you finish it every time.” His voice dipped lower, too close to flirtatious for your comfort.

You spun and stormed ahead. “Can’t stand you,” you muttered.

“Good,” he said behind you. “I like the view from back here anyway.”

Your steps faltered for a moment before you continued your stride, but he definitely saw, and he enjoyed how he got under your skin far too much.

Cabin 19 sat at the edge of the woods. It was cozy, snow-dusted, with warm light glowing in the windows like something out of a movie. You were too annoyed to appreciate it.

Erik unlocked the door, brushed past you, and stomped his boots on the entry mat. You stepped inside behind him, toes off your boots, and nearly gasped in awe. It was beautiful. High wooden beams, a gigantic stone fireplace, fur blankets draped over the couch, and pine wreaths littered with soft holiday lights. You hated that you loved it.

“What?” Erik said, tossing his gloves on the table. “Don’t tell me you impressed.”

“I ain’t even say nothing.”

“You ain’t have to. Your face doing the most.”

You glared at him, and he glared right back; then the heater kicked on and immediately shut off with a loud, metallic clunk.

You blinked. He blinked.

“…the hell was that?” he muttered.

You walked over to the thermostat and tapped it. No blinking lights and no hum. The cabin was losing heat fast.

You turned slowly. “Erik?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Can’t engineers fix this?”

He stared at you like you’d asked him to build a spaceship. “It’s a heating unit, not a damn battle mech. I don’t even have my tools.”

You crossed your arms. “Wow. So you’re useless.”

He stepped closer, towering over you with that beautifully irritating height of his. “Say that shit again.”

You swallowed, breath catching despite yourself.

He smirked knowingly. “Yeah. That’s what the fuck I thought.”

He walked past you to the fireplace, kneeling to check the logs.

“This the only heat source we got right now,” he said. “Good thing one of us knows how to start a fire.”

“Oh, nigga please—”

“Be quiet and watch.” His tone was overly confident and warm, borderline sinful.

He struck a match, set the logs, and coaxed the flame until it roared to life. The sparks were dancing, firelight casting gold across his locs and shoulders.

You hated how good he looked doing basic survival tasks. He sat back on his heels, glancing up at you.

“Don’t start clapping for a nigga,” he teased. “I know you impressed.”

“It was literally a match,” you deadpanned.

“Yeah, but you lookin’ at me like I invented fire.”

“I—” You choked. “I am not!”

“Sure,” he said, standing. “Whatever’s gonna help you sleep tonight.”

You marched into the bedroom to escape him, which was a big mistake because there was only one bed. One enormous, fluffy, fur-blanketed bed…in a single-room cabin.

You groaned so loud it echoed. “Oh, FUCK no.”

Erik stepped in behind you, took one look at the bed, and hissed through his teeth. “Man—this retreat already starting with disrespect.”

You spun. “We’re not sharing.”

“Good,” he said. “I’d rather sleep outside.”

“Be my guest.”

“I will.”

You pointed toward the window. “Snow is literally rising as we speak.”

He shrugged. “So?”

“So?!” you snapped. “You’re gonna freeze!”

He smirked. “Aw. You worried about me?”

“I ain’t say all that…”

“Then I’m good.”

You both stared at each other, irritated, stubborn, and breathing too hard. As the fire crackled loudly in the other room, the snowstorm intensified outside.

He took a step closer, and you didn’t back up, so he took another step, but you still didn’t move. Now he was inches away, much closer than coworkers should be, closer than enemies should ever get.

His voice dropped before asking, “You scared you might actually like sharing a bed with me, Y/N?”

You scoffed, but your pulse jumped. “I don’t like anything about you.”

“Lie again.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

He leaned in, breath brushing your cheek, eyes dropping to your lips for half a second too long. “Thought so.”

Your heart hammered, but somehow your pride held firm.

“We’re not sharing,” you blurted.

He smirked. “Aight. Then you can sleep by the fire.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He gestured lazily toward the living room. “You scared of the dark?”

You stepped into his space fully. “You are infuriating.”

He grinned slowly and wickedly, inviting trouble. “And what the fuck does that make you?”

The tension was electric, one spark away from igniting.

The cabin lights flickered twice, then everything went dark. The heater died first, followed by the overheads and then the gentle hum of appliances.

The cabin was filled with silence. The snow pounding against the windows like iron fists was the only audible sound.

You inhaled sharply. “Erik…?”

He cursed under his breath. “Shit. It looks like the storm kicked out the power.”

You crossed your arms, annoyed at mother nature herself. “Of course we are.”

He grabbed your wrist surprisingly gently and guided you toward the living room, where the fireplace still glowed. “Stay close, Mama.”

You snatched your hand back. “I am close.”

“Good,” he muttered. “Try not to wander off and fall into a snowbank.”

You sat on the fur blanket in front of the fire, refusing to look at him. The wind howled outside, the storm raging harder than either of your attitudes.

Erik tossed a few extra logs onto the flames, the fire crackling hotter and brighter, throwing gold across his arms and locs as he worked.

You hated how good he looked illuminated like that. You hated that he knew you noticed.

He dusted off his hands. “This storm’s gonna trap us in here all night.”

“Fantastic.”

“No heater,” he continued, settling across from you. “No lights. No extra blankets. Gonna get cold.”

You eyed the flames. “I’ll manage.”

He huffed a laugh. “Right. Sure.”

You glared. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t know me, nigga.”

“Oh, I know your dramatic ass good and plenty.” He ranted. “You think I don’t notice how cold you get at work when the AC drops below seventy-three degrees? But yeah, you muhfuckin Ororo Munroe, so you’ll survive.”

You grabbed a fur throw and pulled it dramatically over your shoulders.

He had the audacity to smirk.

The minutes that passed turned into half an hour. The temperature dropped significantly. The kind of cold that traveled all the way down to your bones. 

You scooted closer to the fire without thinking, and so did Erik. Somehow, without either of you consciously deciding to do so, your knees brushed against each other. You both froze, but neither of you pulled away.

The fire popped loudly, orange sparks dancing upward. Erik’s gaze slid to where your knees touched, then slowly traveled upward to your thighs and your waist, stopping on your face.

His jaw tightened. “You cold?”

“Nope.”

“You lying.”

He reached over, grabbed the end of the fur blanket, and tugged it over himself too. Now you were forced to shift closer or lose the warmth completely.

Your shoulders grazed as your thighs pressed together under the blanket. Your breath caught, unsteady and embarrassingly audible. Erik noticed of course and leaned in slightly, voice low.

“You shake like that every time you sit next to me?”

You swallowed. “Nah. Just when you won’t shut the fuck up.”

His lips twitched like he was suppressing a grin. “That right?”

You glared at him, but your voice softened without permission. “You think you’re irresistible.”

He leaned even closer, the firelight gilding his features, eyes locked on yours with a focus that felt dangerous.

“And you think you don’t stare at me every time I fix something in the office.”

Your face heated. “I don’t stare.”

“You do.” He reached forward and brushed a snowflake from your braid, slowly and deliberately. “You staring right now.”

You tried to look away, but your eyes were glued to his face.

The air thickened. and your breath hitched. Erik Stevens, your workplace nemesis, professional irritant, and human nightmare, shifted closer until your noses brushed.

“Tell me you don’t feel this,” he murmured.

Your pulse pounded as the fire crackled and the wind slammed against the cabin walls.

“Admit that you been wanting a nigga,” he whispered again, kobicha brown eyes dropping briefly to your lips.

You opened your mouth to deny it or to insult him, but the words tangled in your throat, refusing to come out.

He saw your silence and confirmed the truth inside it.

Slowly his hand slid to your waist, careful and testing, like he expected you to shove him away, but you didn’t.

You inhaled sharply, your body betraying you entirely.

Erik’s jaw flexed. “Uh-huh.”

The fire roared in front of you, heat blooming between you in a way that had nothing to do with flames. There was no more room for snarky jabs as you two teetered on the edge of something inevitable.

Erik’s hand stayed on your waist, warm and firm, his thumb sweeping once across the fabric of your shirt, subtly claiming.

You tried to speak, you tried to gather an insult, and you tried to remember why you hated this man, but the words dissolved on your tongue, swallowed by the tension pressing your bodies closer inch by inch.

“You really piss me the fuck off,” you expressed, barely audible.

He let out an alarming chuckle. “I don’t even be doin’ shit,” he insisted, leaning in until his breath brushed your lips. “You just like arguin’ with a nigga.”

You opened your mouth to snap back, but he cut off the protest before it formed by kissing you hard. A crash of heat and impatience and every unspoken thing that had been building for months. Your hand shot to his chest out of instinct to push him away, but your fingers curled into his sweater instead. His other hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss like he’d been waiting far too long and finally lost control.

You gasped against his mouth. “I—Erik…”

He didn’t give you space to recover. “You talk too damn much,” he muttered against your lips.

“You—” You started, but your voice broke when he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that etched its shape into your memory.

You made one single, fatal mistake. You leaned into him the tiniest bit. Just enough for him to feel it. His breath hitched, a low sound you had never heard from him, and then his hands gripped your waist again, this time with purpose.

“C’mere, Mama,” he said, voice a rumble.

Before you could question the command, he tightened the hold on your hips, lifted you like you weighed nothing, and pulled you straight into his lap.

A startled squeak escaped you, but your arms were already looping around his shoulders for balance, your thick thighs bracketing his hips as the fur blanket slipped down around you both.

His palms settled on your curves, firm and sure, anchoring you there. You felt the breath punch out of both of you when you landed against his chest.

“You really shouldn’t be sittin’ here,” he swallowed hard, eyes locked on yours and burning. “Cause I’m not lettin’ you back up.”

Your heart thundered as your forehead brushed his without meaning to.

“You going to push me away?” he asked softly, almost a dare, almost a plea.

You didn’t move or blink, still processing the fact that he just set you on his lap like you belonged there.

He grinned triumphantly and said, “Didn’t think so.” before he captured your lips in a starving kiss, both of you tipping fully into the heat you’d been fighting since the moment you met.

You were still recovering from the shock as he settled you fully onto him, the fire casting gold across both your faces. Erik’s hands gripped the hem of your long-sleeve shirt, and you raised your arms so he could lift it over your head and toss it to the side. He didn’t unfasten your bra, but his thumbs stroked at the soft skin under the latch, slow circles like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Like touching you was instinct. Like it was his god-given right.

Your forehead brushed his again, softer this time and his breathing slowed like he was trying to steady himself and failing miserably.

“Why you shakin’, Y/N?” he whispered, voice velvety warm. “You scared of me…or what you feel?”

You swallowed, fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt.

“Neither,” you lied.

“Yeah, you are,” he hummed, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “I am too.”

That admission and his lips snatched the air right out of your lungs. He kissed you again, much slower, like he was memorizing your lips. His hands at your back guided you closer until your chest met his and your heartbeat thudded right against him.

The storm outside howled and the cabin groaned, but in that moment, all you felt was him.

Erik tilted his head, his mouth tracing a slow path to your jaw, his breath warm against your skin.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy at work,” he admitted between soft kisses. “All that attitude. All that fire.” His left hand moved to your ass, squeezing the flesh through your leggings. “Couldn’t stand you…because I wanted you.”

Your breath hitched involuntarily as he landed a sharp slap on your ass.

“You want me?” he asked.

You nodded, and that was all the permission he needed. He kissed down your throat slowly and reverently, like you were something he’d been starving for but didn’t dare ruin by moving too fast.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, bold now, as you pulled him closer as the crackling fire warmed both your bodies. His locs brushed your cheek when he lifted his head to meet your gaze again.

His eyes softened. “Relax, Mama.”

You were already anxious, but you leaned in anyway, pressing into him, letting your full weight settle on his lap. You gasped quietly as your heat brushed against the erection in his pants. He was huge. You rocked down once to be certain, and he inhaled sharply, hands tightening with a low, quiet groan he failed to suppress.

The sound catapulted heat through your entire body, and your clit throbbed in anticipation. He kissed you again, this time with the fierce tenderness of someone who’d been holding back for far too long. No rush. No hurry. Just heat rising slow and inevitable, like the fire dancing behind you.

One of his hands slid up your spine, unsnapping your bra; the other anchored your side. Your fingers curled into his locs, and you sighed as he kissed the top of your left breast. He exhaled your name like it was a confession, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath unsteady, voice raw.

“Tell me to stop.”

Your lips brushed his forehead in a ghost of a kiss. “For once I don’t want you to stop.”

He groaned softly as he took your hardened nipple in his mouth, sucking firmly. You moaned his name as he alternated between each breast, giving equal attention to both.

After a few minutes he pulled back just enough to study you, like he was memorizing every microexpression you made.

You were breathless and flustered, still trying to pretend you weren’t melting in his lap.

“Oh yeah,” he smirked, thumb brushing your bottom lip, “you a problem.”

You tried to glare at him, but it was hard to be convincing when you were straddling him and shaking.

“Get over yourself,” you managed to mutter out.

He let out a sound of amusement, the kind of laugh meant to pin you exactly where you were.

“There she go,” he announced fondly. “My little brat.”

Your pulse jumped as his hand slid down your chest, past your tummy, slow enough to make your breath catch, then stopped in between your thighs, his other hand pushing you down against his hard dick.

“You talk a lot of shit,” he murmured, “but I bet that pussy soakin’ for a nigga.”

You scoffed and shifted like you were going to get off his lap. He didn’t let you. His hands tightened instantly, pulling you back down in one fluid, unquestionable motion.

“Nah,” he whispered, voice dipping. “Stop fuckin’ playin’ with me.”

Your breath stuttered. “Erik—”

“Uh-uh,” he said, leaning in, lips grazing your ear without touching. “That attitude got a limit…and you hittin’ it.”

You shivered, heat skimming the back of your neck and thighs clenching.

His fingers lifted your chin gently but firmly. “Look at me.”

You did because you couldn’t not.

His eyes softened, not so much in a sweet way but in a certain way. The kind of look that pulled the fight right out of you.

“That’s better,” he praised. “Be nice to Daddy.”

You opened your mouth to fire back some petty remark, but he was already moving, his hands gripping your soft sides, his gaze dropping lower and lower.

He glanced at your socks peeking out from under the blanket a moment too long. In one smooth motion he removed a sock, revealing your French-tipped toes, and something in his expression shifted, subtle and hungry, like he hadn’t meant to react but couldn’t hide it either.

You caught it immediately.

“What?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

He huffed a laugh like you’d uncovered state secrets.

“Nothing,” he muttered unconvincingly.

“Oh nah,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “Say it.”

His tongue swept over his bottom lip thoughtfully before he met your gaze again. “You don’t wanna know what I’m thinking.”

That shouldn’t have sent heat down your spine, but it did, so you pressed, “Try me.”

He leaned back just enough to look you over from your eyes…to your mouth…to your perky nipples…then down to your other foot, tugging the sock off.

“Your feet,” he said quietly, “gonna get me in trouble.”

Your breath caught. “I—what?”

He dragged one hand down your thigh, stopping right above your ankle, fingers grazing over your toes.

“I’ve been trying not to look,” he murmured. “At work. Today. Right now.”

You stared at him, stunned.

He continued, “Especially when you get them painted white or lavender. I can’t focus on a damn thing at work when your toes out.”

He smiled, completely unbothered by your shock.

“Thought you were observant,” he teased. “Guess not.”

You pulled your leg back instinctively. He gripped your ankle gently, firm enough to make your breath stutter.

“Don’t hide,” he whispered. “Not from me.”

The last shred of resolve slipped inside you, and you surrendered. He exhaled like he’d been waiting for that exact moment.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the back of your ankle once, lightly, reverently. “See? You not as tough as you pretend.”

“I am,” you shot back weakly.

He leaned forward, nose brushing yours. “No, you not and that’s why I like you.”

Your heartbeat stuttered into a run when he pushed you down against his straining erection while he lifted his hips to meet your warmth. You whimpered softly as his zipper brushed against your clit. His eyes dropped to your lips again. “You done fightin’ me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He hummed, pleased, sliding one hand up your spine in a slow, claiming stroke.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he whispered against your mouth.

His next kiss was consuming. The kind of kiss that said we’re way past the point of pretending now. His hand snaked inside the front of your leggings, and his fingers found your clit with ease. His thumb circled your clit through your panties, and your eyes fluttered closed as you gasped his name.

“E—Erik.”

“Mmm,” he groaned. “I barely even touched you, and this pussy already drippin’ for me.”

His free hand tore a hole in your leggings all the way to your ass, ruining them, but before you could complain, he yanked your panties to the side and circled your clit harder with his thumb, while his middle finger traced your slit, your wetness coating his finger as he dipped it inside you.

“Goddamn,” Erik exhaled as he admired your fat pussy. “So wet and soft. Warmer than I imagined.”

“Erik.”

“Why you was hiding all this from me?”

“Erik.”

“Tell me.” He grunted softly as he inserted a second finger without warning, thrusting slowly. “Tight-ass fuckin’ pussy.”

A loud moan escaped you when he curled his fingers deeper and thrust faster, his thumb circling your clit with more pressure.

“Eri—ohfuckohfuck—Erik, please!

Without warning, he pulled his fingers out, grumbling under his breath about not being able to wait any longer, as he unbuckled his jeans and tugged them down just enough with his briefs. His dick came free, hard, long, and heavy. A girth like no other.

Your mouth fell open and your eyes widened in utter amazement. You could feel how huge he was when you put all your weight on his lap, but you had no idea he was packing that much. Was that supposed to go inside you? On what planet and in what timeline?!

“I need to be inside you, Mama,” he groaned softly as he stroked himself. “Can I put it in?”

“Wait—you don’t want no head first or—um…to get more comfortable—“

“I’m the most comfortable I’ll ever be now that I got you in my lap.”

“At least take your sweater off, E.”

He dropped his dick and lifted his sweater over his head and tossed it aside, gold chain shining against his smooth, toned chest. 

You met his gaze steadily, brushing his locs back from his face and shoulders. “I want you inside me.”

For a beat, he just looked at you like he was savoring the shift, the way tenderness tipped into heat. There was no going back to just coworkers after this. He pulled at the hole on your leggings until enough of your ass was free for him to cup, ripping your panties in the process. You didn’t even bother to comment because his brute strength did something to you.

You lowered yourself onto him, both of you inhaled sharply as he eased in carefully, inch by inch. The stretch damn near tilted your world on its axis. Your fingers gripped the back of his neck, your arms bringing him closer to you.

“Fuuuck,” he rasped, warm puffs of breath tickling your neck. “Tighter than—“

“Erik…”

His name flowed from your lips like a prayer, and suddenly it was him who was undone. Heat traveled through him as you began to bounce slowly and steadily, adjusting to his massive size, and the sting from the stretch gradually subsided.

“Shit, don't say Daddy's name like that," he rasped, breathless and on the verge of snapping.

“I can’t help it. You feel too good.”

“Goddamn,” he groaned, trying with all his might to not bust embarrassingly quick. “You feel too good, Y/N. Too fuckin’ good.”

You clutched his shoulders, coffin nails biting lightly into his skin, gasping his name. The sound of his name being moaned like that wrecked him. He thought he would let you lead with your slow bounces at first, but every time his name slipped past your lips, he lost a little more control.

The pace quickened, and you both settled on an intense rhythm as sweat began to slick your chests. Broken breaths syncing with your impeccable rocks.

“What’s my name?” He asked, hands reaching up to cup your face and bring your lips down against his.

You were so full and stretched you forgot how to speak for a moment. Every deliberate stroke and every perfectly timed hip thrust drew a needy moan out of you; every kiss left you wrecked. He wouldn’t let you look away from him, eyes locked like he was pulling the word out of your soul.

“Say it,” he commanded, voice rough.

“Daddy—” you gasped, clutching his shoulders.

“Again.”

“Daddy!”

He groaned as his hips stuttered, his control fraying. “Fuck…that’s it, baby. You mine now, and I’m yours.” Then his voice dropped to a sinful whisper, testing the nickname he just knew would unravel you. “Such a good girl for Daddy.”

You cried out, head thrown back, the praise detonating inside you. Those two words from him tipped you over the edge. You shuddered violently, the orgasm tearing through you so hard it felt like every single nerve in your body was on fire.

“Oh shit—if praise was all it took to get you to open up then I went about this shit all wrong from the beginning.”

You were still whimpering and shaking in his lap, still being stretched to the brim.

“That’s okay though. I’m making up for it all night.”

Once you caught your breath, you started bouncing again, but he had other plans. He planted his feet on the floor and dropped his hands back to your waist, and his grip was almost as tight as you when he began hammering into you, tempo merciless.

“Eri—fuckmefuckme—don’t sto—stop!”

He leaned close, lips brushing your ear as he grunted loudly. “Take it for me, pretty girl.”

It wasn’t just the words, but it was the way he said them. Smooth but commanding, drenched in reverence and filth at the same damn time. Like he was worshiping and owning you with each movement.

Your body reacted instantly, back arching, thighs trembling, breath catching in a sob. You bounced harder, fucking him back and he slapped your ass cheek over and over.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

“Mmhmm, just like that,” he encouraged. “Use that dick.”

You moaned, placing your hands on his chest, gripping his pecs as you swirled your hips, picking up an unrelenting speed.

“Erik—” you cried, already close to the edge again.

His smirk was lethal. “Ohhh, I heard that. You like that name too, huh? Say it back.”

“Pretty girl,” you whimpered brokenly, but it wasn’t enough.

“Louder,” he growled, hips pistoning harder. “Let me hear you.”

“Daddy—Erik—fuck—your pretty girl!”

“Mmhmm. I can feel it,” Erik groaned, sliding one hand to your throat and squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch, his other clutching your hip. “Come on this dick again, Mama.”

“I’m gonna—I—fuuuck!”

The tension coiled tighter, and the euphoric hum sparkled under your skin as he fucked you through your second orgasm. The wet squelching and sharp panting filled the room, outdoing the booming gusts of wind from the storm. It felt too good.

You still couldn’t believe your most annoying coworker was giving you so much pleasure. He was literally fucking the breath right out of your lungs. You were loving every filthy minute of it. If your boss wanted to send you two on more team-building quests, then sign you the fuck up.

You bit your bottom lip as you caught his reaction to you squeezing your walls around his tip as you bounced up and unclenching when you came down.

Erik bit down on your shoulder, voice wrecked. “Fuck, Mama—I can’t hold it—” he huffed, rutting up into you sloppily.

You seized the opportunity by whispering the knockout blow right into his ear. “Come for me, Daddy. Paint my fuckin’ walls.”

His whole body shuddered, and the groan that ripped out of him was primal, his release hitting so hard it dragged you over right with him. You both came together, gripping each other like your lives depended on it and panting harshly like you just ran a 20k marathon under ninety minutes.

His mouth found yours in a feral kiss, all tongue and teeth and desperation, swallowing your moans until you were both gasping for air.

After a few minutes you finally eased off him, your slicked thighs trembling as much as his as you swung a wobbly leg over him and fell back against the blanket. His spent dick twitched weakly against his thigh, still leaking as it softened.

“Wake me up in about twenty minutes, please.” You muttered as you closed your eyes, breath regulating. Not a care in the world as he watched his come ooze out of you onto the blanket. His amused snort was the last thing you heard before you drifted off.

—

Warmth was the first thing you registered when you woke up. The heavy kind that came after exhaustion and too much pleasure to process. Your limbs ached in all the right places, and your spine felt like it had melted into the mattress.

Wait—a mattress?

Your eyes snapped open. You were splayed out against the sheets, a thick duvet pulled up to your chin, and your clothes were folded neatly on the wooden rocking chair. The faint scent of freshly brewed coffee and cedar lingered in the air.

You sat up abruptly, wincing with bittersweet regret because, wow, your body remembered the ride you went on last night.

“The fu—?”

You hadn’t fallen asleep in the bed. You’d fallen asleep on the floor. On top of the fur blanket. Completely wrecked and telling him to wake you in twenty minutes.

You pressed a hand to your forehead. “Oh my God…”

A deep voice drifted from the doorway. “Rise and shine, brat.”

You jumped a little, head snapping toward him. Erik leaned against the frame, arms crossed, long locs falling over one shoulder, only wearing sweatpants and that smug, devastating smirk that said he knew exactly what he did last night.

You blinked at him, then at the bed, then at your clean skin. “…Did you—”

“Yeah,” he answered before you finished. “I carried you to the bed and tucked you in.”

Your cheeks warmed, and words caught in your throat.

“You were out, Mama,” he continued, walking in casually with two mugs like the room didn’t still smell faintly of heat and him. “Like out out. Couldn’t just leave yo ass on the floor.”

You blinked. “And you—”

“Cleaned you up,” he said simply. “You were a mess. My mess.”

Your soul left your body.

He shrugged, like he hadn’t just said something illegal. “I take care of what I break.”

“ERIK—”

“What?” he asked, amused. “You mad I didn’t leave you sticky on a blanket like some savage?”

You buried your face in your hands as he chuckled, setting the mugs down on the bedside table before he sat on the edge of the bed beside you.

“Relax, Mama,” he said softly. “You were asleep before you even hit the blanket. I wasn’t about to let you freeze.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You really think twenty minutes was enough time for you to recover from all that?” He gestured vaguely toward you. “You slept like you got knocked out by a heavyweight champ.”

You threw a pillow, and it hit him square in the chest.

He caught it with one hand, smirk deepening. “There she go,” he teased. “My pretty girl.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You liked it last night.”

You couldn’t even come up with a quick rebuttal.

He leaned closer, voice dipping, brown eyes warm in a way that made your stomach flip and thighs clench.

“And for the record,” he murmured, “you looked good sleeping in my arms. We will be falling asleep like that more often.”

Oop, he wasn’t fucking around.

He reached up, brushing a stray braid from your cheek with a gentleness that contrasted wildly with the way he’d handled you last night.

“You hungry?” he asked, like the question didn’t carry a thousand implications. “Power came on about half an hour ago. I can make you a omelette. You look like you need sustenance.”

You nodded and whispered. “What about you?”

He smiled confidently, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I been waitin’ on you to wake up so I can have my meal.”

“Why you had to wait on me—“

You threw another pillow at him when it clicked what his freaky ass wanted to actually eat for breakfast.

He laughed, ducking it, then stood and headed toward the kitchen.

The first sound is breathing. Not hers.

Little puffs of air, warm and wet against her shoulder blade, followed by a sticky hand slapping down on her chest like he owns her heartbeat.

“Up, Mama,” Messiah mumbles, voice thick with sleep and snot, “Cartoo?”

Malaya doesn’t open her eyes right away. Her back hurts. Not sharp pain—just that deep, stretched ache that comes from sleeping on her side too long with a toddler pressed to her spine. The kind of ache that says you made it through another day, now do it again.

Messiah shifts beside her, his couls wild, matted, and damp from sweat. His tiny sock is halfway off. He kicks once, like he’s dreaming of something fast, then kicks again on purpose, hard enough to jar her ribs.

“I’m up,” she groans, voice cracked, “Damn, boy.”

She doesn’t curse in front of him often, but it slips sometimes in the early hours, when her bones are heavier than her body and her soul feels like it got folded in the wrong drawer. The bedroom is dim, a single strip of light cutting in through the crooked blinds. Her sheets are half off the mattress, tangled around one of her legs. The baby monitor on the nightstand blinks blue even though Messiah’s already beside her. On the floor by the closet door is a pair of leggings, a half-folded towel, and the old tripod she kicks out of sight with her heel.

They start slow. She sits up with him in her lap, lets him rub his face against her stretched T-shirt like it’s a napkin, lets him drool a little on the neckline. Her T-shirt smells like yesterday. Baby wipes, cocoa butter, and the faintest trace of strawberry lube.

He climbs down with a grunt and waddles toward the bedroom door, “Snack!” he says. A declaration.

Malaya rolls her shoulders, feels the stretch pop down her spine. Her belly—still soft and full under the fabric—shifts slightly with the motion. She tugs down her T-shirt. Doesn’t bother with a bra. She rarely does unless she’s heading to work or logging in.

The hallway outside her room creaks as Messiah darts toward the kitchen, Jurassic Park socks sliding. She follows behind, bare feet padding over the plush carpet that covers the real floors beneath—cheap laminate hiding older scars.

The duplex is quiet, but it’s not still.

The living room has toys everywhere, plastic food in the play kitchen, a blanket crumpled on the couch from when she passed out watching Bluey alone. One of Messiah’s juice cups rolls across the floor when she nudges it with her toe. In the corner, by the window, her plant is dying. The leaves are yellow at the tips. She waters it anyway. Out of habit. Or hope. The kitchen’s narrow, with cabinets painted the wrong shade of white and fake-new appliances that buzz louder than they should. The stove clock is flashing 12:00. She hasn’t fixed it since the last outage. There’s a small pantry beside the fridge, barely enough space for snacks and ramen and the box of wipes she keeps hidden from visitors.

“Cheerios?” she asks, already reaching.

Messiah nods like a king.

She pours a handful into a bowl, no milk. He eats standing up on the couch, balancing one foot on the cushion like a little rebel.

She leans on the counter, arms crossed, eyes on the small strip of sun now widening across the floor. Her stomach growls. She ignores it. Her head hurts. She swallows that too. Outside, the city’s already moving—sirens, tires, the deep rumble of bass from someone’s too-loud car speaker. Inside, it’s just her and him and the weight and the stretch.

Messiah crunches dry Cheerios from the couch while cartoons mumble in the background, and Malaya steps into the narrow hallway, barefoot. Her duplex is small, but it holds her. Two bedrooms, one bath, and a little more space than the rent should allow. Landlord slapped some vinyl flooring in the kitchen and called it “newly remodeled.” The carpet’s fresh too, though she can still feel the unevenness of the floor beneath it. Messiah’s dinosaurs and action figures are lined up along the hallway wall, like they’re guarding something ancient. Her bedroom door sticks a little when she pushes it open.

Inside, it smells like sleep and yesterday’s body oil. The blinds are uneven, casting warped shadows over the dresser where her worn makeup bag sits untouched. Clothes are everywhere. Not messy—just lived in. A hoodie draped over the headboard. Her favorite pair of leggings folded wrong at the foot of the bed. Her work bag slumped against the side of the laundry basket, zipper half-open, badge peeking out like it’s tired too.

She peeks in on Messiah’s room. It’s chaos. Blankets on the floor. Toddler bed messy. A book open to the wrong page. A half-naked stuffed Mickey Mouse wedged under a tiny chair. It smells like powder, juice, and the lavender spray she mists at bedtime. She’ll clean later. Or not. She never pretends for nobody.

“Messiah,” she calls gently, “Potty time. Come on, baby.”

He shuffles down the hall, chubby legs moving fast, and plops onto his training seat in the bathroom like he owns it.

“I poo poo,” he announces. Confident. Serious.

Malaya exhales a soft laugh and steps out of her T-shirt, then peels down her panties. The c-section scar pulls faintly when she bends. Her reflection in the mirror is blurred from the steam already building up. She avoids looking too long.

The shower is fast. Has to be. Water costs and Messiah gets antsy if she’s gone too long. She pins her long Marley twists up into a high, loose bun. Some strands fall free anyway—new growth coils acting as baby hair tight against her damp forehead. She turns the water on hot, tests it with her hand, then steps in slow. A low hiss slips through her teeth as it hits her skin.

Her body isn’t the same as before. Softer now. Heavy in new places. Her stretch marks shimmer like whispers in the steam—silver along her belly and hips. She scrubs her arms in hard, fast circles, suds slipping down to her elbows. Over her inner bicep, she moves slower—right where her ink reads: What doesn’t kill you breaks you soft.

Her hands move down. Across full breasts. Beneath them. Over her soft belly. Down thicker thighs. She cleans between her legs carefully—rinsing, pressing. There’s a deep, dull ache inside. She doesn’t linger on it.

Just something she lives with now.

She turns off the water before she’s ready.

The mirror’s fogged. Her face swims behind it. She wipes the glass with her palm but doesn’t look long. She’s got thirty minutes before they’re late. Messiah’s still babbling to himself on the potty. She dries off fast—body still dripping—pulls on a soft T-shirt with a cracked graphic print and thick socks. Her nipples poke through the fabric, but she doesn’t have time to care. She scoops Messiah up, wipes him down at the bathroom sink, wrangles him into a onesie with dinosaurs on it, then moves like clockwork.

She grabs:

Scrubs (grey today, slightly faded)

Her badge and lanyard (Parkside Outpatient— Midtown Campus)

Messiah’s bag with snacks, wipes, cracked tablet, and extra socks

Her work bag with her charger and the cheap deodorant she keeps forgetting to replace

Messiah’s starting to fuss, arms flailing as she zips his jacket.

“I don like it, mommy.” he whines.

“I know, baby. Just a little longer,” she whispers.

Her hands are full. Her throat feels tight. She presses her forehead against the front door for just one second before unlocking it.

Just one second.

Then she exhales and opens it to the world.

Her car is loyal. Ugly, but loyal.

A dusty gray 2015 Nissan Altima with a dented driver’s side door and a cracked back taillight covered in red tape. The radio only plays two stations without static. The air conditioner groans before it works. She keeps one of Messiah’s pacifiers on the dash like a totem. Dice hanging from the rear view mirror. The inside smells like apple juice and exhaustion—baby wipes, old fries, and whatever Black ice air freshener is losing its grip on the rearview.

The engine clicks when it starts. She waits, then reverses slow. Hollowell Parkway is already alive—school buses, mopeds, folks walking in neon uniforms toward the MARTA stop. Messiah kicks his feet in the backseat, half-asleep again, holding his stuffed Elmo like it might get snatched. The daycare is a small brick building tucked between a rundown convenience store and an old church that’s been boarded up for two years. A colorful sign above the door reads: Bright Futures Learning Center with faded cartoon animals dancing around the letters. The front windows are decorated with construction paper cutouts of autumn leaves.

Miss Tonya opens the door before Malaya can knock. She’s wearing a t-shirt with “Unbothered & Booked” printed across the chest and leopard print leggings. Her locs are pulled up in a pineapple. She’s got that voice that’s soft enough for toddlers and sharp enough for parents who test her.

“Morning, Mama,” she says, holding the door open.

“Morning,” Malaya spoke softly, lifting Messiah from the car seat. He clings to her neck.

Miss Tonya lowers her tone just enough, lYou got that payment?”

Malaya doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches for her wallet with one hand while shifting Messiah’s weight to her hip.

It’s all crumpled bills and quarters—cobbled together from tips, change, a ten from Tamra, and what she was supposed to save for groceries. She pulls out $150 and hands it over.

“That’s the rest from two weeks ago,” Malaya says, her voice quiet, “I’ll have the next one on time.”

