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UP THE PRICE (MY LADY)
michael b. jordan x wunmi m.
PART ONE
next masterlist
cw: sexual content, spanking, jealous!michael
summary: a year after the unfortunate leak, rumors are still flooding around about who michael has locked down. to the public it’s still a mystery that they want to solve, and behind closed doors things are moving exactly how he wanted them to.
notes: i haven't updated in a while. so sorry y'all. i got a new job at the beginning of may and i've been trying to get used to this schedule. i've just been busy a lot more, but enjoy.
October 2026
Wunmi's house looked like a storm had completely wrecked it. Drawers were pulled open, clothes spread all over the place, shoes were kicked off in random directions, and couch cushions had been tossed aside. Even the kitchen had things out of place, which never happened.
Wunmi stood in the middle of the living room with her phone pressed between her ear and shoulder while she dug through yet another bag for what felt like the hundredth time.
“I don’t understand,” she muttered tightly. “I don’t lose things like this.”
On the other end, Michael was quiet for a second, listening to the sound of things shifting and falling in the background.
“Hey, slow down,” he said, calmer than she felt. "You’re tearing the whole place up.”
She let out a sharp exhale, dropping the bag onto the floor before moving to the next thing.
“I already did tear the whole place up,” she shot back, her accent heavily slipping through. “It’s gone, Michael. I’ve looked everywhere.”
He leaned back in his chair on set, phone pressed to his ear, eyes tracking the movement around him. He ignored the faint sound of someone calling for him to be ready in a few minutes.
“It’s not gone, you just misplaced it, baby,” he said steadily.
Wunmi laughed, but there was no humor in it. She yanked open a drawer, rifling through it quickly.
“The one time I take it off and it goes missing,” she said, her voice starting to crack.
Michael’s jaw tightened slightly at that.
“When did you take it off?”
She paused, thinking, her movements slowing for a second.
“The night I washed my hair. I didn’t want it slipping off or getting caught, so I put it—” She stopped, her brows pulling together. “I put it on the counter I think.”
Her hands moved faster again, more frantic now that she was second-guessing herself.
“Wunmi, stop moving for second,” he said firmly.
She didn’t.
“I can’t stop,” she snapped, moving into the living room and dropping to her knees to check under the couch again. “It’s not here.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to stay patient.
“Aye, listen to me,” he called. "It's fine we'll find it and if we don't—"
Her movements slowed just a little.
“I don’t want another one,” she cut in quickly, sitting back on her heels, her chest rising and falling. “You paid too much money for this one, Michael.”
He shook his head, a small frown forming.
“I don’t care about that.”
“Well, I do,” she said immediately, pushing herself up and started to pace. “And it’s not even just that. You—you really thought about it and took the time to pick it out.”
He rubbed his hand over his mouth, leaning forward slightly.
“And I’ll easily do it again,” he said.
She huffed under her breath, shaking her head like he just wasn’t getting it.
“That’s not the point,” she murmured.
On his end, someone tapped his shoulder lightly. He nodded without looking at them, waving them off for a second.
“Give me a minute.”
He turned his attention fully back to her.
“Alright, listen. You probably left it at my place,” he said.
Wunmi stopped pacing immediately.
“…No, I didn’t.”
“You might’ve,” he pressed. “Think about it. Last time you were here—”
“That was a week ago,” she cut in, frustration creeping back in. “And I didn’t take it off there.”
He paused, tilting his head slightly.
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “Why would I take it off there and not put it back on?”
He shrugged even though she couldn’t see it.
“I don’t know. You do a lot when you’re over here.”
That earned him a small, irritated huff.
“Michael,” she warned.
He let out a quiet breath, easing back a little.
“Alright, alright. All I’m saying is it’s somewhere. It didn’t just disappear.”
She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she turned slowly, looking over the mess of her home again. The reality of it hit her and her eyes started to burn.
“I don't like not having it on,” she admitted softly.
“Hey, don't do that,” Michael said gently.
She pressed her lips together, blinking a few times as she crouched down again, picking up a pillow just to check under it as if she hadn’t already done that ten times before.
“I just—” she started, her voice wobbling slightly. “You were so thoughtful with it. And now I’ve just lost it and you're being far too calm.”
“Because you're doing enough panicking for the both of us, baby. I'm not going to say it again but you didn't lose it, you just misplaced it." he said.
She didn’t argue, but she didn’t agree either.
“Michael—”
“I’m serious,” he cut in. “You don’t need to stress yourself out like this. It’s not worth it.”
She let out a long breath, some of the tension leaving her shoulders, but not all of it.
On his end, someone called out for him again. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.
“I gotta go,” he told her.
Wunmi nodded even though he couldn’t see it, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of a blanket.
“…Okay.”
He didn’t hang up right away.
“You good?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“…I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t fully believe that.
“Stop tearing your house up and take a break. I'll look for it when I get back. And if we can't find it then I'll get you another one,” he spoke lightly.
“Okay,” she said finally, even though it wasn’t fully okay.
“Alright,” he replied.
“…Be careful. I love you,” she added quietly.
“I love you too.”
The call ended and wunmi stood there in the middle of the mess. Her eyes drifted back down to her bare finger. It just felt so wrong.
She swallowed, pressing her lips together before letting out a slow breath. Her gaze moved around the room one more time, then she shook her head slightly, stepping over a pile of clothes as she moved toward the couch. She sank down into it, exhaustion finally catching up to her.
Wunmi sat there for a while, staring at nothing. Her mind tried to retrace every step she’d taken over the last few days. She pressed her lips together, then pushed herself up from the couch with a quiet exhale.
If she wasn’t going to find it right now, then she at least wasn’t going to keep living in the middle of a disaster. So she started with the living room. She picked things up and put them back into place. Every now and then her eyes would flick down to her hand out of habit, but each time it annoyed her.
She cleaned the kitchen next. Then moved to her bedroom. She was haflway through folding her thrown around clothes when her phone rang from somewhere behind her. She paused, listening for a second before turning and spotting it on the bed. She was able to that it was her good friend Danielle Brooks calling her.
Wunmi blinked, then walked over, picking it up and answering as she sat down on the edge of the mattress.
“Hello?”
“Wunmi!” Danielle’s voice came through bright and warm, full of energy. “Girl, where have you been?”
A small smile pulled at Wunmi’s mouth instantly.
“I’ve been around. You're the one that's been busy,” she said lightly, tucking one leg under herself.
“Okay, that’s fair,” Danielle laughed. “But still. I feel like I haven’t seen you seen you in forever.”
“Same,” Wunmi admitted, her voice softening just a little.
“So what you doing today?” Danielle asked.
Wunmi glanced around her half-clean room
“Nothing, really. Just at home,” she said.
“Perfect. That means you can come out to lunch with me,” Danielle replied immediately.
Wunmi huffed out a quiet laugh.
“You didn't even ask me!”
“Why would I? And I'm not taking no for an answer, so don't say it,” Danielle said.
Wunmi shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I wasn’t going to say no.”
“Good, because I already have the reservations made,” Danielle said. “So you're definitely coming?”
Wunmi hesitated for half a second, her thumb brushed lightly over her ring finger without thinking.
“I’ll come,” she said.
“I'll send you the address because I’m already on the way there, so don’t take forever.”
Wunmi laughed softly. “I won’t.”
“Alright, I’ll see you in a bit.”
“Okay.”
The call ended and Wunmi immediately got to work.
She stood in front of her closet for a minute, scanning her options before deciding on something simple. Once she was dressed, she moved to the mirror, smoothing her hands over her outfit, adjusting small things here and there.
Her gaze lifted to her reflection then dropped. Her bare hand came up slightly.
“…It’s fine,” she murmured to herself.
She reached for her shades, sliding them on before grabbing her purse. The sun hit her with a warmth as soon as she stepped outside. She locked her door, adjusted her bag on her shoulder, then headed to her car.
During the entire drive, Wunmi had the music on low playing softly in the background with er fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.
Eventually she pulled up to the restauraunt. She parked, grabbed her purse, and stepped out, adjusting her shades slightly as she made her way inside. The place was lively but not overwhelming. Soft chatter filled the air, the clink of glasses and silverware blending into the background. She approached the host stand, offering a small smile.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” the hostess greeted warmly. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes. I believe it's under Danielle Brooks?”
The hostess nodded immediately, grabbing a menu. “Right this way.”
Wunmi followed her through the restaurant, weaving past tables and people until they reached the patio doors. Danielle sat at one of the tables, sunglasses perched on the top of her face, her posture relaxed as she scrolled through her phone. She looked up just in time, her expression breaking into a wide smile as she stood up.
“Wunmi!”
They closed the distance quickly, wrapping each other in a warm hug.
“Hey,” Wunmi laughed softly against her shoulder.
“Hey, stranger,” Danielle teased, squeezing her a little tighter before pulling back to look at her.
They both took a second, really taking each other in.
“It’s been too long,” Danielle said.
“It has,” Wunmi agreed.
Danielle shook her head, smiling. “You look good.”
“So do you,” Wunmi replied easily.
They both laughed, that easy, familiar energy settling right back into place like no time had passed at all.
“Come on,” Danielle said, gesturing toward the table as they sat back down.
Wunmi slid into her seat, setting her purse down beside her, her shades still on as she leaned back slightly.
Their server approached not too long after they sat down, a polite smile on her face as she glanced between them.
“Hi, ladies. Can I start you off with something to drink?”
Danielle didn’t even look at the menu.
“Yeah, I’ll do a margarita,” she said easily, handing it back.
The server nodded, then turned to Wunmi.
“And for you?”
Wunmi glanced down briefly, then back up. “I’ll have a French 75.”
“Perfect. I’ll be right back with those.”
They both murmured a quick thank you before the server stepped away. The second she was out of earshot, Danielle leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table.
“Okay, now talk to me. What's been going on with you?,” she said, eyes narrowing playfully.
Wunmi smiled, shaking her head a little as she settled back in her chair.
“Just work and life like always,” she said.
Danielle hummed like she halfway believed her, her gaze drifting casually as she listened. Her eyes dropped right to Wunmi’s hands that were resting on the table.
Wunmi didn’t even realize what Danielle was looking at until she felt her reach across the table.
Danielle grabbed her hand, lifting it, her face twisting in confusion.
“Wait, where's your ring?”
Wunmi’s stomach dropped. She let out a slow sigh, her shoulders sinking just a little.
“I lost it.”
Danielle’s head snapped up.
“Already?!” she gasped.
Wunmi let out another breath, this one heavier, her lips pressing together as she looked down at their hands.
“I’ve been looking for it for days, and I don't know where it is,” she admitted, sounding almost hurt.
“Oh, baby…” she murmured, still holding her hand.
“I turned my whole house upside down to look for it. I don't understand how I lost it…” she trailed off.
Danielle squeezed her hand gently.
“What did Michael say?”
Wunmi let out a small, humorless huff.
“He told me to calm down and we'd find it,” she said. “Or he’d just get me another one if we couldn’t.”
Danielle’s brows lifted slightly. “And you didn’t like that.”
“No,” Wunmi said immediately, shaking her head. “I don’t want another one.”
Danielle nodded slowly, understanding settling in her expression.
“Mm, I get it,” she said gently. “I lost mine before.”
Wunmi blinked, looking up at her.
“You did?”
“Mhm,” Danielle nodded. “Thought I was about to pass out when I realized it too. Tore my whole house up just like you.”
Wunmi let out a small breath, something easing in her chest just a little. “Did you find it?”
Danielle smiled. “I did. It was in the most random place too. You're gonna find it, so don't stress yourself out too much.”
Right then, their server returned with their drinks, carefully placing them down in front of them.
“Margarita for you, and a French 75 for you ,” she said, setting Wunmi’s glass down gently. “Are you ladies ready to order?”
Danielle picked up her drink, taking a quick sip before nodding.
“Yes please."
They both grabbed their menus again, scanning over them briefly as they placed their orders. Danielle confidently went first, while Wunmi took a second longer. The server nodded, jotting everything down. Once she walked away again, Danielle leaned back in her chair, lifting her glass slightly.
They clinked their glasses together and fell right back into conversation. They talked about everything. From work to people to random stories. Danielle filled her in on things she had missed, little industry gossip here and there that made Wunmi laugh and shake her head. Wunmi shared her own updates of things she hadn’t realized she needed to talk about until she was saying them out loud.
Time moved quickly and they hardly even noticed. Their food came and went, plates slowly clearing as they kept talking.
Danielle tilted her head slightly, a knowing look on her face.
“So,” she started, dragging the word out just a little. “How’s wedding planning going?”
Wunmi let out a soft laugh immediately, shaking her head as she set her fork down.
"It’s…a lot.”
“I know it is,” Danielle grinned.
“It’s not even the planning itself, it's the timing,” Wunmi continued.
She reached for her glass, taking a small sip before continuing.
“Michael’s been filming, so everything has to work around his schedule. And when he does have time, it’s like we have to squeeze in ten different things at once. It’s just a lot of back and forth. All of the calls and meetings. where we have to make decisions so quick because we don't know when the next free window is,” Wunmi said.
“So do y’all have a date yet?”
Wunmi picked up her glass and took a small sip.
“Not officially, but we've been looking at spring time or maybe early summer,” she said. “But we’ve been looking at spring. Maybe early summer. I really want May, but that's only if everything lines up properly.”
Danielle raised a brow. “Oh, that's soon soon.”
Wunmi gave a small nod, setting her glass back down. her fingers brushed along the stem of her glass. All of it felt too real.
Wunmi smiled faintly, her fingers brushing along the stem of her glass. The idea of it felt real when she said it out loud like that.
Danielle studied her for a second, then asked, “Are y’all planning to go public before then?”
Wunmi shrugged, her expression easy.
“I don’t really care about that right now. It's not at the top of my list,” she said. “Michael said he’d rather wait until after we get married.”
Danielle hummed, like she was considering that, then a small smirk crept onto her face.
“Mm. Maybe he’s just trying to get his last little bit of fun in ebfore everybody really backs off,” she said casually.
Wunmi didn’t even hesitate to say, “I’m not worried about that.”
“Not even a little bit?”
Wunmi shook her head, leaning back into her seat.
“He's already learned his lesson,” she said simply.
That made Danielle laugh.
“Okay, I hear you,” she said, holding her hands up.
Wunmi just gave a small unbothered smile.
They stayed for a little longer just talking. Eventually their plates were cleared and their dreams were long finisehed.
Danielle glanced around, then back at Wunmi.
“You ready?”
Wunmi nodded. “Yeah.”
Danielle lifted her hand slightly, catching their server’s attention as she passed by.
“Whenever you get a chance, can we get the check?”
The server nodded with a polite smile.
“Of course.”
She disappeared for a moment, and Wunmi reached for her purse. It didn't take long for the server to come back. She didn't set anything on the table. Instead she gave the two women a careful look.
“Actually, your check has already been taken care of,” she said.
Wunmi frowned slightly. “By who?”
The server gave a small, knowing smile, then subtly angled her head toward the inside of the restaurant.
“The gentleman over there.”
Both Wunmi and Danielle turned, their gazes following the direction she’d indicated.
Inside, a small group of men sat at a table not too far from the patio doors. It took a second to even figure out which one she meant until they watched as one of the men leaned back slightly, his attention already on them.
His face wasn’t fully clear from where they were. The lighting inside hit at an angle, shadowing part of it, and he had on a hat that didn’t help. Wunmi narrowed her eyes just a little, trying to place him.
They both turned back toward the server.
“Well…tell him thank you,” Danielle said, still sounding unsure.
“Of course,” the server replied before she walked away.
Wunmi and Danielle exchanged a look. Then they both glanced back toward the table, but the moment had already shifted. The man wasn’t as clearly visible anymore, someone else moving in front of him briefly, the angle changing just enough to make it harder to get a good look.
Danielle leaned closer.
“Do you know him?”
“I don’t—” Wunmi started, then stopped, her eyes narrowing again slightly. “I mean, I can’t see him properly.”
They sat there for another moment, trying to piece it together, but neither of them could land on anything. And then the patio door opened. The man from inside stepped out into the sunlight, moving with an easy confidence. As he got closer, the shadows fell away from his face and Wunmi's breath caught.
Her eyes widened almost immediately in recognition. She quickly turned her head toward Danielle, surprise flickering across her face.
“What? Who is that?” Danielle asked under her breath.
Wunmi didn’t answer. She just looked back at the man as he closed the distance to their table.
“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly as he reached the table.