Miss Tonya eyes the bills, then nods slowly, “Alright. I know you tryna keep up. But we tight this month, okay?”

“I know. Thank you.”

“You know I love that baby. Just…don’t make me chase you again.”

Malaya nods again, stiff. Swallows hard.

She kisses Messiah’s cheek before handing him off. He doesn’t cry, but he looks back once as Miss Tonya carries him inside. The door closes with a soft chime. Malaya just stands there for a second. Watching the sun rise behind the building like it might burn something clean.

Then she turns and gets back in the car.

Parkside Outpatient Clinic sits just off a busy Midtown intersection, wedged between a Walgreens and a dentist office with busted blinds. The building’s flat beige exterior does nothing to hide the tension inside. The moment Malaya walks through the glass front doors, the smell hits: antiseptic, old carpet, microwave popcorn from the break room, and a little sweat from patients who’ve been waiting too long.

It’s always bright in here. Too bright. Lights that make you look sick, even when you’re not. Reception sits in a U-shaped desk straight ahead. Behind it, the clinic opens into a long hallway with numbered exam rooms on both sides. There’s a small nurse’s station in the back with a fridge for samples and a clock that ticks too loud. Posters on the wall tell people to cough into their elbows and schedule flu shots nobody wants.

Malaya’s station is halfway down the hall, next to a filing cabinet that never shuts right. She has a drawer with her name on it, a chipped plastic label from a label maker that barely stuck. Inside: pens, gloves, a phone charger, and a half-used bottle of ibuprofen. She clocks in on a mounted tablet near the break room. The screen is greasy.

Patients are already piling in—coughing, complaining, slamming clipboards on the counter. One man with a limp is shouting about how long he’s waited. A woman with three kids and no appointment is pretending not to hear the staff asking for her insurance.

Malaya smiles like she means it.

Her boss, Miss Denby, walks past in nude flats and a too-tight blazer. Doesn’t say good morning. Just nods like a queen barely recognizing her court.

Malaya’s head starts to pound before 9AM.

She checks vitals, processes urine samples, logs notes into the system that always crashes mid-entry. She eats her granola bar while standing. Takes two sips of cold coffee from her tumbler before it disappears. Someone always needs something. At 10:42, she follows a coworker—Nisha—out the side door for a smoke break. Malaya doesn’t smoke, but she needs the air. 

Nisha lights up with the speed of a woman on edge, “Girl, you hear they tryna bring in some temp for front desk? Said we ‘undermanned.’ I said, ‘Bitch, we been undermanned.’”

Malaya chuckles, dry, “They gon’ pay her more than us, too.”

“Mmhm. Watch. Bet she can’t even spell phlebotomy.”

They stand in silence for a moment. The sun is warm on their forearms. The trash bins smell like old gauze and last week’s pot luck.

“You alright?” Nisha finally asks.

Malaya shrugs, “I’m breathing.”

“Let me know if you need help hiding a body.”

“Bet.”

She almost smiles. Almost. Then she tucks her badge back into her scrub pocket and heads inside.

The last four hours drag like wet laundry.

A man yells about his refill. A little boy throws up graham crackers on the waiting room floor. One of the nurses is crying quietly in the break room, pretending she’s just tired. Phones ring. The printer jams. Malaya’s feet ache. She walks the same hallway over and over. Exam room three. Back to station. Lab fridge. Front desk. Repeat. The armpits of her scrubs are damp. Her ponytail’s slipping, twists growing heavy. There’s a cramp starting behind her right eye, and she knows it’s the kind of headache that’ll outlast the sun.

At 2:08 PM, she gets a text.

Twan 🙄: u good? what time am I getting him?

Her jaw tightens. She replies quick, thumbs moving faster than her breath:

Malya: 5:30 at the latest. I paid the daycare fee u were supposed to handle. $150. You owe me.

Read. No response.

Of course.

She slides the phone into her pocket, breathing slow, swallowing back the heat bubbling under her tongue. That was grocery money. Gone. She’s tired of chasing men for things they should be doing without a prompt.

At 3:14, the notification hits. Just a soft buzz against her thigh. Her phone screen lights up under her badge.

[You have a new message.] 

Could I get a pic? Sent 200 for it. Just the top.

No name. No real context. But she knows exactly where it came from. Malaya doesn’t hesitate. Just grabs her phone, slips down the hall, and turns into the staff bathroom. Locks the door. 

She’s got two minutes.

The mirror hums under the fluorescent lights. The floor is cold tile. The soap dispenser’s busted. She sets her phone on the paper towel dispenser and rolls her shoulders back.

Then she peels her scrub top up and over. Her breasts fall naturally, full, wide-set, and soft with weight. The kind that don’t sit up on their own anymore, not since breastfeeding. Not since motherhood changed her body. Silver stretch marks lace along the sides like lightning beneath her dark skin. Her nipples are thick and dark, resting low, one slightly more sensitive than the other.

She cups them in both hands for a second. Lifts them gently. Tilts toward the light.

No face. Just chest. Just flesh. Just survival dressed up as seduction. She angles the camera. Clicks. The photo looks raw. Real. She doesn’t edit it. Doesn’t need to.

Upload. Done.

She breathes out.

Back on go the scrubs. She fixes her shirt, smooths the fabric, splashes water on her neck. One more look in the mirror—her eyes are tired, lips chapped, but her posture is solid. Stronger than most would guess.

She steps out like nothing happened.

Clock-out time hits at 5:37. She doesn’t stay a minute longer.

The city is dipped in honey light by the time she pulls out of the clinic lot. That slow, golden hour where the streets look soft even when they’re loud. People walking fast, leaning into their hunger or fatigue. Car horns echo. Somebody’s blasting trap gospel from their window. Malaya rolls hers down an inch to feel the air and doesn’t even notice when her eyes get glassy.

Her phone vibrates in the cupholder again.

Still no reply from Twan.

She lets the red light hold her in place, then taps into her private Instagram account. The one with less than 100 followers, no posts since last year. Her profile picture is blurry now, pixelated from too many crops and re-uploads. But it’s there. Him, too.

The last post still pinned.

A blanket in the grass. Messiah in her lap, cheeks shiny with drool and sunlight. Malaya looking off to the side, not quite smiling. No makeup. Curls pulled back tight. Tank top strap slipping off her shoulder.

The caption just said: “Everything I do.”

She remembers that day. The way Twan took the picture like he was doing her a favor. Like he wasn’t already texting some other girl ten minutes later. Like he hadn’t already decided he wasn’t staying.

She scrolls down and there it is—Keisha’s reel.

“It’s glow-up season, sis. Soft life only. If it don’t spoil you, it don’t deserve you.”

The music behind it is bass-heavy and fake happy. Malaya watches in silence, thumb hovering over the heart. She doesn’t press it. Just tosses the phone onto the passenger seat like it burned her.

Twan’s voice leaks into her head like rot water.

“I got you, Ma. I promise.”

“You stressin’ too much. Just sing, baby. Let me handle the rest.”

“You think I don’t care? Damn, why you always like this?”

She remembers the studio. Not the real kind, just a backroom with foam on the walls and a mic that didn’t work half the time. She remembers him standing behind her, hands on her hips while she tried to record. How she never finished a single track. How she wanted to sing, but all she did was swallow silence.

The car turns onto her street. Her duplex rises ahead like a tired sigh. She parks, engine ticking as it cools, and rests her head against the steering wheel for a second. She catches her reflection in the rearview—her twists loose around her face, her eyes heavy, lips dry.

That damn tattoo on her inner arm peeks out from her sleeve as she reaches for her bag.

What doesn’t kill you breaks you soft.

It was supposed to be strength. A reminder. But today it just feels like surrender.

Inside the house, the air is warm and quiet. Her dying plant looks a little deader. The lights stay off as she moves through the living room. She pulls off her shoes with one foot, lets them thud. Her scrubs feel glued to her skin. Her body is begging to collapse.

She hears her mother in her chest.

“You wanted to be grown. So be grown.”

“Always caught up in your feelings, girl. That’s your problem.”

The words cling to her ribs like grease. She opens the fridge. Stares. Closes it again. She exhales through her nose. Rubs her hands over her face. Then she moves. Messiah will be home soon and  tonight, the camera’s little blue light will blink again.

The knock is too light for a stranger.

Two quick taps, then silence.

Malaya opens the door with one hand still on the deadbolt. Messiah’s giggles burst through before she even sees him. He’s in Twan’s arms, gripping a juice pouch and sticky with sleep. Her son—all thick curls and cheeks and Velcro sneakers—reaches for her instantly.

“Ma-maaa,” he says, dragging the sound out like a song. Malaya softens without meaning to, arms already out. Twan passes him over too fast, like an item—not a child. Messiah’s bag hits the floor with a dull thud. His stuffed Elmo falls out, face-first.

“You good?” Twan says.

Malaya doesn’t answer. Her hand moves to support Messiah’s bottom, the other stroking the back of his head. His skin is warm, his breath sugary with whatever snack he was eating. She leans into him. Smells his hair.

Then looks past Twan.

His car is still running, headlights dim. In the passenger seat: her. The girlfriend. Baby hair gelled down, long lashes, scrolling her phone like this is a pit stop. She doesn’t look up.

Malaya’s voice dips low, “You owe me a hundred and fifty dollars.”

Twan blinks like he didn’t hear her, “What?”

“For daycare. You said you had it. You didn’t. I paid it. You owe me.”

Twan shifts his weight. Breathes in slow through his nose, “Damn, Malaya. You always—”

“Don’t,” she snaps, quiet but sharp, “Don’t start.”

He reaches into his pocket, exaggerated, like digging through gold. Pulls out crumpled bills and counts with a sigh.

“Eighty. That’s all I got till Friday.”

She stares at the cash. Doesn’t reach for it. Messiah squirms against her chest, tugging at her hoodie string. Her jaw clenches.

“Take it or not, damn,” Twan mutters, pushing the money toward her.

She snatches it. Not out of anger out of necessity. Their fingers don’t touch.

“I shouldn’t have to chase you,” she says, barely a whisper.

“And I’m here now,” he shrugs, “That count for something.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

She doesn’t look at the girl in the car. Doesn’t check if she’s listening. Doesn’t care. She just closes the door in his face. Not loud. Not petty. Just…final. Messiah hums against her chest, his thumb now in his mouth.

She presses her lips to his forehead, “Let’s get you a bath, baby.”

Bath Time

Messiah is perched on his little potty like royalty, cracked tablet in front of him playing some bright, chaotic YouTube Kids video about talking trucks and friendship. His chubby legs swing as he watches, juice-stained cheeks glowing in the dim hallway light.

Malaya doesn’t rush the bath. She never does. She crouches in the bathroom, legs already sore from the day, and turns the water on low. Checks the temperature twice with her fingers. Pulls the sweet almond bubble bath from under the sink, even though it’s halfway empty and not on sale anymore. She pours extra. Always does. The lights are dimmed, she screwed in a soft purple bulb a few months ago. It calms him. Makes the bubbles glow like clouds at dusk.

She arranges the toys.

The little slide suction-cupped to the tub wall.

Three plastic dinosaurs. 

Marvel superhero’s.

His yellow boat.

A cup he insists is for “water magic”.

And a rubber duck with a bite mark in the tail.

“Okay, baby,” she says softly, “Let’s wash the day off.”

Messiah comes running, butt-naked and wobbly, tablet still playing in the distance. He climbs in without hesitation, squealing at the warmth. Water sloshes. Bubbles rise. He starts throwing the duck like it’s in battle. Malaya kneels beside the tub, rolling up her sleeves. Her bones pop. Her knees ache.

But her heart…her heart swells. She takes the soft washcloth and begins gently scrubbing him—behind the ears, under his arms, between the little rolls on his legs. He splashes, cackles, yells “Mama look!” every few seconds. Her hoodie gets soaked. Her arms drip.

And still, she smiles. Through it all.

She watches him, really watches.

That goofy grin. Those long lashes. His coils, soft from the water. His little hands trying to pour one cup into another and missing completely.

Tears prick her eyes. It hits all at once. That swelling, stinging, proud ache. Because she made this boy. She’s raising him. Alone. And some days, it still doesn’t feel like enough. She blinks fast. Doesn’t let the tears fall.

Just whispers, “I love you, Messiah,” into the steam.

He doesn’t hear her. But that’s okay.

She lets him play for a few more minutes, then drains the water, lifting him gently into a towel—the one with the little bear ears. He’s still giggling, legs kicking as she carries him to the bedroom. She lays him down on the bed and rubs him down with cocoa butter, slow and sure. The scent fills the room—warm, sweet, nostalgic.

“Feet up,” she says, and he obeys, still watching her with bright eyes.

She slips on his Buzz Lightyear jammies, then the tiny slippers he insists make him “go faster.” He dashes off to his play area, crawling into the tent full of pillows and action figures like he’s on a mission.

Malaya exhales, heading for the kitchen. Dinner is what she always makes when she’s too tired to think but still wants him to smile. Baby carrots. Dino nuggets. Kraft mac and cheese with a little extra butter. She sets up his high chair in front of the TV, slides in the tray, and turns on Trolls. His plate is colorful and warm, and he eats with his fingers, humming between bites. She sits nearby with her own plate—leftover shrimp and broccoli, barely warm, eaten with a plastic fork because the others are in the sink. She watches him. She chews slowly. Doesn’t taste much.

For two full hours, she is only his.

They color. They stack blocks. They scream along to the Trolls songs. He falls twice. She kisses both elbows.

At 8:45, it’s time.

She scoops him up, already blinking heavy. They brush teeth, fight over the toothpaste, and finally settle with a hug that smells like cocoa butter and toddler sweat. She turns on his nightlight, the one with the little rotating stars. Tucks him in. Kisses both cheeks. Pulls the blanket up just right.

“Love you, stinka,” she whispers.

“Wuv you too,” he mumbles, eyes already shut.

She shuts the door halfway, then turns on the baby monitor. Blue light hums quietly in the hallway. She stands there for a moment. Just breathing. Then moves toward the closet.

The Mask Comes On

“No face. Just fire.”

The house is quiet. Not peaceful…just quiet.

Messiah is down, his soft breathing caught on the baby monitor’s faint static. Nightlight on. Stars rotating on the ceiling. His Mickey Mouse tucked into the crook of one arm. He had fallen asleep mid-sentence. She’d kissed his forehead, turned out the light, and shut the door with a whisper behind her teeth.

Now she moves like shadow.

Light off in the hallway. The small squeak of the closet door and the rhythm of her breath. She pulls the basket from the back corner—not Messiah’s toy basket, not the laundry one—the one with the handles wrapped in satin ribbon and the faintest hint of strawberry lube clinging to the lining.

Her cam gear is inside.

She lays each piece out on her bed like tools in a sacred ritual. Phone. Ring light. Tripod. Mic. Clip adapter. Oil. Her robe. Next, she wipes down her camera lens. Always. Doesn’t matter if she did it yesterday. The screen has to reflect clean. No prints, no grease. No traces of the real woman who held her baby thirty minutes ago and whispered lullabies. She undresses in silence. Hoodie first. Sports bra. Then the leggings that peel away like second skin, still warm from Messiah’s hug.

Her body is real.

Not porn-perfect, not Instagram-polished. Full. Heavy in places. Her stomach bears the stretch of motherhood— the soft belly with skin that doesn’t lie. Her navel pulled slightly lower now. A map of silver-gold streaks curves along her hips and the underside of her breasts, shimmering faintly under the ring light.

She oils her thighs. Slow. Not for pleasure. For the sheen. For the way the light dances over her dark skin, turns softness into spectacle. She rubs the oil down her legs, across her lower belly, lets a small moan slip—not arousal, just the relief of warm hands meeting sore flesh. Her breasts are next. She lifts one in her palm, squeezes gently. Full. Weighted. Her nipples darker now. Fuller. A little sensitive. She wears the bralette—the faded burgundy one. No padding, just lift from memory. Then the black thong with the rip on the side. She tugs it so the tear’s out of frame.

Over that, her robe. Black, silky, cheap, but drapes like money on camera. She doesn’t tie it. No perfume. Just the cocoa butter from earlier, mixing now with vanilla scented body oil. She glosses her lips—clear, thick, high shine. Checks the angle. Adjusts the mic. Pulls her twists up into a messy bun. Slips on clear strap heels. Her toes curl inside them. Not for them. For her. For balance. For the click when she stands and turns.

She turns on her VPN. Opens ObsidianPlay.

Logs in as LaceyBlaze69.

The screen flashes. “No face. Just fire.”

She exhales. Checks the angle again. Face cropped, always. Just collarbone down. A tease of jawline if she leans in too close.

Chatroom open. Room fills slow.

Camera0ff logs in within sixty seconds. 1,000 tokens drop. No message. No request. Just that sterile username sitting quiet like it always does. Watching.

Her breath hitches.

She clicks “go live.”

The screen floods with hearts, requests, messages she won’t read until they tip. She leans into the mic, lets her gloss catch the light, then whispers:

“Hey baby. Miss me?” Her voice is syrup. Low and breathy. Barely real.

Tips roll in. Thigh oil. 175 tokens.

Close-up bounce. 400 tokens.

Finger suck. 100 tokens.

“Ride for me?” 300 more.

“Do it slow.” “Say you need it.”

She smiles soft. Doesn’t break eye contact with the lens. Which is to say—she never really makes it in the first place. She turns. Straddles her riding pillow. Slides her hips slow, deliberate, until the bralette slips just enough to expose the top curve of one breast. She lets it. Doesn’t fix it.

More tokens. More noise.

She adds more oil. Lets it drip down the slope of her chest, across her belly, gliding over her stretch marks like a second skin. She lifts her breasts in her palms, squeezes them together. Lets her fingers roll over her nipples until they shine.

Another tip comes in. POV request.

She presses record.

No face. Just moans.

Fakes a climax at 47 minutes in. Loud enough to make them believe it. Quiet enough to hear her baby monitor if it changes pitch. Her thighs tremble. Not from pleasure. From holding the pose.

When it’s done, she clicks “end stream.” Tips: $638.

Not the best. But good enough to sleep on. She pulls the hoodie over her head. Wipes the oil from her chest. Sits on the bed, lets her feet breathe, then glances toward the hallway, the faint hum of Messiah’s nightlight still glowing through the crack under his door. She lies down sideways. One arm under the pillow. Eyes open.

She doesn’t cry. Not tonight. But her lips part, just barely. And the words slip out like breath.

“We still here.”

Twice. Always twice. She closes her eyes. Baby monitor steady. Phone screen dark. Oil still drying on her thighs.

LaceyBlaze is gone.

Malaya’s just a mama again.

Her Balance, Her Body

Time: 10:24 PM.

She was already exhausted before the day began.

Malaya had woken to Messiah’s whimpering cries from the bassinet beside her bed, her back stiff from sleeping half-curled with one arm draped over him like a shield. Her phone buzzed before her feet even hit the floor, a low battery warning and a string of unread texts from a co-worker asking to switch shifts. She ignored it. She scooped Messiah into her arms, kissed the warmth of his cheeks, and started the morning.

Bath. Oil. Pull-ups. Socks he kept kicking off. Feeding him oatmeal with mashed banana, wiping more from his chin than what made it in his mouth. He cried when she put him down to wash the bottles from the night before, and again when she tried to put on eyeliner with him on her hip. By the time she slid his diaper bag over one shoulder and balanced her lukewarm coffee in the other hand, she was already five minutes behind.

She dropped him off at the daycare off Hollowell, gave Miss Tonya a tight-lipped smile when she asked how things were going, and rushed out before the baby could start crying again. The only thing worse than the sound of it was leaving while it echoed behind her.

She made it to work just in time. Her badge didn’t scan the first time, and her manager raised an eyebrow when she clocked in two minutes before cut-off. The outpatient clinic was short-staffed again. She spent the entire day standing—prepping rooms, taking vitals, holding back a migraine while the phone rang, rang, rang. No time to eat. No time to breathe. She answered patient questions with a tight smile and a throat that burned from swallowing what she really wanted to say.

Her phone buzzed again at lunch. Miss Tonya. 

Need someone to pick up Messiah. You said his daddy would come today. He ain’t show.

Malaya stood in the alley behind the clinic, one hand clutching her phone, the other fisting the fabric of her hoodie. She called Twan. No answer. Called again. Straight to voicemail. She texted him once.

Don’t play with me. Come get your son. 

Then she called her mother.

That turned into a fight. Her mama picked up with a tone already steeped in judgment, talking about how tired she was, how she wasn’t the one that laid up with a no-good boy and made a baby. Malaya begged through clenched teeth, promised it wouldn’t take long, promised to send a little money from her next check. Her mother still sighed. Still made her feel like she was seventeen and stupid. But she went.

By the time Malaya picked up Messiah and got home, she was running on fumes. He wouldn’t settle down. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be rocked. He cried when she sat him down to change her shirt. She fed him applesauce and soft chicken with one hand while scrolling her bank app with the other. Overdraft. Her heart dropped low and heavy in her chest. Rent was due next week. Her phone bill was past due. The streaming platform would take their cut in the morning.

The only thing she could think of to eat was ramen. She gave Messiah his bath first, wrapped him in the softest towel they owned, kissed the curve of his damp forehead. She whispered soft nothings to calm him, slow him down. He giggled when she kissed his belly, and for a moment, she smiled too. But the heaviness didn’t leave. It sank deeper. She held him until he dozed. Slid him into his toddler bed with the quiet care of a thief. She closed the bedroom door partway, leaving the baby monitor screen angled toward the living room.

She ate her ramen standing up in the kitchen. No music. No TV. Just the crunch of the seasoning packet against the bowl’s edge and the echo of the microwave beeping long after the food was out. She cried halfway through. Not the kind that shook her shoulders or made her gasp. Just slow, hot tears running down both cheeks as she stood there, slurping noodles, tasting salt that didn’t come from the broth.

It was already 10:17.

Seven minutes later, she sat on the living room floor and pulled off her hoodie. Left it in a pile beside the book-stack she used as a camera stand. She peeled off her leggings, rolling them down to mid-thigh. Her tank top clung to her body, nipple outlines showing through the worn cotton. Her stomach wasn’t flat anymore. Her thighs had small stretch marks. She didn’t hide them.

She reached over and opened the laptop. The soft hum of it booting up was the only sound in the room. The hallway light buzzed faintly through the open door, washing just enough glow across her skin to be visible in shadows. The living room had been cleaned earlier—sort of. Messiah’s toys were pushed to the side. His water bottle rested on the coffee table beside a crumpled burp cloth.

She didn’t fix her hair. Her twists were hanging down her back heavy and dull. No gloss. No lashes. No perfume. She didn’t turn on the ring light. There was no soundtrack tonight. Just the low hum of the TV. A faint chirp from the dead battery in the smoke detector. The rhythmic click of her mouse. She stared at the login screen of ObsidianPlay for longer than she meant to.

It was a choice. Every time. And every time it felt like giving herself away one frame at a time.

She clicked the button.

LIVE.

The feed opened in silence. Her face wasn’t visible. Just the low-angle view of her thighs parted slightly on the floor, her stomach rising and falling with every slow breath. She shifted, sighing softly. No music. No smile. No show. The screen filled with viewers faster than usual. Notifications pinged silently on the side. She didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t wave. Didn’t ask how anyone’s night was.

She just let them watch.

Her hands moved slow. She didn’t spread herself wide or arch her back in some performance-ready pose. She rubbed soft, absent circles over the fabric of her panties, then slid them down one leg at a time. Her breaths were audible now. Shaky. Tired. Real. She leaned back slightly, legs bent, her heels pressed into the carpet. Her head tipped back. Her fingers moved again—slower now, slower than any clip she’d ever sold. Her other hand reached up, held the hem of her tank to her chest. Her nipples were stiff against the fabric, her lips slightly parted.

Comments poured in, but she didn’t read them. Her eyes barely opened.

“Yeah,” she said, so quietly the mic barely caught it, “Right there.”

Her voice cracked just a little.

There was no moaning tonight. No over-the-top gasp. Just breath. Her body rocked gently, thighs twitching from effort. Her brows pinched at one point. She came without warning—low, quiet, like a tremble passing through her. She exhaled, shivering a little, and then she stilled. She didn’t thank the tippers. Didn’t flash a smile. She sat there for a while, still breathing hard, eyes locked on the baby monitor screen in the corner. And then her face turned, just slightly, toward the lens. For one fleeting second, she let them see the pain that came after.

She shifts her weight on the carpet and reaches just out of frame, fingers curling around silicone still cool from the air. She brings it back into view slowly, not teasing, not presenting it like a prize. Just honest. She doesn’t look at the screen when she settles it between her thighs. Her lips part as she guides it against herself, her free hand bracing on the floor. The first press makes her flinch. She exhales through her nose, steadying. There’s no rush. No theatrics. Just the slow push as she sinks down, inch by inch, her brows knitting together while her body adjusts.

Her hips roll once, experimentally. Then again.

She’s not fully gone yet. Her mind is still on rent. On the number she saw in her bank app. On the way her mother sighed like Malaya was a burden she never put down. But her body responds anyway. Her thighs tense. Her shoulders drop a fraction.

She starts moving with more intention.

Not fast. Just deliberate. Her tank rides up slightly with the motion, exposing the soft stretch of her stomach. The toy glides easier now, slick with her warmth. She presses her lips together, a quiet sound catching in her throat when it finally starts to feel good in that slow, sinking way that makes everything else blur.

Then the notification hits.

A large one.

Her eyes flick to the screen before she can stop herself.

Camera0ff tipped.

The number makes her inhale sharply. Her hips stutter. Her grip tightens. Something shifts in her chest, not joy exactly, but relief mixed with pressure. She sits up straighter. Rolls her shoulders back. Gives more than she was giving before.

“Okay,” she breathes, barely audible.

She rides it now. Still restrained, still tired, but present. Her movements grow steadier. Her thighs lift and fall. Her hand slides to her chest, fingers brushing beneath the hem of her tank. Her nipple presses against the fabric, dark and obvious now.

Her breathing deepens. Her eyes close.

She comes again quietly. No cry. Just a sharp exhale and a tremor that moves through her whole body. She stills with the toy seated deep, her head bowing forward as she rides out the sensation. When she lifts it, thick slick clings and stretches before breaking. It drips down the length, catching the dim light from the hallway.

She watches it for a second.

Calculating.

She swallows, then looks toward the screen.

“Y’all want me to,” she starts, stops, clears her throat, “Want me to clean it?”

The chat explodes.

She doesn’t wait for confirmation. She leans forward and wraps her mouth around it, slow and deliberate, lips slicking over what she just left behind. Her cheeks hollow slightly. Her tongue traces. She keeps her eyes down, lashes casting shadows on her face. It’s intimate in a way that feels almost too much. When she pulls it free, she doesn’t wipe her mouth.

Instead, she shifts position.

She sets the toy aside and spreads herself open with both hands, silent. No smile. No commentary. Just showing. Her folds glisten. Wet, messy, honest. She lifts one leg high, knee bent, opening herself further. The angle changes everything. Her tank slips again, revealing the curve of her breast, the edge of her nipple peeking out fully now.

She stays like that.

Breathing.

The chat goes wild.

Another tip hits.

Camera0ff again.

Her lips part in something close to a smile this time, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. She glances once at the baby monitor, then back toward the lens, holding the pose just a few seconds longer. Then she lowers her leg, reaches forward, and ends the stream without a word.

She clicked end stream.

And the screen went black

$700. 

She stares at the screen a moment longer than she needs to, index finger resting on the corner of the trackpad. Her thighs are still sticky with drying oil, her tank top clinging to her back where the sweat gathered. The light from the TV fades as she clicks it off, and the room dips into shadows. The baby monitor hums. Messiah turns over in his sleep. A rustle. A sigh. Then stillness.

Malaya exhales.

She doesn’t cry tonight. She doesn’t smile either. Just drags the oversized hoodie over her head, its hem brushing against her thighs. It smells like cocoa butter and detergent. Safe. Quiet. Not sexy.She wipes the toy down in silence, the towel already stained from the last few shows. She puts everything away like she’s locking up the register. Phone in hand. Screens closed. Earnings saved. She crawls into bed sideways. One knee bent. One hand beneath the pillow. The hoodie slips slightly at the neck, exposing the damp slope between her shoulder and chest. Her fingers scroll out of habit. Nothing to see. No one to talk to.

But then—the a message appears.

One new DM.

From a name she doesn’t recognize.

GodbodyAnon.

No icon. No bio. No posts. Just a message.

You always look tired after the ride. I’d take care of you if you let me.

Her thumb freezes above the glass. Something about the message stills her. Not the words, but the weight behind them. It doesn’t read like a demand. It reads like… observation.

She clicks the profile.

New account. No followers. No comments. Just silence and that single message. Not even a token trail. He’s either smart or watching from a distance. Possibly both.

Her first instinct is to block him. A man noticing her fatigue isn’t always kindness. Sometimes it’s just strategy. A soft angle to slip in before the hard push. But something holds her there.

She rereads it.

You always look tired after the ride...

Ride. Not show. Not bounce. Not “stream.” Ride. Like he was really watching. Her stomach tightens. Not fear. Not desire. Something more complicated. Something that coils near the ribs and stretches under the skin like memory.

She taps her nails against the glass. Types.

You new?

Waits. A full minute passes.

Not really. Just never had something to say until now.

She shifts on the bed. The baby monitor clicks once, then settles. Her legs are bare beneath the hoodie, toes flexing against the sheet. She tells herself this is curiosity. Not need. Not attention-seeking. Not loneliness.

Just curiosity.

You talk like you know me.

Another pause. Then:

You looked beautiful tonight. But your shoulders dropped when you thought nobody noticed. That’s what made me write.

She stares at the message. Her throat tightens.

She types, then deletes. Types again.

I’m not really the fantasy tonight. That’s what made it better.

He doesn’t ask for anything. No photos. No tip menu tease. Just stillness.

Then another message.

You ever let someone rub that oil in for you?

She clenches her legs together. The robe beneath her shifts. Her body remembers how long it’s been since hands touched her with care instead of cost. Since someone asked without expecting a transaction in return.

You don’t even know my name.

I don’t need it. I see you.

The lamp on the nightstand flickers low. Her chest rises once, slow. Then again. She looks at the monitor. Messiah is still. Peaceful. The one pure thing she’s managed to protect.

She shouldn’t keep typing.

She does anyway.

Don’t catch feelings over fantasy, baby. It’s dangerous in here.

He doesn’t respond right away. And that  somehow feels worse than if he had. She leaves the thread open. No block. No warning. Just a flick of her thumb, a glance at the time, and the quiet breath she holds too long before she lets it go. In the dark, across town, Smoke watches the screen light up. He doesn’t type again tonight. He lets her linger.Malaya pulled her hoodie to her chin, closes her eyes without realizing she never locked her heart back up.

She doesn’t know who GodbodyAnon is.

Saturday Morning —8:12 AM

Messiah’s soft whine was what woke her. Not a cry, not a scream, just the slow, rising sound of his discomfort. Malaya stirred before she opened her eyes, hand instinctively reaching across the sheets for her phone. The screen glowed. Almost 8:15. The sun was already pressing light into the corners of the room, filtered through crooked blinds and dust in the air. She sat up slow, blinking the crust from her eyes. Her body ached— not sharply, but in that dull, mother-worn way that clung after days of doing too much with too little.

“Hey, baby,” she said quietly, voice still cracked from sleep. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to his bed. 

Messiah kicked his feet at the sight of her. One sock missing. Pull up full. She kissed his forehead and lifted him into her arms, holding him against her chest as she moved into the kitchen. The floor creaked under her heel. There was no rush today. No badge to clip. No scrubs to wear. No clock to race. She changed him on the couch, humming something low as he babbled broken words at her. After, she set him gently into the high chair and snapped the tray in place.

She had $650 in her account. It wasn’t enough, not for everything, but she pulled out her phone while the water boiled for grits and she prepped the eggs and bacon. She’d push it towards rent anyway. Left herself with $42 and change. She’d get the rest on Friday. They ate together, him clapping his hands when the spoon danced in front of his mouth, her smiling soft between yawns and bites of toast.

It was their ritual.

Saturdays were slower.

Quieter.

After wiping his mouth and setting the dish in the sink, Malaya glanced toward the front door.

Something felt…she didn’t know. Just felt.

She opened it to check the mail, barefoot on the step in her oversized tee. The morning was cool, but not cold. Dew still clung to the railing.

That’s when she saw them.

Boxes.

A stack of them.

Three piled neatly, two others just off to the side, like the driver had run out of balance. Her name was printed on each label. Correct apartment number.

No mistake.

Malaya blinked. Looked up the street, then back down. Nobody was around. She gathered them slowly, carrying two at a time. Had to nudge one inside with her foot. Her chest was tight with curiosity. She hadn’t ordered anything. She slid a knife from the drawer and sliced through the first box.

A new cam stand. Adjustable. With a ring light mount and USB adaptor. The kind she bookmarked months ago but never bought.

Her brows lifted.

The second box had a sleek tablet. For kids. Protective case. Preloaded with learning games. She swallowed. The sound stuck in her throat.

Third box: LED lighting strips. New webcam. Velvet throw blanket. Microphone with a pop filter.

The fourth was smaller. Labeled discreetly. She opened it in her bedroom.

The air changed.

Inside was a Bluetooth toy, still in its high-end packaging. Glossy black. Remote-enabled. Retail price burned into her memory from all the nights she window-shopped it. Two cute plugs in pastel pink. One with a gem at the base. Another with a rose-shaped tip. There was a note card tucked between tissue paper. No words. Just a barcode. Underneath that was a small glass bottle of perfume. Soft, powdery, with notes of honey and sandalwood. It smelled expensive. A new lip gloss. High shine. Nude brown.

And finally…

Lingerie.

Wine-colored lace, sheer with delicate embroidery. Her size. Malaya sat on the edge of her bed and stared at it all. Her hands were shaking a little. She reached for her phone, opened the tracking app she used to monitor wishlist deliveries.

MoTh3rL0ad88

All of them. Every single one. Whoever they were, they’d spent good money. On things she needed. On things she wanted but would never admit out loud.

Not just for the camera. For her.

Malaya blinked hard, the sting behind her eyes catching her by surprise. She turned away from the boxes and glanced at the monitor. Messiah was still in his high chair, gumming his spoon, humming to himself. She pressed her palms to her thighs then back to her chest then over her lips.

She smiled. Just a little.

She stood slowly, still half-dazed. The boxes were open now, contents spread across her bed like a strange altar, one of softness and pleasure, of being seen in ways she hadn’t felt in months.

Her phone buzzed in her palm.

Venmo.

She hadn’t even remembered checking it lately. Wasn’t expecting much. A few tips here and there. Maybe a stray twenty if someone had been generous during the last show. She opened the app without thinking.

And froze.

$2,175.42

Her heart stopped. She stared. Closed the app. Opened it again. Still there. Still real.

Messiah let out a squeal from the kitchen, banging his spoon like a little drum. She turned and looked at him, stunned. He burst into a giggle—that full-body kind that made his curls bounce and his nose scrunch.

Malaya laughed too, hand pressed to her chest like she needed to catch her breath.

“You see this, baby?!” she called, walking back to him with the phone raised, “You see this?”

Messiah just slapped his tray, beaming.

She glanced down at the payment note. It was split across three transactions. Anonymous tip amounts. No cute messages. No emojis. Just a username:

MoTh3rL0ad88

Her brows furrowed. She’d never seen that one before. Sounded like some old man. Some sugar daddy behind a burner account. Probably watched her show in silence. Probably the type to jerk off slow in a recliner while calling her “baby girl” in his head. Still, she didn’t care. She was grateful. More than that, she was lit up inside. The kind of lit that felt like fresh oxygen after being underwater too long.

Rent was covered now. Groceries too.

She could even stop at Marshalls, get Messiah a few new onesies, maybe that paw patrol blanket he pointed to last time. Malaya scooped him out of the chair and held him close, kissing the side of his head.

“Somebody lookin’ out for us,” she whispered, “Somebody out there…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just closed her eyes and let the moment settle.

8:42 AM–Smoke’s House, West End, ATL

Silence. Darkness. That’s the way he liked it, dim and disciplined, still holding the scent of eucalyptus from the cold steam that hissed under his bathroom door earlier. Fog lingered in the mirror, but not on his skin. His muscles glistened faintly, the sharp lines of his back twitching each time he flexed his grip around the mug.

He was shirtless now, black durag tied clean and flat, a soft knot resting at the nape of his neck. Black joggers hung low on his hips, waistband folding as he sat deep into the black leather sunken couch, one leg stretched long across it, the other braced against the floor.

His place was all restraint and ritual. Nothing cluttered. Nothing soft except the weight of the silence. The living room was curated in Smoke’s image—sharp, sensual, unbothered. Framed black-and-white photography along the wall, most too dark to read unless you studied them. The biggest one? A nude Black woman, faceless, her back turned to the camera, spine like a soft blade beneath skin. Strong. Still. Private.

The vinyl in the corner hadn’t been touched this morning. But the D’Angelo record stayed propped against the turntable like a holy book left open. He didn’t need the needle to move to hear the rhythm. He sipped his coffee slowly. No cream. No sugar. Mug heavy in his hand, warm against his rings. Silver kissed ceramic every time he drank. His other hand held a book—“Black Skin, White Masks.” Worn spine. Pages dog-eared, underlined, annotated.

Smoke always read with a pencil tucked behind his ear.

He underlined the sentence.

Not only must the black man be black; he must be black in relation to the white man.

But his mind slipped.

A flicker from the phone on the end table.

Small screen. New alert.

Malaya had received the packages. Safely. Untampered.

He’d set it up that way—each delivery scanned and tagged with tiny RFID slips. The moment she brought them inside and tore the tape, he knew. No interference. No porch pirates. No missing pieces.

He took another slow sip.

And for a few seconds…just let himself see her.

Not the curated, filtered LaceyBlaze69 version.

But her. The girl who sighed when her feet hurt. Who rubbed her shoulder after holding her son too long. Who still wore cheap slippers from Family Dollar with the fur curling off the edge. She didn’t even like doing cam shows every night.

He could tell.

He’d watched enough to know what her real moans sounded like…and which ones were forced out just to hit a tip goal. She didn’t even smile half the time anymore.

And still—she did it.

Did it tired. Did it hungry. Did it lonely. Trying to be everything at once: woman, mother, provider, soft and strong in a world that didn’t know how to handle either.

That was what got him. Not the show. Not the flash of thighs or spit on toys. The ache she tried to bury. The softness she never got to show.

“Im see everything you try to hide, and that’s what I want to touch.”m

That was how his obsession worked. Not loud. Not entitled. It bloomed in the quiet. In the in-between. He lifted his phone and pulled up the secured tracker connected to the final package. The one he packed himself. The one that hadn’t been opened yet. It sat in her apartment still sealed—he’d chosen every piece inside like a man sculpting the shape of a confession.

 A Bluetooth toy, sleek and glossy black. Still warm from where it rested inside its molded case. Remote-enabled.

Two butt plugs in pastel pink. One tipped with a jeweled base. One shaped like a rose bloom.

 A small bottle of perfume—powdered, faintly sweet, with notes of honey and sandalwood. A scent meant for the back of her knees. Her pulse points. Her sheets.

 A nude gloss with high shine. Kissable.

 And the centerpiece…lingerie. Wine-colored lace. Sheer. Floral embroidery at the cups. Scalloped trim. Backless. Cut to reveal. Her size. Perfectly matched. He’d studied her frame for months to get it right.

Smoke’s jaw tensed. She hadn’t opened it yet.

He liked that.

That it was still waiting.

Like him.

She’d put it on one day. Even if just for herself. Maybe while she fed her son, or cleaned her living room, or lay back and caught her breath before logging on. She’d tug those straps over her thighs. Adjust the bust. Smell that perfume drift off her collarbone.

And she’d feel it. The weight of being wanted. By someone she didn’t even know…was already in love with her bruises. He flipped the page in his book, but didn’t read it. His mind was already on the next move. The next name. The next message. Her next breath.

The closet light flicked on low—motion sensor.

Soft glow washed over neatly arranged black slacks, pressed tees, two rows of designer sneakers boxed like inventory, and the upper shelf with his locked case: cash, crypto, watches, weapons. That day’s mood dictated what went on the body. Today?

All black.

Smoke pulled a fitted thermal over his head. Fabric whispered against his skin. Muscles flexed, tensed, relaxed. He didn’t rush. He never rushed.

That was the secret to control. Don’t move fast. Move smart.

He fastened his dark wash jeans. 

Gold chain, hung low against his chest. Faint scorpion ink peeked from his fade as he leaned in to lace up his sneakers—minimal, quiet. Like him.

But his mind was loud.

Malaya.

The name dropped in again like it always did—uninvited, unshaken loose. He gritted his teeth and reached for his watch.

Been a year since he last fucked. Drier than he’d ever been in his life. Not cause he couldn’t. Cause he didn’t want to waste the nut. Most women felt like noise now. Clingy. Clout-thirsty. Chaotic. They wanted the myth of him, not the man. Wanted the dick, not the damage. And he was too old, too sharp, too damn obsessed to let his body become someone else’s vanity project.

He didn’t chase women. He tracked purpose.

But her?

That damn girl with the soft voice and slow eyes. That postpartum belly she never tried to hide. That pussy he hadn’t even touched but knew—knew—would wreck him. That voice that made his breath hold.

LaceyBlaze69.

She had no idea what she was doing to him. Or maybe she did. Maybe that’s what made it worse.

He’d watched. Too long. In the dark. Quiet. Hand gripped firm, jaw clenched, breath tight. Not even dirty strokes.  Hungry ones. The kind where he imagined her thighs shaking against his chest. The kind where he whispered her username like a psalm against his wrist. Where he stayed hard after, breathing deep, like he’d been starved and fed too little.

He stared at himself in the mirror now. Cold. Focused.

But his mouth twitched.

He’d played out whole scenarios. How he might show up at her door after dropping that package. How he’d stand quiet, all black, eyes low, voice deeper than need.

“Let me in.”

Or maybe he’d wait. Make her come to him. Watch her from the car, memorize the way her hands moved with her kid, the way her tank tops didn’t hide a damn thing. Wait for the day she looked into the dark and felt him watching.

He had plans, he just hadn’t picked one.

Yet.

Smoke stepped back into the hallway. Sunlight crept past the edges of the velvet curtains—thick, gold-dusted things that barely let the world in. A single sliver of light caught the back of his neck. Warmed the skin between his shoulder blades.

That spot had been on his mind for weeks. Right between the blades. The only place he hadn’t inked yet.

Hidden. Centered. Weighted.

He didn’t know the design. But he’d been feeling it. Like an itch beneath the skin. Like something needed saying that only pain and permanence could spell out.

Sol would know. She always did. She read bodies like prayers. Inked truths you didn’t say aloud.

Smoke rolled his neck, felt the tension there.

You didn’t stumble on The Parlor. You were led.

Down a tight brick alley behind a shuttered Black bookstore in West End, past rusted fire escapes and faded murals still bleeding protest. One door. No sign. Just peeling red paint, a black veil curtain behind cracked glass, and an old knocker shaped like a serpent swallowing its own tail.

Smoke rapped three times.

Waited.

The door cracked open. Not wide. Just enough for the scent to curl out—vetiver, tobacco, isopropyl, melted wax. Then Shay pulled it wider and stepped aside.

“You late,” she said, like always.

Shay was Sol’s wife, tall and sarcastic, with golden-brown skin and arms covered in black ink roses. She had a tiny blade tattooed under one eye and wore cropped denim with a black bra top. A septum ring. Chrome stiletto nails. Every part of her said don’t ask dumb shit.

Smoke grunted, stepping inside, “I brought it,” he said, lifting the brown paper bag.

She took it without breaking stride—12-year Japanese whisky. No label. She sniffed it once and nodded.

“Always coming through. She’s ready if you wanna go back.” 

The shop was dim, as always.

No overhead fluorescents. No harsh light. Just one stained-glass lamp over the back station and the flicker of candlelight tucked in corners. Walls were charcoal, but you could see hints of something older beneath—red wallpaper curled at the seams like shed skin. Wax bottles lined the shelves, each dripped like it bled. A massive alligator skull sat near the register, jaw parted just enough to hold crumpled bills.

The only sound was The Internet’s “Get Away” playing low. Vinyl. Needle hiss. Nothing digital.

Sol was already in the back, barefoot.

Black linen jumpsuit. Hair wrapped in a dark cloth, but the thick black locs still trailed down her spine, bone beads swaying like wind chimes in a crypt. She stood with her back to him, laying out fresh needle packs with surgical calm.

Smoke’s jaw relaxed. He stepped close.

She turned—slowly, fluidly—and offered him a quiet look. Hazel-green eyes, ringed in darkness. Her gaze moved over his face. Down to his chest.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. She let him. This was their ritual. No words. Just silence and inking.  He stepped past her to the chair. Unzipped his hoodie. Peeled off his thermal. Bare from the waist up.

“Where?” she finally asked. Her voice was low. Raspy. Like wind on burnt sugar.

“Back,” he said, pointing, “Center. Just below the neck. No bigger than your palm.”

Sol nodded once. No more questions.

She began to prep.

No music back here. Just the soft squeak of gloves and the buzzing flicker of her antique lamp. Her station was spotless—everything covered in silk cloth until needed. She wiped down the chair, then cleaned his skin with a chilled antiseptic. Smoke didn’t flinch, but his breath slowed. That was Sol’s magic.

She picked up the stencil l—her design. One she’d drawn without asking. A hollow triangle, clean and minimal. Beneath it, three thin stacked lines. Like a personal cipher. Sacred geometry meets encryption. Symbol of control, of unity. Of power kept hidden. She placed the stencil between his shoulder blades. Pressed firm. Peeled. He sat still, elbows on knees, spine bowed just enough.

Sol moved around him silently, checking angles. Then she dipped her machine in black ink. Adjusted her grip.

The needle began to buzz.

Smoke exhaled.

He didn’t speak. He never did during the first line. Sol’s hand was steady. She worked in slow, deliberate strokes—never rushed. Her own breath matched his. Her nose ring caught the overhead light once when she leaned in. Her foot tapped once against the creaking floor. Outside, the world didn’t exist but inside, there was just needle and nerve. Skin and scripture.

Smoke didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to see it. He knew what it meant. This tattoo was for no one’s eyes but his own. Hidden like the rest of him. Shielded behind silence and obsession and layered control. A triangle for sight, mind, and discipline. Three stacked lines for everything he never says out loud. A new mark, placed by the only person he trusted to ink him.

Sol wiped the fresh line and pressed down gently.

Smoke closed his eyes.

And the work continued.

1:12 PM – Saturday Afternoon, Marshalls

The sun had warmed the day just enough to feel like a soft kind of forgiveness. Not too hot, not too loud just quiet and easy. Malaya pulled the sleeves of her loose top down over her wrists and adjusted the strap of her purse across her chest as she pushed the cart inside. High-waisted jeans hugged her waist, hugging the stretch she used to hide with longer shirts. Her top hung off one shoulder like a shrug, breezy and effortless, while her twists were tucked into a tidy bun she’d thrown up before leaving the house. She didn’t have on much, just lip balm, a little brow pencil but she still felt good. Not because she looked like somebody, but because she didn’t have to rush. Messiah was perched in the child seat of the cart, legs kicking in his little velcro sneakers, pointing excitedly every few seconds.

“Dat!”

“Wassat, mommy?”

“More!”

She laughed, shaking her head as she wheeled the cart down the baby aisle first. He reached for a stuffed Sonic The Hedgehog. She let him hold it.

“You gon’ name him or naw?” she asked, He babbled something back and stuffed the Sonic teddy in his mouth.

They moved slowly. Malaya let herself enjoy it. She picked up a few more little toddler tops, some little sneakers, a book with flaps and mirrors. Messiah slapped the pages as she flipped through.

They lingered by the home goods section next. A throw blanket she didn’t need but couldn’t resist. A new shower caddy. Cinnamon-scented candles she’d never light but liked to sniff anyway. She let Messiah help pick out a new bath towel. He chose the one with blue sharks. She smiled and dropped it in the cart. By the time they reached the beauty section, he was slouched, thumb in his mouth, eyes drooping.

“Stay up,” she whispered with a grin, “We got two more aisles, then we hittin’ Chick-fil-A.”

He perked up at that, making a sleepy noise of agreement. Malaya scanned the shelves for new makeup sponges, a fresh brow pencil, a deep berry gloss that reminded her of a show she did months ago. She reached for a travel-sized lotion that smelled like clean cotton and added it to her basket. Then she spotted a small carry-on travel bag in muted olive. Sleek. Understated. Hers was raggedy. This one had gold zippers. She ran her fingers across it, then set it gently in the cart. It wasn’t for a trip. Not yet, but maybe one day. At checkout, the total didn’t make her flinch. She tapped her card without hesitation and grabbed Messiah’s little juice pouch from her purse while they bagged up the items. As they stepped into the parking lot, the wind picked up just a little. Messiah squinted against the sun, still clutching his new stuffed animal and other toys. 

“Say bye-bye, Marshalls,” Malaya said playfully.

“Buh-byyyye,” Messiah echoed, waving his fat fingers at the automatic doors.

She loaded him into the back seat, buckled him in, then leaned into the trunk to fit the bags. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t calculating what had to be returned. She wasn’t worried if she’d have to dip into her backup fund, or hold off on groceries to make rent. For once, the world was still, just her and Messiah and a full backseat of things that didn’t have to be begged for.

She climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, and smiled.

“Chick-fil-A,” she said out loud, tapping the wheel, “Then home.”

From the back seat, Messiah clapped his Sonic stuffed animal’s hands together.

The line inside Chick-fil-A was long enough to make her rethink the stop, but Messiah had spotted the cow through the window and lost his little mind with excitement. Malaya sighed, pushed open the glass door with her hip, and maneuvered the stroller inside, her purse tugging on one shoulder. Messiah kicked his light-up Buzz sneakers, a sticky straw wrapper clinging to his pants from the car ride. He was humming his little tune, clutching his tablet to his chest like it was a shield, though it had been dead for the last fifteen minutes.

She was tired but trying. That was the rhythm of her life. Every small joy scraped from the edge of exhaustion. She bounced a little on her feet, trying to keep Messiah occupied as they waited for their order. He was giggling now, asking for sauce he wouldn’t eat and poking his fingers into the cupholder on the stroller. The man behind the counter called her number, and she leaned over to grab the bags when a voice stopped her.

“Malaya?”

She turned. At first, her mind scrambled, searching for something familiar. Then it clicked.

“Jordan?” she blinked.

He laughed, stepping forward, and it hit her all at once same smile, same skin that always looked warm no matter the season, but grown now. Grown in a way that made her heart stutter for just a second. His face was broader, beard filled in, and he carried himself with a quiet, settled ease. Not flashy. Just…content. His hair styled in a tapered curly fro with a clean hairline. and his black hoodie pulled snug over strong shoulders. Still had that soft anime nerd sweetness in his light brown, expressive eyes, though.

“Damn,” he said, flashing a grin, “I wasn’t sure that was you.”

She laughed, shifting the tray onto the stroller and adjusting the strap of her purse, “Yeah. It’s been a minute.”

“At least ten years, right? Since high school?”

“Something like that,” she nodded, “You still in the city?”

“For now. Just came back from visiting my mama. She’s still in the same house, yelling at the same neighbors.”

Malaya chuckled, then motioned to the stroller, “This is Messiah.”

Jordan crouched slightly, offering the little boy a wave, “What’s up, young king?”

Messiah blinked up at him, shy, then leaned back with a small smile. Malaya reached down and tugged the napkin over his lap.

Jordan straightened again, looking her over in a way that was gentle, not greedy. “You look…good,” he said carefully, “I mean, I always knew you’d grow into something special, but—yeah. You look happy.”

“Do I?” she asked, not bitter, just amused.

He tilted his head, “You got that mom tired look, but otherwise…good.” 

She smiled, soft and private, “Thanks. You got kids?”

“One. A boy. Shiloh. He’s four,” he said, pulling his phone out and flipping it around to show her a lockscreen photo. A little boy with big eyes and wild curls grinned up at the camera, popsicle in hand.

Malaya tilted her head, admiring the photo, “He’s adorable. Got those big ‘I get away with everything’ eyes.”

Jordan chuckled, “Yeah, he gets that from me. The trouble too.”

She laughed—warm, full. The kind that caught her off guard, that made her feel like herself again for just a breath.

Jordan rubbed the back of his neck, his grin softening. “It’s wild seeing you here. I mean… I’ve thought about you before. Like, damn…I wonder what Malaya’s up to these days.”

She didn’t jump to fill the silence, just smiled a little. Then said, “Working hard. Dealing with this little guy. It’s hard but…he’s my heart and soul.”

Jordan’s eyes dropped to Messiah, who was now trying to eat a fry and hum at the same time, “He got your smile.”

Malaya looked at her son and nodded, “Mm. That he does. His good-for-nothing daddy took over the rest. But at least he got my chocolate skin.”

Jordan chuckled, gaze lingering on her a second longer than necessary, “Sho’ nuff.”

She nodded, folding the straw wrapper in her hand. She hadn’t had a real conversation with a man in weeks that wasn’t wrapped in DMs or veiled requests for more. This was…different. Familiar in a way.

“Look,” he said, stepping a little closer, “I don’t wanna hold you up, but…if you ever feel like catching up—just talking or whatever—can I get your number?”

She hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to. But because everything in her life required calculation now. Every new connection could cost her peace. But he wasn’t a stranger. He was Jordan. The boy who used to doodle on his sneakers and wear Naruto shirts. He used to sit behind her in chem and pass her his extra pencils when she always forgot hers. He wasn’t flirting heavy. He wasn’t pressing. He just looked like somebody she used to trust.

So she pulled out her phone, handed it over.

He typed in his number and texted himself.

“Alright. I’ll let you go feed your boy,” he said, smiling again, “Don’t be a stranger.”

She nodded, then watched him leave—hoodie half-zipped, jeans cuffed, walking like he had nowhere to be but still meant to be there. Messiah tapped the stroller,  impatient. She gave him a nugget. Her phone buzzed. She looked down.

[New Message from: Jordan — 404-xxx-xxxx]

For the record…your smile’s still the same.

She shook her head, half-grinning, then took a sip of her lemonade. Messiah crunched into his nugget, ketchup on his cheek. 

5:41 PM – Saturday Evening Malaya’s Apartment, East Point

The front door clicked shut behind her, a soft thud of tired satisfaction. Malaya pressed her back to it for a second, exhaled slow through her nose, then hoisted the shopping bags up one more time and made her way inside. Messiah was still chattering about fries. “Fry fry fry fry fry,” he sang from the crook of her arm, legs kicking with toddler glee.

“You lucky you cute,” she muttered under her breath with a smirk, stepping around the scattered sneakers near the door, “Always get a toy and fries outta me.”

She set the bags down on the couch first, then carried Messiah to his high chair—an old hand-me-down from a cousin but still sturdy. She snapped him in, kissed the top of his head, and got him a plastic bowl filled with cut-up nuggets, apple slices, and half of her Chick-fil-A fries.

“Mickey?” she asked, already reaching for the remote.

“Mih-mouse,” he nodded, wide-eyed. “Mihhh-key!”

She flipped to the channel, and like clockwork, the intro music filled the apartment. Messiah’s eyes lit up. His feet swung back and forth in rhythm, hands sticky with juice from the apples. Malaya grabbed her bag and slipped into the small kitchen just off the living room. She poured herself a little sweet tea, popped the lid off her salad, and sat at the corner table, their “dining area” pressed into the far wall of the living room, right by the heater vent. The table was wobbly. She balanced her plate with one hand and grabbed her phone with the other.

Jordan had already texted.

Jordan: Made it home yet?

She smiled and bit into her salad.

Malaya: Just sat down to eat. Mickey Mouse on blast lol. 

Jordan: Classic. That was Shiloh’s favorite too when he was little. It still is 😂 He acts like it’s brand new every time.

Malaya: That’s how you know he happy. Repeats are for the soul.

She paused, fork halfway to her mouth, thinking about how easy the messages felt. No pressure. Just back-and-forth. He didn’t flirt heavy — not yet. Just smooth, friendly… lowkey sweet. She glanced at Messiah, who now had fries in his lap, ketchup on his cheek, and was giggling at Goofy trying to hula hoop.

She took another bite and typed slowly.

Malaya: You ever come back to the old neighborhood?

Jordan: Sometimes. Moms moved though, so it’s rare. You still in East Point?

Malaya: Yeah. Been here a few years now.

Jordan: You ever go out?

She hesitated.

Her phone buzzed again before she could decide how to answer.

Jordan: I mean like for fresh air. Farmer’s market, music, whatever. Not tryna put you on the spot lol 😂.

That made her laugh, soft and soundless. She took a sip of tea, letting it cool the bite of vinaigrette on her tongue.

Malaya: I try. Depends on the day.

Messiah made a sound like “ta-da!” and flung his cup off the tray. It rolled under the table. 

Malaya set her phone down and stood up, grabbing a baby wipe and scooping him out, “You a whole mess, man-man,” she whispered, holding him close as he wrapped his arms around her neck and leaned his head on her shoulder. She checked his pull-up, clean enough, and wiped his hands and face. Once he was wriggling again, she let him loose inside his playpen, a square of padded foam tiles and bright plastic toys. He crawled over to his musical drum set and started banging with glee.

Finally, finally, she could breathe.

She waited until Messiah was settled in his playpen, blocks scattered around him, Mickey Mouse still chattering softly in the background. Once she was sure he was content, Malaya stood and padded down the short hallway to her bedroom.

The door stayed cracked. Always.

The box sat exactly where she’d left it earlier, tucked against the foot of the bed like it belonged there. Plain brown. No branding. No drama. Just weight.

She sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled it into her lap. This time, she opened it slower. Inside, cushioned in smooth black tissue paper, was the Bluetooth toy. Still sealed in its high-end packaging. Glossy black. Sleek. The kind of design that looked more like modern art than something meant to disappear inside a body. Her breath caught when she saw it. Beneath it were two plugs in soft pastel pink. One capped with a small gem that caught the light. The other shaped like a rosebud, delicate and intentional. She touched the edge of the packaging with the tip of her finger, then pulled her hand back like it might burn.

There was a small card tucked between the layers of tissue. No message. No handwriting. Just a barcode printed clean and centered. Below that sat a small glass bottle of perfume. Heavy for its size. She uncapped it and inhaled without thinking. Honey and sandalwood bloomed warm against her senses. Powdery. Deep. The kind of scent that lingered close to the skin instead of announcing itself. A new lip gloss followed. Nude brown. High shine. She rolled the tube between her palms, imagining how it would look under low light.

And then the lingerie.

Wine-colored lace. Sheer, with delicate embroidery that traced curves like it already knew her body. Her size. Exactly. She lifted it carefully, letting it drape between her hands, the fabric catching on her fingertips.

Malaya sat there for a long moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of the apartment and the distant sound of her son laughing at something on the TV.

Her hands were shaking now.

She reached for her phone and opened the tracking app she used for her wishlist. Scrolled past the item list. Past the delivery confirmations.

There it was.

MoTh3rL0ad88.

Every item. Every purchase.

Grateful. Overwhelmed. A little afraid of how seen she felt.

She stared at the name, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs. She didn’t know who he was. Hadn't seen the name pop up in the chat before. Didn’t know why he’d done this. Didn’t know what he expected, if anything at all. She set the lingerie back in the box carefully, closed the lid, and rested her palm on top. But if she where being honest with herself, she knew what most men wanted. The ones who tipped big, who watched every night without blinking. A taste. A touch. A chance to fuck the girl behind the glass. Didn’t matter how soft their messages sounded,  eventually, they all circled the same flame. But she didn’t do meet-ups. Never had. Never would. That line stayed thick and final, no matter how badly rent pressed against her spine.

From the living room, Messiah let out another happy shriek, banging two toys together like cymbals.

Malaya smiled despite herself.

She wiped her hands on her jeans, stood, and went back to him.

11:19 PM — Malaya’s Apartment

 Messiah is asleep, the baby monitor steady on the dresser, screen dimmed but close enough that she can glance and know he’s still breathing, still safe. That knowledge settles her shoulders before anything else does.

Malaya pours herself a small glass of wine and lets it warm her chest. Not enough to make her sloppy. Just enough to loosen the tight coil she carries through the day. She locks the bedroom door, pulls the blackout curtains closed, and pins the black satin sheet to the wall behind her. The fabric catches the low light and gleams faintly, like it’s already wet.

She switches on the purple LED. The room changes. Not brighter. Thicker. Intimate. Private in a way that feels almost conspiratorial. She steps out of her clothes slowly. Not for the camera yet. Just for herself. Oil goes on first, warmed between her palms. She works it into her thighs, over the soft swell of her hips, across her stomach where skin still bears the quiet evidence of carrying a life. The oil turns her dark skin luminous, highlights catching on the curves she used to try to hide. Tonight she does not hide a thing.

The lingerie comes next. The wine-colored lace from the box. She slides it up her legs, the fabric gliding easily, crotchless and unapologetic. It fits her like it was designed with her body in mind. The plug goes in after, pink and smooth, gem cool against her fingers before it disappears inside her. She exhales, slow, steady, grounding herself in the feeling. A quiet fullness. A reminder that she is still capable of wanting.

Clear strap heels click against the floor as she steps into them. She fastens the anklet, settles the velvet choker at her throat, and lets her twists hang loose down her back. Her lips get one pass of nude-brown gloss. Nothing else. Her face stays out of frame anyway.

She sets the camera low, angled up. Thighs first. Stomach. The curve of her ass when she turns. She presses the suction dildo into place, adjusts the riding pillow beneath her, and brings the wand close enough that she can feel its promise without turning it on yet.

Music hums low in the background. Kut Klose slipping into the room like a secret. SZA after that. Brent Faiyaz. A rhythm that makes her hips move even before she tells them to.

She goes live.

The chat fills slowly. Names she knows. Names she pretends not to know. Tokens start to trickle in, soft chimes that barely register compared to the pulse in her body.

Camera0ff appears without announcement. No greeting. No words. Just there.

Her breath stutters anyway.

She doesn’t look at the chat when he’s in the room. Never does. But her body reacts like it knows. Her thighs spread wider. Her hand goes back to the oil, slicking more over her skin, letting it drip between her legs, letting it catch the light as it slides.

Another thousand tokens drops. Exact. Clean.

She rolls her hips forward and sinks down onto the dildo, slow enough that it makes her gasp. Not loud. Just honest. The plug shifts inside her, presses where she needs it, and her head tips back out of frame. She rides like she has nowhere else to be. Like she has all the time in the world.

DIYDemon23 pops into the chat, tipping with a familiar rhythm. A request scrolls by about tightening bolts, about hands and effort and sweat. She smiles to herself and shifts her weight, pretending to brace against something invisible, thighs flexing, body moving like she’s working at a problem that requires concentration. The tips follow. Predictable. Comfortable.

JustForTheTaste sends a small tip and a message about oil, about how sticky she looks. She drags her palms over her breasts, slow squeeze, letting the lace darken as it absorbs the shine. She says nothing, just breathes into the mic, lets the sound do the work.

NothinButNecks asks for her mouth. She leans closer to the camera, just enough that her collarbone and throat fill the frame. Glossy lips part. She tilts her head, exposing the long line of her neck, fingers tracing where a mouth might go. The tip lands heavier this time. She hums softly, low in her chest.

BILLS4U arrives like a storm. Big numbers. Heavy drops. A message flashes asking her to ignore him, to use him, to let the money talk while she rides. She obliges without comment. Turns her back to the chat, focuses on the mirror angled just enough to show the arch of her spine, the way her ass moves as she picks up speed.

She straddled the clear dildo in reverse, knees spread wide on the plush throw she kept laid out for nights like this. The soft LED lights glowed low behind her, catching on the slick sheen across her thighs. She wasn’t in a talking mood. No teasing. No tip menu. Just riding. Just fucking. Just giving them a show.

She’d started slow—rocking her hips like she was warming up for something deeper. Her fat pussy wrapped the toy with a wet sound that filled the mic even without her saying a word. A pastel pink plug winked between her cheeks every time she lifted, then dropped again with a bounce. She was oiled up to the shine, body glowing like she’d been dipped in desire. Breasts jiggling with every roll, Her mouth parted. No words. Just little sounds. Soft, breathy gasps that got sharper when the toy hit the right spot inside.

And it did.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Her rhythm got filthier. Not rushed. But filthy. Like she was sinking into it. Like her body took over and she was nothing but hips and thighs and wetness now. The suction toy beneath her pulled at her clit in slow pulses—one hand anchored on the floor, the other sliding up to squeeze a breast, fingers slick with her own mess.

Tokens fell in steady. But then it hit.

+1,000

Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens

Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens

Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens

Somewhere out there, he was watching her just like this—still, quiet, obsessed. She fucked the dildo harder. She arched, bracing herself as she pushed down until the toy disappeared all the way into her soaked cunt. Cream spilled down the base, thick and glistening. Her cheeks bounced with every slap of her hips against the toy.

Her pussy sounded so wet the audio glitched.

Squish. Squish. Squish.

The suction toy buzzed louder now. She spread her knees more, back bowed, bouncing in tighter circles. The plug kept her open. Made her more sensitive. Kept her needy. Her thighs were shaking, ass jiggling with every stroke. It was the kind of show that made the chat explode.

But she didn’t give them anything back.

No name drops.

No thank yous.

No dirty talk.

Just fucking.

She grabbed the toy beneath her and held it in deeper, grinding down slow while her fingers found her clit and rubbed in tight, messy circles. Her breathing got ragged. Her back flexed. Her pussy spasmed around the toy, dripping so much now the mess had soaked into the pillow beneath her.

And still, she didn’t cum.

She paused. Caught herself. Stayed right on the edge and let her body throb with it. Her eyes fluttered closed, head falling forward as she rocked again. This time slow. Deep. Her plug shifted with every grind, making her hips stutter and her mouth fall open again in a silent moan.

She wanted to give it to them. She almost did.

Across town, Smoke sat still.

Shirtless. Durag pulled low. Joggers tented. One hand slow inside the waistband, the other gripping the glass of dark liquor he hadn’t sipped since she started.

He didn’t blink.

Not once.

Her pussy looked unreal—glistening and stretched around that dildo like it was made just for her. Cream laced the toy, the base, her thighs. Her ass looked tight and soft, plug shimmering pink between her cheeks. He adjusted in the chair but didn’t stroke. Just watched. Obsession thick in his chest. Jaw clenched.

The camera shook for a moment when she switched angles—reversed herself just enough to show her spread pussy from the back. Lips swollen. Messy. Pushed apart by the fat toy buried inside her.

He exhaled through his nose, finally taking a sip of his drink.

She was everything.

Everything.

She slowed her ride with a trembling gasp, thighs slick, cunt clenching around the last thrust before she lifted off the dildo with a wet pop. The sound was loud. Filthy. The mic picked up everything—drip, squish, her breath catching as she settled back onto her heels, hair stuck to the sides of her face. The clear toy was soaked. Glazed. Cream coating the shaft and pooling at the base. She brought it to her mouth without a word. Just a look.

Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted.

She sucked the mess off slow at first, letting the tip glide across her tongue like a treat. Her lips wrapped around it, mouth hollowing as she cleaned herself from base to head, then deeper—until her gag reflex hit and she choked just enough to make spit bubble at the corners of her mouth. Her fingers gripped tighter. She pushed again, tried to take more, gagging louder now. Saliva dripped down to her tits, joining the streaks of sweat and oil.

She laughed. Low. Nasty. Smirk curling on her lips as she pulled it free and licked up the side, tongue flat. He couldn’t see her eyes but he just knew she looked dead into the camera. Like she knew what it was doing to him. She tossed the dildo aside with a little flick of her wrist and leaned back, planting both palms behind her. Spreading her legs.

That pussy was still creamy. Still twitching. Lips fat, glistening, parted just enough to tease the view of her clit. She grabbed the dildo again, slapping it between her folds a few times—sharp, juicy smacks that echoed. Each one louder than the last. Her pussy drooled on contact. The chat went wild.

slap slap slap

Wet strings of arousal stretched from her to the toy with every tap. Then she reached for the hot pink wand. It buzzed to life in her hand.

And that was all it took.

She brought it to her clit like she was desperate now. No teasing. No buildup. Just need. The vibrator met her with a sharp jolt and her hips jumped, knees knocking together before she spread them again—wider this time. She let the camera see everything. Her pussy wide open. Cream still leaking. Her clit twitching under the wand.

She started to moan. Short, broken sounds that spilled out whether she meant to or not. Her head rolled back. One hand slipped to her tit, squeezing while the other held the wand steady. The closer she got, the sloppier her movements became. She bucked into the toy now. Back arching. Thighs trembling.

Smoke leaned forward in his chair, jaw clenched.

His dick was rock hard. Veins bulging. Head pushing up against the cotton of his joggers like it wanted to tear clean through. That thick, long piece of him lay heavy across his thigh, twitching once when she started moaning louder. His hand slid back beneath the waistband, slow. Grip tight. He didn’t stroke yet. Just palmed it. Felt how big he’d gotten.