Danielle straightened slightly, already smiling out of politeness.
“Hi,” she said. “Thank you for paying for us. You didn’t have to do that.”
He waved it off with a small shrug.
“It’s nothing. I figured I'd use it as an excuse to come say hello. Hope you don't mind,” he said.
Danielle glanced at Wunmi briefly before looking back at him.
“No, not at all. That was relaly nice of you,” she said.
Wunmi hadn’t said a word. She kept her posture composed, but her gaze had shifted off to the side for a moment, like she needed a second to collect herself before fully engaging. Because standing in front of her was someone she hadn't seen in literal years. And wasn't expecting to see again.
Tyree Lawson had been someone she had been seeing before Michael even came into the picture. They hadn’t ended badly. They just ended. The distance, timing, and their careers pulled them in opposite directions. He got traded, she picked up a new acting job, and their lives moved on.
But she remembered him. And judging by the way he was looking at her now, he remembered her just as well.
His attention shifted fully to her, a slow smile pulling at his mouth.
“Hi.”
Wunmi cleared her throat softly, finally looking at him.
“Hello.”
The formality of it made his brows lift immediately. A small, amused crease formed between them as he tilted his head.
“Why you acting like you don’t know me?”
Danielle’s eyes flicked between them instantly.
Wunmi exhaled quietly, then extended her hand out.
“Hi,” she said a little less stiff.
He reached out and took it, his grip warm. His thumb brushed lightly across the back of her hand.
“How you been?” he asked.
Wunmi gave him a sharp look and he caught the meaning of it immediately. He smirked.
“I’ve been fine,” she said while pulling her hand back. “Very busy, but fine.”
“I see that. You been everywhere lately,” he nodded, leaning back slightly so he could take her in properly. “I didn’t get to tell you before, but I saw Sinners.”
Wunmi’s expression shifted just a little.
“And?” she asked.
“I liked it a lot. You did your thing in that,” he said. "I'm proud of you."
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I appreciate that.”
There was a brief pause before she shifted the focus.
“What are you doing out here? Didn't the season start?” she asked.
He nodded once. “Yeah, it did. I’ve just got some business to handle out here before I head back.”
Wunmi’s brows lifted slightly. “What business?”
“I started a winery.” A small smile tugged at his mouth.
“Congratulations. That's big,” her tone was more warm and animated now.
“Thank you. The grand opening's coming up soon,” he paused. "You should come."
Wunmi looked at him, and for a split second she let whatever was in the air sink into her. She became a little too soft and a little too open.
“I would have to see, but I think it should be fine,” she said.
Danielle sat back in her chair, watching the exchange unfold with quiet interest. Her gaze moved between them. It wasn’t hard to read the situation. There was clearly history there and it hadn't fully gone away.
He was satisfied with that answer.
“I’ll send you the details.”
“Okay,” Wunmi said.
There was another small pause before he glanced between them, stepping back just slightly.
“I won’t hold you any longer,” he added. “Just wanted to say hello.”
Wunmi nodded, pushing her chair back as she stood.
“Yeah, of course.”
She stepped around the table, closing the small distance between them. And they hugged.
This time their contact wasn't awkward. In fact it was easy and familiar. His arms wrapped around her firmly, pulling her in. They slid a little lower than they probably should have.
Wunmi inhaled softly at the contact, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. He’d always been built strong and solid. Her hands rested against him briefly, her fingers pressing lightly against his back. She let out a quiet hum without meaning to.
He dipped his head slightly, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before pulling back, his hands lingering at her waist for just a second longer.
“Good seeing you,” he murmured.
“You too,” she replied.
He gave Danielle a quick nod before turning and heading back inside.
Nobody noticed the the camera lens across the street taking pictures of them.
Wunmi sat back down, adjusting her bag at her side, and Danielle was staring at her hard. Wunmi didn’t meet her eyes right away. She just reached for her shades instead and slid them back up.
“What?” she casually asked.
Danielle leaned back, crossing her arms loosely.
“You might not be worried about Michael with other women, but he should probably be a little worried about you,” she said pointedly.
Wunmi let out a quiet hum, not denying it, but not feeding into it either. She grabbed her purse, standing up.
“You ready?” she asked simply.
Danielle stared at her for a second longer, then shook her head with a small laugh as she stood too.
“Yeah, I'm ready,” she said.
A few days had passed, and the ring still hadn’t turned up.
Wunmi had stopped tearing her house apart, but the absence hadn’t gotten any easier. If anything, it got worse. Every time she reached for things or rested her hand on her lap she was reminded of it not being there.
She was leisurely stretched out across her couch when Michael called, one leg tucked under her, and her sketchbook open beside her with loose pages scattered around it.
“Hey,” she answered, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder as she absentmindedly flipped through one of the pages.
“Hey baby,” Michael’s voice came through low and tired. “You find it yet?”
She let out a small sigh. “…No.”
There was a brief pause on his end.
“It's fine.”
Wunmi frowned slightly, her fingers coming up to rub over her bare ring finger.
“It doesn’t feel fine,” she muttered. “My finger feels weird without it.”
That earned a quiet exhale from him, something close to a soft chuckle.
“You'll be okay. It's not permanent,” he said.
She hummed under breath, shifting a little on the couch.
“So how are you feeling about everything?” sheasked while glancing down at her sketchbook.
“About what?” he asked.
“The wedding,” she said.
There was a small pause.
“I’m good,” he answered. “Why? You not?”
“I am,” she said quickly. “It's just that there’s a lot to keep up with.”
Her hand moved across the page, tracing over one of the rough designs she’d started.
“And don’t forget we have that meeting next week with the planner coming up,” she added.
“Yeah, I remember,” he said.
She sat up a bit to reach for a pencil.
“I’ve been trying to get a head start on my dress too,” she continued. “I started sketching some ideas, but I don't know how I feel about any of them.”
On the other end, Michael was half-listening when his phone buzzed. He pulled it away from his ear just enough to glance down at the notification to see that it was a text from his publicist.
How do you want to handle this?
A twitter link followed.
His brows pulled together as he tapped it. The page loaded and his eyes instantly went to the caption.
Academy nominee Wunmi Mosaku and Dallas Cowboys defensive lineman Tyree Lawson seen pretty close at lunch.
Michael blinked once. Then he looked down at the photos. There were multiple pictures of Wunmi and Tyree hugging. His arms wrapped low around her waist and his cheek pressed against hers. There was even a picture where his lips were pressed against her cheek.
Michael was utterly confused and tense all at once.
“Aye, what is this?”
His voice cut her off mid-sentence.
“What are you talking about?”
Instead of answering, he sent the link to her. And at the exact same time, her phone buzzed against her ear. She pulled it away to see that it was a text from her own publicist.
We need to get in front of this.
Her stomach dropped. And as soon as the tweet loaded she felt her whole breath evaporate.
“Oh my God.”
Her eyes widened as she scrolled through the photos, her chest tightening.
On the other end, Michael said nothing he just waited. His silence made her pulse stutter.
“Okay, wait. When I went out with Danielle the other day someone paid for our meal. It was him,” she said quickly. "Then he came over to our table."
“Y’all look pretty close.”
The way he said it was too controlled.
Wunmi exhaled, already feeling that dangerous shift in him.
“Do you remember the guy I told you about that came before you?” she asked.
There was a beat. Then Michael hummed.
She swallowed. “That’s him.”
He remembered the conversation and the way she described how serious it could've been and how much she liked him before things fell apart. And now he was looking at pictures of that same man with his hands on her like that.
“So then what,” Michael said slowly.
Wunmi shifted on the couch, her fingers tightening slightly around her phone.
“It wasn’t like that, baby,” she said. “He just paid for our food and came to say hi. That’s it.”
Michael let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“That don’t look like just saying hi.”
Wunmi frowned, her chest tightening.
“I didn’t know what to do. It caught me off guard,” she said.
He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see it.
“You didn’t know what to do?” he echoed.
She heard the edge in his voice.
“I mean—no,” she said, her tone softening. “I wasn’t expecting to see him. And he just came up—”
“And you hugging him like that?” Michael cut in.
Her lips parted, then pressed together again.
“He did all of that,” she said, quieter now.
“That don’t change what it look like.”
Wunmi exhaled, her shoulders sinking slightly.
“It wasn’t anything. You're making it more than it was,” she insisted.
Michael didn’t respond right away because then he realized something that made this all that much worse.
“And you ain’t have your ring on. Did you at least tell him you were engaged?”
Wunmi froze. She didn't answer right away which made Michael grunt in frustration.
"Oluwunmi…"
“…No,” she admitted softly. Her voice had dropped to a whisper.
Michael let out another low, frustrated grunt, dragging a hand down his face.
“Aight,” he said. "It's cool."
Wunmi sat up straight.
“It’s not—Michael, listen—”
“I said it’s cool,” he repeated.
But it didn’t sound like it was at all.
“I’ll see you later.”
Her brows pulled together immediately. And she went to ask him what he meant by that, but the line had already gone dead. She pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at the screen for a second, confusion settling in just as fast as the panic. He wasn’t supposed to be back for another two days. So really what did he mean?
The rest of the day blurred together.
Her phone stayed in her hand. If she wasn’t on a call, she was answering a text. If she wasn’t answering a text, she was reading something she wished she hadn’t.
Her publicist called her once. Then again. Then a third time, looping her into another call but this time with Michael’s publicist.
Wunmi pressed her lips together, pacing slowly through her living room as she listened, her free hand resting against her forehead.
“It wasn’t like that,” she said for what felt like the tenth time. “He came up to us and I didn’t even know he was there until—”
“We understand that, but perception matters far more than intent right now,” her publicist cut in gently.
Wunmi closed her eyes as she took that statement in because of course it did.
They talked through options of what to do. If she wanted to make a statement and the timing of it, or if she would want to stay silent. By the time that call ended, her head was pounding. And of course, it didn’t stop there.
Danielle called her as well.
“Girl, are you okay?” she asked immediately.
“I’m fine,” Wunmi said, even though she wasn’t.
Danielle sighed. “I didn’t even notice anybody out there taking pictures like that.”
“Me either,” Wunmi muttered, dropping down onto her couch again.
“You talked to Michael?”
“I did and let's just say it didn't go too well. He hung up on me.”
“Okay, well, that's not ideal,” she said slowly.
Wunmi huffed a small, humorless breath. “No, it’s not.”
After that the calls just kept coming. From close friends to family. And they were all asking questions that she didn't really feel like answering. The only person who hadn't was Michael. And not for lack of trying on her part either.
Every time she tried to call him, it went unanswered. Every text was stuck on delivered. She even checked his location at one point, but it was off.
When evening came, her energy was completely drained.
She sat curled up on her couch, her phone resting in her lap as she stared at the screen. The tweet was still circulating, but with more comments and opinions. More people were inserting themselves into something they didn’t understand.
Her thumb hovered over Michael’s name for the fiftieth time that day. She still had nothing from him. Her chest tightened, and she swallowed hard, blinking a few times as that familiar pressure started building behind her eyes. All of this was getting to her.
She slowly moved through her nighttime routine. The house fell still the moment she turned the lights off ready to curl up and hide from the world.
She grabbed her phone one last time, glancing at it, and still nothing. Wunmi let out a quiet breath and set it down on the table. She had started to head to her bedroom when there was a knock on her door.
It was far too late for anyone to just be showing up. So she stood still for second to listen. But then another louder and more insistent knock came.
Her heart picked up slightly as she walked toward the door with cautious steps.
“Who is it?” she called out.
No verbal answer, only another knock.
She hesitated for half a second before unlocking the door and pulling it open. And her breath caught when she saw Michael standing there with a hood pulled over his head and hands tucked into his pockets.
“Michael—” she gasped in relief. “Baby, I am so—”
“Come on,” he cut in firmly. He left no room for disagreeament.
When she didn't move, Michael stared at her harder.
“Let's go,” he repeated, stepping slightly to the side and holding the door open wider.
Her breath hitched. It was something about the look in her eye that made her really not want to argue with him. She simply turned and went to grab her phone and purse off of the table. She walked past him, his presence heavy as she went by.
He stepped out right after her, pulling the door shut and locking it without a word. Wunmi looked back slightly to watch him. He slipped by her to lead the way.
Once he got to the car, Michael pulled the passenger door open for her to get into. She climbed in with her heart beating faster than normal. The door shut and a second later, he was in the driver’s seat, starting the engine.
The silence inside the car was thick during the drive.
Wunmi glanced at him. His hands were tight on the wheel and eyes forward. She opened her mouth then closed it. Whatever she was about to say didn’t feel like it would go right, so she stayed quiet.
The drive only lasted about fifteen minutes, but it felt much longer.
As soon as they pulled into his driveway, he was out of the car almost immediately, coming around to her side and opening her door before she could even reach for it.
She stepped out, watching him carefully. He led the way inside, unlocking the front door and holding it open for her. She stepped into the house, instantly being met with a comfortable familiarity. He closed the door behind them, locking it again before moving past her.
“Where were you when you took it off?” he asked roughly.
Wunmi blinked, trying to keep up.
“I was washing my hair, but that was back at my—”
She could hardly answer before he turned and headed straight for the stairs. Wunmi followed quickly behind him.
“Michael—” She called for him as they swiftly moved up the stairs.
She knew she hadn’t taken her ring off here, so she didn’t argue. At this point, she didn’t have the energy to push back on anything. Not after the day she’d had. So she just followed him into the bathroom and watched him as he immediately got to work.
He moved around the space like a man on a mission, opening drawers, shifting bottles, checking along the edges of the counter and behind things that hadn’t been touched in days. His movements were completely focused yet annoyed.
Wunmi stood in the doorway for a second before stepping in, her arms folding loosely over her chest as she watched him.
“Michael…” she started softly.
He didn’t even look at her. Instead, he crouched down instead, checking along the base of the cabinets, his fingers running along the small spaces.
Wunmi swallowed. Then slowly, she moved further in, kneeling down on the opposite side, her movements much more hesitant. She checked places she knew didn’t make sense. Behind containers and inside small trays and corners that didn’t hold anything. She wasn’t really expecting to find it, but she helped anyway.
The only sounds in the room were the soft shifting of items and Michael’s quiet, frustrated exhales every few minutes. He was getting irritated and she could not only hear it but see it as well. His shoulders were tight and his jaw flexed every time he searched and came up empty-handed.
Enough time passed for the silence between them to stretch and fill the room.
Michael was crouched low near the side of the counter, his fingers reaching into a narrow gap between the cabinet and the wall. His face was scrunched together when he pulled his hand back. And there it was in his fingers. The ring.
Wunmi let out a relieved exhale, “Oh thank God.”
Michael stood up, holding it between his fingers as he wiped it off against the side of his shirt, inspecting it briefly. Then he looked at her.
“Come here.” His voice was steady.
Wunmi carefully pushed herself up and walked over to him. He held his hand out. She reached for it, her fingers slipping into his automatically. He lifted the ring slightly between them, his gaze flicking from it to her.
“You better not lose it again.”
Wunmi’s lips parted slightly, and she nodded, her voice soft, “I won’t.”
He slid it back onto her finger, the cool metal settling into place.
Wunmi exhaled shakily, her shoulders dropping just a little as she looked down at it. Relief flooded her instantly.
Michael’s expression softened as he took her hand again, bringing it up and pressing a kiss to it. Then he stepped closer and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her into him. He pushed his lips onto hers and she melted into the kiss almost immediately. Her hands came up to rest agaisnt his chest before sliding up around his neck.
The tension from earlier simmered.
She pulled back just a little, her forehead brushing against his as she looked at him.
“I’m sorry for not really telling you,” she said softly.
“It’s alright. I get it,” he said after a second. “I guess this is my payback.”
Wunmi frowned faintly.
“Payback? For what?”
He looked at her, something protective settling back into his expression.
“I don’t like nobody thinking they can come up and be that comfortable with you,” he said. “Especially not somebody you had something with.”
Her breath caught slightly.
“I didn’t—”
“I know. But I'm saying,” he said firmly. "I'm protective over what's mine."
His hand pressed lightly against her waist.
“And I don’t want you going out without your ring so we don't have this problem again,” he added.
Wunmi nodded slowly, her fingers tightening slightly against him.
“Okay.”
He leaned in again, kissing her slower this time.
Her arms wrapped around him fully now, holding him close as she lifted her hand slightly behind his head. The ring caught the light. She smiled softly against his lips.
“I really did miss it,” she murmured.
Michael let out a quiet breath against her skin, his lips trailing from her jaw down to her neck, pressing a few soft kisses there.