He couldn’t look away.

The screen showed every slick detail. That pussy—fat and stretched, still pulsing from the toy, twitching under the wand. The sound of her moaning. The buzz of the vibrator. The sticky slap of her mess dripping onto the pillow.

God, he wanted her under him. Wanted to slide that plug back in, hold her hips down, and make her scream into the mattress. He tilted the glass of liquor without drinking it, annoyed now. Not at her.

At the wand. That wasn’t the one he sent.

She hadn’t used the Bluetooth vibe he gave her. The one he could control. The one that let him tease her from across the city with a tap on his phone. She chose her own tonight.

He took a breath. Shook it off. Let the irritation melt into obsession again. Because she was close. She was fucking close.

Her legs were shaking. Wide open. Toes curled. Ankles flexed hard as her thighs trembled with the effort of staying upright, staying present—but her body was gone now. Gone to pleasure. Gone to that buzzing wand pressed tight to her clit.

The wand was soaked. Her pussy was messier than ever. Every pass across her clit made her hips jolt, made her eyes roll, made her breath catch in ragged little sobs of sound. She was close—so close it was crawling up her spine, clamping around her like a fist.

And then she started talking.

“Y-you’re making my pussy cum…fuck…you’re making my pussy cum…”

Her voice broke on it. Again.

“You’re making my pussy cum—”

The chant left her lips in breathless repetition. Like she couldn’t stop. Like she needed to say it to get there.

“It’s right on my clit…fuck…it’s right on my clit… feels so good…”

Her head tilted, lips trembling, bottom one caught between her teeth like she was holding on to her last bit of control. But her eyes—those eyes looked gone.

“Keep tipping me,” she gasped, barely able to say it through the moans, “if you wanna see this phat pussy squirt.”

The chat exploded.

+1000

+500

+1000—Camera0ff

She moaned louder. Back arched. Hips rolled. Her pussy flexed hard around nothing. Just twitching in the open air, on full display. Her cream had already soaked the pillow. Her clit looked swollen, shiny, almost trembling under the wand.

Smoke’s jaw locked tight. His hand was finally moving now—gripping his dick through his joggers as it jumped in his palm. That big, fat length twitched every time she said pussy. Every time she moaned through another wave. Every time she begged for tips like the whole room wasn’t watching her come undone.

And then she came.

Hard.

Her whole body jerked. A strangled moan punched out of her chest. Her legs tried to close, but she held them open with sheer will, forcing them wide as her orgasm tore through her.

She squirted. Once. Then again. A messy gush soaked the wand and sprayed down her inner thighs, making her cry out louder. Her hips bucked into it, chasing more, chasing the tail end of it while her voice got high and tight and shaky—

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck—”

She nearly dropped the wand. Managed to hold it just long enough for one final pulse, one last desperate moan as her cunt clenched hard, leaking and twitching. And then she collapsed back, chest heaving. Body twitching in the aftershocks. Her pussy was a mess. Raw and creamy and wide open.

Smoke let out a sound between a groan and a growl.

He needed her.

Bad.

The kind of need that made his throat tight and his balls ache. His dick strained so hard against his joggers it hurt. He sat there, eyes burning into the screen like he could brand her with his stare alone.

She hadn’t said his name once.

But that pussy? That pussy was his.

She giggled.

Not shy. Not sweet. That giggle had drip to it.

She was still sprawled out, legs wide, pussy glistening and open, a fucking mess between her thighs. Her body trembled just slightly from the comedown, but she didn’t close. Didn’t hide. She spread herself wider. Fingers at the lips, pulling her pussy open for the camera—fat, raw, creamy pink, glistening under the studio lights. The chat exploded.

I’d tongue fuck that til you passed out.

Bet you taste like fruit. 👅 

On my knees already, Queen 😍

Let me slide in raw. Cream for me just like that.

Why it look that juicy tho?!

I’d ruin it slow, you don’t even know 😮‍💨

Line after line. Filth pouring in from hard, horny men who couldn’t keep their hands off their dicks. They were ready to worship. Ready to pay. Ready to beg.

She lifted one leg high. Planted her foot flat. And started grinding slow—tiny rolls of her hips that made her still-leaking pussy glisten even more as DVSN came through the speakers soft in the background. A low, moaning R&B groove that matched the wet circles she rode on air. She licked her lips, tilted her head, smiled like she already knew how every single one of them would nut thinking about this later.

Then her voice came through, low and slick, “I’m about to log off now…but I’m accepting private chats from top tier members only.” She sucked her bottom lip. Let it pop back out, “If I’m feelin’ the vibes…might be down to talk dirty. Don’t be dry, though. Come correct.”

She blew a kiss.

Gave the camera one last spread. Pussy still twitching faintly, clit still swollen, thighs wet.

“Goodnight, freaks.”

And ended the stream.

The screen went black.

Across the city, Smoke sat in silence.

Still shirtless. Still hard.

That thick dick lay heavy in his hand, pulsing in his palm, fat at the tip and leaking. He hadn’t even finished. Couldn’t. Not yet. Not when his mind was stuck on her. That pussy. That fucking smirk.

He sat there for a beat.

Thinking.

He had never messaged her for dirty talk. Not directly. Not from Camera0ff. He kept that account quiet. Sterile. Eyes only.

But now?

He reached for his phone.

Opened a different profile. One he hadn’t used in weeks.

@YungCipher 🕶️

Verified. Still active. He cracked his neck. Wiped his hand on his thigh. Typed slow.

And started the private chat.

You said come correct. So let’s talk. I’ve been watchin’. You been fuckin’ up my sleep.

Now I want your attention. Just for me.

No music, no chat chimes. Just the soft whir of her mini fan and the sound of her own breath, still unsteady, still thick with the rhythm of what she just gave them. Her thighs were parted, one knee cocked up, the other draped low, toes touching the floor like an afterthought. Cream glistened on her inner thighs—slick, messy, the kind of mess that lingered when the show ended but the need didn’t.

Malaya shifted slow, lazy, her silk robe clinging wet to the curve of her hip where her body had gotten too warm, too sticky. The robe was barely tied, a soft sage green thing she always reached for post-show when she wanted to feel pretty. Luxurious. She liked how it looked against her skin, the way the sheen picked up the low light of her desk lamp and kissed her curves. Her nipples poked through the thin fabric—fat, round, still stiff, still aching. Her pussy? Still creamy. Still throbbing. Still open.

She kept the cam room up in the background just in case someone sent a late tip or left a filthy review, but her eyes were on her DMs. Waiting. Thirsty in more ways than one. That creamy POV she just did? Slurpy, moaning, talking dirty into the cam like she could feel every inch of the dick she was pretending to ride? She knew it went crazy. Knew it had ‘em gripping themselves, leaking, moaning back. She knew how they got. How they begged. How they paid.

She was just about to close the app when the message pinged.

💬 Yung Cipher: What’s good, mamas? Down to chat wit’ me? I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.

Malaya blinked at the name.

She knew that username.

YungCipher.

Didn’t show up often. Only during certain shows. The ones where her pussy was on full display—glossy, slow strokes, cream gliding down toys. That was when he’d appear. Never right away. Always late. He’d drop in, say something filthy in the chat—short, bold, blunt—and vanish just as quick, usually leaving behind a clean tip with no message.

She’d never paid him much mind. Until now.

Now he was DMing.

She sat up a little, adjusting her robe, tucking one leg underneath herself as she stared at the message again.

Something about it…felt different. Not desperate. Not thirsty. Just…smooth. Intentional.

She smiled slow, fingertips grazing her lips.

💬 Malaya: Well hey there, stranger. Sure, we can chat. We’ll see if it’s worth my time 😘”

She sent it and waited.

Curious. Tempted.

Still a little creamy.

Still thumping.

Just like he liked it. 

Malaya sat up a little straighter, the tension in her belly returning like heat blooming under her skin. Her heart tapped quick against her ribs. She saw it—bottom right corner.

💬 Yung Cipher: Still creamy, huh?

Her lips parted. She bit the lower one. The robe slid open just enough for a sticky string to stretch between her lips, creamy and slow. She shivered.

She clicked it with her thumb, pulse fluttering like a moth trapped behind her breastbone.

💬 Malaya: Mmm…figured you were watchin’. Took you long enough, nasty.

She hovered, waiting, still gently rocking in her chair like her body didn’t know the show was over yet. Her legs squeezed together without her permission. That text had her sitting up—robe sliding further off one shoulder, nipples dragging against silk, heat flashing behind her knees. Something about the way he said it. So casual. So knowing. Like he wasn’t guessing—he knew she was still creamy. Like he was still watching her now. She leaned her elbow on the desk, fingers brushing her lower lip as she stared at the screen. There was a new message.

💬 Yung Cipher: I seen how you creamed all on that toy. Shit was glossy. Fat, too.

Her breath caught. Her thighs twitched. Not even a full minute passed before another came in—

💬 Yung Cipher: You still dripping?

She didn’t type right away. She adjusted the camera even though the stream was off, instinctual. Turned the chair slightly so she could spread her legs again. The robe slipped open completely. She looked down. Cream still there. Puffy, parted lips glistening, folds sticky, twitching like they missed the toy already. It was obscene the way she was still open. Still needy. She sucked her fingers clean out of habit, then typed with her other hand.

💬 Malaya: Still dripping, baby. Wanna taste?

She giggled to herself, but it wasn’t sweet. It was thick with lust. With the type of hunger that curled up in the belly and wouldn’t let go.

The dots appeared. Then vanished. Then came back.

Her pussy throbbed again.

💬 Yung Cipher: Nah. I wanna see it. Real close. Name your price. How much for a picture of that fat, creamy pussy? 

Malaya’s mouth fell open just slightly. She sat there, robe wide, pussy glistening, heart thudding. This wasn’t just tipping tokens in the chat anymore. This was direct. Intentional. A transaction of desire so specific it made her whole body hum. Her breath left her slow—like steam—and she tilted her hips in the chair without thinking, letting the air touch her.

She stared at the screen. Thought about the angles. Thought about how it would feel to send it. Thought about how bad he wanted it. Her fingers danced across the keyboard.

💬 Malaya: Depends…you want just the pussy? Or you want my fingers in it too?

She bit her lip.

💬 Malaya: $100 for the pic. $150 if I dip two fingers and show you what creamy really look like.

And then she waited. Dripping. Throbbing. Waiting for his answer like she’d already spent the money. Like her body wanted to be sold tonight.

The silence was syrupy.

Then—ding.

💬 Yung Cipher: $150. With two fingers. Slow. Creamy like you said.

The cash came through seconds later.

Cha-ching.

That PayNote alert hit her like a slap to the ass.

💸 Payment received: $150 from Yung Cipher

Malaya blinked, then grinned slow, teeth catching the inside of her cheek. Her nipples tightened again, responding before her brain even caught up. Her pussy gave a greedy twitch like it knew it had been purchased. Like it was proud. She clicked off the desk lamp. Let the screen glow light her.

Phone in hand now. Knees wide. Camera angle just right. She clicked to video mode. Took a deep breath and looked down.

Fat. Creamy. Puffy. Still leaking.

The lips were thick and plush, a dark rose shade flushed with blood, the inner folds glossy with wetness. Her slit still pulsed slightly—sensitive from her earlier release but greedy for more. The cream had pooled, coating her folds in milky white gloss. Her clit peeked out, shiny and swollen, practically begging for breath. She slid her fingers down once. Just to prep.

They came up glistening. Her breath hitched.

“F-fuck,” she whispered to herself.

The filth of it had her smiling. Wicked and pretty. She leaned back further. Raised her phone. Started the slow glide of her middle and ring fingers between her folds—just like he asked.

Two fingers. Slow.

She let the tips part her. Cream stretched in globs. Wet noises loud even without the mic. Her pussy opened like it missed being filled. Her fingers sank in just a little, just enough for the shot. Cream eased out, coating her fingers, dripping back onto her palm. It was a mess.

She snapped the pic.

Previewed it.

Her thick, wet pussy glistening under the glow of the screen. Fingers dipped and shining. A perfect strand of cream gliding across her middle knuckle like icing.

She sent it.

📷 Attachment sent: “malaya_creamy2fingers.jpg”

Then followed with a message:

💬 Malaya: You sure you don’t wanna upgrade to video? I’m still warm, baby. Still wet.

She hit send.

Her heart beat fast. Her robe slipped further. Her free hand drifted to her thigh again.

Another ping.

She didn’t even flinch—just licked her lips and leaned in. Eyes glowing in the light of the screen, the air around her humid with heat and musk and money.

💬 Yung Cipher:

“Nah.”

“I want that video.”

“Show me what them fingers do. Slow. Messy. Talk to me while you stroke it.”

Another notification hit.

💸 Payment received: $400 from Yung Cipher

With note: “Make me cum, mama.”

Malaya moaned under her breath, just at the message.

There was something about this one.

Yung Cipher wasn’t like the others. Didn’t fumble. Didn’t hesitate. His money came correct, his words came low and nasty, and his intent sliced through the screen like a hand at her throat. Malaya was slick just reading him.

She adjusted her camera.

Set her phone on the tripod, angled low—real low. The frame just showed the curve of her thighs, the dip of her hips, and the dripping heaven between. No face. Just raw, ruined, pussy.

She pressed record.

The first thing the camera caught? Her fingers spreading herself open.

Lips parted, folds swollen and glistening, clit hard and standing like it knew it was being watched. Her cream was thicker now—milky, wet, coating her entrance in glossy white where she’d clenched and released too many times tonight already.

She brought two fingers back to her opening. Eased in. A low moan slipped out her throat. Sticky. Sloppy. The sound of wet pussy filled the room. Her other hand lifted the bottom of the robe so her stomach and tits were visible too, jiggling slightly with every pump of her fingers.

Then came her voice. Sultry. Soft. Soaked in heat. 

“You see that, baby? That mess right there? That’s your fault…”

She pulled her fingers out. Cream spilled. She pushed them back in, slower this time. Grinding in circles. Her hips rolled with the motion, her clit twitching from proximity alone.

“These fingers just fillin’ in for you. I been creamy all night. Drippin’ down my ass. You wanted messy, daddy? Mmmph…fuck…you got messy.”

She whimpered as her fingers curved inside. Hit the spot just right. Her stomach jumped. She kept stroking, kept talking, her voice lowering to a hush.

“This pussy loud, huh? Sloppy for you. You like watchin’ it stretch? Creamy little fuckhole just soakin’ for you…”

Her pace picked up. Her body rocked. She was close. Too close. And she didn’t care. Back arched, thighs trembling, her other hand lifted to pinch her own nipple through the robe. Her clit screamed for contact, but she kept edging, kept fucking herself for him. The sound of her fingers was obscene. Messy. Wet.

And through it all, her voice purred, “Gon’ let daddy watch me cum…gon’ let him see all this cream…you ready?”

She moaned long, sharp—hips locking as the orgasm finally hit. A wave of cream spilled past her fingers, dripping down her ass and onto the towel beneath. Her pussy pulsed around her hand, still creamy, still fluttering.

She cut the video at the peak of the twitch.

Previewed it. No edits. Just pure filth.

She sent it.

📹 Attachment sent: “malaya_creampour_slowstroke.mp4”

Then—

💬 Malaya: You cum yet, baby? Or you need me to watch you too?”

She leaned back. Grinning. Sticky. Spent. Soaked in money and wetness.

The message preview flashed before she could even catch her breath.

📹 New Video from Yung Cipher

No caption. No words. Just a timestamp and a fire emoji.

Malaya’s pussy clenched on nothing. Her body still pulsed from her own release, the creamy mess between her thighs sticking to the inside of her robe now, still hot, still fresh. Her nipple throbbed from how hard she’d pinched it. She was soaked. Boneless. Breathless.

But her thumb moved fast. She tapped the video open.

First frame? A thick, dark dick filling the screen—heavy, glistening, jumping. Her mouth dropped open. She almost choked on a gasp. The tip was swollen, flushed dark, glistening with a pearl of cum pushing from the slit. The shaft twitched like it had its own heartbeat. Veins thick. Base wet. The whole thing dripping. It wasn’t even moving, not yet. Just standing proud like it knew it had her attention.

Then, slow stroke. Just the fingers—gripping the base, gliding up with a fist full of cum coating the length.

“Mmmf—fuck…”

His voice was low. Raspy. Almost growled. He wasn’t talking to the phone. He was talking to her. The strokes got faster, wet sounds sticky and deep. Cum leaked in thick globs. His breathing got ragged. He grunted once. Then twice.

Then came the deep moan, “Unnnhhh—fuck. That’s all you, baby girl…”

Another thick pulse shot from the tip—cum oozing, gliding down in slow strings over his knuckles. The dick twitched violently once, then twice. And then he spoke—low, deliberate, like he needed her to feel it. 

“This what you do to me, Miss Pretty Pussy.”

Video cut. Ended there. Like a slap.

Malaya just sat there—open, wet, unable to move. The cream between her legs warmed again like her body was responding. Like it wanted round two without permission.

Her thighs pressed together. She whined out loud—soft, helpless. She messaged back, trembling fingers on the keys.

💬 Malaya: I need to taste it next time. For real.

The cursor blinked. Her lips parted.

She added one more.

💬 Malaya: You always gonna call me that? Miss Pretty Pussy?

And she waited. Heart still pounding. Whole body humming like he touched her without even being here.

Then it came.

💬 Yung Cipher: Yeah. I’m always gon’ call you that. ‘Cause that pussy too pretty to go by anything else.

Her breath caught. She was already smirking, heart skipping, body tilting toward the screen like he was speaking in her ear.

The next message hit harder.

💬 Yung Cipher: Soon as I get you? I’m pullin’ those thighs open wide and buryin’ my whole face in it. I’ma suck that creamy clit till your knees give out. Talk all that nasty shit in my ear while I’m tongue deep.

Malaya’s lips parted. She inhaled sharp.

Fingers dipped. Just barely.

💬 Malaya: I’m gon’ cry. I already know I am. You eat pussy like you got a vendetta, huh?

The dots danced again.

💬 Yung Cipher: I eat pussy like I’m tryna survive it. Like the messier it get, the longer I live. I want it in my beard, on my tongue, runnin’ down my neck.

💬 Yung Cipher: You moanin’? I’ma keep suckin’. You twitchin’? I’ma keep lickin’. You creamin’? I’ma spit on it and fuckin’ slurp.

Malaya whimpered, rocking in her seat again.

💬 Malaya: Shiiit…I’m wet all over again. This chair got a stain now. And my thighs sticky, daddy. Sticky and shakin’.

He responded quick.

💬 Yung Cipher: Good. Keep that pussy sloppy for me. Next time? I ain’t talkin’. I’m spreadin’ you out like a meal. Tongue in your hole while I thumb your clit.”

💬 Yung Cipher: And after I eat? I’m liftin’ that pretty ass up and slidin’ in raw. No condom. No mercy. Just thick dick stretchin’ you slow…till I bottom out.”

Her pussy jumped.

💬 Malaya:I can’t even lie…I’m clenching. You got my whole body thumpin’. And I want it raw. Wanna feel every inch. Feel that nut fill me up when you cum.”

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m gon’ cum inside, Miss Pretty Pussy. Slow strokes. Moaning in it. You callin’ out my name. You gon’ squirt or cry or both?

💬 Yung Cipher: And when I pull out? I’ma rub that cream into your pussy lips like lotion. Then flip you over and do it again.

Malaya could barely sit still. Her fingers were back in her pussy, slow. Wet. Curling.

But she wanted more.

💬 Malaya: Say it again. Say what you gon’ do when you finally get this pussy.

And just like that—

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m gon’ fuck you like I paid for it. Like I own it. Like nobody else ever had it but me. Gon’ make you my nasty little throat and cumhole.

💬 Yung Cipher: You ready for that, mama? Ready to get used like the nasty lil wet thing you are?

Her hand was moving faster now.

💬 Malaya: I been ready. You wanna own me? Claim me? Say it, daddy. Say that pussy yours.

The response was instant.

💬 Yung Cipher: It’s mine. That fat, creamy pussy? That mouth that moan my name? Them legs that shake soon as I talk nasty? All that—mine.

Malaya moaned. Low. Raw. Shameless. She came again with her phone in her hand, his words still glowing on the screen, her body soaked and owned in every way but physical. Her skin was damp with sweat, thighs spread again, the air slick with sex and steam. She couldn’t stop replaying that damn video—his dick, thick and twitching, that fat tip leaking just for her. That low grunt. That final line.

This what you do to me, Miss Pretty Pussy.

It haunted her in the best way. And now, was still typing.

The dots danced.

Her body responded like it belonged to those three dots. She sucked in a breath and waited.

Then—

💬 Yung Cipher: That lil creamy pussy keep talkin’ to me, huh? Beggin’ for my tongue like it missed me. Let me tell you what I’m really gon’ do.

Her pussy clenched. She rubbed herself slow, fingers sliding through her own cream like syrup. Legs trembling. Chest heaving.

💬 Yung Cipher: First? I’ma have you laid back, ankles damn near by your ears. Make you hold ‘em. That way I can see all of it—pussy lips spread, hole twitchin’, cream waitin’.

She whined. 

💬 Yung Cipher: Then I’ma spit on it. Real thick. Let it drip right into your hole. Then I’m lickin’ it up. Long slow tongue from back to front.

💬 Yung Cipher: I ain’t rushin’. I’ma kiss every part of it. Left lip. Right lip. Suck on your folds like they my bottom lip. 

Malaya’s toes curled. She had three fingers inside now. Eyes fluttering. Pussy soaked.

💬 Malaya: I’m leaking. Fuck, I’m leaking just reading this. I wanna feel that tongue in me so bad.

💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ feel it. I’ma tongue-fuck that creamy hole until your hips lift off the bed. Gon’ make you cream in my mouth. You ever scream through a nut, baby? Gon’ have you doin’ that.

Malaya gripped her phone, knuckles tight. She could barely type.

💬 Malaya: I’ma be cryin’. Shakin’. Legs gon’ give out. You eatin’ pussy like you tryna steal my soul.

He didn’t stop.

💬 Yung Cipher: Exactly. I’ma trap your soul in my throat. Then suck that lil clit like I own it. Two fingers inside you, tongue flickin’ your clit…until you cum all in my beard.

Malaya’s legs spasmed.

She was panting. Whining. Her other hand was pinching her nipple raw now.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma talk shit with your pussy in my mouth. Let the sound of me slurpin echo while you cry. Then I’ma look up at you, face soaked, and say…

He paused. Malaya’s whole body paused with him.

💬 Yung Cipher:…You taste like heaven, Miss Pretty Pussy.

Malaya snapped. 

She cried out, back arching, pussy squirting in a sudden gush against her own palm. Her robe was soaked. Her desk chair dripping. She shook through the release, biting her lip hard to keep from screaming. She collapsed, trembling.

Phone buzzed again.

💬 Yung Cipher: You cummin’ right now, huh? Creamin’ off my words alone.

She barely managed to type. 

💬 Malaya: Yes. Daddy. You own me now. 

💬 Yung Cipher: Send me a voice note. Let me hear how wet you are. And moan for me while you do it.

Malaya bit her lip hard. She felt the throb again. That heavy ache in her pussy that never seemed to go away when he typed like this. That ache that whispered Obey him. That ache that had her already reaching for her phone before she even replied.

Her fingers were shaking. Not from nerves. From need. She slid two fingers back inside.

Schlllk.

The sound was loud—messy, wet, slick. She knew he’d want to hear that. She cranked the phone volume low, just to test, and the squelch echoed off her walls like sex in surround sound.

She hit record. Didn’t speak at first. Just moaned.bSoft at first. Breathless. Then deeper.

“Mmmm…fuck…you hear that?” Schlick-schlick—wet fingers plunging into cream again, “It’s so wet, daddy…so messy…so loud…You got my pussy screamin’. All this mess? Just from your voice…” moaning again, whimpering on the tail end of a gasp, “You got me creamin’ like you already here…wish your tongue was in it while I talk like this…wish I could ride your face ‘til you couldn’t breathe…”

She ended it with a sharp little cry—raw and soaked in lust.

📤 Voice Note Sent: 0:46

She didn’t even wait. Sent another message right after.

💬 Malaya: You hear how wet you got me? Tell me what that did to you…

She was trembling. Phone in one hand. Fingers in the other. Still not satisfied. Still craving.

He listened to it four times.

The voice note.

Every breath. Every wet sound. Every moan shaped like his name even if she didn’t say it.

She was soaked. Squelching. Fuckin’ creamy. Her pussy was singin’ for him. And it made his dick twitch so hard it jumped in his palm. He’d already pulled his sweats down, fist gripped around the base, head swollen and leaking just from the sound of her.

He sat back, legs wide, stroking slow. Deep. Face lit only by the glow of his phone screen, her moans still echoing in his head. Still hearing. 

“All this mess? Just from your voice…”

He let out a low breath, thumb teasing his slit to collect the drop of precum gliding down. His jaw was locked. Eyes half-shut. That same picture of her messy pussy flashing behind his lids. That creamy, pulsing, needy little cunt.

He hit record. His voice came out low. Rough. Deep like smoke caught in his throat.

“You got my dick hard as fuck, girl,” he released a slight groan as his fist moves slow over his shaft—wet strokes, audible, “Listen to that…that’s you. That’s yo nasty lil voice got me strokin’ like this…” shhk, shhk, shhk—his rhythm steady, thick, wet, You want this nut, don’t you? Wanna feel it warm inside that pretty pussy…” he grunts—low, chesty, sharp, “Fuuuck… yo voice got me ready to explode. Soon as get you? I’m pullin’ them thighs apart and eatin’ every drop. Cream in my mouth while I talk shit between licks…” his fist speeds up—slap of skin now louder, “That moan? That lil cry you made at the end? That shit made me cum, Malaya…” He sucked in a final sharp breath, then a raw, heavy groan as his nut hits—long and thick, Unnnghh…fuck… look what you did to me…you got this dick throbbin’, Miss Pretty Pussy…”

📤 Voice Note Sent: 1:02

He exhaled. Chest still rising, hand slick with cum, dick twitching in the aftershocks.

And he waited.

Knowing she’d listen to that with her fingers already back inside her.

She pressed play with a trembling thumb. Held the phone to her ear like it was sacred. His voice—thick, husky, dripping with control—slid into her like a wet tongue. His words weren’t rushed. They were paced. Drawled out. Like every syllable was chosen to own her.

“You got my dick hard as fuck, girl…”

Her knees buckled.

She wasn’t even standing. Just curled up, naked in her desk chair, but her knees buckled. She whimpered before the rest of it even landed. That low breath. That stroke. That wet shhk, shhk, shhk of his grip on his cock? It had her cunt clenching like it missed something it never even had. His voice was everywhere. In her ear. In her chest. In her pussy.

And then—

“Soon as I see you? I’m pullin’ them thighs apart and eatin’ every drop.”

Her lips parted in a soundless moan, fingers already sliding through her folds again, hot and swollen and dripping from just hearing him grunt.

She closed her eyes. Listened harder.

“That moan? That lil cry you made at the end?”

She bit her bottom lip so hard it almost bled. That moment? She’d been convulsing. Creaming. And he heard it. Claimed it. Owned it like he had a hand around her throat.

And then came the final blow—

“Look what you did to me…you got this dick throbbin’, Miss Pretty Pussy…”

Her whole soul short-circuited. No name. No pretense. Just that title. That possession. Miss Pretty Pussy.

She whispered it to herself, “Miss Pretty Pussy…” like it was a spell.

And the dam broke.

Her fingers plunged deep, palm grinding her clit, thighs shaking as she sobbed through her next orgasm—loud, uncontrollable, mouth open wide with no shame. She came so hard it made her dizzy. Body locking. Toes curling. Pussy gushing. She slumped back, dripping down her own thighs. A full mess now. Nails trembling, she finally lifted the phone again, vision blurry.

She typed.

💬 Malaya: I came so hard just now I saw fuckin’ stars. You talk to me like that again I might squirt all over my chair. You always this nasty, daddy?”

Then another.

💬 Malaya: Say more. Please. Miss Pretty Pussy want you in her ear again…

She didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

He had her.

Completely.

💬 Yung Cipher: Miss Pretty Pussy been a good girl. You made that pussy cum just for me. Your biggest fan. You got the prettiest moans and the creamiest pussy. But that throat? We gon’ have to work on that, baby. You can’t take dick down your throat?

Malaya’s breath caught mid-exhale. Her fingers twitched where they rested. That switch in tone. From praise to challenge. From sweet to sharp. He wanted more. He wanted all of her. And her throat? That was next. She stared at the message, heart racing. Her pussy gave another slow throb, pulsing at the idea of him gripping her jaw, nudging the tip of his dick against her tongue with that same voice in her ear. She could almost hear it now

“Open up, Miss Pretty Pussy. Show me what that throat can do.”

Her body ached at the thought. She typed, thumbs moving slower than usual, like her hands were shaking again.

💬 Malaya: Mmm…I can take it…just gotta hold my head and guide me. Show me how you want it…”

She added a second one.

💬 Malaya: You want me sloppy, daddy? Make this throat your toy?

The messages had been filth before. Obsession dressed up in dirty talk. Sweet ruin painted over hunger. But now? Now the words came in darker.

Tighter.

Like the leash had finally been pulled.

💬 Yung Cipher:  Don’t send no voice notes. Don’t moan. Don’t beg. Just listen.

Malaya froze. The command dropped like weight in her lap—heavy, absolute. It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t flirty. Her breath caught, fingers stilled, spine straightening like her body knew better than to move without his say-so. Her skin prickled. Her mouth parted. She could feel him in the room with her, even though he wasn’t.

And then the next message hit.

💬 Yung Cipher: Miss Pretty Pussy don’t make no rules. You do what I say. And when I get my hands on you? You ain’t askin’ me what I want. You givin’ it.

Her thighs clenched. That deep ache returned.

💬 Yung Cipher: That throat gon’ learn today. You ain’t never had dick like mine. I ain’t fuckin’ your mouth to be gentle. I’m stretchin’ that throat ‘til you tear up. Until you got spit runnin’ down your chin and your lashes blinkin’ fast like you can’t breathe.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m holdin’ your head still. Lookin’ down while I slide in slow…feelin’ your gag all around me. Then I’ma fuck it. Deep. Fast. Dirty. With your hands tied so you don’t run.

Malaya moaned, her hips rolling into the empty air.

He kept going.

💬 Yung Cipher: When I nut? I’m not warnin’ you. I’m shootin’ it straight down your fuckin’ throat and holdin’ you there. And you gon’ swallow every drop.

Her whole body tensed. She was dizzy. She typed with shaking fingers, eyes glassy, cunt throbbing with no mercy.

💬 Malaya: Yes daddy. Please teach me. Please take it. I want your nut in my throat so bad I could cry.”

💬 Malaya: This mouth yours. This pussy yours. Do whatever you want to me.”

She hit send. Then collapsed back into the chair, overwhelmed, wrecked, completely owned.

And then he told her. Not asked. Not invited.

💬 Yung Cipher: Here’s how I’ma break you in.

She exhaled sharp.

💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ come to me dressed how I like. Not what you wanna wear. No panties. No bra. Just somethin’ soft and short enough for me to pull up quick. The second you walk through my door, I’m puttin’ you on your knees. Not speakin’. Not thinkin’. Just kneelin’.

She was whimpering.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma walk slow ‘round you. Let you feel it. The weight of what’s about to happen. The way you already soaked just from bein’ near me. Then I’m liftin’ you up by your throat. Bend you over the first surface I see. Couch, table, fuckin’ floor. It won’t matter.”

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m spittin’ on that pussy. Smackin’ it. Watchin’ it jump. Spreadin’ you wide just to see how messy you got for me. Then I’m slidin’ in slow…deep… until you scream.

Malaya’s mouth was open. Her fingers clenched the sheets. Her robe had slipped completely off now. She was bare, breathless, and throbbing.

He wasn’t done.

💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ take it all. Every inch. Every nut. You gon’ leak down your thighs, legs shakin’, beggin’ me not to stop. And I won’t.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma fuck you stupid. Until you can’t remember what day it is. Until your eyes roll and your mouth can’t say nothin’ but ‘daddy.’ That’s how I break you.

💬 Yung Cipher: You ready for that?

Her reply came broken, typed in bursts between breathless moans and soaked sheets.

💬 Malaya: I want it. I want all of it. Please break me, daddy. Make me forget my fuckin’ name.

Because that’s what he did. He didn’t flirt. He rewired.

Her screen lit up again.

💬 Yung Cipher: Soon. That’s if you ain’t scared to meet up. 

She still felt soaked. Still ached between her legs. Still had cream sticky on her thighs and a flutter in her chest just from the way he said “soon.” But that sentence? That word—meet—it landed different. Malaya’s body leaned in, but her mind pulled back. She’d never done meetups. That was a rule she never broke. No matter how fine they looked. No matter how much they tipped. No matter how nasty the chat got. She sat there for a beat, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Still wanting. Still tempted. But…

She typed slowly.

💬 Malaya: Mmm…I don’t do meetups, baby. Sorry. Just not my thing. Hope that doesn’t disappoint you. ❤️

She hit send.

Her heart ticked fast behind her ribs. It wasn’t from fear, but from the tension. That line between control and consent. Between fantasy and reality.

He didn’t reply right away.

She sat in that silence, wondering if it had ruined the mood. Wondering if he’d vanish like most do when they can’t have her.

But then…

💬 Yung Cipher: It’s cool, baby. No pressure. I respect that. 

Another ping.

💬 Yung Cipher: Just know I’m here whenever you change your mind. ‘Cause I’d love to show you. Real slow. Real deep. Real good.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’d take my time. Give you exactly what you need.

💬 Yung Cipher: I promise to be your favorite big dick.

Her whole body shivered.

Not from fear. But from the smoothness. The patience. The promise. He didn’t push. Just laid the offer out like a silk sheet and stepped back. And somehow…that made her want him more.

She replied without thinking.

💬 Malaya: You damn sure tryna make it hard to forget you. Favorite? That’s a big promise.

He sat sprawled, legs wide in tailored black slacks, silk shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest so his heavy gold chains caught every flash of light. His eyes never left the main floor.

You were posted at the bar rail directly below the mezzanine overhang, a perfect sight line for him, coincidentally. He could see your gold lamé mini dress, a pretty number he bought last week, shimmering under the pink and red lights, so short every time you shifted your weight the hem rode up another dangerous inch, your fresh box braids swinging loose, gold hoops glinting, lips painted a glossy Valentine’s red that matched the roses everywhere.