Her eyes fluttered closed, her grip tightening just a little. After a moment, she pulled back slightly, catching her breath.
“What are you doing back already? I thought you weren't coming back for two more days,” she asked.
Michael looked at her for a second, then shrugged lightly.
“I had to come handle my business.”
Wunmi bit her lip, her gaze dropping for a second.
“I really am sorry, Michael,” she said again.
He shook his head, stepping back just enough to look at her fully.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m tired.”
He moved past her, already pulling his hoodie off as he headed toward the bedroom.
Wunmi followed, watching him as he stripped down to his boxers.
They both slipped into bed without much more conversation. Wunmi settled in beside him, her hand resting against his chest, her thumb brushing lightly over the ring.
December 2026
Michael had finally wrapped filming for Miami Vice, which meant he was home more, but somehow, that hadn’t made life any less hectic. Now they had wedding stress and awards and press season.
Wunmi had already picked up several nominations. Her name was floating in conversations again. All of the hype was starting to stack on top of everything else.
The wedding planning had been intense. They officially had their date, the venue was picked, and invitations had been sent. That should've made things easier, but it didn't.
Now it was all about the details. They still had to lock a lot of things in while coordinating their schedules around two careers that clearly weren't slowing down. It was a lot.
And Michael had been on her more than usual. He was always touching her or near her. Especially after the whole Tyree thing. Even though they had moved past it, something about it had stuck with him.
They were on the couch with the TV playing something neither of them was fully paying attention to.
Wunmi sat sideways, her legs draped across Michael’s lap and her back resting against the arm of the couch. Her phone was in her hand, thumbs moving as she typed.
Michael’s hand rested on her calf, absentmindedly sliding down to her ankle before coming back up again. His other hand lifted her foot slightly, thumb pressing into the arch, working it gently.
Wunmi exhaled softly at the pressure, not even looking up from her phone.
“Mm,” she hummed.
Michael glanced at her.
“Who you texting?”
“I'm just updating the bridesmaids,” she said while typing.
“About what?”
“The dates that we agreed on for our trips. And the fittings."
Michael shook his head slightly, a quiet breath leaving him.
“This is still so crazy to me,” he muttered.
Wunmi glanced at him briefly, a small smile pulling at her lips.
“What is?”
“The fact that we're getting married.”
“I’m excited,” Wunmi's smile softened.
Michael smiled back at her, then went back to rubbing her foot.
She returned her attention to her phone. And just then a new text came in from an unknown number. Her brows pulled together in confusion as she opened it.
The first message was a picture of an invitation. Then there was a text right under it.
Can’t wait to see you.
Wunmi was utterly confused, until she scrolled up slightly, looked at the number again, then back at the image. That was when it all clicked.
“Oh.”
Michael’s hand paused slightly against her foot.
“What?”
Wunmi’s lips pressed together as she read it again.
“I just got an invitation,” she said.
“To what?”
She hesitated for a second.
“Tyree’s winery opening.”
Michael’s hand stilled completely.
“No.”
It was an immediate rejection that took Wunmi aback.
“You didn’t even let me explain.”
“Didn't have to,” he said as he leaned back against the couch.
Wunmi let out a small breath, sitting up a little.
“He just sent it to me and I don't even have his number,” she added.
“I don’t care. You're not going,” Michael said. His hand dropped from her foot, resting on her leg instead, his fingers tapping once against her skin.
Wunmi frowned, “Baby—”
“You're not going,” he repeated.
She shifted, pulling one of her legs in so she could turn toward him more.
“But I kind of want to go.”
Michael’s eyes snapped to her. “Why?”
Wunmi blinked at his tone, then exhaled.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It just doesn't feel like a big deal. It's a grand opening, so we'll be in public. And it's not like I'm sneaking off somewhere with him.”
Michael stared at her completely unmoved.
“That’s not the point, baby.”
"Then what is the point?" Wunmi tilted her head slightly.
“I don’t trust him.”
Wunmi’s brows lifted slightly.
“It sounds like you don’t trust me?”
“That's not what I said. I trust you,” he said immediately.
“Then—”
“I don’t trust him,” he repeated, slower this time. “And I don’t like the idea of you going somewhere he invited you to like that.”
Wunmi sighed softly, her shoulders dropping a little.
“It’s not like I have feelings for him. Whatever was there is gone,” she said.
Michael’s gaze stayed on her.
“That doesn’t mean it’s gone for him. Especially after how them pictures looked. Now he's inviting you out. I don't like that,” he said.
“I’d be wearing my ring,” she said quietly.
Michael let out a short breath, shaking his head, “That don’t stop nothing if somebody don’t care.”
Wunmi studied him for a second.
“So what? I just don't go?” she asked softly.
“Not unless I’m there,” he said.
Wunmi leaned back against the couch again, thinking.
“I don’t even know if you can go. You might have press,” she said.
“Then you not going,” he replied without hesitation.
She let out a quiet huff, somewhere between frustration and understanding.
“Michael…”
He reached for her leg again, pulling it back across his lap, his hand sliding up her thigh before settling there.
“I’m serious. I'm not about to have a repeat of that,” he said.
Wunmi looked at him, really looked at him this time, and she saw the tension still in his body. So she decided to concede.
“Okay,” she said after a second.
Michael’s shoulders relaxed a bit, his thumb moving against her leg.
The following weekend came quicker than Wunmi was honestly ready for. Between wedding meetings, awards conversations, and Michael attached to her to her body every second, the days just blurred together. Yet she still found time to get ready for unplanned events.
Music was playing lowly from downstairs while Michael moved around the room getting dressed.
Wunmi sat at her vanity in their bedroom, one leg crossed over the other as she leaned closer to the mirror. She had gotten her hair done a few days ago. It was in soft, full curls that fell around her shoulders. Her makeup was simple, especially since she didn't feel like going through her glam team.
She dabbed lightly beneath one eye when she heard Michael’s footsteps getting closer. A second later, he appeared in the mirror behind her with a hoodie on and cologne loud. He glanced at her reflection immediately.
“I’m about to head out,” he said.
Wunmi hummed softly. “Okay.”
But then his eyes narrowed, because she was clearly getting ready too.
“Where you going?”
Wunmi kept her expression neutral as she reached for her gloss.
“Out.”
Michael leaned one shoulder against the doorway, "Out where?"
"Just out," she shrugged.
His eyes stayed on her through the mirror for another second longer than necessary. He was clearly suspicious and she could feel it. But after a moment, he pushed off the doorway and walked over behind her instead. His hands settled warmly onto her shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly into the muscles there.
Wunmi relaxed under the touch.
“You look pretty,” he murmured.
A small smile pulled at her lips, “Thank you.”
His hands slid down slowly before he leaned down toward her face.
“Wait—” she laughed softly, turning her head slightly. “You’re gonna mess up my lip gloss.”
“I don’t care.”
Before she could protest again, his hand tilted her chin toward him and he kissed her anyway. It was only a soft quick one, but it was annoyingly affectionate.
When they pulled apart, Michael looked entirely too satisfied with himself. His hands lingered on her shoulders a second longer before he straightened back up.
“You got my card?”
“Why would I need your card?”
“Just in case.”
“I’m not going to need it.”
Michael reached over and picked up her purse from the vanity chair anyway, unzipping it and slipping the black card inside.
Wunmi rolled her eyes softly but didn’t argue.
He leaned down one more time, brushing his lips briefly against the top of her head this time.
“Text me when you get where you going.”
“Okay.”
He squeezed her shoulder once before finally heading out of the room.
Wunmi waited until she heard the front door downstairs close, then she exhaled. She walked over to her closet to get her dress for the evening. The dress was all-black, but it hugged her body absolutely perfectly.
She stepped into it carefully, pulling it up slowly, and adjusting it into place. Then she turned toward the mirror to look at herself. And honestly she looked a little too good.
She knew that Michael would hate to see her looking this good and going there. Which was exactly why she hadn't told him where she was going. She knew how her man would react, but she also knew that if she didn't go Tyree would only push harder. He was the kind of man that liked the chase. He only got more interested when someone pulled away.
Wunmi slipped on her heels, then sprayed perfume lightly along her neck and wrists. She grabbed her purse and headed downstairs.
When she made it outside the air was cooler than it had been earlier in the week. Her heels clicked softly against the driveway as she walked toward her car. Once inside, she checked herself quickly in the mirror, then started the engine.
The drive was long enough to give her time to think. Streetlights blurred past as her fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel.
Her thoughts swirled with a mix of Michael and Tyree. All she could really think about is if they got caught again just like how they got caught at the restaraunt. Her hand tightened on the wheel and her ring caught the passing lights immediately. She was just glad that she had it on this time.
The venue was on the other side of town, so she ran into some thick traffic. By the time she finally pulled up it was packed. A line of cars stretched down the block. Dozens of blacked-out vehicles rolled forward one after another as valet attendants moved quickly to get them in and out.
Wunmi slowed as she pulled up, immediately spotting the entrance ahead glowing warm against the night. The building itself was gorgeous with modern architecture, dark wood accents, and huge windows revealing pieces of the event happening inside.
Before she could even fully put the car in park, a valet attendant was already stepping forward and opening her door.
“Good evening, ma’am.”
Wunmi gave him a polite smile as she grabbed her purse and phone.
“Thank you.”
The cool evening air brushing against her skin as she stepped out carefully in her heels. A few heads turned as she straightened up fully, smoothing a hand lightly over her dress before handing over her keys.
“Enjoy your evening,” the valet said.
Wunmi nodded softly before making her way toward the entrance.
As soon as she entered into the venue, the more impressed she became because it was beautiful. The lighting was dim with warm gold tones bouncing off dark interiors and polished surfaces. Music floated through the air low enough for conversation, and the entire place smelled faintly of wood and wine.
Before she could get too lost in the beauty of her surroundings, she remembered something important that she was supposed to do. Wunmi reached into her purse and pulled her phone out knowing she needed to say something before he found out another way.
Her fingers moved quickly over the screen.
I know you’re going to be mad but I’m at Tyree’s event. I’m going to let him know that I’m engaged.
She stared at the message for a quick second, then turned her phone completely off. Beccause she knew the second that he saw it, he was going to call her and she honestly didn't feel like dealing with that right now.
She slipped the phone back into her purse and exhaled slowly, squaring her shoulders before continuing further inside.
A server approached her with a tray of wine glasses.
“Would you like one?”
Wunmi glanced down briefly before taking one carefully by the stem.
“Thank you.”
She took a small sip, eyes moving around the room. A few familiar faces caught her attention here and there. Some even greeted her once they noticed her.
She smiled politely through all of the exchanges, stopping for quick conversations here and there and accepting compliments. She was also being very aware of her surroundings, because if she wasn't things could very well become a problem.
She lifted the wine glass to her lips again, taking another small sip as she continued walking through the venue. She took her time moving through the different rooms.
Every section flowed into the next seamlessly. There were private tasting areas, lounge spaces, and long wooden tables filled with bottles and small plates. The lighting stayed dim and warm throughout the entire building, giving everything this intimate feel.
She found herself near one of the display areas where rows of massive wine barrels lined the wall with engraved plaques beneath them. Wunmi lifted her glass for another sip, leaning slightly to read one of the plaques when a hand slid around her waist. Her body instantly tensed up.
She turned quickly, only to come face to face with Tyree. And he was smiling down at her.
“I’m glad you made it,” he said.
His voice was smooth and easy over the music.
Wunmi recovered quickly, giving him a small smile back.
“This place is gorgeous,” she admitted honestly, glancing around again briefly. “Like really gorgeous.”
Tyree chuckled softly, “Appreciate it.”
She lifted her glass slightly, “And the wine’s good too.”
That made him grin wider.
“Alright now, don’t gas me too much.”
Wunmi laughed softly. But then she remembered his hand that was still resting against her waist. Her eyes flicked downward briefly before she subtly stepped sideways out of his hold. The movement was smooth enough not to make a scene, but still he noticed.
Tyree’s brows pulled together as his eyes moved over her slowly.
“You look real good tonight,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He stepped toward her even more. He lifted his arm like he was about to settle it around her waist once more, but Wunmi moved before he could.
“Watch yourself,” she said lightly.
Tyree paused. Confused amusement spread across his face.
“What? Why you acting like this?” he laughed.
Wunmi didn’t verbally answer. Instead, she lifted her left hand up between them. The ring caught the warm lighting, sparkling beautifully against her skin.
Tyree’s eyes dropped to it and he looked genuinely surprised. But his expression smoothed back over.
“When that happen?” he asked.
Wunmi took another sip of her wine before answering casually, “He proposed in August.”
His brows shot up again.
“August, huh?”
She nodded.
“You ain’t have that on at lunch.”
“I lost it and got in so much trouble because of what happened,” she admitted and pointed lightly at him with her glass. “I should’ve told you then that I was happily engaged. Maybe pictures of us wouldn't have ended up all over the internet,” she said.
He briefly glanced away like he was thinking. Then he looked back at her with a dangerously confident smirk on his face.
“I guess I gotta try harder to get you to come over to the best side," he said.
Irritation immediately flashed across Wunmi's face. It was so fast Tyree almost missed it.
“I’m already on the best side,” she said plainly. “And it can’t get any better than my man.”
Tyree sucked his teeth, unconvinced.
“Yeah okay,” he muttered.
Wunmi stared at him for another second before taking another sip from her glass.
Tyree looked at her ring one more time before nodding once.
“You enjoy yourself." he said. Then his mouth curved up. “I’ll be talking to you soon.”
Wunmi narrowed her eyes at that, but she didn’t respond. She just nodded once and watched him walk away through the crowd.
The second he disappeared, she exhaled quietly.
“…Jesus Christ.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of the glass. Now she understood exactly why Michael didn’t want her there. Tyree wasn’t outright disrespectful, but he also clearly wasn’t backing down just because she had a ring on.
After that exchange, she stayed there for about another hour or so. She mingled with people and sampled more wine. But the longer she stayed, the more aware she became of the pit forming in her stomach. Eventually she had to go home where she knew Michael was waiting for her.
She handed off her empty wine glass and headed toward the exit, she already knew she was in a whole lot of trouble.
After an entire drive of Wunmi's stomach twisting knots, she finally pulled into Michael's garage. When she parked the car she noticed that Michael's car wasn't there. She hadn't seen it out front either. Relief washed over her.
She grabbed her purse and stepped out of the car, her heels echoing softly through the garage before she headed inside.
The house was completely dark. A little too dark.
Wunmi paused just inside the doorway, listening carefully. A small breath escaped her. The tension in her shoulders loosened.
She locked the door behind her and kept the lights off, moving quietly through the house before heading upstairs. The bedroom was dark too. That eased her nerves even more because it meant he hadn't even stepped foot in the home.
She set her purse down carefully and headed toward the closet, ready to get out of the dress and wash the night off her.
The closet light was dim as she slipped her heels off first with a relieved sigh. Then her jewelry. Then her dress. She wrapped her robe tight around her body and tied it securely at the waist. Her hair fell softly around her shoulders as she pushed the closet door back open and stepped into the bedroom. She casually reached toward the wall and flipped the light on.
Her breath stopped.
Michael was sitting in the corner chair near the window. Legs spread, body leaned back, arms resting on the arm of the chair, and face blank. The light caught him good, and he was just watching her.
Wunmi physically jumped, her hand flying to her chest.
“Oh my God,” she gasped. “You scared me.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she stared at him.
There had been absolutely no sign he was home. His car wasn't around, he made no sound, there was absolutely nothing.
Michael didn’t answer. He just looked at her, giving her a completely unreadable look. His silence somehow made her even more nervous.
Wunmi swallowed hard, trying to recover.
“Hi,” she said softly, attempting a small smile as she bit lightly at her lip.
Still nothing.
The room suddenly felt very warm, very quiet.
Wunmi shifted her weight under his stare.
Slowly, Michael lifted two fingers and crooked them toward himself. He had no words for her, only the simple gesture.
Wunmi’s breath hitched and her stomach tightened, but she obeyed. Her bare feet slowly moved across the carpet until she stood directly in front of him between his spread legs.
Michael leaned back in the chair, his hands settling on her thighs, fingers gripping the thick flesh through the soft fabric of her robe.
“Anything you wanna say?” he finally asked calmly.
Wunmi swallowed. Her fingers twisted lightly together at her sides.
“I’d be lying if I said I was sorry,” she admitted quietly.
Michael’s face tightened and he gave a stiff nod.
The room stayed silent for another long second.
“Get on the bed.”
Wunmi’s eyes widened and her stomach dropped. She knew exactly what kind of mood he was in. And there had only been maybe three times where she had gotten herself in enough trouble to see this side of him.
Wunmi's pulse blared in her ears as she turned toward the bed. She climbed onto the mattress slowly, knees first, then hands, positioning herself on all fours with her back arched just enough to present herself to him.
Michael rose from the chair without a sound. His footsteps were heavy as he approached the bed. He placed one hand between her shoulder blades and pressed down firmly, forcing her upper body to lay flat against the cool sheets. Her cheek pressed into the fabric, arms stretching out in front of her.
"Stay down," he commanded, voice low.
A soft whimper escaped her lips, her body trembling under the weight of his palm. She was completely at his mercy.
"You're gonna count each one," Michael said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I'm not telling you when it stops."
Wunmi braced herself, fingers curling into the sheets, muscles tensing as she waited for the first hit.
He gathered the hem of her robe and pushed it up over her lower back, exposing her completely. His fingers hooked into the thin straps of her panties next, tugging them up hard and wedging the fabric tight between her cheeks like a makeshift thong. The pull made her gasp, the material pinching her skin, leaving her bare and framed for him.
She had no idea what was going to happen. Her nerves were all over the place.
Then it came. A sharp smack landed on her left cheek. The hit stung like fire and jolted her entire body. It caught her so off guard that her mind blanked, and no words came out of her mouth.
Michael grunted disapprovingly. His hands clamped onto both large cheeks, gripping hard enough to make her wince.
"Count."
"One," she whispered shakily.
The next hit came down harder than the first, the force snapping her hips forward an inch across the bed.
"Two," she managed, sucking in a breath.
"Why'd you go when I told you not to?" he demanded, one hand kneading her flesh roughly.
Wunmi drew a shaky breath, her voice soft against the mattress. "I needed to. If I didn't he'd be all over me."
Michael's eyes narrowed as he processed her words. Without warning, he delivered two quick hits— one on each cheek—the slaps echoing through the room.
She whimpered, body jerking with the double sting, heat spreading fast.
"Three...four," she counted while clinging to the sheets.
"You're in so much trouble," Michael growled, his palm hovering for a beat before delivering the fifth smack, firmly across the center of her right cheek. The heat built, layering over the previous stings.
"Five," she counted, hips twitching involuntarily.
"And you're gonna make it up to Daddy," he added, his voice dropping as the sixth hit landed on the left cheek.
Another groan came from her and her thighs pressed together against the growing ache. "Six."
He didn't pause. The seventh hit was quick and the eighth followed just as quickly. Then the ninth and tenth were all rapid-fire, alternating cheeks. Each one made her skin tingle. The sensations twisted into a mix of pain and pleasure that had her toes curling and breath hitching.
She winced with the seventh, whimpered through the eighth, gasped on the ninth, and let out a shaky whine on the tenth. Her entire backside was throbbing and aching, but somehow that made it more intoxicating.
"You had enough?" Michael's hand rested on her warm skin, rubbing slow circles.
Wunmi nodded frantically, her cheek still pressed to the bed, tears at the corners of her eyes from the intensity.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice breaking softly.
He hummed a low, skeptical sound rumbling from his chest as he shook his head.
"Nah. I don't think you are yet." His fingers tightened on her hip. "Don't move."
Wunmi stayed where she was with her forehead pressed to the sheets and ass raised high as the door to the closet clicked shut behind him. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what he was grabbing. Her breath came in shallow pants and she squeezed her eyes shut.
Then she heard the low hum starting up from somewhere behind her.
Her eyes flew open and a whimper slipped out, "Michael..."
She felt the cool, buzzing head of the vibrator wand press directly against her clit through the wedged fabric of her panties. Her whole body jumped forward on the bed, a startled yelp escaping her as pleasure shot through her like lightning.
"Hold it," he ordered.
Wunmi reached back with one trembling hand, fingers wrapping around the handle. She held it lightly, the vibrations teased her. Still it was too much.
Without giving her a warning, Michael covered her hand with his and pressed down hard. The wand felt intense against her clit. A deep moan tore from her throat, hips pushed back involuntarily.
His free hand landed a hard smack on her already tender cheeks. He kept going, each sharp spank jiggling her body and mixing with the pleasure of the wand.
She moaned loudly, head dropping to the mattress. She could feel herself dripping wet, slickness coating her inner thighs from earlier and now. The wand hummed against her clit, every pulse matching perfectly with the hits of his palm on her ass.
Wunmi felt herself starting to reach that edge quickly. Her body tensed up, mouth dropping open in a silent gasp. Her free hand clutched the sheets in a death grip while her legs trembled. She clenched and pulsed around nothing.
Michael noticed it right away, his rhythm never faltering.
"You better not come," he warned her.
She shook her head, biting her lip hard to fight it. She knew he wanted her to give him the excuse for more punishment, but holding back felt impossible. The pressure was getting worse with every second.
Her body moved on it's own, and her hand pressed wand harder against her clit.Consistent needy moans fell from her lip as she started to grind against the vibrations. She could feel herself right there, she was so close.
Michale snatched the wand from her grip, the sudden absence making a frustrated sound fall from her lips.
"You don't get to come," he stated flatly, tossing it aside.
Wunmi whimpered as every nerve in her body was screaming for release.
Michael gave her two final smacks to each cheek. Then his palms rubbed slow, drawing a soft sigh from her. Then he grabbed her hips and yanked her back toward him, pulling until her lower body pressed against his.
Wunmi felt his straining through his pants, making her throb even more. She couldn't help but to rub against him in a silent plea to be filled.
"I'm not fucking you tonight," he said firmly as his hand cracked down once more on her ass. He stepped away, leaving her empty and wanting.
Wunmi whimpered, fully collapsing onto the bed. She shifted onto her side.
A while later, Michael slid into bed behind her. He held her close, draping one arm possessively over her waist.
For the next three days, Wunmi was denied orgasm after orgasm by Michael. Every time Tyree called or texted, it put her further into trouble.
The first morning, Michael had her on top of the kitchen counter, vibrator pressed against her clit. She was gasping, thighs shaking, and so close her vision blurred. That was until her phone lit up with a "good morning" text from Tyree. Michael instantly snatched the vibrator away, leaving her desperate whining.
One afternoon, after doing some errands for the wedding, Tyree called her as they were getting intside of the car. She ignored it, but Michael noticed.
He slid his hand between her legs, and pushed his fingers so deep into her. He curled them just right and stroked her so good. She rocked against his palm, moans filling the car as she worked her way up. Then he pulled away. He built her back up, only to deny her again. And again for a third time. Each denial left her more wrrecked than the last.
And after three days of torture, Michael finally decided she'd earned a reward.
They were in bed. Him sat up against the headboard, legs spread wide with kneeling between them. Her lips were wrapped around his thick length as she took him deep down her throat.
Michael groaned as his hand gripped the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair to guide her further down, hold there, then back up.
She moaned around him, the vibrations pulling more groans from him.
They were so lost in the moment. Her tongue eagerly swirled around him as she sucked him up. And his eyes couldn't move away from the beautiful sight in front of him. That was until her phone broke the moment by ringing so loud on the nightstand.
Almost instinctively, Wunmi tried to lift her head to check, but Michael's grip tightened. He pushed her head firmly back down onto his dick, keeping her mouth full.
He snatched the phone with his free hand, glancing at the screen. Tyree's name flashed across the screen. Instantly, Michael was annoyed. The ringing stopped only to start up again seconds later.
Wunmi took Michael's brief distraction as opportunity, so she slid him out of her mouth with a soft pop and peered at the screen. She was just as frustrated as her fiancé was and couldn't help but to release the most aggravated sound along with a quick roll of her eyes.
"Just decline it," she urged.
He met her eyes. "Nah. Talk to your little boyfriend."
Before she could protest, he swiped to answer and held the phone out to her.
Wunmi's eyes went wide, panic flickering as she stared at him, trying to understand the challenge in his eyes.
"Michael—" she started, but Tyree's voice cut through.
"Wunmi?"
Michael raised an eyebrow expectantly.
She grabbed the phone with shaky fingers, putting it on speaker.
"Hello?" she said timidly, heart pounding as she knelt between his legs.
Tyree's voice came through the phone, "Hey, gorgeous. What you doing?"
Wunmi shot a quick glance at Michael, biting her lip hard.
"Um...just laying in bed," she murmured.
"Cool. I, uh, just wanted to give you a call so we could talk. It's been a while," Tyree easily replied.
"Mhm, it has," she managed, her free hand fidgeted against Michael's thigh.
Tyree started talking about how the football season was going for him, but Michael took that as his chance. He practically manhandled her. His hands gripped her hips and spun her around to face the end of the bed. He shoved her body down so that her face was buried in the sheets and her ass was in the air.
She gasped at the sudden shift in positions.
"You okay?" Tyree asked.
"I'm fine…" Wunmi swallowed. Her voice shaky as she steadied herself. "
Michael gave her ass a light smack. Wunmi bit her lip hard to stifle the gasp.
He gripped her big, round cheeks in both hands, kneading the soft flesh, spreading her wide. One finger slowly trailed through her dripping wetness, parting her folds, and she let out a breathy sigh.
Tyree kept talking through the speaker, "…I really been thinking about a lot lately and I just gotta say…"
But Wunmi barely registered it. She could only focus on the man behind her and his heated touch. Michael's fingers had found her clit, circling it with teasing pressure, then dipped low to her soaked entrance, sliding a little inside before pulling back out.
She fought to stay quiet, body tensing up, but Tyree pressed on, obliviously.
"You still there? Tell me what you up to this weekend?" It was clear he was expecting a response.
Wunmi opened her mouth to answer Tyree's question, but Michael chose that exact moment to slide deep inside her, filling her completely in one smooth thrust. She clamped down around him, stunned to silence.
He pressed one hand firm between her shoulder blades, pinning her chest flush to the bed, and leaned forward until his lips brushed her ear.
"Answer him," he whispered sending shivers down her spine.
"Uh... n-nothing really," she managed to get out.
Michael gave her a few quick love taps to her inner thigh before pulling back up onto his knees. His gaze dropped to where their bodies joined, watching intently as he slid out slowly, then thrust back in deep.
A quiet, breathy moan escaped her lips. Wunmi moved the phone away from her mouth for a second, sucking in air.
Michael started with a few slow strokes to ease them both into the rhythm, letting her feel every thick inch stretching her. He built it gradually until his pace turned consistent, her ass bouncing softly against his pelvis.
Wunmi put the phone on mute just in time to release her moans. With each bounce a needy cry spilled out.
"You should come out this way soon. When are you free?" Tyree's voice came through the speaker.
She barely processed it. Her mind was wiped blank by Michael fucking her so good, hitting that spot over and over. Nothing existed but her man. All she could think about was the grip of his hands on her hips.
Wunmi took the phone off mute just long enough to gasp out, "I don't know when," before putting it right back on as another loud moan tore free.
"...we could hit this spot I know downtown, grab drinks, see where the night goes..."
Michael smacked her ass hard then, the hit echoing.
She blurted out, "Oh baby," followed by a deep, throaty moan that she couldn't hold back.
He kept one hand planted firm on her jiggling cheek to control the pace.
When he drove especially deep, she moaned out a shaky "Okay". Her free hand shot back, grabbing his forearm tight as he kept fucking her.
Michael ramped up the speed and depth, pounding into her harder, chasing that release for both of them.
Wunmi tried to take it all—she really did—arching back to meet him, but it really overwhelmed her.
"Okay, Michael, okay," she gasped as he went a little deeper than necessary, nailing that spot right next to her cervix.
"What you keep saying okay for?" He smacked her ass , growling, "Like, come on."
He pushed his hips forward, bouncing her roughly on him, urging her to move on her own. She did, but only just enough, rolling her hips back hesitantly.
"You want me to stop?" he demanded.
"No," she moaned out desperately. At this point she'd completely forgotten about the phone in her hand.
Just then Tyree's voice came through loud and clear. "...whoever that fiance of yours is ain't watching you right. Imma come get you for real."
Michael's face twisted up into a scowl, annoyance built up in him. He leaned down over her back, roughly thrusting in in deeper.
"Michael—Michael—fuck," Wunmi moaned his name over and over.
"Looks like Daddy's gonna have to put a baby in you so they know this pussy's mine," he growled against her ear.
"It's yours. I promise."
"Take it off mute so he can hear how good i'm fucking you," he ordered.
Her hand shook as she obeyed, pressing the button on the screen.
The second the phone came off mute, Michael picked up his thrusts. Driving into her so quick and rough it made her ass bounce loud off of his pelvis. The sound of her soaked pussy filled the room.
Wunmi moaned into the sheets, her cries muffled against the fabric, but Michael wasn't having it. He gripped her hair tight, yanking her head up until her back arched deeper.
"Who this pussy get wet for?" he demanded.
"You, Daddy," she gasped.
Tyree's voice came out sounding confused. "Wunmi? What the—?"
Both of them ignored him completely.
Michael smacked her ass again. Then snatched the phone from her weakened grip and held it so Tyree could hear every moan and every slick sound of her taking him.
"Tell him not to call you anymore," Michael said, pressing the phone right to her mouth.
She moaned through the words. "Don't call me anymore."
Michael hung up then tossed the phone across the bed to thud against the pillows.
"Good girl," Michael murmured, palm rubbing soothing circles over her tender ass. "You wanna come?"
"Yes, Daddy," she whimpered. Her body was already right there. She needed this.
"You did so good with your punishment," he praised, grinding against her walls.
Wunmi felt herself clenching hard as her stomach tightened. "Can I come? Please?"
"Yeah, come for me," one of his hands slid around to rub her clit.
She crumbled almost immediately. Her orgasm crashed through her. She cried out his name as her walls pulsed around him and she soaked the sheets.
Michael kept going, chasing his own release now, groans turning guttural as pleasure tightened in his gut.
"You gonna let me put a baby in you?" his voice was rough as he thrusted harder.
Wunmi moaned, nodding into the bed.
They'd had plenty of conversations about babies. They agreed to wait until at least after the wedding, but it was clear that tonight his possessiveness had him acting different. And she melted under it.
Michael thrusted a few more times before he finally released inside her. He held there, pushing deep, feeling her pulse around him. He pulled out slowly.
Wunmi collapsed forward, breathing heavy, chest heaving as aftershocks rippled through her.
"Don't go near that man again," he said firmly, hand stroking her back. "Block him."
Wunmi nodded weakly, turning her head to meet his eyes. "Okay, baby. I'm sorry."
Late January 2027
Now, into the new year, their lives were completely overtaken. Every day belonged to somebody else. There was barely any room left for themselves in between it all.
Michael had officially started press for The Thomas Crown Affair, and his schedule had exploded. Interviews, photoshoots, appearances, magazine covers. It felt endless. Most of it was alongside Adria Arjona, which only fueled certain online conversations even more.
Meanwhile, Wunmi was deep in awards season.
The Social Reckoning had become a big conversation piece of the year, and her performance had the people talking. Every week brought another event, another panel, and another rumor about if she would end up nominated again or not.
And through all of that, they were less than four months away from getting married. May was practically right around the corner.
Earlier in the month they had finally sat down with both of their publicists to figure out how exactly they were going to reveal the relationship publicly without it becoming a circus before the wedding. The final decision had been simple. Michael would handle most of it.
Strategically, it made the most sense.
Wunmi’s team wanted all attention during awards season to stay centered on her work, not her relationship. So Michael had agreed to slowly start opening the door publicly while still keeping things vague enough to maintain some control.
He actually preferred it that way. Mostly because he was tired of hiding her.
After over a year of rumors, especially after the leaked audio, Michael was exhausted from pretending. And since she was his fiancée now, he wanted to share that with the world.
Still timing mattered…a lot. Everything had to be controlled carefully. And unfortunately, control was the one thing their schedules weren’t allowing them to have right now.
Most days they weren’t even in the same city.
There had been recent stretches where they only saw each other through FaceTime screens and blurry airport selfies. Sometimes one of them was waking up while the other was heading to sleep.
It irritated both of them more than they admitted. Especially Michael. He had been so clingy with her, and now he barely even got the chance to breathe in her direction.
Their conversations had slowly become reduced to logistics. Things like wedding updates and travel plans. They hardly talked about things of substance. It wasn't intentional though. It was just all they had time for.