You’d been working the bar for the better part of an hour, turning the Juke into your own personal stage. It's Valentine's day, love is in the air, and you still don't officially have a man to celebrate with. You've been with Stack for a little over a year now, and you're tired of being unclaimed. You want people to see you and think Ain't that Stack's girl? So, you have a plan. You're going to make Stack claim you, no matter what it takes. The nice men here in this lovely establishment should be the perfect pawns to help you.

Unfortunately, most of the guys who've come up to you so far haven't been good enough. They're small fish, minor street runners that'll be the first to go should the spot get blown up. Nothing Stack would take too serious.

That is, until a tall, light skin nigga with dreads came up to you, his gold teeth flashing as he grinned. You recognised him as one of Smoke's, actually, from before he retired to be with Annie, handing everything on over to stack. The light skin—V, he tells you—leaned in to order you a flute of the pink champagne the bartender was pouring for every woman who looked single. His hand brushed your lower back to "keep you steady, girl. You look real uneven on them heels” while the bottle was being opened. You laughed, head tilted back, hand resting on his forearm for a beat longer than necessary, then let him pour for you, clinking glasses while you leaned closer so he could smell your Opium perfume.

Then the shorter one joined. He was new around here. Not a baller at all, in any way. He had just bought a gym a couple of blocks over, in fact. He had Cuban link hanging heavy on his neck, Rolex catching every strobe flash. He bought the bottle outright, poured you another, whispered something in your ear that made you smirk and playfully tug his chain. You swayed between them to the beat of “Let’s Get It On,” hips rolling slow, back arched just enough to make the lamé dress ride higher. Let the tall one’s fingers graze your waist again when he “helped” you turn, and laughed louder than the music required.

Every move was for the mezzanine booth above. You knew Stack was watching. You felt the weight of his stare like a hand on your throat.

The shorter one moves closer to you, suddenly, his hands settling low on your waist. You felt it before you fully processed it: his breath brushing your cheek, his head tilting, his eyes dropping to your lips. Oh, boy, he really thought he had you. He leaned in, slow but certain, like you were a sure thing. Like the man who owns you, the most dangerous man in town, wasn't watching his every move.

You jerk your head back just enough to dodge him, a sharp turn of your chin, a quick laugh to play it off, your braids swaying with the movement. You want to be claimed, not taking care of in a back alley somewhere. But the attempt was unmistakable, and Stack has already seen.

Security moves instantly at Stack's behest, bee-lining straight toward you. Suddenly, two guards flank your sides, polite but firm, only a little threatening. “Mr. Stack would like you upstairs,” the darker one says, in a tone that implies you can't argue.

The pawns blink, confused. The short one reaches out, fully intending to follow you, while V disappears into the background, well aware of who Stack was and what he could do.

Security leads you away from them with ease, completely disregarding the short guy's displeasure with you leaving. They walk you up the stairs to Stack's booth like you were a prisoner headed to the chair, a pretty little lamb headed to the slaughterhouse. You swallow, suddenly unsure about your plan, as the eyes and whispers of club goers follow you.

When you reach the booth, Stack doesn't greet you. Instead, he clears it. “Out,” he says, voice commanding as he casts a glance around the booth. The people scatter.

The men lounging on the sides didn’t hesitate. One stood so fast he knocked over his champagne. Another muttered an apology and practically jogged toward the stairs. Even the bottle girl in sequins scooped up her bottles and disappeared without making eye contact, closing the heavy curtains behind her.

In less than fifteen seconds, the booth was empty. It was just you and Stack left. You wondered what he had in store for you. Stack didn’t touch you, didn't speak to you, he didn't even look directly at you. Instead, he stared at your reflection in the mirrored wall behind you. His arms were folded, chest rising slow as his nostrils flared. He was mad as hell at you. You hated how the sight made you feel—like a misbehaving pet.

“You done?” he says, finally, voice low and mean. “You get it out your system?”

You lift your chin, defying. You're not stepping back until you get what you want. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

He scoffs. “Lie again."

He stands slowly, deliberate and unhurried. His presence fills every inch of the mirrored space, overwhelming you. “You been makin’ a fool outta me all night,” he says as he approaches. “Smilin’ in niggas’ faces. Letting ‘em touch you. Playin’ cute for whoever lookin’.”

You swallow but don't back away. “That's not what I was—”

“Shut up.” It's an order. He's never spoken to you this way. Perhaps you've pushed him too far.

You blinked, breath catching. “Don’t talk to me like—”

“Look.” He cuts you off again, not giving much of a fuck about whatever it is you have to say, gripping your waist and turning you toward the mirror. Your reflection stared back at you: flushed cheeks, parted lips, dress glittering, body thrumming with adrenaline. Stack stands behind you, close enough that his breath warmed your shoulder, his gold chains catching flashes of neon.

“That’s what the whole club saw,” he murmurs. “You actin’ up, actin’ available.”

You try to steady your breathing. “I wasn’t—”

His hand slides from your waist to your chin, lifting it sharply. “Tell me you ain’t do that shit on purpose.”

Your lips part, ready to answer. You meet his eyes in the mirror. “Maybe I did.”

Stack breathes out one harsh laugh, disbelief, irritation and desire all tangled up in it. “You just love workin’ a nigga’s nerves, huh?” he hisses against your ear. “Flirtin’ with them broke-ass niggas right where I can see. Lettin’ ‘em touch you. Actin’ like I ain’t been watchin’ every second.”

Your body betrays you, chest rising fast and incessant as your cunt drips at the tone of his voice. “Maybe if you claimed what’s yours,” you shoot back, tone haughty, “I wouldn’t have to put on a show.”

He drags his thumb across your bottom lip. “That what this was?” he asks darkly. “You tryna force my hand?”

You smirk at him in the mirror. “Worked, didn’t it?”

He grips your jaw harder, the hold bordering on painful. “Careful,” he says , voice dropping to a threat. “You gon’ make me do somethin’ you ain’t ready for.”

“Try me.”

He tilts your chin up more, thumb pressing harder against your lip, parting it just enough to slip inside. You don’t fight it. Your tongue meets the pad of his finger instinctively, slow curl, tasting salt and smoke and the faint sweetness of the Rémy still on his skin.

Stack’s eyes darken in the mirror. “You really think you runnin’ this shit?” he growls, voice low and vicious, laced with that edge that makes your stomach twist. “You think you can tease me all night, let other niggas put they filthy hands on what’s mine, then strut up here and talk back like you got some kinda say?”

He yanks his thumb free with a rough tug, dragging the slick digit down the center of your throat, pressing hard enough to make you swallow against it. Like he was testing how far he could go. Your pulse hammers under his grip, fear and want mixing together into something filthy.

“Answer me, little girl.”

You lick your lips, tasting him still. “I think… you like being tested, putting me in my place.”

His responding laugh is short, cruel with no warmth in it. He spins you around fast, your back slamming against the mirrored wall with enough force to knock the breath out of you, the cold glass biting into your shoulder blades. It’s a miracle it doesn’t break. Your palms flatten against the wall, acrylic nails scraping for purchase.

Stack cages you in, one thick forearm braced above your head like a bar, the other sliding down to grip the meat of your thigh. He yanks your leg up roughly, hooking it around his hip so your dress gets rucked up all the way to your waist, exposing your bare, dripping core. Stack feels it immediately, his fingers brushing against warm, slick skin. He freezes, eyes narrowing.

“No fuckin’ panties?” he snarls, voice drowning with disgust and hunger. “You walked in here like that? Bare-ass pussy out for anybody to see? You that much of a desperate little slut tonight? Tryna get filled by some random nigga downstairs?”

You whimper, shaking your head. “No—Daddy, it was for you—”

“Shut the fuck up.” He slaps your inner thigh, a sharp string that makes you gasp. “Don’t lie to me. You been drippin’ all night, ain’t you? Wet and ready like a whore beggin’ for it.”

His hand cups you possessively, palm grinding against your clit while two fingers go in deep, no warning. You arch, a choked moan tumbling out of your throat. “Look at that,” he mocks, pumping hard, fingers curling viciously. “Soakin’ my hand already. This pussy knows who it belongs to, even if you actin’ like you don’t.”

He adds a third finger, stretching you wide, ignoring your whine of too much, Daddy, please. “You mine. Every fuckin’ inch. From yo' toes to them braids I paid for to yo' fucking womb. And you gon’ learn that tonight. I'ma put my name on that shit proper.”

He drops to one knee without ceremony, yanking your leg over his shoulder. He looks up at you, eyes black and merciless, before he buries his face between your thighs. He licks a long, punishing stripe up your center, tongue flat and brutal. Then he sucks your clit into his mouth hard, teeth grazing just enough to make you yelp. He growls against you, the vibration a warning. His fingers move faster, reaching deeper into you, hitting that spot that makes your breath stutter. His free hand grips your ass, spreading you even wider for him.

“You gon’ come on my tongue,” he rasps between licks, pulling back just enough to spit on your clit before diving back in. “Right here, where the whole club can see you fall apart for your Daddy. Show ‘em who owns this wet little cunt.”

You were loud, moans ringing out through the booth, but Stack didn’t care. If anything, he wanted you to be louder, for every nigga in the club to hear how pretty you were sounding for him, how good he made you feel. He keeps devouring you, tongue relentless and incessant, until your thighs shake, hips backing up against his face.

Your orgasm rips through you, your cunt clenching around nothing so hard it’s almost painful. You grip at Stack’s hair, pulling at the ends, grinding down on his face as each wave crashes over you. He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it until you’re sobbing and overly sensitive, begging him to let up. Only then does he stand, letting your leg fall gently back on to the floor as he rises up, wiping his mouth with back of his hand. His lips were glossy, the lower half of his face completely covered in your cum.

“Pathetic,” he spits out, gripping your jaw hard, forcing you to make eye contact with him “Cummin’ that fast? You that starved for your Daddy’s attention?”

Embarrassed by how easy you were for him, by how quickly your plan had turned on you, you elect not to answer. Instead, you stand there, panting, legs feeling like jello, as Stack watches you. When he gets fed up of waiting for an answer, he spins you back toward the mirror. “Hands on the glass,” he orders, voice like gravel. “Ass out.”

You obey, palms flat, arching your back instinctively. He shoves your dress up, kicks you feed wider apart. You hear the clink of his belt, the rush of his zipper, before suddenly feeling the blunt head of his tip resting at your entrance. He teases you first, rubbing himself through your slick folds, making sure to hit your clit with every drag. “Beg for it,” he tells you.

Your pride, your confidence in your plan, has long since evaporated. You should’ve known better to fuck with Stack like that. Shaking, you do as you were told. “Please fuck me, Daddy. I need it, need you.”

He pushes in slow, the pace so torturous it almost feels like he’s mocking you, stopping when he has a little over and inch inside of you. “Again. Louder. Tell me who this dick belongs to. Let the whole Juke hear you.”

“Please, Daddy, please fuck your pussy,” you nearly scream, clenching around his unmoving length, “it’s yours—only yours, please!” He slams home in one vicious thrust, the sudden weight of him making you cry out, palms smacking. the mirror.

He establishes a rhythm quickly, fucking you hard with deep, punishing strokes that shove you forward until your tits press against the cold glass. “Look atch yourself,” he snarls in your ear, one hand wrapping around your throat from behind, squeezing just enough to make your vision spot. “Look how fuckin’ wrecked you are. Dress hiked up like a whore, takin’ Daddy’s cock in front of the whole damn club.”

You do, eyes going wide at the sight. Your lips are swollen, your mascara’s running, and your braids are a wild tumble on your head. Your gold hoops swing with every brutal snap of Stack’s hips, his chains glinting in the neon club lights, hair mussed from you grabbing at it, his jaw clenched like he was pissed off. “Who pussy is this?” he demands, angling deeper, hitting your g-spot with every thrust.

“Yours, Daddy, all yours!” You choke out, throat raw from screaming.

He reaches around your body, deft fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast and rough. “That’s right,” he groans. “Mine to fuck. Mine to fill. Gon’ breed this tight little cunt tonight. Pump you full of my cum so you remember who you belong to. Walk outta here drippin’ me, marked inside an’ out.”

The words light you up, body shuddering with pure pleasure at the thought. “You want that?” Stack growls, his thrusts turning erratic, sloppy. “Want Daddy to knock you up? Claim you for good?”

“Yes, yes! Please breed me, Daddy. Want everyone t’ know I’m yours!”

He groans, low and guttural, as his talented fingers dance around your clit. “Cum on this dick,” he commands. “Milk me dry. Show Daddy how bad you need his seed.”

You do as you’re told, cumming hard around Stack’s length, legs shaking as a wail tears its way through your throat, your walls clenching around him like a vice. He follows suit, slamming deep inside of you, his tip kissing your cervix, as he floods you, your name leaving his lips like a curse. “Take every fuckin’ drop, baby. And say thank you like a good girl, now.”

You barely manage a trembling, “Th-thank you, Daddy,” voice wrecked.

He chuckles, dark and content, still twitching inside you. “Good job. Always so good for me after I fuck you stupid, honey.” He says, staying buried inside you a moment longe, letting you feel every lazy pulse, every last drop he just pumped into you. He pulls out eventually, easing his back slow and deliberate, the wet drag of him making you whimper. You could already feel the thick warmth of his cum starting to spill.

He watches it happen with a mean, awed sense of satisfaction, eyes flicking to your face in the mirror, then back to down where his cum oozes out of your swollen in pussy in slow, heavy gushes. White trails slide down the inside of your thighs, glistening under the pink and red strobe lights, some of it already dripping on the floor of the booth.

“Next time you go off flirting with other niggas,” Stack begins, his voice a warning as he catches your eyes in the mirror, “I’ll fuck you up.”

You give him a shaky, cum-drunk smirk. “Promise, Daddy?”

Stack tuts, ignoring you. He calls for the guards posted outside of the booth to come in. “Get her cleaned up,” he tells them, “But bring her right back. We still celebratin’.”

The arena lights pulsed overhead like a heartbeat, syncing with the roar of the crowd and the rhythmic thud of gloves meeting flesh. But Adonis Creed barely heard any of it. The announcers shouted over the noise, camera flashes sparked like fireworks, and sweat glistened off the fighters under the bright wash of lights. It was a whole production, a gladiator’s showcase—but Donnie’s focus wasn’t on the ring.

It was on her.

Erica sat beside him in a black satin dress that didn’t just hug her curves—it seduced them. Her legs were crossed, one heel dangling carelessly from her foot, and her soft curls framed her face with just enough wild to match the quiet fire in her eyes. Her perfume wrapped around him, sweet vanilla edged with something deeper, something darker. Every time she leaned toward him, her shoulder brushed his. Every whisper sent her breath skimming the shell of his ear.

“Number two in red trunks?” she murmured, her lips close enough to touch him. “He got hands.”

Donnie’s gaze didn’t shift from her. “He gets winded fast. Keeps dropping his left. He’s too exposed.”

Erica tilted her head, smiling like she already knew. “You would’ve handled him.”

His brow lifted. “You tryna see me fight tonight?”

Her look was sharp, playful, and smooth like silk pulled tight. “Not out here.”

That landed.

Donnie’s jaw flexed. His fingers stopped tapping.

This wasn’t new. They’d been playing at this—kissing, touching, teasing—but always with restraint. Respect. Both of them were nursing the bruises from breakups that had left them hesitant to move too fast. They told themselves they were building something real, something careful. But tonight? That caution was unraveling fast.

The air between them felt different now. Heavier. It vibrated with something unsaid but understood. A slow burn turning into something hotter, something meaner.

Donnie shifted in his seat, legs spreading a little wider. Erica’s knee bumped his, and this time, he didn’t pull away. He let her stay right there. Their bodies barely touching, but charged like live wires.

“You always this calm?” she asked, tilting her face toward him, voice soft like a dare.

He turned his head to look at her, eyes low, voice lower. “Not with you sittin’ this close.”

She smiled—no teeth, just lips and heat. “Good.”

Her hand slid down and rested on his knee. Light. Innocent. But Donnie knew better. Her fingers curved slightly, gripping just enough to make his breath catch. She let it linger before her palm smoothed upward, trailing up his thigh by an inch, maybe two, then pulling away like it was nothing.

He was still.

The crowd around them erupted as someone landed a knockdown in the ring. Cameras flashed, drinks spilled, people jumped to their feet. Donnie didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He turned to her fully now, studying the calm in her expression, the calculated mischief in the corners of her mouth. She sipped her drink without looking at him, eyes on the fight like she hadn’t just pressed her hand dangerously close to his growing erection.

His tongue touched his molars. A slow, thick exhale hissed through his nose.

This wasn’t a regular night. This wasn’t a cute little date. Erica was done pretending. And so was he.

They might’ve promised to take it slow. To keep things clean.

But Donnie knew, with absolute clarity, that tonight was the night they broke the rules.

And once they started? There’d be no stopping.

Not with her hands like that.

Not with the way she just smiled without looking at him—like she already knew exactly what she was doing to him.

Yeah. This night wasn’t ending the way either of them planned.

It was gonna be better.

The after party took over the entire penthouse floor. Music vibrated through the walls, bass-heavy and low, like it had its own heartbeat, thick enough to feel in your chest and curl around your spine. Lights were dim and gold-tinted, casting everyone in soft shadows and champagne glows, dancing across bare shoulders and bouncing off polished glass. The air was thick with energy, an electric buzz that settled just under the skin, pulsing alongside the music. The scent in the air was a potent mix of sweat, high-end cologne, fruity liquor, and something deeper, something unspoken, carnal and tempting, as though the walls themselves were dripping with secrets.

The marble floors shimmered beneath soft up-lighting, and every surface reflected the slow chaos of pleasure-drunk movement. Laughter spiked in bursts, glasses clinked in rhythm, and the occasional pop of a champagne cork punctuated the music like a soft explosion. Conversations blurred into background hums that rose and fell like ocean waves, but even the words spoken were soaked in flirtation—close talk, shared breath, a brush of fingers on the inside of a wrist. It wasn’t just a party. It was a pressure cooker of pent-up want and unfiltered indulgence, a place where restraint didn’t belong.

Every corner of the penthouse teemed with tension, the kind of hot, indulgent weight that made people move slower, speak softer, lean in closer. The vibe dripped from the ceiling like humidity, soaking through skin and melting into breath. It was too easy to forget the outside world existed. In here, nothing mattered but proximity, desire, and the throb of whatever came next.

Donnie moved through the crowd, answering dap-ups and shoulder clasps from gym friends, old sparring partners, and fight promoters. But his mind wasn’t on the fight, and his eyes weren’t on the ring. They kept snapping back to her like muscle memory, an instinct he couldn't switch off.

Erica was dancing.

Not for the crowd. Not for show. Just for herself. For him.

Her hips rolled to the beat with liquid confidence, the hem of her silk dress flirting with the tops of her thighs. The fabric shimmered in the low light, hugging every dip and curve like it was made to be touched. Her curls bounced as she moved, soft and wild, haloing her face with every sway. She looked back at him over her shoulder with a smile that didn’t need to say a word. One curl of her finger pulled him in like gravity.

He didn’t hesitate.

The second he was close enough, her body folded into his like a lock clicking into place. Her back to his chest, her ass finding the ridge of his hard-on without missing a beat. The bass vibrated through the floor, through his knees, through his ribs. Her hips moved in perfect sync with the rhythm, slow and hypnotic, the kind of roll that made time blur.

Donnie’s hand landed on her waist. Then lower. His grip wasn’t demanding yet, but it was a promise. His other hand found her hip and held tight, like she might slip away if he didn’t anchor her.

“You good?” she asked, voice soft, sweet, edged in steel. Her head tilted back just enough to graze his jaw.

“You know what you doin’?” he asked, his lips brushing her temple.

She didn’t even look at him. Just smiled. “Just dancing, champ.”

Donnie’s grip flexed. His thumb made slow circles under the curve of her ass, right where her dress clung the tightest. She arched into it, like her body was in on the joke.

Then she leaned back further. Her mouth brushed his ear, lips barely parted as she breathed, "You keep pressin' on me like that, and I’m gonna start thinkin' you want this pussy right here, in front of everybody." Her voice didn’t rise above the beat, but the filth in her tone slid down his spine like a slow drag of heat. "Bet you'd cum in your pants before we even found a room, huh? Just from feelin' me grind on you like this." It was daring and low, thick with promise, the kind of dirty that made his spine lock and his dick twitch so hard he had to shift his stance to keep from losing it right there.

He stilled. Just for a breath. Then clenched his jaw hard enough to ache.

“You doin’ too much,” he growled.

“And you still ain’t stopped me,” she said, lifting her chin, her voice sugar-sweet.

Her body kept grinding. Her ass rolling against him, slow and steady, teasing him with every shift of her hips. The crowd pressed in, swaying around them, but it was like everyone knew to give them space. The heat of a dozen bodies circled them, but they were in their own orbit.

Erica bent forward slightly, planting one hand on his thigh behind her. Her ass pushed harder into him. His dick strained behind his zipper. The music roared in his ears, but all he could hear was her breath, soft and ragged.

Donnie’s hand slid lower.

He didn’t think. He just acted.

His palm cupped the front of her thigh and glided between her legs, smooth and slow, until he found what he was looking for. She didn’t stop him. She didn’t even flinch. Her thighs shifted wider. A silent yes.

His fingers traced the hem of her dress, slipping underneath, moving higher. Heat met him first. Then lace. Then wet.

Her panties were soaked.

He dragged his knuckle over her center, slow enough to feel every soft fold beneath the fabric. Her hips stuttered, just for a second. He leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear.

“That for me?”

She didn’t speak. Just pressed her hips back harder and let her body say it for her.

He hooked a finger into the side of her panties and pulled them to the side. No resistance. No hesitation. His fingertips slid along her bare slit, slick and warm, then up to her clit.

The beat throbbed around them. The crowd laughed and drank and danced, oblivious. But Erica was trembling. Her hand clenched his thigh. Her body rocked into him like it needed to.

He teased her clit with slow, purposeful circles, just enough pressure to make her gasp and just enough friction to keep her dancing. Her breath hitched. Her head rolled back. She was losing herself.

“Keep dancin’,” he whispered.

And she did. Grinding on his hand, on his dick, on the edge of control. Her rhythm faltered. Then found a new one—his.

Donnie’s jaw was tight, eyes scanning the room, daring someone to look. No one did. Erica dipped forward, one hand braced on her own thigh now, moving with a rhythm that wasn’t just music anymore.

Her mouth opened. No words. Just a moan swallowed by the bass.

He couldn’t take it.

He had to have her.

Not in pieces. Not hidden behind the crowd. But fully.

Somewhere.

Anywhere.

A room. A hallway. A damn closet.

He didn’t care where.

He just needed her to himself, where he could touch her without holding back, where she could fall apart without fear.

Where no one could stop them.

Where he didn’t have to stop himself.

The hallways of the penthouse were dim, warm, and pulsing with the echo of music spilling from the main room. Every step away from the crowd made the space between them tighter, the tension more suffocating. Donnie’s hand was wrapped tight around Erica’s wrist, guiding her fast and low through the hallway like he was seconds from snapping. His breath was sharp, jaw tight, the veins in his forearms flexing as his grip stayed firm.

She stumbled in her heels, half-laughing, half-breathless. “Where we goin’?”

“Somewhere quiet,” he said through clenched teeth. “Somewhere I can touch you without the whole damn room watchin’ me lose it.”

He tried the first door on the left. It cracked open just enough for loud moaning and the slap of skin to bleed out into the hallway. Someone’s voice called out, half-drunk and breathless: “Yo, it’s taken!”

Donnie grunted and moved to the next door. Locked. A giggle slipped through the crack.

“Motherfucker,” he muttered.

Erica leaned into his arm, eyes low and knowing, her voice teasing. “I told you. Ain’t no privacy at a party like this.”

He looked both ways, frantic and feral, until he saw the double doors at the end of the hall. Not a bedroom. Too narrow. He grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

Linen closet.

Dark. Tight. Rows of fresh towels and soft robes lining the walls.

“Get in,” he growled.

She slipped inside, still smiling. The door slammed behind them. He locked it.

The air was thick with detergent and heat. The moment the lock clicked, Erica’s back hit the shelf behind her. The laughter died in her throat, replaced by a gasp.

“We can’t do this here,” she whispered, her voice shaky, though not with fear. Her thighs squeezed together instinctively. Her breath caught between nerves and want.

Donnie didn’t say a word. He just stepped into her space and filled it completely.

His hands grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against him with a force that made her gasp, his body practically vibrating with restraint already fraying. Their mouths crashed together in a kiss that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with need—wet, messy, uncoordinated, like they were starving and trying to breathe each other in at the same time. Tongues collided, teeth scraped, lips bruised, and the sound of their desperation filled the small closet louder than any music outside. Donnie groaned into her mouth when she whimpered, his fingers digging into her hips like he wanted to leave marks behind. She clutched the collar of his shirt with both fists, dragging him closer, grounding herself against the tornado building between them. Her nails scratched at the back of his neck, pulling him deeper into her mouth like she couldn't stand even an inch of space.

He groaned into her mouth, his hands roaming like he’d been waiting for this moment all damn night. He gripped her ass with both hands and lifted her slightly, pressing her back harder against the shelves. Her arms wrapped around his neck, legs winding around his waist, the hem of her dress sliding up her thighs like it had given up trying to stay modest.

“Fuck,” he whispered, mouth dragging along her jaw. “You feel how wet you got from just dancin’ on me?”

Her breath hitched. “You did that to me.”

“Damn right I did.”

He buried his face in her neck, lips brushing over the column of her throat. She tilted her head back, offering him more. His teeth grazed her skin, and she gasped.

“Gotta be quiet,” he murmured, voice low and gritty. “You hear me?”

She nodded, lips parted, already trembling.

Didn’t matter.

He dropped to his knees without another word. One hand guided her leg up onto a lower shelf, angling her open. Her panties were soaked, already clinging to her like they were made of silk and heat. He licked a stripe over the damp fabric, tasting her through it, and she choked on a moan.

Then he gripped the lace in both fists and yanked hard. The delicate fabric tore with a sharp rip that echoed off the shelves, the sound as raw and reckless as the look in his eyes. No preamble. No teasing. Just need and force and a silent vow that he wasn’t holding back anymore.

Two fingers slid inside her, deep and fast. She nearly buckled.

He kept her steady with one arm, his hand splayed across her lower back, while the other hand fucked her slow and deep. His thumb pressed against her clit, firm and unrelenting, grinding tight circles that made her legs shake.

Her mouth dropped open, and she clung to the edge of the shelf behind her. Her thighs flexed around his shoulders. She whimpered. Quiet. Desperate. Her hips moved with him now, grinding against his palm like she needed every inch.

“Donnie,” she breathed, head falling back. “Please—”

He looked up at her from between her legs, eyes dark, jaw clenched. 

She was unraveling. Every breath shallower, every muscle twitching like a live wire.

Donnie stood slowly from between her thighs, breathing hard, jaw clenched like he was holding back a growl. The heat clung to his skin, sweat dotting his forehead as he looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His hands didn’t leave her body right away; he skimmed them up her sides, dragging his touch over the silk of her dress before finally stepping back just enough to reach for his belt.

The clink of the buckle was loud in the cramped, quiet space. He popped the button open, dragged the zipper down, and shoved his pants and briefs down with one rough push. His dick sprang free, thick and flushed, already leaking precum from the hours of teasing, her dancing, her grinding, her whispering filth into his ear like it was nothing. It was too much. All of it. And he was soaked at the tip because of it, veins standing out like he’d been on edge all damn night.

Erica’s breath caught at the sight of him. Her eyes flicked up to his, then back down, lips parting as she dropped to her knees with no hesitation, like gravity was working in tandem with her want. Her hands trembled, but they were steady enough to wrap around his thigh, then up to his shaft. She curled her fingers around the base, licked her lips, and stared for a second—like this was something sacred. Like he was something she’d been craving for far too long.

Then she leaned in and took him into her mouth. Slow. Deep. Her lips sealed around the head and pulled him in with aching hunger. Donnie’s head hit the back of the closet door with a hard thud, a guttural sound ripping from his chest.

“Fuck,” he growled.

Her mouth worked over him with intent, like she’d been dreaming of this exact moment. Her tongue swirled around the tip before sliding down the length of him, each pass wetter, deeper, filthier. She took her time, savoring every vein, every twitch, as if memorizing him with her tongue. She pulled back slowly to kiss along the shaft, then flicked the tip with her tongue again, teasing it until precum beaded and smeared across her lips like gloss. Her lips wrapped around him once more, cheeks hollowing as she sucked deep and slow.

Donnie’s thighs tensed, his hands shooting out to grip the edge of the shelf above just to keep himself grounded. The ache in his gut turned sharp. She moaned around his dick, the low vibration punching through his hips. He looked down, chest heaving, and nearly lost it at the sight of her.

Her eyes locked on his, unblinking, dark, and focused like she was worshipping something holy. Hair tangled, spit shining on her chin, her mouth stretched wide and still hungry for more. The way she looked at him, lips wet, tongue flicking out between strokes, made him want to blow the light out just so he didn’t miss a single second of it.

He reached blindly to the side, flicked the closet light on with one swipe.

The glow hit her skin, kissed the glisten on her lips, and made every slow drag of her mouth shine like a spotlight on sin. The sight knocked the breath out of him. His dick twitched, thick and pulsing, getting impossibly harder at the image of her on her knees, mouth stretched wide, lips flushed and slick with spit and his precum.

He fisted her curls with one hand, the other braced against the shelf behind him. She wasn’t just sucking him off, she was savoring it. Taking her time. Letting her tongue swirl around the tip before sliding down, her eyes locked on his the entire time like a challenge. She pulled off with a soft pop, kissed along the shaft, then licked him from base to tip like he was something sweet, something forbidden. She hummed around him, teasing his slit with her tongue, collecting the drip of precum like she needed to taste all of him.

The more he watched, the more control slipped through his fingers. He growled low, hand tightening in her hair, hips twitching forward with a roughness he hadn’t intended, but she didn’t flinch. She opened wider, letting him in deeper.

He started to fuck her mouth. Slow at first, shallow thrusts between her lips, his dick sliding across her tongue, her throat catching the head every time he dipped deeper. Then faster. Hungrier. The slap of skin filled the small closet, wet and obscene, and her eyes rolled back as she choked around him, spit dripping to her chin.

His stomach clenched. The heat at the base of his spine coiled tight, ready to burst. He was panting now, sweat sliding down his chest, everything in him screaming to let go. But just when he felt the rush start to crest, he buried himself in her throat, deep, as deep as she could take him.

He held there, twitching against the back of her throat, his entire body seizing up as the orgasm hit. Not the full eruption he’d been fighting, just a stuttering release, a few thick drops of cum spilling past her lips. He groaned, jaw clenched, his head falling back against the door, one hand still fisting her hair.

The tension stayed in his body. His dick throbbed, still hard, still aching, because it wasn’t enough. That tiny taste of release only made the hunger worse.

With a sharp grunt, he pulled out, the tip wet with spit and the sheen of his first spill. Her lips were swollen. Her mouth was wet and open. A streak of him clung to her tongue, and she blinked up at him in dazed need, licking her lips slowly like she was savoring it.

“Turn around,” he rasped, voice thick. "Now I gotta fuck you."

Erica turned without a word, breath ragged, hands fumbling to brace herself against the narrow shelf. The rough cotton of the towels pressed against her palms while her dress slid higher, exposing her ass to the cool air. She arched instinctively, ass perked, thighs trembling, her whole body humming with anticipation. Then, with a devilish glint in her eyes, she started to move, slow, deliberate. Her hips rolled in a teasing rhythm, wiggling her ass in soft, hypnotic circles that made Donnie's breath catch. She tilted her head just slightly to the side, glancing back at him, a smirk playing on her lips as if to say, You ready for this? Her breath hitched with every second that passed, knowing what was about to happen, aching for it like her skin was too tight around her body. She wiggled again, slow and filthy, like her body was begging for his hands, his dick, his control.

Donnie stepped in behind her, towering and pulsing with heat. His hands gripped her hips so tightly, veins in his arms bulging from the restraint he was barely holding onto. He lined himself up, the thick head of his dick brushing against her soaked folds, and didn’t wait. He sank into her with one long, claiming stroke, stretching her open and burying himself so deep her gasp echoed off the linen closet walls.

"Fuck, Erica," he groaned through clenched teeth, head dropping forward, breath fanning across the back of her neck. "You feel that? Been wantin’ this pussy since the day I met you."

She cried out, the sound raw, unable to muffle it in time. Her hands scrabbled for purchase against the shelf as her body jerked from the force of his thrusts. He was relentless, pounding into her, hips slamming against her ass again and again, the wet sound of their bodies connecting louder than the music outside. Every stroke was harder than the last, dragging moans from her throat that turned into sobs of pleasure.

He leaned forward, chest flush against her back, teeth grazing her ear as he growled, "You takin’ it so good, baby. All that teasing, and now look at you—fucked dumb already."

Her moan cracked, legs buckling as the orgasm crashed through her like electricity, leaving her gasping, hands clawing at his shoulders as her body convulsed around him. Her walls clamped down tight, fluttering in waves, milking him with every pulse. She tried to catch her breath, but Donnie didn’t slow down. If anything, the way her pussy gripped him sent him deeper into a haze of lust. He let out a harsh growl, lifted her like she weighed nothing, her slick thighs sliding around his waist as he surged forward.

Her back slammed against the closet wall with a muffled thud, the sound of their breath and bodies all but drowning out the thump of bass from the party beyond. Her arms flew around his shoulders, clinging to him as if she were trying to keep from floating away. But she wasn’t going anywhere. Not with the way he held her, buried inside her as deep as she could take him, thick and throbbing, stretching her wide all over again.

Donnie’s eyes locked on hers, wild and burning. He was still hard—so damn hard—and fucking possessed. His hands spread beneath her ass, tilting her hips to take him deeper, and she gasped again, head tipping back against the wall as another wave of pleasure tingled along her spine. His name spilled from her lips like a prayer, broken and reverent, and it only made him hold her tighter.

He didn’t just want her. He needed to ruin her all over again.

Still moving. Still owning her.

"You hear that? That wet sound? That’s you, baby. So fuckin’ wet for me. So damn good."

Her second orgasm hit like a sucker punch, clenching around him so tight he had to stop for a second just to breathe through it. Her nails raked down his back, her whimpers turning into desperate sobs as her whole body locked around him.

"I ain’t done," he growled, eyes dark with hunger.

With strength born of sheer need, Donnie dropped to his knees, lowering her carefully to the floor while still buried deep inside. He laid her out between the shelves, shoved a folded robe beneath her head without even looking, and pushed her knees apart like he needed to see everything he just destroyed.