One night, Wunmi was sitting in her London hotel suite while Michael was back in New York finishing another round of press. She had kicked her heels off and was curled sideways across the bed, exhaustion written all over her face as she held her phone up during their FaceTime call.
Michael was sitting in the backseat of an SUV, chain sitting against a black thermal shirt, one hand rubbing tiredly over his jaw while traffic lights flashed outside the window behind him.
“You look tired,” Wunmi murmured softly.
Michael looked at her through the screen.
“I am tired.”
She smiled faintly, “Poor baby.”
“I’m serious,” he muttered. “I done answered the same damn questions all day. I’m over it. ‘How was it working together?’ ‘Did y’all have chemistry?’”
"Well, did you?" Wunmi grinned.
"Don't start," Michael gave her a flat look through the screen.
She giggled softly, resting her cheek against the pillow, “I was just asking.”
Michael shook his head, but his expression softened while looking at her. God, he missed her. He always had this thought during the day, along with the constant irritation that she wasn't there..
“When do I see you again?” he asked suddenly.
Wunmi sighed dramatically.
“Um…” She reached for her planner nearby. “I think…after the BAFTAS?” she started slowly, flipping through pages.
Michael stared at her.
“That’s not for another week, babe.”
“I know.”
“A whole week?”
Wunmi laughed softly at his expression.
“You’ll survive.”
Michael looked unconvinced.
“You say that now,” he said. “Then you gon’ start crying the longer we're apart.”
“I do not cry.”
“You absolutely do.”
Wunmi sucked her teeth softly, “Whatever.”
Michael smiled for the first time during the call, the tiredness easing slightly from his face.
The conversation naturally shifted to the wedding. And despite how exhausted they both were, those conversations kept them intertwined.
Everywhere Michael went there were cameras waiting for him. Going form film festival to awards gala to museum benefit to private dinners. Tonight wasn't any different.
The carpet outside the event was packed shoulder to shoulder with photographers and journalists.
Michael stepped out of the SUV with his black suit perfectly tailored to his body. Confidence radiated off of him without him even trying.
He adjusted the cuff of his jacket before looking up with a calm and controlled expression.
His publicist walked beside him briefly while fixing the front of his jacket.
“She approved it,” she murmured quietly.
Michael glanced at her.
“Yeah?”
She nodded.
His mouth twitched slightly.
“Aight,” he nodded.
He moved down the carpet, stopping for photos, greeting people, and shaking hands. As he approached the press line, he relaxed himself.
Interview after interview rolled by. They asked him the typical questions about directing, balancing acting and filmmaking. Michael answered each question like he had prepped for it.
Then he reached one platform in particular.
A Black woman stood there holding the microphone, smiling brightly as he approached.
“Michael B. Jordan!” she grinned. “You look good tonight.”
Michael laughed, “Thank you.”
“Everybody's talking about your film already. But what was it like stepping into directing mode again?” she started.
“It was challenging,” he admitted. “But I think I’m at a point now where I trust myself more creatively. I know how I wanna tell stories now. And honestly, I learned a lot from the last few years. Working with different directors, producing more, it changed how I look at filmmaking.”
The interviewer nodded along.
“And you can tell,” she said. “Especially after the year you had last year. Mr. Oscar winner. How has life changed since then? Because it feels like the world has not stopped talking about you.”
Michael laughed softly.
“It's definitely gotten more chaotic,” he admitted. “But I try to stay grounded and keep moving forward.”
The interviewer tilted her head slightly.
“So what does moving forward look like for you now? More directing? Less acting?”
Michael paused for a second.
“Well…” he started slowly, “where I’m at now in my life and career I'm focused on celebrating my wins. And I got some pretty big ones that I need to make room for.”
A tiny smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"As you should," The interviewer smiled.
“I wanna spend more time focused on my family. So there’s definitely a chance I slow down a little," he said honestly. "My fiancée and I have both been incredibly busy with all that's going on in our careers and now wedding planning. But I've been trying to figure out how to even get to the point of slowing down."
The interviewer looked stunned.
“Wow, um…when—”
Michael stepped back with the biggest smirk trying to break across his face.
“You have good one,” he laughed.
“Michael!”
He pointed at her playfully, “Appreciate you though.”
Then before she could ask another question, he walked off down the carpet looking satisfied with himself. He made his way inside, barely even slowing down as he reached for his phone that was in his pocket. There was only one person he wanted to talk to right now.
He tapped Wunmi’s contact immediately. The phone rang a few times before she answered.
“Hello?”
Her voice was thick with sleep.
Michael’s face melted.
“Hey baby.”
There was rustling on the other end followed by a small sleepy hum.
“What time is it?” she murmured.
Michael smiled to himself as he ducked into a quieter hallway away from the crowd.
He leaned back against the wall, listening to her breathing through the phone.
“I can’t wait for all this to be over,” she admitted sleepily.
Michael chuckled under his breath, “Me too.”
There was a quiet pause before Wunmi spoke again.
“Did you do it?”
Michael’s grin spread, “Yeah.”
He could practically hear her smiling through the phone even though she barely made a sound. Just a quiet little hum.
Michael shook his head fondly.
“That’s it?” he laughed quietly. “That’s all I get?”
“You woke me up,” she mumbled.
“You're supposed to be excited.”
“I am excited. I'm just sleepy, Mike,” she said.
Michael could picture her perfectly. She was probably curled up in a hotel robe, hair wrapped up, and half asleep with the phone pressed against her face. He missed her so much.
“You gon’ be at the honoring next week?” he asked after a moment.
There was a pause. Then Wunmi sighed.
“…Baby. It's next week with the BAFTAs and my team scheduled a bunch of press here,” she reminded him.
“Damn," He briefly closed his eyes. "So when will I see you again?”
“A week and a half maybe,” she said quietly.
Michael dragged a hand over his face dramatically.
“That's so long”
Wunmi laughed tiredly.
“You’ll survive.”
“That’s what you keep saying.”
“Because you will.”
Michael shook his head with a smile.
“Barely.”
There was another comfortable silence between them.
“Imma let you sleep.”
“Okay.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“And I miss you so much.”
Wunmi exhaled softly through the phone.
“I miss you too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come.”
Michael’s expression softened even more.
“Don’t apologize. I’m just being needy.”
That earned another sleepy laugh from her.
“Very needy.”
“Mhm.”
“I still love you though.”
“You better.”
Wunmi smiled against her pillow.
“Goodnight, Michael.”
“Goodnight, baby.”
end notes: so this was actually a looottt longer, but because tumblr has a limit on how many blocks you can do, i have to break it up into more parts than i was planning. so the next update will be sooner than expected, it'll just be after my american dream update.
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taglist: @lilbitt @lizbehave @andtheniws @tonichildsdaughterduh @cinnamonsonnyangel @shamansha @caramelplug @bananajoeclone
@rolemodelshit @brownskincheyenne @mmbee675 @xeebop@adultinginheels @tlt731
Yeah, doin' a buck in the latest drop I got stopped by a lady cop, haha She got me thinking I can date a cop, haha Cause her uniform fit her so tight She read me my rights She put me in her car, she cut off all the lights She said I have the right, to remain silent Now I got her hollering, sounding like a siren
Description: As a joke you fake arrest your husband Smoke and things get just a tad bit heated.
Warnings: Fuckin tbh, just two folks fuckin :/
~~~
This day honestly couldn’t get any more boring. You’ve been at work since 6am and now it’s 8pm. You were supposed to BEEN off but your shitty coworkers don’t know how to come to work and that’s your problem because…oh okay.
The sun was long gone, no lights, no sign of life, no nothing. The world just seemed at peace when the night hit. You’re job of course had you patrolling the one street in town that nobody drives in after 7pm but of course, anything for the safety of the citizens. At this point you just wanted to get home lay with your husband and sleep. The thought of laying in your bed after the day sounded heavenly.
-
Once 9pm hit it was nearly impossible to keep your eyes open. You could feel yourself fading in and out. You reached over and cracked a redbull open before downing it and one go. You had to stay up. You picked up your phone and looked for the music app pushing shuffle on your ‘Rap Along’ playlist.
The introduction to ‘Mrs.Officer’ by Lil Wayne started playing and you grinned. This was your jam. It was ironic and you loved the connection you could make to your life. It was a good song to get out of your sleep deprived funk.
Yeah, doin' a buck in the latest drop I got stopped by a lady cop
You started bobbing your head and drumming your fingers on the wheel to this beat. Finally getting some type of entertainment on this boring night. But of course as always something had to ruin your mood. A car speeding by coming out of no where. With a sigh you flipped your lights and sirens on and pulled behind the driver.
Of course you couldn’t just enjoy your night. Somebody always had to come fuck it up. But at last you had some source of entertainment now.
Looking closer you realized you didn't need to run the plates, you knew the car. Goddamn Smoke, you shook your head at the reckless behavior your husband was showing but then you realized you could have little fun with this. Might as well not lose the only entertainment you have for the night. Right??
She got me thinking I could date a cop
You put the car in park and walked to the driver side window; Smoke’s eyes widen when he realized his wife just pulled him over. You adjusted your glasses lower for some added drama and lowered your voice.
"Evening sir" you said in a comically low tone. "Do you know how fast speeding just now?"
Sensing the playful energy radiating off of you he smirked leaning forward. "Um definitely the legal speed limit."
You scoff at his audacity. "Uh huh license and regulation please."
Cuz her uniform fit her so tight
He laughs while handing the items over. "You're not gonna arrest me are you love?" He asked while chuckling while looking you up and down in your uniform; he always loved how you look in it.
You ignored him and proceeded to make a look of recognition at his ID picture. You dramatically grabbed your radio. "Dispatch I have eyes on the suspect. I repeat I have eyes on the suspect."
She read me my rights
"Sir you're gonna have to come with me" you stated while taking out your handcuffs.
He smirked playing along. "Alright alright, I'm coming" He steps out the car and puts his hands up. You cuffed him and began to walk to your cop car. Jokingly shoving him to walk faster.
She put me in the car, She cut off all the lights.
You lead him to the cruiser and put him in the backseat. After making sure he was comfortable you went up front to turn off the lights leaving you in semi darkness but you caught a snippet of the song playing on loop. And lets just say; well you got a few ideas on how to pass the time.
She said I have the right, to remain silent.
You went back to the back door and opened it getting in the backseat with a still handcuffed Smoke. "You have the right to remain silent and blah blah blah." You trailed off as you embraced him in a slow kiss. Smoke attempting to deepen it but failing. Sensing your change in energy he turnt to pleading.
"Come on pretty girl uncuff me so I can at least have a chance." You pretended to think. "Hmmmm I don't think so." you playfully responded.
Now I got her hollering sounding like a siren Talking' bout (wee-oh wee-oh wee)
His lips found yours again and you responded in a steady rhythm. Both your tongues darting out attempting to deepen the kiss. Without breaking the kiss you palmed him through his jeans, Smoke released a low moan causing you to pull back and smirk at him. He gulped at how bold you were being and sorta regretted not trying to convince you harder to take the cuffs off. You were going to be the death of him. It would be a pretty death. He couldn't help but to take in your beauty. Even in times like this he liked to sit and appreciate what life gave to him.
"You are truly out of this universe my love." he confessed. You loved how reassuring your husband was in times like this it made it all the while better. It was sweet and romantic but y'all didn't have time for slow. So you'd have to do with sweet sensual fuckin.
With one hand you gripped and rubbed the tent of his pants and with the other you caressed the sides of his face and neck. There was no time to take off anything that wasn't necessary. What y'all were doing was risky and it had to be done quick. But that doesn't mean you couldn't enjoy yourself the entire time.
You reached down and unbuttoned his pants. He lifted his hips while you pulled it and his boxers down in one go before reach for your own pants and pulling it down and moving your panties to the side. There wasn’t time to fully take anything off. Knowing you were already wet you hurried with taking his dick in your hand and guiding it to your pussy.
You rubbed his dick on your clit before slowly entering his tip. You pressed a kiss to his lips and took him in in one go.
"Fuck" You both cursed and gasped. You rocking your hips slowly. Embracing the feeling of being so full. If your husband could do one thing it was filling you up so well. You grabbed his jaw forcing him to look up at you. Watching him fall apart purely through his eyes. You quickly peck his lips before bracing your hands on his shoulder and riding him a bit fasting.
“There you go, fuck. Take whats yours baby” he groaned out.
You reach behind him and undoing his cuffs.
He sprung into action grabbing your hips with one hand and rubbing your clit with the other. Slamming you back down on his length repeatedly. The next so much deeper than the previous.
"Fuck Smoke, fuckin' me so good right now." You placed both of your hands on each side of his head and kissed him. Before cradling his head to the crook or your neck.
"Damn right, look at you creamin on this dick. Marking it as yours." He mumbled into your ear. You can feel his heavy breathing on the side of your face but it only turns you on further knowing you can get your man breathless like this.
Other than that the sound of skin smacking is the only sound that reaches your ears. You wrapped your arms around him when you felt yourself getting close. Sensing it his grip on your hips tighter and his thrust gets faster. You're sure you're gonna have a bruised pussy and body, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.
With a cry both you you both climaxed together. Both shuddering at the intensity of it.
You both sat in it for a second feeling him empty himself into you. Your cunt twitched at the power of your orgasm.
After we got done, I said..
After a moment of silence Smoke broke it with a joke."Baby what's your number?" You snorted and responded "911".
Synopsis: 10 Months after meeting the woman his mother introduced him to, Michael ended up getting attached faster than he expected. He never expected his days to shine a little differently.
A.N: Hi! Here is part 2! Enjoy. (Part 1)
Tag: @slut4michaelbakari
From the forced introduction in the Photo Booth to late night calls on the phone during press tours. Michael made well on his promise to his mama to at least court Y/n.
Michael was nervous at the beginning. Not because things were awkward or bad. Quite the opposite actually.
The man was catching feelings. Fast. Everyone noticed it— his crew, colleagues, and especially his family.
It was little things. How his smiled lingered on his face whenever he got off the phone with you. The extra attention and time he spent when planning his schedule for the months.
He was a busy man. Always on the go, but he learned from last relationships that making time is necessary. Even if it’s a few text messages, or short Face Time call.
It was even better when you told him you understood his work life. That he can’t be there all the time. That messages would stay on delivered. He’s an Award winning actor, so it’s obvious he’s in demand for films and television shows.
That’s why Sundays were a special day. Both of you are free and can wind down together.
“Baby, what do you want for breakfast?!” You shout from the kitchen. Your voice carrying across the rented mid-luxury townhome. The place you call home since moving to LA.
“Cook whatever! You know I’ll eat anything you make,” Michael replies back. That deep, raspy morning voice echoed from the back bathroom.
Opening up the fridge, you look inside searching what to throw together. After being with him for a few months, you come to realize how much that man can eat. It’s the fifth time this month you’ve went grocery shopping and had groceries delivered just to keep the fridge stocked.
You even went out to purchase a deep freezer, just to keep extra food in. Pantry stays full too.
Light footsteps sound in the hallway. Michael makes his way into the kitchen, humming a random tune as he slides into a stool at the kitchen island.
“So, what’s on the menu today chef?” He teases. Those dark eyes tracing over every inch of your frame in the multi-colored muumuu. Not in a creepy, perverted way.
The man always looked at you in adoration. Admiring the beautiful woman he calls his. He especially loved when you dressed comfortably. Whether it’s one of his shirts, a nightgown or even basketball shorts with a tank top. He always thought you were fine. Bonnet and all.
“I was thinking high protein french toast with fried eggs, bacon and croissants with jam. What do you think?” You ask while still looking in the refrigerator.
It’s silent for a few seconds. Scrunching your face, you turn around. “Babe, did you hear me- mm!”
Michael silences you with a quick kiss. It catches you off guard. He tilts his head down a bit, studying your reaction again before pressing another kiss to your lips.
This one slow, reverent, and attentive. Pulling back a few centimeters, he lets out a small breath. “Wewe ni mrembo..” he exclaims while wrapping his toned arms around your waist.
You practically melt into his arms when he speaks Swahili to you. A shy grin appears on your face as a giggle slips out.
“Asante, mpenzi wangu.” You reply back, eyes tracing over his features.
“Someone’s been practicing, huh?” He asks with that famous grin. His dimples showing a bit.
“Well, I do have a great teacher.”
“Damn right. Sounds good coming out your mouth, too.” He presses his face into your neck, kissing softly.
“Mm, baby..don’t be starting that..” your voice goes up an octave slightly.
“Aight, fine. I know you still tired from the past two days,” Michael pulls back with a mocking laugh. “You usually able to keep with me, baby. Whats got you feeling like this?”
“Maybe because my man can’t keep his hands off of me.”
“I will never, ever, keep my hands off you. You will always be mine.”
“Always? How you know that for sure?” You tease with a slight raised eyebrow.
“Don’t play with me. You ain’t going nowhere. For several reasons,” he counters while moving around the kitchen.
“Please enlighten me on these reasons since you seem so sure.” You had over to the cabinet near the sink, bending down to grab the large mixing bowl.
“For one, my mama loves you. So that’s locked in. Since day one.” His says proudly as he stands a couple of feet behind you. “Two, you practically live with me and I’m always here with you. Third, I really don’t feel like returning this.”
You scrunch your face in confusion. “Returning what baby?” You ask as you stand back up holding the glass bowl. Turning around, you find Michael down on one knee.
A red velvet box in hand.
The top of it open. Revealing the clean, shiny gold resting inside. The rainbow reflection of the radiant cut diamond resting inside.
It stared back at you in all of its expensive glory. You study it and look back to him and then the ring. The back again at him.
“Michael-“
“I know.”
“You serious?”
“Yes. Very serious.”
“That’s like 3 carats.”
“5. It’s 5 carats. An ideal diamond. VVS1, Color D, radiant cut. Has that vintage and nature look you love.”
“Michael..” your voice lowers a little. Your hands holding the glass bowl firmer.
“Baby, I love you. Everything about you. Since the day I saw you at the Golden Globes, I knew there was something about you that I couldn’t understand. Then you came to my moms house. And I just knew God was telling me something,” he takes a shaky breath. You can tell he’s nervous by the way he’s looking at you.
“These months with you, have changed me in ways I never thought possible. You are mine. Not just in the physical sense, but I feel that spiritual connection with you. One that I’ve never got with anybody. So, I’m asking you, right here, right now..”
Your breath stills. The atmosphere becoming raw and intimate.
“Will you marry me?”
Excitement crawls up your spine, but you can’t resist to tease him.
“You asking me to be the Chi Chi to your Goku, Michael?” The anime reference slipping out your mouth. He snorts out a laugh.
“Girl, yes. I’m asking for that. Please be my Chi Chi. Goku couldn’t survive without her and I can’t survive without you.”
“Yes. I’ll marry you baby. A hundred times yes.” You laugh as you bend over and place both hands on his face, kissing him.
He slides the back of his hand to the nape of your neck, his fingers gripping the back of your hair gently as he deepens it. The overwhelming emotion flowing out of you both.
“If you don’t like the ring, we can get it changed-“
“No. I love it. You did amazing. Don’t change a thing.”
“Yeah? Cmere so I can put it on.” He takes your hand and slide it over your ring finger.
“Who all knows about this?”
“My parents. Yours. They were all over the moon about it. Especially our mamas. They both mentioned grand babies.” He laughs at the memory. You roll your eyes playfully.
“Of course they did.”
He reaches into his right pocket and pulls out his phone. He opens Instagram and swipes over to the camera.
“Uhn Uhn baby, I look ugly right now-“
“You look like mine. Don’t disrespect what’s mine.”
That took you by surprise and you look at him. He smiles at the camera as he records. “She said yes! And yes, we’re together for everyone who didn’t know..”
“Everyone didn’t know, baby.” You chuckle gently. Raising up your left hand, the ring flashes the screen. He kisses your neck while cheesing hard.
He ends the recording and rewatches it. Without hesitation, he posts it.
“I gotta prep myself for these DMs from your fans and random strangers now.”
“As long as no niggas get bold.”
“Oh my goodness, Michael-“
“Nah, nah. You know who I’m talking about.”
“For the last time, Daniel is not into me.”
“Please. I’m not blind. Nigga was standing too close to you when we were at that pool party. Even touched your face.”
“He was removing a spider web.”
“Nigga think he spider-man..tryna remove spider webs and shit-“
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Summary: The adventures of Smoke and his wild and carefree, younger girlfriend.
Warning(s): SMUT (18+, MDNI), unprotected sex (m/f), dirty talk, use of sex toys, overstimulation, spanking, bondage, mentions of creampie, harassment, misogyny (not Smoke though).
Lovergirlnote: This came out way longer than I expected y’all lol, but honestly I was having so much fun writing it. To all my fellow young hoes, this one is for y’all. Let me know what you think!🥹♥️
From the book of young hoe: Thou shan’t wear a coat if it doesn’t match the fit.
When most people met Smoke, they automatically assumed that they knew what type of woman he would gravitate towards. When they envisioned Smoke’s significant other, they pictured a woman who was modest, quiet, and poised. What they weren’t expecting was you.
Now, no one would ever step to Smoke and openly say anything unkind about you. Not unless they wanted to be packed up like a can of sardines. Because one thing Smoke didn’t play about was you.
Smoke meets you at the gas station of all places. He notices you almost immediately. It’s really hard not to notice you in your short dress that clings to your curves like it’s painted on, or the loud clacking from your heels that are definitely a safety hazard.
Or maybe it’s the warm and sweet vanilla perfume that wafts past his nose and lingers in the aisle as you pick up snacks. Smoke assumes that you must be coming back from a night out based on how you look. Your movements are a bit sluggish, but still graceful as you pick up a bag of Hot Cheetos.
You seemingly don’t pay attention to any of the patrons inside the gas station, whose eyes follow you like bugs to a porch light. You blow large bubbles with the gum in your mouth before popping it to repeat the cycle.
Smoke hates the way that his body instantly reacts to feeling your presence behind him. Your scent overwhelms his senses like you’re imprinting yourself into every atom of his being.
He spares a glance at you once he pays for his things. He finds that you’re already staring at him with a pretty smile and mischievous eyes. You wave your pretty manicured hand at him before stepping up to the counter. Smoke chuckles lowly before waving back to you and heading outside to pump his gas.
You slide the snacks across the counter as you smile flirtatiously at the associate, “Azim, how you doing, baby?”
Azim blushes under your gaze, “I’m doing good, my darling. Was it a good night out?”
“It was amazing, my girls and I danced all night. Free drinks too,” you reply, blowing another bubble.
Azim starts bagging up your items before peeking back up at you, “I’m glad to hear you had such a good time. Anything else you need, my dear?”
“Let me get $20 on pump five.”
Azim types the amount in the register before giving you your total, “That’ll be $21.00, my love.”
You smile at him, “Azim, I know you’re undercharging me.”
Azim waves you off with a soft chuckle, “You know you’re one of my favorite customers. I have to take care of you. Family discount.”
You tap your card on the reader before smiling and blowing a kiss to Azim, “You’re the best, Azim. Let me know when your wife is making some more of that baklava, so I can come through.”
“I’ll have her make you a special batch. Come by on Sunday,” Azim calls out to you. You reply with a quick ‘thank you’ before walking out to your car. You spot Smoke standing at his car, pumping gas, along with a few other guys who are crowded around one car.
Truthfully, Smoke could’ve been done pumping his gas, but he chose to pump slower in hopes of catching you coming out of the store.
You open the door to your car to throw the snack bag on the seat before moving to start pumping your gas. It’s not lost on Smoke how cold it is outside, and you, in your tiny dress, don’t even seem to be phased by it.
In fact, you keep pumping your gas and blowing bubbles like everything is copacetic.
Unfortunately, Smoke’s not the only one who notices how pretty you look tonight. The guys surrounding the car all wolf-whistle and make noise as they catch you passing by. Smoke can see the predatory look in their eyes as they drink in your appearance.
His body immediately goes into protector mode. Feeling bold, one of the guys starts to yell out in your direction, “Aye ma! Aye ma! Lemme holla’ at you!”
You roll your eyes and keep pumping your gas. You chose to ignore the ignorant man, who clearly doesn’t have any home training.
It appears that audacity is on sale as the man yells out to you again, “Aye, girl! I know you hear me talking to you!”
Still, no response from you.
“Well, fuck you too then, you stuck up bitch!”
Smoke doesn’t know whose head snaps over quicker—his or yours. He can see the anger filling your pretty face as you finally stop chewing your gum.
“Boy, if you don’t get the fuck out of my face with them cheap ass clothes and that fake-ass Cuban link. Wanna-be-rap-ass nigga,” you yell back. Smoke and all of the other men are stunned momentarily by the ruthlessness of your words.
The wanna be who you just insulted doesn’t take the lashing well. Smoke catches the ugly expression that overtakes the man’s face as he moves around the car to start making his way to you. His homeboys have enough sense to try to stop him, but he roughly shrugs them off.
Just as he’s about to make his way to you, Smoke stands directly in his path. The older man squares his shoulders and glares down at the younger man. The height difference, combined with Smoke’s quiet disposition, creates a sense of unease in the young man’s demeanor.
“Nah, don’t get shy now. Whatchu’ was planning on doing, young buck? You thought you were about to put your hands on her?” Smoke questions, stepping up to crowd the boy’s space.
The man in question opens his mouth to start stuttering. Smoke frowns, “Nah, don’t start stuttering on me now, boy. Tell me whatchu’ was planning. You wanna act bad in front of your boys, so let’s talk man to man. You wanna press her? Nah, you press me now, nigga.”
The man swallows harshly as Smoke can see the tremors racking through his body as he finally starts to recognize Smoke.
He holds his hands up, “S-Smoke, I ain’t meant nothin’ by it, man.”
“You ain’t mean nothing by it? Seems like you had your mind set before I stepped in front of you. You wanted to be a man when you were about to put your hands on her, but you ain’t a man now that I’m in front of you.” Smoke steps forward so the only thing that the young man can feel is his presence.
He lowers his voice, “You listen to me, and I want you to listen real good because I don’t repeat myself. You ever talk to a woman like that or approach her like that again, ima beat yo’ ass as yo daddy should’ve. If I see you planning on pressin’ another woman, I’ll break every bone in your fuckin’ body and have you sippin’ on yogurt for the rest of your life. Don’t get yourself put on a t-shirt, boy. I’m sure Ms. Coretta ain’t prepared to put you in a casket. We clear?”
The young man is now openly shaking as he sees the darkness in Smoke’s eyes. It’s like he’s looking at something inhuman. He nods his head, “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Smoke,” He responds, fear lacing the edge of his tone.
Smoke nods, “Now, I believe you owe her an apology.”
The boy looks in your direction, “I’m sorry, Miss. It won’t happen again.”
Smoke looks at him again, “Now, get the fuck out of here.” The young man scurries away with his homeboys in tow. Anyone in town knows that the Smokestack twins are the last men that you want to have beef with.
Smoke turns to you before walking over. You blow a bubble before popping it, “Thank you, you didn’t have to do that.”
Smoke smirks, “Yes, I did. What were you planning on doing if I hadn’t stepped in or been around?”
You shrug, “I was planning on getting him with this bear mace.”
Smoke lifts his eyebrows, “You know that’s illegal.”
You blow another bubble. Pop! “So is harassment, but these niggas act like the First Amendment entitles them to a response from me.” Smoke chuckles in response.
You look at him, “So it’s Smoke, I reckon?”
He nods, “S’just a nickname. My real name is Elijah.” You hum while still chewing on your gum. You’d vaguely heard of the Smokestack twins. Anybody this side of the Delta had heard about the two men, but you rarely paid attention when people would go into detail about them.
You only cared for gossip when it was something that intrigued you. Two men who put fear in the hearts of men in the South didn’t intrigue you. Yet, with Smoke standing in front of you, smelling like a grown man, you were now thoroughly intrigued. It didn’t help the fact that he was fine in a way that gave 90s.
Smoke catches your hand on the gas pump, “Let me finish pumping your gas for you. It’s freezing out here.”
You step to the side and let Smoke take over. Who were you to deny the services of a man being courteous to you? Smoke takes a moment to look at you up close.
You smile before leaning on your car, “You wanted to pump my gas so you could stare at me?”
“M’just wondering where your jacket is,” Smoke comments.
“At home, it didn’t go with my outfit,” you respond as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“So catching pneumonia in the ass is worth the fit?”
“Yep, you haven’t ever heard the saying ‘fashion is sacrifice’?”
Smoke chuckles, “Can’t say I have. Now, would you pretty please go sit in the car while I finish pumping your gas?”
You roll your eyes before smacking your glossed lips, “Fine, since you’re so worried that I’ll turn into a popsicle.” You open your door before sliding into the seat. From his view, Smoke can see you typing on your phone. He finishes pumping your gas and places the gas pump back on the handle.
He closes the cap as you turn on your car. You roll down the window just as Smoke steps closer to lean down. You flash another pretty smile at him, “Thank you again for your help, Mr. Smoke.”
“Just Smoke for you, sugar. Or Elijah. Whichever you prefer.”
“Hmm..I guess I’ll call you, Elijah, then,” You said, still chewing on your gum. There’s a beat of silence that’s filled with your soft chewing and music from your radio.
You lean closer to him, “Are you going to ask for my number now?”
“You know I’m too old for you, right?”
You blow another big bubble and pop it, “So? I like my men a little seasoned. Just hand me your phone.” Smoke slides his phone from his pocket and unlocks it. You start typing your number in before calling yourself. You save his contact and slide his phone back into his hand.
“Do you always give your number away at the gas station?” Smoke questions.
“I give my fake number out all the time. You should feel lucky that you have my real number,” You respond, flashing another cute smile at him. Smoke admires the way that the light dances across your skin and the faint glitter that he assumes is from some lotion.
“Consider me honored. Drive safely and let me know when you make it home,” Smoke states, looking you straight in the eye.
You smack your lips, “You checking for me already, old man?”
“I’d just feel a lot better knowing that you got home safely.”
“I’ll text you then, Elijah.” With that, you smile before rolling your window up. You drive out of the parking lot with Smoke watching your car.
He enters his own car and sets off to go home.
Later in the night, when he makes it home and showers, he’s lying in bed, and he hates to admit that he’s waiting for the text from you. Finally, his phone vibrates in his hand, and he sees your name appear on the screen.
You
*image attached*
I made it home safely
Smoke eyes the picture for far longer than he’ll ever admit. His gaze scans across your baby blue pajamas and the matching bonnet. A cute smile graces your lips as you snap the picture.
Elijah
Let me take you out tomorrow for brunch.
You
Straight to the point, I like you.
I guess I can clear some time in my very busy schedule for you😉
Elijah
I promise it’ll be worth it.
You
It better be. I’m not afraid to leave you at the table by yourself.
From that moment, you became Smoke’s old lady, and everybody knew not to cross you unless they wanted him on their necks.
From the book of young hoe: Thou shalt take the clothes from the dryer and put it in a pile; you’ll get to it later
The age difference between you and Smoke takes a little bit to get used to on both of your ends, but honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. In fact, you keep Smoke on his toes every day that you’re together. It’s within the second month of your relationship that he learns that you’re a “young ho” as you had so affectionately put it.
“Why you calling yourself a hoe?” He asked, a frown covering his handsome face.
You roll your eyes, “It’s not like that, Elijah. It’s more of a reclamation of a word for a positive cause.”
“What I tell you about rolling your eyes?”
You resisted the urge to do it again. The last time that you’d rolled your eyes at Smoke, he’d turnt you every way but loose in the bedroom.
He chose not to elaborate on your new self-proclaimed title. He learned very early in your relationship that you were a real stubborn brat when you wanted to be. He liked to play the part of annoyed, but inwardly, he loved how much you tested his patience.
Smoke was one of those guys who had a real strict program, and that program was applied to you, but he often let you off scot free most of the time. Stack would even fuss at him because of how spoiled Smoke had you.
The next day, Stack and Smoke are sitting at the kitchen table together while you’re vacuuming in the living room. You cut the vacuum off, and Smoke expects you to walk up to the wall to take the cord out.
But you don’t. Because young hoes don’t do that. Instead, you grip the cord and rip it out of the socket before dragging the piece over to you.
Smoke and Stack both watch you.
“Aye, why didn’t you just go pull it out?” Stack asks.
You smack your lips, “Why would I make all of those unnecessary steps when I can just do it my way?” You wrap the cord up and hook it onto the vacuum before leaving the living room.
Stack turns to Smoke, “You would end up with a young hoe.”
“So you know about it too?”
“Yeah, it’s this new thing on Twitter and TikTok. Girls talking about stuff that young hoes typically do. Her ripping that cord out of the wall was a prime example.”
Smoke does typically watch you. It’s a habit, really, but now, he watches you closer for your young hoe habits.