He threw her legs over his shoulders and drove into her again.

This time was brutal.

Full. Deep. Merciless.

He fucked her like he had hours of restraint to burn off, each thrust pounding into her with unrelenting force. His hips slapped against her thighs, echoing through the tight space like applause. The closet light bathed her in a golden glow, and Donnie couldn’t tear his eyes away. He saw everything, the way her breasts bounced with every stroke, the slick glistening where they were joined, the flush creeping up her neck and across her chest. Her hair splayed around her, lips parted, sweat shining on her skin. Her face twisted in pleasure, and now and then, her eyes fluttered open just enough to meet his with a dazed kind of reverence that only made him thrust harder.

From below, Erica could see the way his muscles flexed with every motion, the tight pull of his abs, the sheen of sweat along his collarbone. His jaw was clenched, veins popping along his arms as he gripped her ankles, keeping her wide open and helpless for him. The look in his eyes—dark, focused, unrelenting—sent another ripple through her already-overstimulated body. She watched his body work above her, powerful and precise, and the way he stared at her like she was everything he’d ever wanted only made her pulse harder around him.

But it wasn’t just his face or his chest that she was fixated on; it was the way his thick dick disappeared inside her again and again, glistening and furious, stretching her open in that hypnotic rhythm that had her brain short-circuiting. She couldn’t look away. Watching him slam into her, watching the slick drag of him vanish and reappear, the raw power of it, the possession in it—it did something to her. Her lips parted in awe, and her hands slid down to her thighs, holding herself open wider, offering herself completely. Her eyes fluttered from the place their bodies met back to his face, over and over, and every time he caught her looking, he fucked her harder, deeper, like he knew exactly what it was doing to her.

Sweat poured down his chest, his hands gripping her ankles to keep her legs wide open as he drove deeper, harder, faster, like he wanted to memorize the shape of her from the inside out.

Erica was gone, writhing beneath him, hands fisting the robe, mouth slack, eyes rolling as her next orgasm built faster than she could control.

"This what you wanted? Huh? Teasin’ me all night like that," he panted, jaw clenched, abs flexing with every thrust. "Now you gettin’ every damn inch."

She screamed his name, high and wrecked, her pussy spasming around him, flooding with heat. Her nails clawed at his arms, her body arching as another wave took her.

"That’s right," he growled. "Cum for me. Over and over. I’m not stoppin’."

And he didn’t.

He kept going, fucking her through every twitch, every shake, every breathless cry. She sobbed with pleasure, overwhelmed, broken open by him in the best way. Her body trembled under his, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, voice gone raw from screaming his name.

Still, Donnie fucked her like he was erasing every memory of anyone who came before him.

Because he was.

Because this wasn’t just fucking.

It was a goddamn claim—violent, intimate, final.

Erica’s body was trembling beneath him, her breath shattering into moans that barely made it past her lips. Donnie was right there with her, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow, his thrusts growing more erratic with each pass. The tight heat of her pussy clung to every inch of him, dragging him in deeper, begging for more. The room was thick with heat and scent, sex and sweat, perfume and musk, and the breathless tension of two people who’d held back too long and finally snapped.

They hadn’t planned for this. They hadn’t meant to cross this line, not yet. Not after so many quiet conversations about boundaries and taking things slow. Not after nights spent cuddled up without crossing into dangerous territory, because they swore to each other they didn’t want to be a rebound. But this? This wasn’t rebound sex. This was two people unraveling. This was need. This was months of hunger being fed all at once.

He stared down at her, her eyes wide, wet, dazed. Her lips parted, words trying to form around the ragged panting. Her legs were locked around his waist, her hips rolling up to meet every thrust. Her pussy kept gripping him like it never wanted to let him go.

"I need—" she gasped, nails dragging down his back. "I need you to cum in me, Donnie. I want it. I want all of it. Please."

He groaned—loud, guttural. It rumbled through his chest like thunder, his face twisting with the effort of holding back. He was already teetering, already thick and swollen inside her, already leaking into the tight grip of her walls. He didn’t have long. Not with the way she clenched around him, not with the way her voice begged like she was offering herself up to be ruined.

His thrusts grew brutal. Deep. One hand braced above her head, the other gripping under her knee, angling her wide open for him. The slap of skin echoed off the closet walls, filthy and fast, her cries of pleasure tangled with the soft creak of the shelves behind her.

"You sure?" he panted, mouth against her jaw, voice low and nearly gone. "You say it, baby. I’ll give you every fuckin’ drop."

"Yes," she sobbed, her hands clinging to his arms like lifelines. "Please, Donnie. Make me yours."

That broke him.

He drove in, one final, devastating thrust, his dick buried as deep as she could take him. His entire body snapped tight. His back arched. A growl tore from his throat as hot, thick ropes of cum spilled into her, pulse after pulse. He stayed locked inside, grinding his hips in small, desperate circles, making sure she felt every throb, every twitch, every fucking ounce of what he was giving her.

Erica cried out again as her body responded, another orgasm hitting like lightning, sharp and consuming. Her walls fluttered around him, coaxing every last drop from him, dragging more of his cum from him, slick warmth spreading between them as they trembled together.

His face dropped into the crook of her neck, teeth grazing her skin, his voice hoarse and shaking. "Fuck. Erica—"

She kissed his shoulder, her legs still wrapped around him, her fingers digging into his scalp.

When he finally pulled out, slow and trembling, they both watched the aftermath. His cum leaking from her, thick and creamy, pooling between her thighs. His dick glistened, twitching with leftover sensitivity.

Donnie ran two fingers through the mess dripping out of her and brought them to her mouth. "Taste us."

Erica didn’t hesitate. Her lips parted, tongue flicking out to catch his fingers, eyes burning into his as she sucked slow, like she was savoring it. Her moan was low, sinful. His dick twitched again, half-hard but aching all over.

He leaned down, kissed her temple, her cheek, then her lips, deep, slow, messy. His voice was rough silk in her ear.

"You mine now. You understand that? Every inch of you. Every breath."

She nodded, lips kiss-bitten and red, her breath still catching. "Yours," she whispered. "All of me."

The silence that settled wasn’t awkward. It was thick, sacred. It pulsed with the weight of everything they just gave each other. Not just their bodies, but their trust. Their want. The mutual ache to be something more than fleeting.

Donnie brushed his knuckles over her jaw, eyes softer now but still dark with satisfaction. He’d claimed her, fucked her full, and still, he wanted her again. He always would.

Erica blinked slowly, then snorted, breathless. "So… we’re definitely not waiting for date six, huh?"

Donnie laughed, low and lazy. "Shit, we skipped date five and went straight to the director’s cut."

They both cracked up, the tension finally breaking, their limbs tangled and sticky, the scent of sex still thick around them.

"At least we know we’ve got closet chemistry," she mumbled into his shoulder.

"Yeah," he muttered, grinning. "Next time, though? We’re finding a damn bed. My knees ain’t built for this Hollywood shit."

He stepped through the door and closed it behind him, a strange stillness wrapped around him. One he didn’t recognize.

It was her fault.

Sanaa.

That quiet little thing with the sharp eyes and soft mouth, who wrapped her arms around his neck and put her feet in his lap like she didn’t know what her scent did to him. Like she didn’t feel his stare heating the back of her thighs every time she walked off. Erik exhaled, knuckles rolling against the tension in his neck. He was standing near the edge of the bed when he paused. Head tilting. Something…caught his ear.

Faint. Rhythmic. Soft. A breath. A moan. A sound not meant for him to hear.

He froze. Straightened.

Turned toward the wall that sat between his room and hers. The sound came again. A whimper. Wet. The kind that came from a girl with her thighs open and her fingers deep. Then he heard it. His fucking name. Moaned. His name.

“Erik…”

Low and sticky, right in the middle of a breath. Like it’d slipped out of her. Like she couldn’t help it. He went completely still. Dangerous still. Body locked, shoulders tight, one hand pressed flat to the wall like he needed to feel the vibration of that sound to believe it was real. His other hand dropped loose at his side, but his fingers were curling slow. Jaw tight. His teeth clenched. And his dick…

That shit jumped so hard it made him grunt. Out of nowhere.

A heat rolled through him so fast he nearly doubled over from it. His dick stiffened under his sweats, heavy and thick, already pulsing like it knew what time it was. That slow stretch. The way it rose in his briefs, dragging fabric with it, pushing up like it wanted to tear through. Head swollen. Shaft thickening fast. His stomach fluttered. Tight with pressure. That deep arousal that sat low, below the navel, almost painful from how quick it built. He dropped his head. Breathed through his nose. But that only made it worse. He could still smell her. Sweet. Warm. The scent of her had been living in his lungs. Her perfume. Her oils. Her hair. She’d sat on that damn couch  with her legs thrown over and now the whole place smelled like her thighs. Erik pressed his forehead to the wall, breathing slow, but his chest was rising too fast. His abs clenched. His balls ached. And that dick kept growing. He glanced down and hissed through his teeth. Veins thick. Tip already leaking.

He was rock fucking hard.

Hard in a way that had nothing to do with the last woman he touched. Some bad one from St. Lucia. Pretty little thing, all skin and waist, but that had been over a two years ago. He barely remembered what her voice sounded like, let alone what the pussy felt like. He didn’t care. Not when he could hear Sanaa on the other side of that wall right now.

He tilted his head. Listened.

Wet sounds. Louder now.

She was getting reckless with it. Sounded like she had one leg open, toes pointed, other leg bent so her hips could grind against her own hand. Fingering herself greedy, probably using two. She ain’t even care how loud she was being. Had no damn clue who she was moaning for.

Erik swallowed hard. He knew how it would go if he stepped over that line. If he walked his ass out this room and into hers. She wouldn’t even be able to breathe right after. Wouldn’t be able to sit the same. He would open her up slow. Push that tongue in first. Get her wet from the inside out. Lick every inch of her. Suck her clit between his lips until her pussy shook. Until her pretty little hole clenched on nothing. He’d eat her until her legs kicked, until she begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t. Not until her voice cracked. Not until her eyes rolled. Not until them pussy lips went numb and her thighs trembled from overstimulation. He’d have her ass laid out, legs shaking, pillow soaked, crying from how good it felt. He’d tear her open with his dick after that. Let her feel every inch. No pulling out. No breaks. Because if she was in there moaning his name like that? Saying “Erik” with that sweet voice, all fucked-out and soft? Then she already knew what she wanted.

And it was him.

It was him.

He dragged his hand down the wall, curled it into a tight fist at his side. His dick twitched again. Leaked again. Tip soaked. He stared at the floor, not seeing it. All he could see was her. Legs open, back arched, one hand between those thighs, the other probably gripping a pillow. Lips parted. Eyes closed. Body jerking. Saying his name like she missed him.

Erik…Erik…Erik…

His dick throbbed so hard it pulsed at the base.

Fuck.

This wasn’t no crush. Wasn’t just tension. This was straight inferno. Lust. Hunger. Possession. She was younger, yeah. Probably didn’t know what to do with what he was packing. Had no idea the kind of man she was playing with. He wasn’t like these boys she flirted with at school. Wasn’t like that nigga that took her on a little dinner date. He wasn’t gon’ stroke it cute and kiss her forehead and ask her how it felt.

He was gonna make her feel it. Over and over.

Give her every inch until her pussy learned how to take it. Until she started creaming just from the stretch. He’d fuck her slow the first time, not outta mercy, but because he wanted her to remember it. She wanted to moan his name? Then she was gonna say it when she came too.

Again. And again. And again.

He leaned back from the wall and sat on the edge of the bed, sweat sticking to his skin, dick hard enough to hurt.

His jaw flexed.

She didn’t even know what she just started. Didn’t know how close he was to snapping. All he had to do was open the door. All he had to do…was go get what already belonged to him. And she wouldn’t stop him. Not tonight. Not with the way she said his name. Not when that pussy was already calling for him.

He started pacing. Slow at first. Just a step. Then another. Chest rising. Shoulders tight. That pressure behind his eyes pulsing harder every time he circled back near the wall. Sanaa was quiet now. Or maybe she was still going. Still playing with that pussy. Just quieter about it.

Didn’t matter.

That sound was already stamped on his brain. That little moan with his name in it. The way it curled at the end like she was pulling the pleasure out of herself and letting it melt right into his damn name.

Erik…

He gritted his teeth and kept walking. Long strides. Feet bare. Sweats hanging too low. Every muscle in his arms and back locked. His biceps were flexed just from the strain of trying to calm the fuck down. Veins jumping in his forearms. His dick was hard. Still. The kind of hard that felt like punishment. Buzzing. Hot. Like every nerve ending in it was alive. Flaring. Fattened with blood and need and pure lust. It had been hard too long now and his patience was slipping. He paused at the mirror. That full-length one near his closet. The one he tried not to look in too long.

But he needed to see. Needed to see what the fuck this girl just did to him. Erik stepped forward, wide chest rising slow, and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats. Pulled them down low. Real low. The elastic caught on the base, stretched tight over the thick girth and then—

Bop.

His dick sprang out. Heavy. Thick. Hanging low, the weight of it swaying slightly before rising with blood and desire. Head flushed deep, dark, glossy with arousal. That mushroom tip swollen and wet at the slit, a slow drip glistening. The shaft…long, veiny, vicious. A thick root at the base, hair neatly trimmed. His dick curved down slightly and sat fat in his hand as he caught it mid-throb.

“Fucccckkk,” he hissed, low, jaw clenching as he looked at it.

Brows pinched. Lips parted. His golds catching the light as he sucked in air and stared. This girl had his shit swole. And she wasn’t even in the room. This lil’ slut done fucked around and got his dick stiff off a damn moan. Said his name once and had him walking the floor like a fucking maniac. This wasn’t just want. This was need. Real need. Haven’t-been-touched-in-two-years-and-need-some-pussy type need.

He stroked it once. Lazy. Felt like heat in his hand. Too hot. Heavy. That throb damn near made him shudder. She didn’t even know what she was asking for. Didn’t know what she’d be taking. What it meant to get dick like his. How deep he’d go. What kind of pressure this was. She’d fold. He knew she would. She’d fold the second he had her on her back. Legs pushed up. Hands locked above her head. That pussy stretched wide and fluttering, her mouth all open, her eyes glassy. Looking at him like she ain’t know where she was anymore.

Like she’d never been fucked for real.

Erik hissed and looked away from the mirror. Put his hand on his hip. Tried to get his breathing under control. Tried to think of something else. Anything. But all he could see was her mouth.

The shape of it. The softness.

How it would look stretched wide open. Moaning his name when he fed her dick slow and deep, then pulled out just to slap it on her tongue. How she’d blink up at him like a good girl. Keep her lips parted, ready, willing. He dragged his hand back up his length, hissed again, then wiped his palm on his thigh. Had to stop. Had to get his shit together. This is what she wanted. That’s what he kept telling himself.

Don’t play her game, Erik. Don’t give her that satisfaction.

She was younger. Too much of a damn tease pulling this shit. Walking around in those little sleep shorts. Tshirts with no bra. Those glasses. Hair in a messy bun. Lips always glossy. Voice soft and calm like she didn’t know how fast it worked on him. And now she’s moaning his name like a little freak with her fingers in her pussy? He yanked his sweats back up, trying to cover himself, but his dick wasn’t going for that. The outline pushed forward, stiff and obvious, a fat print stretching the front like he was trying to hide a weapon.

He ran a hand down his beard. Closed his eyes again. And what he saw earlier made it worse. 

That damn vibrator. The purple one he saw in the shower last when she left it sitting on the ledge like it was normal. Like she didn’t care if anybody saw it.

He pictured it.

Sanaa naked, one leg propped up, head tilted back under the water. That toy buzzing against her clit. Her mouth open. One hand holding the wand, the other pinching her own nipple. He pictured her sliding it between her legs, wet from water and want. Rocking against it. Thighs shaking. Shoulders curling in. He pictured her moaning into her hand, maybe trying to keep it quiet, but failing when the orgasm hit. The sound she made when she came. That’s what he wanted to hear.

That’s what he needed.

Erik turned toward the door. Reached for the knob. Opened it. Took one step out. Then froze.

His jaw ticked.

He was this close. Right there. He could walk over, knock once, or not at all. Push that door open. Grab her by the hips and make her spread for him. Let her feel what it really meant to say his name like that. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Because if he gave in now, he wouldn’t stop. She’d be in his bed every night. That soft moan of his name would become a habit. She’d be addicted to the way he touched her, fucked her, owned her.

And he wasn’t ready to lose that control.

Not yet.

So he clenched his fists. Shut the door. Leaned his head against it and stood there breathing deep, dick still hard as steel.

She was gonna pay for this.

Just not tonight.

Not yet.

The apartment was still quiet when Aaliyah’s alarm buzzed softly from her phone docked by the window. A slow yawn escaped her lips as she stretched, sheets tangled around her legs, the scent of her coconut leave-in still lingering in the air from last night’s twist-out.

She shuffled into her morning with muscle memory—bonnet off, slippers on. Bathroom, skincare, brushing her teeth with a playlist humming low from her phone. One of those easy, feel-good mornings. No chaos. No rush. Macha was already calling her name, but first, she veered down the hall, knocking gently against the cracked door of Sanaa’s room.

“Sis?” she called, nudging the door open with her knuckles, “You up?”

“Mhm.”

Aaliyah stepped in and smiled at the sight.

Sanaa was curled at her desk, glasses sliding down her nose. Her curly hair was in a messy bun, big tendrils falling around her face, and she had on one of her oversized college T-shirts—faded from too many washes, sleeves falling over her wrists. Her legs were folded beneath her in the chair, Ugg slippers placed beneath her feet for easy access. Of course she looked cozy and cute. 

“Studying already?” Aaliyah grinned, flopping face-first onto Sanaa’s bed, “It’s not even nine.”

“Gotta get ahead before my midterms start clownin’,” Sanaa said, glancing over her laptop with a sleepy smile, “You making macha?”

“Later. Right now, I want the tea.”

Sanaa blinked over her glasses, “Tea?”

“Yes, bitch, the date. Nathan. Hello?” Aaliyah rolled onto her back dramatically, arms stretched over her head, “How was it? Did he smell good? Did he open your door? Was it giving potential husband or meal ticket and vibes?”

Sanaa laughed, sitting back in her chair and pulling the throw blanket off the back of it to wrap around her legs.

“It was nice,” she said, almost shyly, “He’s sweet.”

“Sweet?” Aaliyah lifted a brow, “You blushing. Not too much, now.”

Sanaa bit her lip, head tilting.

“No, like…genuinely sweet. He asked real questions. Talked about his interests, his future plans, the kind of work he does in tech. He paid attention. Didn’t just talk to talk.”

“Mmm.” Aaliyah gave her a look, “So…is there gonna be a second date?”

“Maybe.” She shrugged with that coy little smile Aaliyah knew too well, “I’d go.”

Aaliyah grinned, “I like this for you.”

“Thank you.” Sanaa pushed her glasses up and nudged her laptop closed, “So what about you? Jordan still blocked or…?”

Aaliyah groaned and dragged a pillow over her face.

Sanaa grinned, “Ahh. So that’s a no.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

Aaliyah sat up just enough to toss the pillow at her.

“Okay,” she sighed. “So…I might be giving him another chance.”

Sanaa blinked, “Might?”

“Fine. I am. Don’t look at me like that.”

Sanaa held up her hands, all fake innocence, “Lookin’ like what?”

“Like you knew this was coming.”

“Because I did,” Sanaa said, grinning, “Girl, you was never leaving that man. He got you hooked.”

“Shut up. It’s the other way around actually.” Aaliyah corrected. 

“No, no. Let’s talk about it.” Sanaa pulled her legs up in her chair and pointed at her, “You over here giving me dating advice when you the one who be texting that man paragraphs then deleting them.”

Aaliyah rolled her eyes.

Sanaa laughed, head back, curls bouncing, “Girl, you under his spell.”

“He’s not that bad.”

“He’s a wannabe rapper.” 

“I like that he has aspirations. Leave me alone.”

Sanaa narrowed her eyes, “Don’t let Erik find out.”

Aaliyah paused.

Sanaa smirked, “Mhm. You know he gon’ beat Jordan’s ass if he catches wind.”

“Please.” Aaliyah waved it off,  “I’m grown. I’m not little Li-Li with the braces anymore.” 

“You sure about that?” Sanaa teased. 

“I’m positive,” Aaliyah said, but her voice had a little whine to it.

Sanaa gave her a look and wiggled her eyebrows, “Alright, big grown. Keep playing, though. Let Erik see Jordan dropping you off with that engine rattling and them loud ass rims.”

“That boy do not have loud rims.”

“He do,” Sanaa grinned, “And they ugly.”

“Whatever, bitch.” 

Sanaa’s smile softened as she curled the blanket tighter around her.

For a moment, the teasing faded, and it was just them. The kind of moment only besties and sisters could have—messy, honest, sweet.

Sanaa looked out the window, then back at her screen, “Just be careful,” she said, “With Jordan. I don’t wanna have to kill him myself.” 

Aaliyah nodded, serious now, “I will.”

A beat.

Then Sanaa added, “And if Erik do catch him slipping… I ain’t snitching.”

They both laughed.

They heard the door open at the same time. Both heads turned toward the hallway. Sanaa paused, eyebrows raised. Aaliyah squinted like she expected trouble. Then came the sound of grocery bags rustling.

“Erik?” Aaliyah called, already rising to her feet.

Sanaa stood slower, tugging her oversized T-shirt down over her shorts as they made their way out of the bedroom. By the time they reached the kitchen, Erik had already dropped three brown paper bags on the counter. Another two sat by his feet, the tops folded but not sealed. He was wearing a fitted black tee, sleeves hugging his arms, dark jeans slung low. A black beanie pulled low over his locs, golds were in, catching the light when he licked his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. He removed his beanie and shook out his locs. 

“Morning,” he said, voice low and smooth.

Aaliyah blinked, “You went grocery shopping?”

“Somebody had to,” Erik said, pulling out a bundle of herbs, “I’m making breakfast.”

Sanaa looked over at Aaliyah, who was already frowning.

“What?” she asked.

“Like the old days,” Erik added, setting aside three cartons of organic eggs, “Before y’all forgot what a stove was.”

Aaliyah scoffed, “Erik, we cook.”

“Ramen don’t count.”

“Wow.”

Erik smirked, reaching for the other bag, “Brought stuff to last at least a couple weeks. You two need to eat better. Especially if you gon’ keep living off takeout and stress.”

Sanaa leaned over the counter and peeked into one of the bags. Bright fruits. Fresh greens. Kale, not lettuce. Real spinach, not frozen. Sweet potatoes, avocados, garlic bulbs. Everything labeled organic.

Erik moved around the kitchen like he still lived there.

Aaliyah gave him a look, “You bought…lean turkey?”

“Yup.”

“Quinoa?”

“High protein. Cooks quick.”

“Greek yogurt?” She held it up like it was a crime.

“With raw honey. You’re welcome.”

Sanaa smiled behind her hand, slipping to the other side of the counter to help unpack.

Every time she moved, she felt his eyes.

Tracking her.

Following.

He didn’t touch her. Not even a brush. But she could feel it. That thick tension hanging between them like a charged wire. His gaze kept dropping. To the line of her neck. The slope of her hips. The slow way she tucked her hair behind her ear.

Her skin was warm. She hadn’t even looked at him full yet.

When she did, it hit like a jolt.

Their eyes met.

Erik’s expression didn’t change, but something dark stirred behind his gaze. His jaw ticked once. Lips parted just barely.

And Sanaa’s heart kicked.

She looked away quickly, cheeks heating, and focused on unpacking the last bag. Almond butter. Whole grain bread. Spices. Real cinnamon sticks. Fresh ginger. Lemons. Limes. Olive oil. A small pack of steel-cut oats and more. 

Aaliyah shook her head, overwhelmed, “You want us to meal prep or something?”

“I want y’all to eat balanced meals. And that lazy shit is all mental. Gotta put in the work.”

Aaliyah huffed, “I don’t have time for this shit. I’m in clinic, lectures, research, plus that dissertation.”

“You got time to order UberEats at midnight though. Yeah, I caught you buying Shake Shack at damn near 1 AM.” 

Sanaa hid her smile again, lips pressed tight.

Aaliyah pointed, “Okay. Sanaa can cook.”

Sanaa blinked, “Excuse me?”

“You can.”

“I’m also in school. In case you forgot?” 

“You don’t leave the house like I do,” Aaliyah teased, bumping her shoulder.

Sanaa rolled her eyes, still avoiding Erik’s stare, “I’m not cooking every day.”

“You ain’t gotta,” Erik said, voice low.

Sanaa turned. He was watching her again.

“Just a couple meals a week. You know…real food.” He stepped closer, barely a foot between them now as he set down a bundle of asparagus, “Something warm. With flavor.”

Their eyes locked again. Heat rolled between them.

Slow.

Heavy.

Aaliyah clapped her hands together, “Who wants matcha?!”

Sanaa blinked and stepped back just slightly, “I’ll have some,” she said, clearing her throat.

Erik didn’t answer.

Aaliyah raised an eyebrow at him, “You want any?”

“I’m good.”

“I figured.” She started toward the hallway, “Y’all get started on that food. I’m about to do some emails before class.”

Her steps faded behind them.

Then the kitchen went quiet.

Sanaa opened the fridge, bending slightly to make space for the yogurt. She could feel him behind her. That tension from last night flooding right back in. Her thighs pressed together without thinking. She grabbed an egg carton, placed it gently on the top shelf.

When she stood again, Erik was still there.

Close.

His eyes flicked from her lips to her neck, to the curve of her ass under that T-shirt, then back up again.

Neither of them said a word.

Not yet.

But it was coming.

The sound of running water and the rhythmic chop of a knife was the only thing filling the kitchen now. Aaliyah had disappeared down the hall, and with her went the casual buffer that had been keeping everything in this room breathable. Now it was just Sanaa and Erik, and that tension—so thick and close it almost pressed on her chest. She stood near the sink, glass of water held lightly in both hands, trying to keep her gaze off the man across the counter. But it was useless. Her eyes kept drifting.

Erik was prepping like he had something to prove. Like he wasn’t just making breakfast, but building a memory. Everything laid out was fresh and hand-picked, no corners cut. He was moving with intention, slow and clean, dicing onion with a precise rhythm, sliding it into the preheated skillet where it hissed the second it hit the oil.

The air filled with the smell of garlic and onion, the faint pop of fresh thyme crackling as he rubbed it between his fingers and dropped it in. Thick forearms flexing with each movement. Veins prominent. Skin smooth and rich. That quiet strength in his posture made the kitchen feel smaller, like it belonged to him now.

Sanaa shifted her weight to one hip and sipped her water again, eyes trailing down his back, then to the way his broad hands moved through the ingredients like he’d done it a thousand times. Everything he did was calm. Measured. Masculine in a way that made her pulse jump a little. She could hear the low scrape of the spatula on cast iron, smell the butter blooming into the aromatics. It smelled like home. Like something heavy and warm was about to hit the plate.

Erik turned then, glanced over his shoulder, and caught her staring.

Their eyes locked.

Sanaa didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

She just kept sipping her water, lips slightly parted, and the soft sheen of gloss caught the light from the window. One loose curl had fallen across her cheekbone, another rested just above her brow. Her glasses sat low on her nose, framing her eyes in a way that only made them more expressive. Curious. Shy. But not scared.

Erik held her gaze.

His jaw flexed once, slow. His eyes scanned her face with a kind of deliberate stillness. She felt it pass over her lips, her throat, then lower, lingering on the way her shirt dipped at the collar. Her skin warmed under his eyes.

Then his voice came, low and smooth, like it had dropped just for her.

“You wanna help?”

She blinked once.

He waited.

“You don’t have to,” he added, turning his attention back to the cutting board, “Only if you want.”

Sanaa set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink and took a slow breath. She stepped forward, bare legs brushing against the edge of the cabinets.

“I can help,” she said, her voice soft, steady, “What do you need me to do, Erik?”

Something in the way she said his name made him pause.

He glanced at her again, one brow lifted.

“Wash your hands,” he said, voice still low, “Then come here.”

She obeyed without question. Turned to the sink, rinsed her hands slowly, then dried them on the cloth draped over the oven handle. Her heart was thudding harder than she wanted it to, but her face didn’t show it. When she stepped closer, Erik had already moved to the side, gesturing toward the pile of potatoes on the counter.

“Peel those,” he said, “Then cut ’em like this.”

He stepped behind her, not beside her, and reached around with his hand to guide hers. His palm slid across the back of her hand, fingers curling around hers gently as he guided the angle of the blade. His other hand rested on the counter, trapping her in the space between him and the cutting board.

Sanaa’s breath caught.

The heat of him behind her was magnetic. He wasn’t even pressed against her, but she could feel it. The closeness. The suggestion. She nodded slowly, following his lead, fingers steady as she peeled the first potato.

He didn’t move away.

“Thinner than that,” Erik said, voice brushing the shell of her ear, “Even slices.”

Her lashes fluttered.

He reached again, adjusting her grip, the pad of his thumb grazing along the inside of her wrist. A touch so light, it was more suggestion than contact.

“You got it,” he said, “Keep goin’.”

Sanaa swallowed, trying to keep her focus. Her lips parted slightly. She could feel his breath when he leaned in just a little closer to reach for the bowl beside her.

His voice came again, low and smooth, like he was speaking just to the spot behind her ear.

“What you been runnin’ off lately? Coffee and stress?”

She gave a soft laugh, “Basically.”

He shook his head once, “Nah. Not while I’m around. We gon’ fix that.”

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

The silence between them stretched. Full. Warm. Loaded. She dropped the slices into the bowl and reached for the next potato. Erik moved back just slightly, letting her work, but his presence stayed close. Every time she glanced up, his gaze was there. Watching. Studying. Not in a way that made her feel self-conscious. But seen.

Completely.

And she kept catching herself staring at his mouth. The way his lips parted when he tasted the seasoning in the pan. The way they shaped her name when he said it. The slow drag of his tongue across the corner of his mouth when he leaned over to stir the skillet.

It was quiet. But charged.

She peeled.

He cooked.

And neither of them said what they were really thinking. But it was thick in the air. The question. The temptation. The promise. Still unspoken. Still waiting. Still simmering.

The kitchen was warmer now.

Not from the stove, though the heat rising off the cast iron was no joke. It was Erik. The way he moved through the space with a quiet kind of power. Calm but commanding. The kind of energy that made the air heavy and slow, like every moment carried weight. Sanaa was still at the counter, focused on peeling and slicing, but every part of her was aware of him. 

The soft scrape of his knife against the board. The low clatter of a metal whisk against glass. The scent of browned butter and cinnamon curling into the air. The rich sweetness of the brioche he was prepping for Aaliyah, dipped in that thick custard like it deserved luxury. Everything about his cooking was precise. Slow. Confident.

And she kept catching herself looking.

At his shoulders. His back. The way his shirt clung to his waist. The way his jeans sat low on his hips. How tall he was, how he made the kitchen look smaller just by being in it. Sanaa reached for the towel to wipe her hands, standing straighter, but Erik moved beside her, brushing just close enough that her side grazed the solid heat of his body. Her breath caught for half a second. He didn’t even touch her with his hands. Just his presence. That closeness. That size. She wasn’t short by most standards, but next to him? She felt small. Especially now, with her bare legs, oversized tee, glasses still slipping down her nose.

“You straight?” he asked, voice low.

Sanaa looked up, “Yeah.”

He gave a slight nod, tossing the whisk in the sink, “Cool.” Then, while he was cracking eggs into a separate bowl for the scrambled mix, he said it, “You sleep alright last night?”

Sanaa blinked. Her hand paused over the potatoes.

“Yeah,” she said slowly, “I did.”

Erik nodded once. Kept stirring, “I didn’t.”

Her stomach dipped.

He spoke like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t carefully dropping that line into the room.

“Usually takes me a minute,” he added, voice casual but that deep tone was there. Thick and smooth, like it belonged in the air with everything else he was cooking, “Been that way for a while. Trained myself to stay aware. Just in case something happens.”

Sanaa stayed quiet. Watched his hands as he stirred the eggs. The way his forearms flexed.

“Also,” he continued, turning toward the stove, “the walls in this place are thin.”

The whisk hit the bowl a little harder on that last stir.

Sanaa went still.

Completely still.

She didn’t even breathe for a second. Her hand tightened around the towel, heart thumping against her ribs. Her thighs clenched on reflex. She glanced up at him slowly.

He wasn’t looking at her.

Not yet.

He was pouring the egg mix into a nonstick pan, swirling it gently, his back half-turned.

Then he added, “Heard some noise. Kept me up.”

Her cheeks flushed warm, but her throat went dry. She stood straighter, adjusting the towel in her hand, trying to stay calm. Trying to keep her voice even.

“I’m…” she started, then cleared her throat, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to keep you up.”

Erik still wasn’t looking at her. But his body was still. Attentive.

“I had to take care of something,” she said, her voice soft but steady now, “Something important.”

Erik turned his head slightly. His eyes slid to hers.

“The only way I could sleep.”

The words hung in the air like steam off the skillet. Sanaa’s face was calm, but her pulse skipped. Her stomach fluttered. Every inch of her felt tight and loose at the same time. Her hand was still holding the towel, now clutched tighter than before. She was rooted in place, but her legs wanted to press together.

Erik finally looked at her full.

And the stare that followed was thick.

Dragging.

Heavy.

His eyes didn’t move quickly. They coasted over her—slow with a tilt of his head. From her bun, curls falling soft around her cheeks, to her glasses, down to her lips, glossy and parted just slightly. His eyes dropped lower. Her neck. The slope of her chest beneath the shirt. The way the fabric barely brushed the top of her thighs.

Then his gaze came back up.

They stared at each other. Hard.

No smiles. No teasing.

It was full silence, nothing light about it.

Sanaa’s breath moved in slow and tight. Her chest rose, then fell. Her grip on the towel loosened, then tightened again.

Erik’s jaw shifted. His lips parted just slightly.

Still no words.

She could see the thoughts behind his eyes. The question. The threat. The pull. Her body reacted before her mind could. A soft sway forward. Almost unnoticeable. But he noticed. He straightened just a touch. Hands braced on the counter. Like he was holding himself in place.

Like if he moved, it would be over.

They stared.

And kept staring.

Her stomach twisted again. Heat pulsed low.

Erik didn’t blink.

Didn’t look away.

And neither did she.

The timer on the oven went off, sharp and sudden. They both moved at once. Nothing said. Nothing touched.

But everything had already been felt. 

The oven timer had barely stopped ringing before Aaliyah’s voice came floating in from the hall.