He comes over to your house on a Sunday and finds that you’re finishing up your laundry. You grab the warm clothes from the dryer in one big swoop and deposit them on the chair in the corner of your room. Smoke watches as you walk away without folding the clothes.
“Baby, you just gone leave them right there?” He questions, looking between you and the pile.
“Yes, Papa Bear, I’ll fold them later,” you respond. He wants to give you the benefit of the doubt and trust that you’ll fold them, but he has to keep an eye on you.
Turns out, he should’ve let the doubt win.
When he comes back over the following day, the clothes are still sitting in the chair. Wordlessly, he goes over to the pile to start folding the clothes into neat sections for you. He even goes the extra mile to place them in their appropriate places.
You give him a surprised look when you come into the room, “Aww, Papa Bear, you didn’t have to do that.” You press a big kiss against his lips, your lip gloss staining his lips, but quite frankly, he loves the sensation.
“You’re welcome, baby.”
Smoke is able to catch more of your young hoe antics when it comes to clothing. You volunteer to put his clothes in the washer because you love taking care of your old man.
To his honest defense, Smoke believed that you could handle the task, and truthfully, you could, but just in your own way. He stands up from the couch to go grab a water from the fridge. Once inside the kitchen, he catches sight of you in the laundry room with his dirty basket of clothes.
Now, Smoke is a man of habit. There’s a precise way that he likes to have things done. Which is why he’s honestly gobsmacked when he watches you load the clothes into the washer without separating any of them by color.
To top it off, you grab his expensive laundry detergent and pour way more than what’s required into the washing machine. You turn the machine on, step back with your hands on your hips, and have the nerve to look proud.
You turn and catch sight of him staring at you in the kitchen. He fixes his mouth to comment, but chooses not to when he sees the bright smile on your face.
You point at the washer, “Look, I got you all fixed up.”
Smoke can’t find it in his heart to take this moment from you, so he just smiles in response before walking over to press a long kiss against your lips.
“Thank you, baby.”
Now, Smoke is old, but he didn’t think he was that old. But by the way that you’re looking at him and the ironing board, the nigga starts to feel like Morgan Freeman.
“You don’t know what an ironing board is?”
“Nigga, I’m not daft, I know what an ironing board is. I’m just trying to figure out why you would need one. Just iron on the bed.”
Smoke cuts his eyes in your direction, “No, the creases won’t hit the same.”
“Anyways. So what do you need this disinfectant spray for?” You ask, holding up the white bottle.
“Baby, that’s starch.”
You frown and turn the bottle in your direction before reading it. You try to hide the embarrassed look that crosses your face before you hand the bottle back to him. You walk over to the ironing board that is still folded and fumble with it.
You look genuinely perplexed by the fact that it won’t stand up. Anyone else would be annoyed, but Smoke finds it cute. You look at him with that whiny pout on your face, “Your ironing board is broken. Probably because it’s from the 90s.”
Smoke chuckles before taking the ironing board from your hand and standing it up correctly. You look at each other in silence before you nod, “I got it loosened up for you. You’re welcome.”
With that, you walk out of the room, and Smoke figures it’s best to just let you have the win.
Besides, his baby girl gets whatever she wants when she’s with him.
From the book of young hoe: Thou shalt use Apple Pay for literally every expense. We don’t use physical cards or cash anymore.
Smoke is old school.
He still carries around a wallet of cash and his debit cards. He only sets up Apple Pay on his phone because you insisted that it was more convenient.
It is, but he won’t admit that to you. For you, you never have to pay for things when you’re with Smoke. In fact, he finds the audacity of you paying for anything outrageous. On the small chance that he isn’t there with you, he makes sure that you have the funds available for your needs.
When he tries to hand you his card, you genuinely look perplexed, “What’s this for?”
He squints, “For you to buy your stuff. No limit.”
“That’s cute, Papa Bear, but I don’t even carry my own card around. I use Apple Pay for everything,” You said.
“Just add my card to your Apple Pay, then baby,” Smoke orders, sliding the card in your hands.
“Okay, thanks, baby,” you said, kissing his lips a few times. In response, Smoke slides your body into his lap and watches as you type the card into your Apple Pay and save it.
This isn’t the only incident involving money with you and Smoke. You’re about to head out for a night with your girls when he stops you.
“Come here before you leave, baby,” He demands from the couch. He and Stack are watching the finals while you go out.
“Sup ugly,” You state, slapping Stack on the neck. He frowns and twists around to pop you back when you step out of the way.
Y’all are about to engage in another childish fight until Smoke glares at you both. Stack smacks his lips, “You better get yo girl before we be outside tussling.”
“Ima mace you too,” You quip, as you walk to Smoke’s side of the couch.
“See, I don’t even wanna play with you because I know you’re serious,” Stack states before turning his attention back to the TV.
Smoke runs his eyes up and down your body in the two-piece set. Your body shines from your rigorous body care routine. He grips your waist, “You look good, babygirl.”
“Thank you, Papa Bear,” you respond, leaning down to kiss him. From behind him, Stack makes gagging noises while you stick your finger up at him.
As you pull away from the kiss, Smoke grabs a couple of bills from his wallet and slides them over to you.
“Uh, I don’t need this,” You said, a faint whine at the end of your tone.
“Yes, you do. Your little Apple Pay can’t cover everything. What if your phone dies? You need to be prepared just in case. Here. Take a few quarters, you might need to call me from a pay phone,” Smoke explains.
All of the argument leaves your body because he’s right and you know it. You slide the bills and change in your purse before leaning down to press your lips against his again. This time, however, you slide your tongue inside of Smoke’s mouth while his hand goes to your neck.
“Man! Y’all gone with all of that,” Stack yells from his end of the couch.
You and Smoke part with a few additional pecks. A honk from outside lets you know that your friends are here. As you go to leave, you peck Smoke’s lips again, “I love you, Papa Bear. I’ll text you updates throughout the night.”
You start walking towards the door until Smoke clears his throat, “Grab that coat on the way out, babygirl.”
You huff and throw your head back, “Elijah..it doesn’t go with my outfit!”
He gives you a hard look, and you stare back. For a solid minute, you both keep the staring contest going as Stack moves his head back and forth between the two of you.
Smoke goes to stand when you hold your hands up, “Chill! Chill! I’m getting it.” You grab the jacket and hold it up as if to say, “See.”
In return, Smoke smiles at you, “Good girl. I love you too. Make sure that you text me.”
Stack laughs, “Aha…my brother got you in check.” He turns and feels like he has the last word. He doesn’t catch you creeping up behind him until you lean down to whisper, “stupid hoe” in his ear and slap the back of his neck again. You’re already out the door by the time that Stack gets off the couch.
He frowns and crosses his arms.
Smoke takes a sip from his drink, “Y’all are some children.”
Later in the night, Smoke periodically gets updates from you about your location and condition. You send him tipsy pictures from the club bathroom. It’s not too long before he gets a notification from your Instagram saying that you’ve posted to your stories.
Smoke chuckles at the picture, but he’s glad to see that you’re having a good time with your girls. Some people assumed that since you liked to go outside, it would be a turn-off for Smoke, but it was quite the opposite.
He liked the fact that you were young, carefree, and enjoying your life. He’d never try to nag or change who you were. In fact, being with you taught Smoke that he needed to let loose a lot more and enjoy the moment.
Hours later, he hears the sound of a car door closing and watches from the porch as you walk back to the house. You pout pathetically upon seeing him, “My feet hurt. Can you carry me, Papa Bear?”
Without hassle, Smoke scoops you up into his arms and carries you into the house. He waves at your friends as he closes the door. Your head lolls to the side as you lie on his shoulder.
Smoke looks down at you, “You still with me, baby?”
“Mhmm.”
He raises an eyebrow, “So you gonna carry me up these stairs?”
“Yeah, I got you, baby,” you grumble back. Smoke laughs to himself at your antics. Even in your tipsy state, you still swore up and down that you were the Incredible Hulk.
Arriving inside the bedroom, Smoke gently sets you down while grabbing a big t-shirt for you.
He helps you with getting out of the heels and your set. “Lift your arms for me, baby.”
You oblige as he slips his t-shirt over your head. He goes to the bathroom to grab some micellar water to help you remove your makeup.
You grumble in sleepiness.
“I know, baby, just a little bit more,” He coos to you gently. Once he’s finished cleaning your face, he tucks you away under the blankets. He slips your bonnet over your hair.
“It’s hot,” you whine from beneath the covers. Smoke walks over to the fan, flicks it on, and turns it in your direction. He’d never heard of someone sleeping with a fan on until he started dating you.
He slips beneath the covers and pulls your body into his side. You cuddle your body more into his hold, “Thank you, Papa Bear. I love you.”
“I love you too, babygirl,” Smoke replies, pressing a kiss to your temple.
As he listens to your steady breath, Smoke rationalizes that there’s nothing better than being here with you.
If Stack were here, he’d clown him real bad, but Smoke doesn’t care. He’d gladly go out and get your name tatted to show how down bad he is for you.
From the book of young hoe: Thou shalt play the music about the guns and drugs, but shalt not participate in said activities
Smoke watches you in amusement as you pretend to shimmy in the living room, as “Off the Leash” by Gucci Mane blasts through the space. When he first met you, he’d assumed that you would like a lot of lover girl music, which you did.
But more often than not, you were listening to music about drugs and guns, even though you were hands down a law-abiding citizen. The song changes to “All There” by Jeezy, and you start hyping yourself up more.
You walk over to Smoke and start rapping the lyrics in his face, while grabbing money from his wallet to spread it down your arm.
“So you’re a dope boy now?” Smoke asks, subtly nodding his head along to the music.
“I’ve been trappin’ out here, Smoke,” You respond. He raises his eyebrows at the change of name, but continues chuckling as you make gun gestures with your hands.
“So that means I should go get you a gun of your own now?”
You ball your face up, “No, thank you. You know I don’t like guns. Plus, I’d just be a menace if these niggas tried me.” You prove your point by making gun noises like you’re shooting
You really weren’t a big fan of guns. Even with the gun that Smoke kept in his house, you always made sure that he had it locked away, far from your sight. You didn’t even like the idea of him being near a gun, and he was a whole trained veteran.
You take your phone out and start typing. You glance back at him, “I have a hair appointment tomorrow, so I may be MIA for a while.”
He nods, “Okay, I’ll send you the money to cover it.”
You lean down to press a kiss against his cheeks, “Thanks, Papa Bear.”
When you mentioned getting your hair done to Smoke, he doesn’t expect you to be gone for that long. He checks your location, which states that you’re still at your braider’s house.
His phone buzzes with a text from you.
Babygirl♥️
Be home soon.
I can’t wait for you to see my braids🙂↔️
He lets out a sigh of relief at the message. One thing that was always true, Smoke could be a bit overprotective, but it was only because he knew how the world operated. He knew how cruel people could be, especially to someone like you.
You were smart and observant, but Smoke just preferred to be around to look out for you. In his mind, you were all bubble gum, sunshine, and sweetness. He’d hate to see someone trying to snuff that light out of you.
Thirty minutes later, Smoke hears your car pulling into the yard. You get out, casually sipping on your Stanley Cup and walking to the house.
He opens the door to greet you. You connect your lips to his while gripping his shirt, “Hey, Papa Bear. I hope you weren’t waiting up for me.”
“I was,” Smoke said, closing the door behind you.
He goes to sit on the couch and crosses his arms, “What took you so long?”
You resist the urge to roll your eyes, “It was mostly the braid length. You know I like to get my braids long.” You do a quick turn to show the braids off, and Smoke’s gaze travels down to how long they are. The braids’ length ends just below your butt.
You turn back to him with a wide smile, “Do you like them?”
“Yeah, babygirl, I love them. You look beautiful as always.” He means it. There’s not one moment when Smoke isn’t thinking about how beautiful you are.
Later in the night, he oils your scalp at bedtime. In return, you apply a clay mask to his face as he waits for it to dry.
Quite honestly, Smoke had never been well-versed in skincare. That just wasn’t his thing. Now, he kept himself up and always kept his skin moisturized, but stuff like skincare was more up Stack’s alley.
Since dating you, Smoke has a whole skincare routine that you and he do every night. He’s always had pretty good skin, but since being with you, you've elevated his skin to a new level. You both stand side-by-side at the sink, washing the masks from your faces. Smoke scoops you up to sit on the counter and grips your backside in his hand as you apply his serums and moisturizer for the night.
You peek up at him through your lashes, “You so handsome, Papa Bear.”
You grab his chin in your hand and pull his face down towards yours. Smoke’s lips engulf yours in a passionate kiss as he tongues you down. He slides your body closer to his as he fully steps between your legs. You roll your hips into his as his bulge presses against your wet core. When he steps back slightly, you whine in response while pouting. Smoke chuckles darkly before gripping your thighs to pull you off the counter. He effortlessly carries you from the bathroom to the bedroom and deposits you on the bed.
He leans down on the bed to cover your body with his. He grabs both of your wrists in his hands and pins you to the top of the bed. He frowns when he moves one of his hands and hears a crinkle. Smoke looks up and grabs the item. A bag of Hot Cheetos crunches in his hands.
He looks down at you while you give him an innocent grin. It’s only when he looks up that he notices all of the extra items in the bed like candy, your iPad, both of your chargers, and your Stanley.
He’s about to open his mouth to comment when you stop him, “Before you start with all of that, I need this. These are my essentials. Don’t be trynna reach across me to eat my snacks either.”
He gives you a blank look, “I’m trynna eat you now, but if you want to keep the snacks on the bed…”
You move quickly to put the snacks and other items on the nightstand.
You open your legs with a soft smile, “Okay, I’m ready.”
The only thing Smoke can do is chuckle, but he still gets on his knees regardless. His back may protest, but he’ll never give up the chance to put his mouth on you.
From the book of young hoe: Thou shalt not take any BS.
It didn’t take Smoke a long time to figure out that you were a bit of a hot head. In your honest defense, you just weren’t the type to hold your tongue, especially when something felt like disrespect. Which is why he often found it amusing when you and Stack would argue because you’d match his brother bar for bar with insults.
However, it was all love between you and Stack. You were the younger sister he always craved having, so he’s delighted to have you around more often.
As Smoke’s old lady, as he likes to refer to you as, your invitation to any family functions is automatically secured. You knew your spot was secured when all of Smoke’s aunts and uncles hit him with the famous, “That’s you, nephew?”
You stood in the kitchen with Ardelia, Smoke, and Stack’s mother as you both conversed.
“I’m so happy that you could come today, and you look so pretty,” Ardelia said, nodding her head in appreciation.
“Thank you, Mrs. Moore,” You said, grinning widely.
“Ah, now what I tell you about that. None of that, you can call me mama.”
You smiled even brighter at her comment. Ardelia had been nothing but welcoming to you since Smoke introduced you for the first time. You were nervous that she wouldn’t be accepting of you, especially with the age gap, but she referred to you as her daughter-in-law all over town. Now, a few of Smoke’s other family members weren’t as accepting of you, but they wouldn’t ever say it aloud. But you were well aware of the whispered comments.
‘He’s bringing that lil’ girl all up in here. She still got milk behind her ears.’
“He outta be ashamed. Bringing her around here when he could be back with Annie.’
‘Look at her outfit. Any shorter and them shorts will be some panties.’
’I heard she just with him for the money. Jill from down the street said she got a pattern of jumping from man to man and using them for money.’
‘Lord, that’s a shame!”
You rolled your eyes and took it on the chin. The last thing you were about to do was start an argument with Smoke’s folks, especially in his mama’s house. You knew how a lot of people viewed you, especially with how you carried yourself. There’d been rumors all over the place that you were a relationship hopper, which was far from the truth. You just weren’t the type to stick around in a relationship, especially if it didn’t serve you.
Growing up as a little black girl in the South, you recognized that many black girls weren’t taught how to date. Most girls here felt that if they dated someone, they had to tie themselves down to the person forever. It was often frowned upon if you were dating more than one person or exploring your options.
No, exploring your options was only something that was reserved for men.
The fact that you weren’t the type to stick around in dead situations or entertain men made you stick out like a sore thumb in the community. They couldn’t stand to see a black woman standing strong in her boundaries. They would never catch you apologizing for that.
You walk outside and sit next to Smoke, who is surrounded by a few of his uncles and cousins. It’s at that point in the evening when the conversations shift to more controversial topics, and the new school vs old school duke it out.
You were already rolling your eyes as Marvin, one of Smoke’s cousins, opened his mouth to speak. He was the physical embodiment of red pill alpha male content.