“Okay, y’all better not be eating without me.”

Sanaa stepped back from the counter fast, heart still beating way too loud. Her hands went to the towel, wiping her fingers for the third time, though they weren’t wet. She kept her eyes down. Pretended to re-focus on the potatoes. She could still feel it. The lingering effect of Erik’s stare. That deep look, slow and deliberate, like his eyes had hands. Like he’d already touched her without ever laying a finger. And now, her pussy was actively quivering. It made her stomach dip, thighs press close, chest feel too tight under the worn cotton of her T-shirt. She swallowed and reached for the bowl, trying to look busy.

But it was no use.

The flood of arousal was quick. Immediate. Deep and low like a wave breaking inside her. She could feel it coat her. Warm, soft, shamefully slick between her thighs. Every movement she made now—walking, standing, even breathing—had her more aware of it.

Aaliyah came bouncing into the kitchen, hoodie on over shorts, messy curls tucked behind one ear. She stopped and blinked, then raised an eyebrow.

“Oh wow. Sanaa in the kitchen. Doing things. Should I grab my camera?”

Sanaa turned slowly, lifting her eyes just enough to throw her sister a dry glare.

“Funny.”

“I’m serious. This is rare,” Aaliyah said, tying her hoodie tighter, “We’re looking at history in real time.”

Behind her, Erik didn’t miss a beat.

“She been stuck on them potatoes for like twenty minutes now.”

Sanaa shot him a sharp look over her shoulder, “I’m gonna throw one of these potatoes at your head.”

Erik gave her a look.

That smirk. Slow. Dimpled. Slick.

It wasn’t the cocky kind. It was worse. The knowing kind. The you ain’t slick kind. The one that reached all the way to his eyes and lingered there. Sanaa turned back to the counter, jaw tight, trying to hide her own grin, but her face felt hot. Her hands picked up the bowl again, though she didn’t need to.

“I was helping,” she muttered.

“You were lookin’,” Erik said, voice low enough that Aaliyah didn’t catch the real weight behind it.

Sanaa’s stomach fluttered again.

Aaliyah rolled her eyes and headed toward the kettle, opening the cabinet above it, “Sanaa in the kitchen and using her hands. Should I alert the press?”

Sanaa made a sound in her throat, flat and unimpressed,  “You act like I don’t cook at all.”

“I mean…” Aaliyah reached for her favorite matcha tin, “I just think it’s cute that you suddenly know where the knives are.”

Behind her, Erik didn’t say much. Just let the skillet speak—potatoes sizzling as he turned them slow, the scent of garlic blooming in the butter. He tossed a glance at Sanaa, and she caught it. Another one of those loaded, quiet stares.

Her grip on the towel slipped a little.

Aaliyah, still fully unaware, turned with a spoon in her hand, “Anyway, I’ll stay out y’all way while you two chef it up. I’m just here to make my little matcha and mind my business.”

She smiled, casual and sweet, then turned back to her drink. Sanaa exhaled, her lips barely parting. Erik leaned down to check the heat, dimples flashing as he caught her stare again.

She looked away.

Fast.

But not before her breath caught again, low in her throat.

But her thoughts…her thoughts wouldn’t let her go.

Thin walls.

Heard some noise.

Kept me up.

Her heart fluttered all over again.

He heard her.

She’d moaned his name. She remembered it vividly. Body spread on the sheets, thighs spread wide, fingers gripping the pillow, and that last slick sound that slipped out of her lips like a secret. “Erik…” It had been breathless. Needy. She hadn’t meant to say it so loud.

But she did.

And he heard it.

And now he was here, calm and cool, flipping potatoes with garlic and scallion like he hadn’t been just inches from pinning her to the counter minutes ago with nothing but a look.

She felt herself pulse again.

Why didn’t he come over? If he heard…if he knew…

Why didn’t he come into her room? Why didn’t he press that big body of his between her thighs and put his mouth on her until she cried? Why didn’t he take what she was so clearly asking for?

Her thighs clenched tighter. She shifted in place, trying to ease the ache.

Maybe he wanted her to beg.

Or maybe he wanted her to know he could’ve—but didn’t. Because that kind of control? That restraint? That was a different kind of power. One that made her wetter than she wanted to admit.

“Yo, sit down,” Erik said, lifting a hand as Aaliyah reached for the plates, “I got it.”

“You sure?” she asked, half-teasing, already hovering near the counter.

“Yes. Go sit with your little best friend.” Erik pointed toward the dining table, “Both of y’all. Chill. I’ll make the plates.”

Sanaa glanced at Aaliyah, who gave a shrug and mouthed damn okay, then headed toward the table with her mug of matcha. The dining space was small but cozy. Two chairs on either side of the wooden table, one at the end. A fake succulent centerpiece sat in a tray with a half-burnt candle. Erik’s presence made the room feel warmer—more settled, like the apartment remembered what it was like to have him there. Even the sound of him in the kitchen, heavy footsteps and drawers sliding open, felt…familiar

“So what’s your week looking like?” Sanaa asked, tucking a curl behind her ear as she settled into the chair.

Aaliyah exhaled, loud, like the question alone wore her out. She pulled her legs up into the seat, criss-crossed, and rested her elbow on the table dramatically.

“Pure hell,” she said, “Clinic hours Monday and Wednesday, that reproductive justice roundtable Tuesday, and I still gotta finish my final proposal before the weekend or they’ll drop me from the SisterSong fellowship.”

Sanaa blinked, “That’s this week?”

“Yes,” Aaliyah groaned, “It’s literally the last thing I have to turn in before they ship me off to Atlanta for three months.”

“Girl…”

“I know,” she said, stirring her matcha with a little too much energy, “It’s exciting, and I’m proud, but also—high-key—I’m ready for spring break. Like, I need to lie down for a week and not advocate for a single soul.”

Sanaa laughed, “You are so dramatic.”

“I’m serious. I’m over here tryna prevent infant mortality and fight health disparities.”

Sanaa grinned, resting her chin on her hand, “you’re the one who chose to major in this, Aaliyah.” 

“Because somebody has to!” Aaliyah said, pointing a finger, “And it ain’t you with your six half-read theory articles open and your self care Sunday energy.”

“That’s wild,” Sanaa deadpanned, smiling.

“I’m just saying,” Aaliyah said, “we both stressed. But I’m on the front lines and you’re on Pinterest looking up inspo for your hair appointment.”

“You need to eat your French toast and calm down.”

Aaliyah huffed, but a smile tugged at her lips, “I really am geeked for this toast though. He made that whipped brown sugar butter, huh?”

“Yep,” Sanaa nodded, “now you’re making me want some.” 

Aaliyah picked up her fork like it was a weapon, “I’m ’bout to risk it all.”

They laughed together, the kitchen filled with warm smells and that easy kind of joy that came from years of being in each other’s orbit. Oakland-born, D.C.-bruised, still surviving. Sanaa reached for her water again, but her eyes flicked over to Erik, who was at the counter finishing the last of the turkey sausage. He moved with that same quiet precision, jaw tight, focus sharp—but not once had he stopped glancing back at her.

Not that Aaliyah noticed.

She was too busy hyping herself up to finish her fellowship paperwork, fall back in love with her favorite French toast, and maybe text Jordan when no one was looking. Erik returned from the kitchen holding two plates—steam curling off the food, every item arranged like he gave a damn about presentation. The potatoes were golden and crisp, eggs folded fluffy with herbs, turkey sausage stacked perfectly, and a side of bright avocado and pan-seared tomatoes. Aaliyah’s plate had the brioche French toast, dusted with powdered sugar and topped with a scoop of that warm brown sugar vanilla butter melting down the sides.

“Damn,” Aaliyah whispered, eyes wide as he set it in front of her. “Okay, Chef Boyardee.”

“Chef who?” Erik gave her a look.

“Boyardee! You heard me!” she said quickly, grabbing her fork.

Sanaa just smiled to herself as he placed her plate down next, close enough that she could smell the heat off his skin. He didn’t say anything, but his fingers grazed the edge of the napkin she’d set out. Just a second too long. Then he turned, made his own plate, and returned with that same steady, quiet energy—shoulders squared, attention focused, but his gaze kept landing on her.

She didn’t return it. Not at first.

She focused on her food. Potatoes were crispy on the outside, soft inside. Just the right amount of herb. The turkey sausage had a kick to it. Everything tasted like time. Like care.

But she felt his eyes.

Low and steady. From across the table, she could feel the heat of his stare drag up her arm, down her neck, across her face. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t entertain it. She stayed cool, played her role.

“I’ve got a hair appointment later,” she said casually, slicing into her eggs.

Aaliyah perked up, “Ooo, what you getting?”

“Silk press.”

“Period,” Aaliyah grinned, mouth full of toast, “You already know you gon’ look good. That shit about to swing.”

“I know,” Sanaa said, her voice soft and teasing, “It’s time.”

Aaliyah was halfway through her French toast when she slowed down, fork hovering over her plate, and looked across the table at Erik.

“So…are you thinking about going back to Oakland for a few days?” she asked casually, like she hadn’t been sitting on the question, “Sanaa and I are gonna go. I got a week break before I have to be back in Atlanta for the fellowship.”

Sanaa glanced up at that, her chewing slowing as she listened. Erik didn’t look up from his plate. He was cutting into his turkey sausage with slow precision, the scrape of his knife deliberate.

“Don’t know, Liyah,” he said, “Might got a job lined up.”

Aaliyah let out a long sigh and rolled her eyes, “Can’t you hold off on killing people for money for one second?”

Sanaa blinked. Her fork paused in the air. She looked between the two of them. Erik didn’t take the bait. He lifted his fork, took a bite, chewed slow, jaw ticking once before he said—flat, clipped—

“I ain’t got time for no nosy questions about what I’m doing, who I’m talking to, or why I don’t come around.”

That hung in the air.

Aaliyah leaned back in her seat and picked up her matcha, sipping it like she needed the warmth to swallow her pride. Her lips pressed tight around the rim, eyes darting everywhere but toward Erik.

Sanaa looked at her. Then at him.

The shift in the air was sharp. Quiet, but sharp. That kind of sibling tension that came layered with years of history, silence, and unresolved bruises. Not explosive. But always there. Pressed beneath the surface.

Sanaa didn’t speak. Didn’t ask.

But she could feel the tightness in Erik’s shoulders. The way his attention flickered once to Aaliyah, then back to his food. Whatever was going on between them.

The silence lingered just a second too long.

Then Erik set down his fork and leaned back in his chair slightly, eyes shifting toward Aaliyah with that familiar slant of brotherly teasing.

“You know what I ain’t missing though?” he said, tone smoother, a hint lighter.

Aaliyah looked up, a little wary, “What?”

“That graduation.”

Her expression cracked.

A small smile crept across her lips before she could catch it. 

Erik nodded once, slow and sure, “Nah, I’m dead serious. I’m pullin’ up. Front row. Loud as hell. Don’t care what school security talkin’ about.”

Aaliyah rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed, “Please don’t start no drama at Howard, Erik.”

“You gon’ see me with a poster and a bullhorn,” he added, “Yellin’ your whole government name. Aaliyah Nicole Stevens, B.S. Public Health, Minor in Mindin’ Other People’s Business. AHHHHHH.” 

That pulled a real laugh from her.

Sanaa smiled behind her glass.

Then Erik leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, his voice dipping into something quieter. Something that carried more weight, “For real, though. I’m proud of you.”

Aaliyah blinked, caught off guard.

Erik’s gaze stayed steady, “You been grinding. No shortcuts. You really out here tryna make things better for people. Mama would’ve been proud too.”

A beat passed. Aaliyah looked down, smile trembling on her lips. Erik’s expression softened even more. Not just in his eyes, but in his whole face. The hard lines of his jaw loosened. His brow smoothed. That dimpled smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth, gentle and real. It was a face Sanaa hadn’t seen in a long time.

Not the sharp, calculating Erik. But this version, the one who looked like peace might be possible. She stared for a second too long. Then Erik leaned across the table and kissed Aaliyah’s forehead, rough hand cupping the back of her head just for a second.

“Stop it,” she grumbled, shoving at his shoulder, “You too affectionate now.”

“Gotta balance all the murder,” he said with a straight face.

Aaliyah snorted into her matcha. And just like that, the tension cracked. The room felt lighter again. But Sanaa was still watching him and wondering what it would take to make that softness his new default. 

As they chatted, her legs shifted beneath the table, absentminded. She slipped one foot out of her Ugg slipper and stretched, letting her toes wiggle free. The motion was unconscious—habit. A way to cool off. But then—

Her foot touched something solid.

Warm.

Hard.

His leg.

She froze.

It wasn’t just a brush. It was a slow drag, the ball of her foot against the side of his calf. She moved to pull back quick but before she could—

Erik’s hand caught her ankle.

Her body went still.

Her breath caught behind a soft gasp.

She looked up, slow, careful.

Erik didn’t speak.

Didn’t smirk.

But his eyes held hers, low and unreadable, thick with that same pressure from earlier. One hand still on his fork, the other wrapped beneath the table, fingers around her ankle like he had all the time in the world.

He gave it a gentle squeeze.

Her pussy clenched.

Sanaa blinked at him, heart beating way too loud.

Then Aaliyah stood, “Be right back, I forgot my matcha in the kitchen.”

Sanaa tensed.

Erik didn’t let go.

She looked at him sharp, trying to shoot him a warning, but he just leaned back slightly, completely relaxed, thumb brushing the arch of her foot now.

He was teasing her.

Her leg jerked slightly. She leaned forward over the table.

“Stop,” she whispered, lips barely moving, voice light and whiny in a way she didn’t mean for it to be.

Erik’s lips curled—dimples again, full smirk now. She tried to pull her leg back. He held it. Her toes flexed in his hand. His grip tightened just a little.

“Erik,” she hissed, under her breath.

“Hmm?”

“Stoppp.”

He chuckled low.

It was the sound that undid her. Rich and knowing and deep in his chest. That man knew exactly what he was doing.

Aaliyah returned with her mug, oblivious, dropping back into her seat.

“Yo, y’all killed this,” she said. “Like I might need you to make breakfast for now on. Just like back home, right, E?”

Sanaa’s face was warm. She tucked her foot under the other, finally free. She pushed her plate forward slightly, suddenly full.

Erik just kept eating.

Calm. Easy.

Aaliyah pushed her plate forward and let out a soft groan, slouching back in her seat.

“Yeah…I’m full. That was everything.” She stood and scooped up her plate, balancing her matcha mug on top, “I’m about to shower and study for a couple hours. Gotta get ahead before this week starts kicking my ass.”

Sanaa smiled into her glass, “Go do your little flashcards.”

“Girl, don’t hate.” Aaliyah leaned in to nudge her on the shoulder before heading to the kitchen, “I’ll leave y’all to finish cleaning. Love you, mean it.”

She disappeared down the hall, humming to herself. The moment the water started running in the bathroom, Sanaa let out a soft giggle.

Erik glanced over, slow and unbothered, brow raised, “Why you gigglin’?”

Sanaa shrugged, eyes low, trying to suppress her grin, “Don’t worry about it, Killmonger.”

His jaw ticked, “What I tell you about callin’ me that?”

Sanaa’s smile widened, her voice syrupy and slick, “Why can’t I call you that? It’s a nickname, right?”

Erik didn’t answer. Just gave her a look. Dark eyes narrowing, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.

Sanaa leaned back in her chair, legs crossed beneath the table, her bare foot swinging lazily back and forth—just brushing his shin every few seconds.

Then she kicked him.

Not hard. A playful little tap.

But it was enough.

Erik moved without warning.

He caught her foot again. Both hands this time. Big, rough palms wrapping around her ankle and arch. He pulled her in under the table slow, dragging her chair forward inch by inch. Wood scraping the floor. Her body inching closer to the edge.

Her breath hitched. Her thighs clenched.

She tried to yank her foot back but he wasn’t letting go.

“Erikkkk,” she whined, voice low, damn near begging.

He didn’t flinch. Still calm. Still still. But his eyes, they burned. That same dangerous flicker from earlier. The kind that made her chest flutter and her belly clench tight.

He tightened his grip, “Say my name.” A pause, “Say it again.”

Her breath hitched, “Let my foot go.”

His voice dropped, “You always givin’ orders?”

She shook her head slowly, “That wasn’t an order. That was a request.”

“You sure?” he whispered, dark amusement curling at the edges.

Sanaa narrowed her eyes.

He rubbed his thumb slow across the top of her foot, right at the softest part near her toes. Her stomach flipped. The touch was lazy. Familiar. Possessive.

Her pulse jumped so hard she felt it in her throat.He leaned back just slightly, that same calm stillness in his chest. But his voice?

Low. Firm. Dangerous.

“Say my name. Like I said.”

It wasn’t a request. She tugged again, foot still in his hand.

She huffed, “Why you actin’ like this?”

That slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, “You ain’t said it right yet.”

She twisted again, “Erik—”

“Nah,” he cut her off, voice thick with warning now, “You know how I want it.”

Her eyes flared. Heat crawled up her throat.

Still, she held her ground—barely.

“You gon’ hold my foot hostage?”

His thumb stroked across her ankle, slow. Possessive.

“You want it back?” he asked, head tilted, “Say it. Sweet.”

She exhaled sharply, biting the inside of her cheek.

He was enjoying this. Too much.

“You a damn menace,” she argued.

That smirk deepened, “And you still ain’t said my name.”

His grip loosened. But he didn’t let go.

“Let it go,” she whispered.

He looked at her, head tilted, voice low and deliberate.

“That ain’t how you ask for shit now is it?”

Her eyes held his.

It was heat. Tension. And something thick resting beneath the words. Something neither of them wanted to name yet. But it was there.

Lurking.

Pressing against the edges of the moment.

She stared at him. Then softer—lips barely parting, breath catching:

“…Erik.” Her foot twitched in his grip, “Please,” she said, soft and slow, “Can I have my foot back.”

Erik smiled. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just…knowing. His thumb slid up her arch again, then he let go. Sanaa pulled her leg back fast, tucking it beneath her other thigh, heart racing.

“Asshole,” she muttered.

“I ain’t even start yet,” he said, voice dragging low across the syllables.

Sanaa looked away quick.

But her thighs squeezed tighter.

And her foot still tingled where he touched it.

Sanaa didn’t say anything when she stood.

She just pushed her chair in slow and quiet, slipped down the hallway like her legs weren’t hers. Like her body was drifting a step ahead of her mind. That man had touched her foot like he owned the rest of her. Her foot was still warm where his hands had been. Her thighs wouldn’t stop pressing together. And her panties…soaked. Sticky in the worst way. The best way. That dangerous kind of wet that made her sensitive to everything—the air on her skin, the hem of her shorts, her own damn heartbeat.

She slipped into her bedroom without looking back.

Closed the door.

Then leaned on it with her back, eyes shut. Breathed through her nose like that was supposed to help.

It didn’t.

She could still feel the shape of him in the air.

That look he gave her across the table, heavy and dark like he wanted to see what she looked like fucked. The way his jaw ticked when she laughed at something too soft. That voice. Low. Deep. Sliding through her body like heat and hunger at once. And the way he’d gripped her foot? Like a man who’d already imagined how far her knees could bend. Her chest rose with a shaky breath. She moved. Shower cap. Clean towel. Fresh underwear. Grabbed them without thinking, routine muscle memory taking over while the rest of her burned. She stepped back into the hallway, barefoot and quiet. She could hear him. In the kitchen. Plates clinking. Water running. Forks knocking. The kind of domestic noise that sounded so regular, so casual, it made the mess inside her feel even louder.

Her pussy was aching.

She locked the bathroom door. Turned on the light. And started peeling clothes off slow.

The oversized tee slipped up and over her head, brushing her skin as it dropped to the tile. Her breasts felt heavy, nipples already hard, aching like they knew she was about to get nasty. Shorts next—wet, sticky, clinging to her folds before they slid down her thighs and dropped. She caught her reflection in the mirror. Body gleaming. Brown skin glowing like syrup under the bright light. The kind of soft-thick shape that couldn’t hide desire even if she tried. Her thighs were a little too pressed together. Her chest rose too fast. Her lips looked kiss-swollen. And between her legs…she didn’t even have to look to know she was dripping. She turned on the shower and let it heat, steam climbing the mirror like fog. She pulled her cap over her hair, secured it, and stepped in. The first hit of hot water against her back made her gasp. She started with the basics—unscented Dove sliding over her skin, chest to arms to stomach, then down her thighs. But her hands moved slower than normal. Gliding. Curving. Lingering at her waist, slipping lower.

She tried not to think about him. Tried.

But then his voice came back. That gritty whisper when he said her name. The way he looked at her like he could read her mind. That tight flex of his jaw when she shifted in her seat, like he knew she wasn’t wearing a bra. She reached for her sugar scrub, fingers already trembling. The oil and granules melted over her skin, scented warm and decadent. She rubbed it in. Thighs. Hips. Under her breasts. Her belly. She kept her motions smooth. Slow. But it was too much. Too slick. Her nipples brushed her forearm and tightened like they wanted to be in someone’s mouth. Her mouth parted on instinct.

She didn’t mean to touch herself.

At first.

Her hand just slid lower. A little slower. Her legs shifted. A brush here. A graze there. And then her fingers paused. Found heat. Found need.

Last night crashed into her like a wave. The thin walls. The quiet. And him hearing her. Hearing the way she moaned his name when she came with her own hand pressed between her thighs.

She swallowed hard.

Then squeezed her legs together under the water, but it didn’t help. Her clit was already pulsing. Her pussy clenching, slicker now, the heat blooming wider. She leaned a hand on the wall. Bowed her head. Bit her bottom lip just to stay quiet.The water trickled between her breasts, over her stomach, down her thighs. She lathered with her scented body wash, but the way the bubbles moved over her nipples and hips made her back arch. Made her eyes flutter. Made her press her thighs tighter until she couldn’t take it.

She needed more.

She reached for the toiletry bag hanging on the back of the door. Her hand moved fast. Zipper open. Purple toy in hand. Lube. Twist cap. Apply. All with movements she didn’t even fully think through. She leaned back against the wall, one foot up, heel pressed to the ledge, water pounding her collarbone. One hand gripped the edge of the tile. The other guided the toy between her thighs.

The first buzz made her jump.

She gasped. A soft sound caught in her throat, half-whimper, half-curse. She dragged it over her clit again, slower this time. The tremor went straight to her gut, pulling her open. Her hips bucked forward. Her pussy clenched around nothing, greedy, dripping. She moved it in slow circles. Just on the outside. Teasing. Drawing out the ache. Her thighs shook. Her head dropped back. Her mouth stayed open, lips parted like she was trying to catch air she couldn’t pull in. All she could see was Erik. Big hands. Full lips. That back. The way he sat wide in a chair like it was built for him. The sound of his voice when he said her name. The thought alone made her moan.

Her body answered fast.

Pleasure surged through her, spine arching, stomach tensing. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, trying to stay quiet, trying not to say his name out loud again but failing.

The orgasm took her quick. Sharp. Messy.

Her legs went soft, buckling slightly. Her knees knocked. Her back slid along the tile. She pressed her shoulder to the wall and let it wash over her. Then she came again. Smaller. Deeper. With her mouth half-open, thighs clenched around the toy, breath broken into little gasps as her body rolled through it. She didn’t know how long she stayed like that. Eventually she reached up. Turned the water off. Let the silence fall. She pressed her forehead to the slick tile, breathing deep. Chest rising, falling.

Her clit still twitched. Her thighs were still slick. She reached down, slid her fingers between her folds, just once, just to feel how soaked she still was. Then she whispered his name under her breath. Real soft.

Erik…

Just once. But it carried. Even in the quiet. And it made her ache all over again.

Steam still clung to every tile, thick in the air, curling around Sanaa’s body like a second skin. Her breath came slower now, but the throb between her legs hadn’t eased. She was soft all over. Glowing. Muscles loose. Curls damp under her shower cap. Nipples still tight and aching. She opened her eyes. Reached for the towel. Pulled it off the hook and dragged it across her chest slow, every pass a tease, her own skin too sensitive now. She was flushed and flushed out. Breasts full. Pussy still throbbing. She’d came already, but it wasn’t enough.

Not even close. Not when she kept thinking about him.

Big ass hands. That mouth. The weight of his stare. That wide frame barely contained in the doorway when he leaned there like he had all day. Like he knew damn well she was dripping on the other side of the wall, needing something thick, deep, and nasty to shut the ache down. She wrapped the towel around her, slow and tight. Cinched it at her waist. One thigh peeking out where the slit opened. She pulled off her shower cap and shook her curls loose, steam kissing her skin as they bounced around her face, soft and damp. She looked at herself in the mirror. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t shy away.

She looked good.

Dewy. Licked in gold light. That fresh-out-the-shower glow that made everything look edible. She leaned closer, tilting her chin slightly. Lips plump and kiss-wet. Neck still beaded with water. She pressed her thighs together again. It didn’t help. She was still wet. Not just from the shower. She let out a slow exhale through her nose, but it turned into a quiet, hot sigh.

Her body was damn near vibrating. It wasn’t a crush anymore. This wasn’t some girlish curiosity. She needed him. Needed Erik like a fever needed breaking. She wanted that man to fuck her. Flat out. No pretending. No teasing. No more innocent looks across the table or heat-thick moments in the hallway where he walked past too close, lips parted like he was thinking about it but wouldn’t say it. She wanted to ruin that man. Fuck his retwist up. Wipe that cool, quiet look off his face until he was gripping her hips and talking nasty in her ear with that deep Oakland drawl. She wanted him on top of her. Behind her. Under her. Wherever he needed to be to fill the ache that refused to go away.

She licked her lips. Tilted her head. Rolled one shoulder slow, easing the towel down just a little.

Fuck playing fair. She knew what he’d heard last night.

Thin-ass walls and her pussy loud as hell. She’d moaned his name while her fingers worked her clit in slow circles, legs wide, body shaking—and she knew he heard it. Knew he was on the other side of that wall listening, silent, probably with his dick in his hand. Letting her ride the edge alone, knowing damn well he could’ve stepped in and ended her suffering right then and there.

And now she was done pretending.

He wanted her? Come get her.

She adjusted the towel, slow and deliberate, letting the corner dip just a little lower over the swell of her ass as she turned to gather her things. Every move she made was charged now. Intentional. Her body felt too alive to hide it. She wasn’t leaving that bathroom the same girl who walked in.

Nope.

Sanaa Brielle Carter was ready to get fucked. Not just touched. Not just teased.

Pinned. Stretched. Split open on a real man’s dick. One that matched the size of his damn ego. One she knew he carried like a weapon. She wanted those thick fingers gripping her thighs while his mouth worked her over slow. Wanted his body stretched over hers, sweat dripping from his chest, golds flashing in the low light while he hit it, those scars creating sensations all over her body. Wanted to hear that man groan her name in that ruined, low, can’t-hold-it-back voice. She wanted to lose herself on his dick, to be the reason he forgot everything else. To be the last woman he ever thought he could play it cool with.

If she didn’t get him soon she was gon’ lose her damn mind. She wasn’t just hungry. She was starving. And he was the only thing on the menu. She gripped the doorknob, looked back at herself once more. Then opened the door slow. Steam rolling out behind her. Dripping. Glowing. That confident air clinging to her skin like her towel did. She stepped out, not caring if he saw. In fact, she hoped he did. She was ready now. Let him come try and act unfazed. Let him try and walk past with that same cool stride. She was about to break that man’s whole routine. And when she was done he’d never be the same. The hallway was dimmer than the bathroom, steam still rolling out behind Sanaa like a secret she wasn’t trying to keep.

Erik’s door was cracked just enough.

She clocked it immediately. The angle. The sliver of light spilling out. The quiet thump of bass from a game soundtrack layered under the sharp sounds of sneakers squeaking on hardwood. NBA 2K. Of course. She stepped out anyway. Towel wrapped snug around her chest and hips, skin still dewy, curls loose and springy from the cap she’d just pulled off. Water traced slow paths down her collarbone, between her breasts, disappearing beneath the towel. Her thighs brushed with each step. Soft. Slick. Still buzzing. She didn’t look at his room. She walked past like she didn’t feel him there. Like she couldn’t feel his attention snap tight the second she crossed his line of sight.

Erik was on the floor of his bedroom, back against the side of the bed, legs bent. A PS5 controller sat heavy in his hands, thumbs moving with sharp precision. Fitted tee stretched over his chest, the fabric clinging to muscle. His arms flexed every time he shifted, veins faint but visible. He replaced his jeans with joggers now that hung low on his hips, waistband dipping just enough to show the band of his briefs. Locs framed his face, shadowing his cheekbones. Brows drawn together in concentration. He was locked in. Until he wasn’t. The second she passed, his thumbs slowed. Then stopped. The game kept going. Players running. Crowd noise roaring. His eyes dragged over her in one long, unbroken pull. From the damp curls clinging to her shoulders. To the swell of her breasts straining the towel. Down her waist. Her hips. Her thighs. His gaze lingered there, heavy, like he was thinking about how they’d feel wrapped around his head. Around his waist.

Sanaa felt it. That stare hit her low and hot.

She stepped into her room, set her toiletry bag down slow, deliberate. Grabbed her body butter. Cocoa rich and warm, the scent already thick on her fingers. She turned back toward the bathroom, towel still on, posture loose and confident like she didn’t have a damn thing to hide. She stopped in front of the bathroom mirror.

Fogged. Cloudy. Her reflection hazy and soft.

Perfect.

She scooped some butter into her palms and rubbed them together, slow. Lifted one leg, propping her foot on the counter. The towel shifted. Not much. Just enough. She worked the butter into her thigh with long, unhurried strokes. Hands gliding over skin that caught the light, glossy and golden.She leaned closer to the mirror. Tilted her head. Fluffed her curls, fingers combing through them, lifting them at the roots. The towel slipped a little lower with the movement. One hip peeked out. Smooth. Bare. She knew he was watching. She didn’t rush. Didn’t cover herself. She rolled her shoulder, switched legs, lotioning the other thigh now. Her breathing stayed even, but her body was loud with intention. The kind of quiet tease that wasn’t really quiet at all. From the corner of the mirror, she saw him shift. Controller lowering slightly. Game forgotten. His eyes were on her like he was afraid to look away. Sanaa finally turned her head. Met his stare. Held it. Her mouth curved just a little.

“You got a problem with your eyes?” she asked, voice smooth, casual, like she wasn’t standing there half naked and glowing.

Erik didn’t look away. Didn’t scramble. Didn’t pretend.

His lips parted. Jaw flexed.

“Nah,” he said, low and even, “They work just fine.”

She raised a brow, “Then why you staring?”

He leaned his head back against the bed, eyes still locked on her. Slow. Heavy. Like he was dragging every detail into his memory.

“Because you standing in my line of vision,” he said, calm but sharp, “looking like you know exactly what you doin’ too.”

Her pulse kicked. She stepped closer to the bathroom doorway, towel still wrapped, fingers slick with butter. She didn’t bother wiping her hands.

“Maybe I don’t care,” she said.

His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker.

“Careful,” he replied, “You keep moving like that, somebody might think you tryna get their attention.”

She laughed soft. Shook her head once, “Funny,” she said, “Because you been paying attention all damn day.”

Silence stretched. Thick. Charged.

Erik finally set the controller down beside him. Slow. Intentional. His hands rested on his thighs now. Big. Steady.

“You gon’ finish what you doing,” he said, eyes never leaving her, “or you just gon’ stand there teasing me for sport?”

Her breath hitched. Just a little. She stepped back into the bathroom, palm sliding over the mirror as she turned.

“Guess you’ll see,” she said over her shoulder.

The towel slipped another inch. Not an accident. And Erik stayed right where he was. Watching. Still.

She moved out of the bathroom when she was finished as if she were floating, her eyes lingering on his as she disappeared past his door and into her bedroom. 

Sanaa stood in front of the mirror in her room, her oversized cardigan slipping just off one shoulder as she leaned in to swipe another coat of gloss across her lips. Brown liner sharp. Nude gloss slick and soft. Her baby tee hugged her just right, ribbed cotton pressing against the curve of her waist and the soft swell of her chest. She smoothed it down once, then stepped back. The jeans sat low on her hips, dark denim with just a little stretch. Her gold charm bracelet jingled softly as she reached for her earrings—classic hoops, light enough to swing when she turned her head. The necklace was simple, a small teardrop charm with her birthstone glinting at the base of her throat. Uggs on. Kayali Candy Rock Sugar kissed over her pulse points—sweet, feminine, a little warm. She didn’t overdo the makeup. Light beat. Lashes curled. Brows brushed and filled. That soft shimmer at the high point of her cheekbones made her glow like she had good secrets.

She slung her Telfar over one shoulder and grabbed her phone off the charger.

A notification pinged.

Lyft Driver arriving in 4 minutes.

She stopped by Aaliyah’s room before heading out.

Aaliyah was laid across her bed, laptop open and half her attention on an article while her AirPods dangled loose in her hoodie pocket.

“I’m heading out,” Sanaa said, leaning against the doorframe, “Lyft is almost here.”

Aaliyah looked up, “Wait. Why didn’t you just ask Erik to take you?”

Sanaa paused for a half-second too long, then blinked like the thought hadn’t even occurred to her.

“He’s busy,” she said, adjusting her cardigan sleeve, “And I’m not tryna wait on him to spend twenty minutes doing…whatever he does before leaving the house. My ride already outside.”

Aaliyah shrugged, “Fair. But you should hit him up after. See if he can pick you up. I might not be around.”

Sanaa tilted her head, “You got plans?”

“Maybe.” Aaliyah stretched, smiling a little, “Jordan mentioned something about taking me out for dinner later. Don’t roll your eyes.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You was thinking it.” Aaliyah gave her a playful glare, “But actually, if you and Nathan go out again…y’all should double with us. Keep it cute. Brunch or something.”

Sanaa smirked, “You and Jordan at brunch is not cute.”

“You right—it’s chaotic. But still. Think about it.”

Sanaa nodded, just enough to acknowledge, “I’ll let you know.”

“Oh! and while I’m thinking about it—” Aaliyah closed her laptop halfway and sat up, “If anything goes wrong while I’m gone—plumbing, fuse box, packages, creepy neighbor downstairs—just hit Erik. He’s around. You got his number, right?”

Sanaa froze.

Then shook her head, casual.

“Nah.”

Aaliyah narrowed her eyes, “How you plan to survive here without me for the rest of the semester and don’t have his number?”

“I just never needed it,” Sanaa said, voice soft.

“Well now you do.” Aaliyah reached for her phone, thumbs tapping, “Girl. Here.”

A soft chime buzzed from Sanaa’s phone. She glanced down at the screen.

Contact Received: ERIK.

It took her a second.

Her thumb hovered over the message screen. A breath caught in her throat before she finally tapped out the words.

Sanaa: Hey, it’s me. Aaliyah gave me your number — said to hit you just in case anything goes left while she’s gone.

The reply came quick, like he’d been waiting on it.

Erik: You expectin’ shit to go left?

She smirked, biting back the warmth spreading across her face.

Sanaa: With my luck? Absolutely.

She locked her phone, slid it into her bag, and gave Aaliyah one last look before heading out.

“I’ll text you when I’m on my way back.”

“Cool. And text Erik too. Don’t be stubborn.”

“I’m not.”

“Mmhmm,” Aaliyah said, already opening her laptop again, “Safe travels, Bri.”

“Thanks, girl.”

And with that, Sanaa walked out.

Now she had his number. Now the line was open.

The Lyft ride was quiet.

Sanaa sat back in the plush seat, letting the city pass by as D.C.’s late morning light crept through the windows. Her phone buzzed once in her lap, but she didn’t look. She just stared out, earbuds in, light music playing, her fingers lightly brushing against the zipper of her Telfar. She was trying not to think too hard.

But Erik kept coming back anyway.

The way he looked at her. The way he moved. The way he grabbed her foot like he owned it. Like her body was his business.

She sighed and shifted in the seat.

The driver pulled into the plaza quietly, a row of boutique suites lined in clean black awnings and soft gold signage. Sanaa thanked him, stepped out, adjusted her cardigan, and walked to the glass door labeled “The Rooted Room” in sleek, hand-painted script. Below it, in smaller letters:

Natural Haircare • Silk Press Specialist • Loc + Curl Artistry

As soon as she stepped inside, warmth wrapped around her.

The suite smelled like eucalyptus water, soft incense, and deep conditioner. Hints of mango butter, rosemary oil, and something sweet and creamy in the air—probably that custard curl cream the stylist always used on her clients’ twist-outs. The light was low and golden, soft lamps instead of overhead fluorescents. A plush waiting chair sat in the corner next to a tiny marble-topped table with neatly stacked beauty mags and a chilled carafe of cucumber water. The walls were a warm clay tone, earthy and grounding. Gold-framed prints of Black women with all kinds of hair adorned the space—fros, locs, coils, cornrows, pressed straight. A long mirror ran across the wall behind the single styling chair, and a clean, white washbowl waited in the back near shelves lined with labeled product jars and oils.

“Look who it is!”

Sanaa smiled as her stylist stepped out from behind the divider, wiping her hands on a black towel.

“Hey, Mya.”

Mya was all warmth. Full-bodied and fine, her energy came through in the smile first—slow, soft, real—and then again in the waist beads peeking above the tie of her wide-leg lounge pants. Her curls were up in a puff today, earrings long, skin glowing.

“Come on in, baby. Go ahead and take your earrings and necklace off for me.”

Sanaa nodded, pulling off her hoops and sliding her necklace into her bag. She slipped into the chair while Mya set up her tools and dimmed the room a little more.

“Same as last time?” Mya asked, reaching for a cape.

“Yep. Washed, steamed, silk pressed. Just a little trim if it needs it.”

“Cool. Your hair’s been thriving,” she said, separating the curls gently at the root, “Still moisturizing?”

“Trying to.”

“You’re doing better than most,” Mya smiled, clipping sections loosely, “Let’s get you back for the wash.”

The water was warm. Not hot. Not rushed. Sanaa leaned back and exhaled, letting her head rest fully in Mya’s palms as she started the first cleanse. The shampoo was gentle, minty, and soft on the scalp, stripping product but not moisture. The second wash came thicker, more lather. Then the steam. Mya slid the dome into place and added the moisture treatment, working it in with her fingertips.

“Let that sit for a second,” she said, stepping back.

Sanaa sat under the steamer, curls drenched in hydrating balm, eyes closed.

And that’s when it started.

“You Don’t Know My Name” by Alicia Keys began to play through the hidden speakers. Low and sweet, that piano rolling like it had a secret.

It took a second for it to hit her. But when it did—she blushed.

Hard.

She tried not to, but her body betrayed her. Her skin flushed warm under the steamer hood. Her mouth parted just slightly. The lyrics folded in around her.

Baby, baby, baby…from the day I saw you…I really, really wanna catch your eye…there’s something special ‘bout you…and I must really like you…‘cause not a lotta guys are worth not time, oh…oooh, baby, baby, baby…it’s getting kind of crazy…‘cause you are takin’ over my mind…

She thought of Erik. That calm way he looked at her when no one else was watching. The way his voice dropped when he said her name like it tasted better in his mouth. The way his grip felt under the table—steady, unbothered, like he had all the time in the world to pull things from her without asking.

“You blushing.”

Sanaa opened her eyes. Mya stood beside her, brow cocked, towel slung over her shoulder.

“No I’m not,” Sanaa said quickly.

Mya smirked and tapped her temple, “I do hair, baby. I see everything. That was a blush.”

Sanaa sat up straighter as the steamer shut off.

“It’s some boy, ain’t it?”

Sanaa swallowed. And then it hit her—his voice from yesterday. Low, quiet, right in her ear.

“I ain’t no boy.”

She pressed her thighs together instinctively. Then shook her head, lips curving into a private smile.

“Definitely not a boy.”

Mya laughed. “Mmmhmm. That’s the kind of energy I like to hear.”

Sanaa let herself laugh too, softer this time, cheeks still warm. The steam treatment left Sanaa’s curls soft, warm, and supple under Mya’s touch.

“Alright,” Mya said, parting her hair into sections and grabbing the blow dryer attachment, “Let’s get this mane stretched.”

The tension method was familiar, comforting in its repetition. Warm air pulled through her roots as Mya worked section by section, holding her hair taut and running the dryer close without frying the strands. Sanaa sat quiet, her fingers resting in her lap, the weight of the day easing under the sound of the dryer and the scent of heat protectant mist.

“You ever seen a grown woman throw a shoe at a client?” Mya asked casually, parting another section.

Sanaa blinked, “Wait, what?”

“Mmhm,” Mya said, combing through the ends, “I’m talkin’ she was mid-retwist and that woman tried to argue her down about prices she’d already agreed to online.”

“No she didn’t!”

“Oh she did,” Mya said, eyes wide in the mirror, “Claimed she ain’t know the final price included styling, said she could’ve done it herself. I said, ‘Then why didn’t you?’”

Sanaa burst out laughing, nearly doubling in the chair. Mya grinned.

“Don’t mess with no Black woman’s time or her coins,” she said, “They think we just twisting hair we out here doing therapy, chemistry, precision, hospitality, and divine healing in one session.”

Sanaa nodded, “You need a whole degree to do this job.”

“Say that!!!”

They laughed, the room filling with that light, easy kind of warmth that only came from Black women sharing space and stories. Mya kept going, blowing out each section carefully, until Sanaa’s hair was full and fluffy, a crown of stretched softness resting around her face.

“You ready for the magic?” Mya said, turning on the flat iron.

Sanaa nodded, letting herself relax again.

The first pass was slow, controlled. Mya moved like she was painting something. The comb chased each stroke of the iron, roots to ends, and that familiar little sizzle-pop filled the room as moisture smoothed into silk. The mirror reflected every shift—hair falling straight, shiny, weightless. She worked in silence for a bit, only breaking it to gossip about a girl she knew from hair school who was now making wigs for celebs but ghosting all her old clients.

“Soon as she did one reality star lacefront, she started charging a thousand dollars a unit and forgot we used to split vending machine snacks,” Mya muttered.

Sanaa laughed again, head tilted as the iron glided down another section. Once all the passes were done, Mya stood behind her and fluffed the ends lightly with her fingers.

“You see that length?” she said, holding the mirror up. “Don’t play with her!”

Sanaa smiled, surprised by how far down it reached, “Okay inches.”

“Let me clean up the ends a bit.”

Mya snipped lightly, just the bare minimum. No dramatics. Just a soft dusting of the ends before she flat ironed the perimeter again and began wrapping her hair in a smooth circle, section by section. Sanaa tilted her head obediently as Mya worked, letting her spin the silk press into a wrap before securing it with Saran Wrap. The plastic gleamed as it clung to her head.

“Alright, dryer time,” Mya said, motioning her toward the chair beneath the hooded dome.

Sanaa made her way over, curling up in the warm seat as Mya tucked her in and lowered the dryer down with a soft hum.

“You want water?” Mya asked.

“Yes, please.”

She returned with a chilled glass of cucumber water, fresh slices floating at the top. Sanaa sipped it slow, eyes soft, skin still tingling from the heat of the flat iron and the vibe of the whole room. Mya had just welcomed a new client, a girl with a thick curly afro coming in for a shape-up. The suite shifted again—still warm, still soft, but buzzing now with new presence and low conversation.

Sanaa glanced at her phone, lifting it out of her bag.

One new message.

Erik: You need me to come pick you up?

Her stomach flipped.

She stared at the message for a second, then thumbed her reply.

Sanaa: Only if you’re not busy.

A few seconds passed.

Erik: When you gon’ be ready?

She glanced at the dryer timer.

Sanaa: About fifteen minutes.

Another short pause.

Erik: On my way.

She locked the screen slowly, set her phone down, and stared forward. The dome hummed softly around her, plastic wrap tight against her crown, cucumber water cool against her lips.

Late afternoon light sat low and honeyed over U Street, the kind that made everything glow just a little too pretty. Erik was parked outside the strip of salon suites, blacked‑out truck idling, hoodie pulled up, locs loose and brushing his shoulders. Music played low through the speakers, bass barely there. He scrolled through his phone with one hand, jaw set, posture relaxed in that way that never really meant relaxed.

Erik looked up and forgot how to breathe for half a second.

Sanaa stood there like she had nowhere to rush to. Hair freshly silk‑pressed, long and glossy, catching the light when she moved. It fell straight down her back, soft and expensive looking, framing her face just right. Her skin looked warm in the sun, brown and smooth, gloss shining on her lips like she meant for somebody to look. Erik hopped out and went around to open the door for her. She slid into the seat smooth, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, low‑rise jeans hugging her just right. Nothing flashy. Nothing extra.

Still dangerous.

“Thank you,” she said, buckling in.

Erik shut the door and leaned against the truck for a moment before getting in, eyes dragging over her slow, like he was committing details to memory.

“…This why you needed a ride?” he asked once he was behind the wheel.

She smiled, small and knowing, “Mmhmm. You like it?”

He swallowed, “Do. You tryna impress somebody?”

“Maybe I am.”

A beat passed.

“I’m hungry,” she added, like it was an afterthought.

What you want?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He shook his head, lips twitching, “You can never decide on nothing.”

“That’s not true.”

“Name one time.”

She laughed, turning toward him, “Don’t start.”

He pulled off, easing into traffic, “You want something quick or you wanna sit down?”

“I don’t know,” she said immediately.

“Exactly.”

She nudged his arm, “Okay, okay. What you got?”

“There’s a spot I been meaning to hit again,” he said, “You good with that?”

“Yeah. What place?”

He glanced at her, a half‑smile forming, “You’ll see.”

He didn’t take her to fast food.

Instead, he pulled into a quiet block off U Street and parked outside a small Black‑owned café tucked between a record shop and a nail salon. The sign was simple. Inside, jazz hummed low, plates clinked, and hot sauce was already waiting on the table like it belonged there. They slid into a booth across from each other. Sanaa crossed one leg over the other, denim pulling just enough to make Erik’s eyes linger. Her hair swayed when she moved, smooth and straight, brushing her shoulder. Her lips caught the light every time she spoke.

“So,” she said, settling in, “What do you do when you’re not saving your sister from annoying boyfriend drama or pickin’ me up from salons?”

He smirked, “Can’t tell you all that.”

“Why not?”

He leaned forward just a little, forearms on the table, “’Cause then I’d have to keep you close.”

She stared at him a second too long.

Then she laughed, shaking her head, “Please. I know you kill people for money. I ain’t scared of that part of you if that’s what you think.”

His eyes narrowed, not angry. Assessing. Like he was looking past what she said and straight into why she said it.

“Hmm,” he said quietly.

The food came out hot.

Fried catfish, collard greens glossy with pot liquor, cornbread steaming. Sanaa took one bite and closed her eyes without thinking, a soft sound slipping from her lips as she licked her fingers.

Erik looked away. Failed. Looked back.

“You eat like you just got outta prison,” she teased, smiling.

He chewed slow, “It’s been a minute since I sat down like this. Ain’t been home long.”

“Feels good, huh?”

“Real good.”

She watched him while he ate, chin resting on her hand.

“You smile more than I thought you would.”

His brows lifted, “That a compliment?”

“Mmhmm. You got a nice smile. Should let it out more.”

She paused, then added lightly, “But don’t get soft on me. I know you still scary.”

He laughed.

Not a quiet one. Not controlled. A real laugh that came from his chest, head tipping back, dimples deepening, face opening up in a way that made Sanaa stare before she could stop herself.

He caught her looking.

She didn’t look away fast enough.

They talked while they ate. About her psychology track. Pre‑med. Research labs and long nights. Her dream of clinical therapy. Opening a practice. Helping kids who fell through cracks nobody wanted to fix. Then she asked him about MIT. Engineering. An MBA. How his mind worked. He hesitated, then started talking. About systems. About how things connected. About solving problems by breaking them apart. He got carried away, hands moving, voice warming, until he stopped and laughed when he saw her face.

“I lost you.”

She smiled, “A little. But I like hearing you talk.”

He went quiet after that.

They talked about music. About Oakland. About D.C. Feeling temporary and permanent at the same time. The tension never left. It just sat there, patient. After lunch, they drove in comfortable silence for a while.

Music low. City lights sliding past.

Sanaa rested her hand near the gear shift, fingers relaxed. Erik kept glancing over, trying not to make it obvious.

She caught him once.

“I got something on my face?”

He shook his head, “Nah. You just pretty as hell.”

Her smile was slow. Quiet.

She shifted closer, fingers drifting to his free arm, tracing the faint lines of old scars while he drove one‑handed. She turned toward him, studying him openly now.

“You make me sick,” she said.

He chuckled, “Why?”

“Because you so damn fine.”

He laughed under his breath, tongue dragging across his lips before he could stop himself. His free hand settled on her thigh, warm and steady.

Her stomach flipped.

She stayed still. Played it cool. Failed internally.

They pulled up to the apartment.

Engine idled.

Neither of them moved.

“Thanks for lunch,” she said finally, “I ain’t gon’ call it a date.”

“Wasn’t one,” he said, smirking.

“Good. ’Cause if it was, that’d mean you tryna fuck your sister’s best friend.”

A pause.

He leaned back, eyes never leaving her, “And if I was?”

She opened the door, stepped out, then leaned back in just enough to let her hair brush the doorframe.

“Then you’d be playin’ with fire.”

The door shut.

Erik stayed there, watching her walk away, eyes glued to the sway of her hips all the way to the building.

And he knew.

Fire had already started.

Erik stayed in the truck for a long second after that. Engine still running. Hands on the wheel. Eyes fixed on the front of the building where Sanaa had disappeared.

Good. ’Cause if it was, that’d mean you tryna fuck your sister’s best friend.

The words replayed, slow and deliberate.

Not shocked. Not embarrassed.

Bold.

Too bold for somebody who didn’t already know the answer. Because the truth sat heavy and undeniable in his body right now. He did want to fuck her. Wanted it bad. Wanted it real good. The kind of want that had been building for days in glances, silences, touches that lasted one second too long. And the fact that she said it out loud like that did something to him. Did more than tease. It told him she was done dancing around it. She wasn’t scared. Wasn’t pretending. Wasn’t playing coy. She wanted to see if he’d flinch.

He hadn’t.

Erik finally cut the engine and stepped out of the truck, body tight with restless energy. His dick was already hard, thick and heavy in his joggers, the kind of erection that came on slow and stayed. A deep ache at the base. Pressure pulling low in his gut. Heat that didn’t fade no matter how steady his breathing got. That wasn’t just attraction. That was hunger.

He walked inside the building, jaw set, sneakers hitting the floor with purpose. Every step felt deliberate. Controlled. He wasn’t rushing. He didn’t need to. His body already knew where this was headed.

She knew too.

That little look she gave him before closing the door. The way she leaned in just enough to leave him wanting more. She wasn’t backing away from the fire she named.

She was daring him to step closer.

Erik pushed open the apartment door and stepped inside. The place was quiet now. The living room smelled faintly like food and citrus cleaner.

Normal.

Domestic.

The contrast made his pulse jump again.

He closed the door behind him and stood there for a second, letting the quiet settle. His joggers felt too tight now. Fabric stretched. His dick pressed thick against the seam, heavy and insistent, blood humming through it like it had a mind of its own.

He ran a hand over his face and exhaled slow.

You tired of teasing, he thought. And I’m tired of pretending.

Sister’s best friend or not. 

He wasn’t confused about what he wanted.

He walked down the hall and pushed into his room, shutting the door behind him with a firm click. The space was dark and familiar. Clean lines. Order. Control. He dropped his hoodie on the chair and rolled his shoulders, muscles flexing under the tension. The crotch of his joggers strained when he shifted his stance, and he hissed quietly through his teeth at the ache building low and steady. This wasn’t some quick spark. This was something that had been simmering. She wanted to know who she was dealing with.

Erik was done fighting the answer.

He sat on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his thighs, head bowed slightly as he breathed through it. His dick stayed hard. Throbbing. Patient. Like it already knew it would get its turn.

Soon.

Sanaa wasn’t wrong.

Fire was exactly what this was. And he had never been the type to walk away from heat.

The first thing Sanaa heard when she stepped into Aaliyah’s room was—

“Bitchhh, let me see that hair!”

Sanaa grinned and did a slow spin, flipping her thick hair with a little dramatic flair.

Aaliyah squealed.

“Oh my goddd, look at you. You a baddie. A BADDIE.”

The room looked like a storm had blown through. Half-packed suitcases were open on the floor. Zip-up toiletry bags. Travel-size bottles everywhere. Clothes draped over the back of her chair, a couple heels on the desk. Aaliyah’s scholarship fellowship was taking her away in just a few days, and it showed in the chaos.

Sanaa stepped around a tote bag and adjusted her cardigan, “I do look good, huh?”

“You look fine as hell,” Aaliyah said, pulling her phone out to take a few pics, “Turn to the side. Wait—whip it back and forth first. That press is pressing. Mya did her thing.”

Sanaa rolled her eyes but smiled, posing for a few silly pics before flopping down on the edge of the bed.

“You packin’ like you movin’ across the world,” she teased, eyeing the explosion of clothes on the floor.

“I basically am,” Aaliyah said, digging through a drawer, “Now help me find something cute to wear. Jordan’s takin’ me to dinner tonight, and I want something warm but still sexy. It’s supposed to get cold.”

She held up a knit midi dress—long sleeve, form-fitting, with a small open back, “This one?”

“Yup. That’s the one,” Sanaa said immediately, “Throw it on with them heeled boots and that little leather jacket. Done.”

Aaliyah nodded, satisfied, and set it aside, “Okay, bet. I just didn’t wanna freeze my ass off tryin’ to be fine.”

“You could wear a damn snowsuit and he’d still be pressed.”

“Shut up,” Aaliyah grinned. Then after a beat, “You think Erik gon’ get all protective again when Jordan pulls up?”

Sanaa leaned back on her hands, legs crossed, “I’ll keep him in check. Make sure he don’t embarrass you.”

“Please. Good luck with that.” Aaliyah smirked as she rifled through her jewelry pouch, “He been chillin’ lately, though. Ever since he got back.”

Sanaa said nothing. Just toyed with the little gold charm bracelet on her wrist. 

Then Aaliyah glanced up and her tone softened, “I hope he finds somebody one day. For real. Not just messin’ around.”

Sanaa looked up.

“Erik’s always been the type to hold stuff in. Act like he don’t care. But I know him. He do. He just don’t trust people like that. Never has. Never let himself be open to anybody… even when it’s right there.”

Sanaa swallowed and gave a small nod, letting the weight of that truth settle.

Aaliyah checked the time on her phone, “Lemme hop in the shower. He’ll be here soon.”

“Okay,” Sanaa said, standing and brushing invisible lint off her jeans, “Let me get out your way.”

Aaliyah disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her.

Sanaa walked back down the hall, quiet now. Her own heart a little too loud.

The hallway was quiet.

Sanaa padded softly down the stretch of wood floor, the pads of her feet soundless as she passed Aaliyah’s door—closed now, with the faint hum of water running behind it. She paused for a second just past it, glancing down the hall where Erik’s door sat slightly ajar.

Cracked.

Like a window someone forgot to close all the way.

She crept closer, slow, her pulse kicking up just a little as she reached the doorway and peeked inside.

There he was.

On the floor again. 

Back leaned against the edge of the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. Controller in hand. A tank top hugging that broad chest, thick arms on full display. Scars meticulously placed and beautiful. Locs loose, beard trimmed, jaw tight. The glow from the TV danced across his face, highlighting the furrow of his brow as he stared at the screen, fully locked in. Trying to distract himself. Trying not to think about what she said in the truck.

Sanaa watched for a beat longer before knocking lightly on the frame. Once.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look up.

So she stepped in.

“You lost?” he asked finally, voice low and dry.

Still not looking her way.

Sanaa smirked, “Nah. Just bored.”

Then she did it—flopped onto his bed like it was hers. Like she’d done it a hundred times. Rolled onto her side, head propped up in her hand, watching him play.

Erik’s eyes finally cut toward her, slow.

He didn’t say a word.

But something shifted in the room. Something tight and thick and humming under the surface.

Sanaa kicked her feet up, toes wiggling in the air, and stretched her arms behind her head like she had every right to be there. The mattress dipped under her weight, the slight creak traveling through Erik’s spine with every shift she made. His jaw tensed. He didn’t pause the game. Didn’t speak.

But he felt her.

The way she moved, settled in, got comfortable like it was her bed. Like she was used to that space. Like she knew what she was doing. His fingers tightened around the controller. A missed combo got his character clipped in the corner, but he didn’t react. Didn’t curse. Just kept playing, eyes locked forward.

Sanaa’s eyes, meanwhile, scanned the room.

It was neat, but lived-in. Clean lines. The bed beneath her was plush and firm, sheets smooth and cool, and there was a faint scent that clung to the fabric—fresh laundry mixed with warm sandalwood and dark amber. Something masculine, deep, and rich. No candles or plugins, just him. It suited him. No-frills. Calm but present. A large matte-black trunk sat at the foot of the bed, secured with a serious-looking padlock. Heavy-duty. Not for show. His wardrobe was cracked open on one side. Inside, perfectly aligned hangers held neutral-toned hoodies, thermals, and fitted T-shirts, some folded military-style on the lower shelves next to a row of combat boots and sneakers. A duffel bag leaned against the wall, slightly unzipped, revealing a peek of cords, black gloves, and what looked like the butt of a flashlight. Or maybe something more. On the dresser, a small collection of colognes stood like soldiers—nothing flashy, just the good stuff. One bottle missing a cap. 

She smiled to herself.

Then her gaze landed on the necklace draped across the corner of the nightstand. A thick gold Cuban link with a single pendant hanging from it. Not a cross. Not a dog tag.

A ring.

Made of silver with a lacquered black band split by a seam of matte dark gray. There was a faint shimmer in the metal—something rare. Something almost otherworldly.

She picked it up, testing the weight in her hand, “This real? Heavy as hell.”

His eyes flicked over, “Stop touchin’ shit.”

Sanaa snorted, rolling her eyes, still holding the chain, “Damn, okay.”

She let it clink back onto the table. Then looked over at him, eyes playful, “What you gonna do if I don’t?”

He didn’t answer.

But the way his shoulders squared and his grip tightened. She knew that was an answer all its own. Sanaa giggled and flopped over onto her stomach, arms bent, chin propped in her hands as she watched the screen. Her legs bent at the knees, heels lightly kicking in the air behind her. The movement shifted the bed again just enough to send another thrum of tension through Erik’s spine.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t have to.

She was close. Close enough for him to smell that faint trace of her hair products, sweet with hints of coconut and floral oil. Close enough to feel her laughter in the mattress when she chuckled again, shaking the whole damn bed like it wasn’t his and she didn’t need permission.

“Wait, what’s happening?” she asked, tilting her head, “So they just run back and forth and shoot?”

Erik sighed through his nose, “It’s 2K. Basketball. You watched a game before, right?”

“Yeah, but this part looks fake. He just shot from like, the damn parking lot. How the fuck is that possible?”

He tried to ignore the way her hips shifted with every bounce. The way the hem of her shirt rose ever so slightly when she moved. The way her thighs looked in those jeans.

Focus. Don’t break her back in. Aaliyah is still here. 

He kept his eyes forward, “The point of the game is to play to win, lil’ girl.”

Sanaa laughed, soft and bold, “Shut up. You actin’ real serious over fake hoops.”

“I’m ranked,” he said dryly, still focused.

“Ohhh, ranked,” she teased, dragging the word out. “’Scuse me.”

He didn’t respond. Just shifted slightly, trying to find a better angle to both keep playing and not completely lose his focus. Then—

A tug.

One of her hands reached forward and gently pulled on a loc near his shoulder.

Erik sucked his teeth, low and sharp, “You tryna get popped in here?”

Sanaa laughed harder, “You too easy. Look at you.”

She tugged again, softer this time, then let go and flopped back into place. He shook his head, biting back the grin. 

“Aaliyah’s going on a date tonight.”

That got him. He paused the game. Turned his head slightly, just enough to see her smirking like she knew he was gonna react.

“She just told you that?” he asked, voice calm but alert.

Sanaa shrugged, “Yup. Jordan’s pickin’ her up. She’s been stressin’ about what to wear.”

Erik gave a dry chuckle, picking the controller back up, “He show up actin’ weird, I’ma jack the lil’ nigga up.”

Sanaa rolled her eyes, “You so doin’ too much.” 

“Nah. Don’t think I don’t hear the shit she say about him when she think I’m not listenin’. Got one more time to show his hand wrong and I’ma break it.”

“She got it handled,” Sanaa said, stretching a little, her body curving with the movement, “And honestly, she’s the one in charge. You seen the way she be talkin’ to him?”

Erik grunted, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah. I believe it.”

She leaned in closer, her body still stretched across his bed like she belonged there. Her voice dipped lower—sly, smooth, like she was about to confess something just for him.

“What you thinkin’ bout doing when Aaliyah leaves?”

That question wrapped around him slow. He didn’t answer right away. His thumb lifted off the joystick. The screen froze mid-dribble. He turned slightly, eyes on her now. That same look he’d had earlier when she stepped out the salon—but darker. Steady. Unblinking.

Heat spread through his chest. Down.

“What I’m doin’?” he said, voice low. “Why. You tryna find out what I’m on?”

Sanaa didn’t back up. Didn’t blink. Just held his gaze, smiling like she wasn’t the one playing with fire.

“Maybe.”

He looked at her a beat longer. Took in the way she was laid out like a dare—chin in her hands, lips too glossy, shirt hugging her back just right. Then he leaned back against the bed again, chuckling to himself like he didn’t need to let that tension crawl through his bloodstream.

“You bold as hell today,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Sanaa’s legs swayed behind her, “And?”

He cut his eyes at her, “Keep pushin’, I’ma show you what that get you.”

She grinned, “Is that a threat, Killmonger?”

“Nah.” His voice dropped deeper, “That’s a promise, baby girl.” 

Sanaa licked her lips, barely noticeable. But he caught it.

“You actin’ like you really gon’ do somethin’,” she teased.

He set the controller down.

“You think I won’t?”

Silence fell for a second too long. Her lashes fluttered. Her smirk flickered. He leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now—but with that same pull that always sat heavy between them.

“You been testin’ me since you got in my truck.”

Another beat.

“Since you flipped that hair, gave me that look like you knew what you was doin’. Walkin’ ‘round here like you don’t know how damn pretty you are.”

Sanaa shifted. Her thighs pressed tighter together.

Erik noticed.

“Just say the word,” he said, eyes locking on hers again, “And I’ll show you what the fuck I’ve been thinkin’ about.”

She looked at him, breath held somewhere in her chest, unsure whether to smile or stay still.

But he could see it.

She wanted it too.

He exhaled slow. Reached for the controller again, but didn’t press play. Instead, he said it real soft—so soft she had to lean closer to catch it.

“Keep actin’ like you wanna be mine and see what happen.”

She’d made herself comfortable. Real comfortable.

Now she was laying sideways across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out, her phone held above her face while she scrolled. Every so often, her foot would brush against his side. Bare skin, soft and warm, grazing the outside of his thigh just enough to light his nerves up.

Erik tried to ignore it.

Tried to focus on the game again—shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees, both thumbs tapping away like he actually cared about the outcome. But the more he tried not to notice her, the more his senses betrayed him. The scent hit first. Candied pear. Rock sugar. That same vanilla cream sweetness she always carried. It wasn’t loud. It was soft, layered—lingering on the air, on his sheets, his pillows, his shirt where she’d leaned too close.

It was fucking with his head.

Every time he scored, she clapped once, all fake praise and teasing smirks.

“Oop, look at you,” she giggled, “MVP.”

He side-eyed her hard, “You a damn distraction.”

She glanced up from her phone with the most innocent face he’d seen yet, “Me? I’m just watchin’ you play.”

“You doin’ a lot more than watchin’.”

“I’m bein’ good.”

“You ain’t never been good. Not since I got back.” 

She let out a little fake gasp and sat up slightly, that glossed mouth curving into something too smug.

“You tryna say I’m bad?” she asked, voice sweet.

“I’m sayin’ you trouble,” he muttered, eyes glued to the screen, jaw flexing.

Sanaa stretched like a cat. One arm lifted above her head, her shirt rising just enough to show a peek of waist. That damn waist. Then she flopped back down, this time a little closer, the curve of her hip brushing his arm. He didn’t move.

“You always so serious when you play?” she asked, chin tilted up, lashes fanned.

“’Cause I play to win.”

“Well damn,” she smirked, “Remind me not to challenge you in anything.”

He paused the game again.

“Anything?” he asked, voice low.

Sanaa’s eyes flicked over to him, “Mmhm.”

He gave a slow nod, tongue pressed to his cheek, “Bet.”

The tension sat thick in the air now. Her fingers tapped the screen like nothing was going on, like she couldn’t feel the way he was watching her out the corner of his eye. Like she didn’t know her scent was buried in his mattress, in his skin. He turned back to the screen. Pressed play. But this time, he couldn’t focus for shit. Not with her laying there, soft and sweet and testing every ounce of discipline he had left. She yawned. Stretched. Arms over her head, back arched, her shirt lifting just enough to flash a sliver of brown skin and the faint dip of her waist. The fabric clung when it settled—nipples puckered beneath the cotton, mouth parting in a soft exhale like she meant to nap right there in his damn bed. Erik looked over. And stayed looking. His hands twitched. Teeth clenched. The flick of her stomach. The press of her chest. The way that shirt rose like it was begging to be peeled off. It was all too much. He cleared his throat. Then hit the power button on the controller with too much force.

Click.

The screen went black. The room darkened. Minus the early evening light filtering in from the hall. 

“Aight,” he muttered, voice low, “Game over.”

Sanaa rolled onto her side, lifting her head, “You kickin’ me out?”

His eyes cut to her, jaw tight, “Before I do something I ain’t supposed to.”

She stilled. Looked at him. Long. Slow. Then stood like she had all the time in the world.

“You already did,” she said softly, “You let me in.”

The words lingered like heat in the air. Erik’s stare held. Burned.

Sanaa tilted her head, “That stare supposed to scare me?”

He stepped forward, voice dark, “Supposed to shut you up. Remind you who you talkin’ to.” 

Her mouth curved, “Try harder.”

His nostrils flared, “You need to sit your ass down somewhere.”

She didn’t flinch. Just shifted her weight and said, “Make room then.”

That smug ass smirk was still teasing the corner of her lips when she added, soft, like a question she already knew the answer to—

“Why you lookin’ at me like that?”

He stared harder. Voice low, “You need to chill. You gettin’ bold.”

Sanaa shrugged, “Maybe bold just looks different when it’s just me and you.”

His eyes dropped to her lips.

“Yeah, don’t get quiet now,” she whispered.

“Ain’t shit to say,” he muttered.

She leaned in, lashes low, “That ever stop you before?”

His hand flexed. Once. Twice.

“Whatever’s in your head,” Erik warned, “don’t say it.”

Sanaa blinked up at him, voice honey-soft, “What? How bad I want you?”

“Sanaa…”

One word. Weighted. Dangerous.

She smiled like it ain’t faze her, “You act like I bother you.”

“You do.”

“Then stop lettin’ me in.” A beat. “If you don’t want me in here, say so.”

Erik didn’t move. Didn’t blink, “I’m thinkin’ about it.”

Sanaa rolled her eyes, “You slow.”

“Why you still standin’ there?” he asked, voice lower.

“Why you still lookin’ at me like that?” Her head tilted, lips parted, “Like you wanna do something to me.” She said with a whiny voice. 

He stepped forward, slow. Deliberate. Jaw tight. Shoulders squared. Eyes dragging over her like he’d already touched every inch.

“…That sound like you tryna break the rules,” he murmured.

Sanaa smirked, “I don’t like closed doors.”

“You tryna be funny?”

“Are you laughin’?”

She sat back on the edge of the bed, thighs spreading just slightly, back arched, looking up at him with that wide-eyed, innocent face she wore like armor.

“What?” she said, “I’m just sittin’ here.”

Erik’s voice dipped into something quiet. Tight.

“That’s the problem.”

They didn’t speak. Just looked. Breath shallow. Energy thick. They were eye-fucking each other in silence, the heat between them damn near visible. Then—he chuckled. Exhaled sharp. Looked away. Turned his head to the side like he was about to let her go. Then looked back. Voice rough.

“You lucky I ain’t show up in your room last night.”

Sanaa blinked. Didn’t speak.

His eyes raked down her body. Then climbed back up, “Playin’ in your pussy? Sayin’ my name?” he whispered, “Disrespectful.”

Sanaa’s lips parted. The breath left her in a slow stutter. Her thighs pressed together tight, mouth slightly open. That heat bloomed everywhere—her neck, her chest, between her legs. She looked at him, dragged her eyes down—over his shoulders, his chest, the way his muscles sat beneath that tank. And then she saw it. The weight of him. Thick and heavy in those joggers. Her breath hitched. Heart stuttered. She couldn’t stop staring. Then—

“Ayo, Sanaa!”

Aaliyah’s voice rang out from down the hall.

Sanaa jumped. Snatched her eyes away, “C-Coming!”