“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t want my Queen out here degrading herself on these apps by posting seductive pictures and doing OnlyFans. I mean, look at the state of female rap, all they talk about is their pussy and what they can get from men.”
A few of the older traditional men hum in agreement.
You frown, “Well, isn’t that a bit contradictory, Marvin? Men rap about pussy all the time. There isn’t one rap song that you can give me that doesn’t consist of some line of a man talking about all of the women that he’s slept with or the degrading acts that he makes her perform. To add onto your point, you’re complaining about the women making content, but you fail to realize that there wouldn’t be a market if men weren’t paying for it. Sounds like smart business women capitalizing on a rising market.”
Marvin cuts his eyes at you. You can see the irritation rising in his eyes, “See, I’d expect you to say that. You’re one of those new school women. You don’t have traditional values. A real woman knows her place in the home. She should be preparing the home for her King to come home to. She shouldn’t be out here selling pussy.” He glances over in Smoke’s direction, “Dang, cuz, you really switched things up with this one. At least Annie was taking care of her man.”
Marvin sits back in the chair, clearly pleased with himself. Beside you, Smoke hardens, and everyone can catch that look of murder in his eye. He’s about to address the situation when you place a hand on his chest.
“It’s okay, baby, I got it. Marvin, I don’t take pseudo-intellectual men like you seriously. You be the same niggas hollering about being an Alpha male and you ain’t even graduated from community college. Last time I looked in the mirror, my breasts and vagina were still there, so I think we got the real woman part covered. You keep trying to take jabs at me about being a low-value woman when, last time I checked, I got two degrees under my name, and I’m well on my way to my third. Let’s not forget the high-paying job, and I own my house. We can go band for band if you want to.”
You pause and snap your fingers, “I forgot, you don’t have a job, so your bands wouldn’t even match mine. What’s your occupation again? Wait…you’re still building your little YouTube with the ten subscribers, all of whom are your homeboys who can’t keep your dick out of their mouths. You keep talking about pussy, but baby boy, you wake up every day and look at a pussy in the mirror.”
You sit back in your chair with a demure smile. The backyard is silent as everyone turns to look at Marvin. He storms from the chair and walks towards the door. You all listen as his car pulls out of the driveway.
“I like this one, nephew,” Tony, Smoke’s uncle, comments as he clinks his cup with yours.
Smoke looks over at you in concern, “Baby, you good?”
“Yeah, ain’t nobody stressin’ over Marvin. I know my worth, and I know what I bring to the table. I’m not about to let anyone feel like they pressin’ me.”
“Good, but I’ma still beat his ass later on for talking to you like that,” Smoke states, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.
“Thanks, Papa Bear.” You lean over to press your lips against his. You resist the urge to deepen the kiss because you still have to be respectful in front of his family.
“Anytime, baby, you know you mean the world to me. Nobody in this world is ever gonna disrespect you while I’m around.”
Before you can comment, Stack leans over to dap you up, “That last line was a bar. Let’s go put that down in the studio.”
From the book of women: Always show respect where respect is due.
Annie Boudreaux. Formely Annie Moore.
You’d met Annie in passing a few times, and you liked her well enough. You both got along, seeing as you were both important women in Smoke’s life. To others, they wondered if it bothered you that Smoke’s ex-wife still came around to family functions, but truthfully, it didn’t.
You understood how important Annie was to Smoke and their shared history. It’d be selfish if you asked him to stay away from her. That didn’t mean that Smoke was taking advantage of the situation and disrespecting you. He’d always be open and let you know that he was going to see Annie. You’d always kiss him and bid him on his way.
Today was the first time that you’ve ever set foot in Annie’s yard.
You walk slowly towards the side of the house where baby Anais Moore’s headstone sits. You note the fresh flowers sitting at the headstone, no doubt from Smoke’s earlier visit in the week. You set down your own bouquet before willing away the tears that follow.
Smoke talks about his and Annie’s little girl from time to time, but only when the moon shines low in the room, and you can’t see his tears falling. He’d laid his head on your chest and whispered all about his daughter, while you remained silent and rubbed at his head.
“She was so beautiful and tiny. I was scared of holding her the first time,” He laments.
Your heart clenches painfully in your chest. You wish that you could take away all of the pain, but you know that nothing ever quite soothes the ache of losing a child.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here today,” Annie comments from her place on the steps. You catch her eyes as they clock the flowers that you placed at the baby’s grave.
“I wanted to come visit you, and I needed to ask for your help with something.”
Annie gives you a long look before ushering you inside the house. She pours you a glass of tea as you sit across from each other on the couch.
“So what brings you by?” Annie questions.
“Can you teach me how to make that gumbo dish that Elijah likes. He mentioned that it’s one of his favorite meals, and I wanted to do something nice for him,” You said, nerves coloring your voice.
Your wide eyes meet Annie’s, and you’re honestly scared that she’ll tell you no. Instead, she chuckles, “You came all this way to ask me how to make a pot of gumbo for Elijah? Come on, silly girl. You must really be in love.”
“I am.”
For another beat, you both look at each other, and Annie runs her eyes across you. Unbeknownst to you, she can see the pink swirls radiating around your body with all of the love that you have for Elijah.
She gestures for you to follow her to the kitchen, where she begins taking out all of the ingredients. She turns to you, “Go pick me some of those bell peppers from the garden.”
You nod before setting out to the garden, where Annie has an assortment of fruit and vegetables. You navigate towards the bell peppers as you pick out the best ones. Inside the house, you hand the peppers to Annie as she washes them off.
“I love your garden. I always wanted to grow one,” You said, leaning against the counter.
“Tell Elijah. He’s good at starting a garden,” Annie responds. She ushers you forward as she grabs the flour and cast-iron skillet.
“Now the roux is the most essential part of the gumbo. You mess up the roux, you might as well throw the whole pot away.”
Together, you and Annie work hand in hand to craft the gumbo the way that Smoke likes it. Annie lets you take over for the most part, while she gently guides you. Soon, you’re both sitting at the table sharing a bowl of gumbo over rice and laughing like old friends.
“Next thing I know, Stack is running out of the house. Yellin’ about some voodoo,” Annie states, to which you laugh loudly.
Your laugh calms after a few minutes when you catch Annie staring at you.
“Thank you,” She states.
She doesn’t have to explain what she’s thanking you for. You already know. You slide a hand across the table as you tangle your fingers together.
“I really appreciate you, Annie.”
“Likewise.”
She doesn’t mention that she can read your palms with your hands touching like this. She chuckles internally. She hopes that you’re ready for some twins in the future.
When Smoke gets home later in the day, he’s surprised at the familiar scent that wafts across his nose. For a minute, he wonders if Annie is inside the house with you. He walks inside the kitchen and takes note of you standing in front of the stove, stirring away at a familiar pot.
You and Smoke are so in tune with each other that you sense him as soon as he enters the house. You turn around, “Hey, Papa Bear, take a seat.”
Smoke sets his work bag down and takes a seat at the table. You fix his bowl of gumbo just the way that Annie mentioned he likes, along with a piece of cornbread on the side and a glass of tea. He takes a second to look between you and the bowl of gumbo. He notes the similarities in the gumbo, “You makin’ gumbo now, babygirl?”
“Mhmm..I had a little help from Annie today. I wanted to get it just the way that you like it,” You said, moving to fix your own bowl.
“You visited Annie today?”
“Yeah, you mentioned that her gumbo was always your favorite, so I went by to ask her how to make it for you.” You shrug at the end of your sentence like it’s no big deal, but to Smoke, it means the world.
Before you can take a bite of your gumbo, he grabs your hand in his.
“Thank you. You know I love you, right?” He said, eyes glistening under the light. It means a lot that you went out of your way to ask Annie how to make his favorite meal.
“I love you, too, Elijah,” You respond before connecting your lips to his.
As you both eat, Smoke eyes your empty ring finger and figures that he may need to change that pretty soon.
After the meal, Smoke offers to wash dishes, but you shoo him away.
“Just sit down, you’ve been working hard all day. It’s just a few dishes,” You said, turning the water on.
Smoke expects you to plug the sink and let it fill up with soap and water, but you do the exact opposite. You keep the water running as you wash each dish one by one under the hot water.
“Baby, you could’ve just filled the sink up,” Smoke comments.
“Ew, I don’t want all of that food touching my hands,” You shoot back.
Smoke decides to drop it and continues watching you wash the dishes. He already knows that he should expect the water bill to be higher this month. From the looks of the empty paper towel roll, he might have to just invest in the big pack from Costco.
From the book of young hoe: Always listen to Papa Bear.
It’s one of those nights when you and your girls are going out again. Smoke opts to stay in, but he’s already made sure that your purse is packed with all of the essentials. He knows how forgetful you can be.
The sound of your heels clicking brings his attention to you as you walk into the bedroom. He hadn’t paid much attention to your outfit. You always did your makeup first before putting on your outfit, and then you’d give him a little show before leaving.
Now, Smoke’s gotten used to some of your more risque clothing choices. Shoot, when he first met you, you were wearing a dress that had him drooling. He isn’t one of those guys who likes to police his woman on what she’s wearing, but he is very possessive of you. Smoke knows that you’re a baddie, so why would he stop you from being that?
However, he has to draw a line with this outfit, if you can even call it that.
Smoke coughs past the smoke and snuffs out the joint that you rolled for him. “What you got on?”
You smile at him through the mirror, “It’s cute, right? I found it the other day!”
You had taken the definition of mini skirt to a whole other level. You’re well endowed in your backside, which hangs out of the skirt. You bend forward to check your makeup, and Smoke almost falls out.
He frowns at you, “Go change. You ain’t leavin’ the house with that on.”
Naturally, the pout crosses your lips, “But why?”
“Baby, I ain’t finna have these niggas out here eyeing my woman, and I’m not around.”
You huff in annoyance, “Elijah, it’s not that deep. It’s not even that short.”
He eyes the skirt again with a glare on his face. If he could set the skirt on fire, he would.
“It’s not up for discussion. Go change into something else.”
“No.”
Smoke’s head whips around so fast that you’re surprised that his neck doesn’t break. That dark look crosses his face, “Babygirl, you sure you wanna cross that bridge with me? Take yo’ pretty ass back in there and get changed.”
The urge to be a brat weighs heavily on you tonight. You square your shoulders and look him dead in the eye, “Nope, I’m wearing this.”
A honk sounds from outside, and you move to grab your purse. Smoke is openly glaring at you and challenging you, “You leave out of this house, I hope you prepared for the consequences later.”
You shrug, “I’ll be back later on. I love you, Papa Bear.”
With that, you walk your pretty self out the door, even though your stomach tingles with anxiety. As you step into the car, your homegirls turn to look at you.
“Girl, Big Daddy Smoke let you out of the house wearing that,” your friend, Leilani, asks.
You smack your lips, “He was making a big deal of it at first. Telling me that I need to go change. He don’t run me.”
Your friend, Omi, smacks her lips, “Sis, he gone tear you up when you get back. You know them old heads don’t play about all that.”
“It’s fine, y’all. He’ll be okay when I get back.”
“He gone kill her when she gets back. I’m puttin’ a sign on you that says ‘Dead lady walking.’ You might as well gone get your coochie ready,” your friend, Keisha, quips.
When you all make it to the club, it’s turnt as usual. You and Stack lock eyes as you pass his section. His eyes flicker down to your skirt before he starts shaking his head. He ushers you over, “You gotta be one of the craziest people that I’ve ever met. Does my brotha’ know you outside like this?”
“Yes, Smoke doesn’t run me. I can wear what I want,” You state, a frown crossing your face.
Stack laughs. Not one of those low laughs, but the loud and annoying types.
“Whew, I’m scared for you, girl. But I’ll keep an eye on you. Have fun now before you get home,” Stack said, continuing to laugh. He lets you and your girls come into the section with him and his boys. You know that it’s so he can carefully watch you.
Whenever you go to get a drink, Stack stops you and goes to the bar himself. You and your friends go to hit the dance floor when Stack holds his hand up.
“Oh my gosh, Stack, move!”
Stack smacks his lips, “I’m just looking out for you. Gone dance, but if I see any nigga gettin’ too friendly with you, I’m on him like white on rice.”
You give him a thumbs-up before following your friends to the middle of the floor. You’re having the time of your life and twerking like you aren’t on borrowed time. Stack keeps his eyes on you at all times like he’s watching a toddler, which he thinks may be true. He takes his phone out to record a video of you to send to Smoke.
Stack
*video attached*
Don’t stress yourself out. I’m keepin’ an eye on her.
But I know you got something planned when she gets home.
*Smoke liked your message*
Stack takes a sip from his whiskey, “Lord, she in danger.”
By the end of the night, you’re all danced out and sweaty, but overall, you consider the night a win. Stack offers to take you home and ushers you into the car. Your friends snicker because they know that Smoke is punishing you tonight. The only one oblivious to the fact is you.
Pulling into the driveway, Stack turns to you with a smirk, “Good luck.”
The lights are all off in the house except the porch light. Smoke stands under the porch light like a serial killer. You turn to Stack with a grim look, “Maybe, we should back out of the driveway really slowly.”
“Nope. You wanted to be grown. Now, you gotta face your actions like a big girl,” Stack said.
“I’m blinking twice for help. I’m telling a trusted adult!”
Stack shrugs, “Too bad I’m not a trusted adult.”
“Trick..” you mutter before opening the door to exit the car. Smoke nods his head at Stack, who reciprocates.
“I’ll see you in a week,” Stack jokes, before backing out of the driveway.
Like a scared deer, you walk unevenly to the porch where Smoke is still standing. As you approach, he blows out a big cloud of smoke before throwing the joint down and stubbing it out. You stand in front of him, “Hey…”
Smoke doesn’t say anything, but simply steps to the side to let you inside the house. You swallow loudly as you walk inside the house. The only sounds are the distinct chirps from the crickets outside, along with the subtle clicks of your heels. You and Smoke make your way to the bedroom. You go to grab your pajamas when Smoke stops you, “Didn’t I tell you to change earlier?”
You turn slowly to face him, “Yes, you did.”
“And I told you that if you left this house, there would be consequences, but you didn’t listen, did you?”
“No….”
“Come here,” Smoke demands, voice soft. He doesn’t have to raise his voice to get his point across.
You stay rooted in the same spot, partially aroused and partially scared. Smoke chuckles darkly, “You still ain’t learned? You know I don’t like to repeat myself.” You scurry over to stand in front of Smoke as you look up at him with wide eyes.
“Stand right there,” Smoke orders. He walks off to rummage through one of the drawers. Your eyes widen as you see him procure one of his good ties. The heat from his body wafts onto yours as you become hyperaware of him standing behind you. Smoke grabs your hands in his and skillfully wraps the tie around your wrists so that your hands are bound behind your back. He tugs at the knot and hums in satisfaction.
You try your hand at seeing if you can move and find that you can’t. Smoke moves to stand in front of you as he glowers down at you. He steps closer to press his chest against yours. For a moment, a soft look crosses his face as he cups your face in his hands. He leans down to connect your lips, and you moan at the taste of whiskey that lingers on his tongue.
Smoke pulls back from the kiss as his eyes run across you. He trails his hands down your form until his cupping your backside in his hands. “You could’ve stayed home and modeled this lil’ skirt for me, but you wanted to go and show off what’s mine.”
You go to open your mouth to protest, but Smoke stops you, “I didn’t say I was done talking. Since you wanted to be a brat, I’ll treat you like one.” You let out a squeak when Smoke grabs you to throw you on the bed. Your body bounces before it settles.
Gripping the corset in his hands, he cleanly tears it down the middle until the material falls away. You gasp in surprise as the cool air hits your nipples. Flipping you onto your stomach, Smoke hikes your hips up and flips the skirt over.
He tugs your head back, “You owe me. You can either take my hand or something else.”
The last time Smoke spanked you, you were left shaking on the bed. It was either his hand or one of those leather belts with his name on it. You were screwed either way.
“Your hand,” You said.
Smoke nods, “Let’s tally up how much you owe me. 10 for the outfit plus 10 because I told you to take it off and you back-talked. Also, an additional 10 because you still left.” Your wide eyes meet his as you turn to face him, “But daddy, that’s thirty.”
Smoke chuckles, “Glad to see you can count, darlin’.”
The first hit sends heat flooding through your body, along with feeling your cheek ripple under his hand. The second hit sends a flood of wetness to your panties. By the tenth hit, the tears are already running down your face. How were you supposed to count through twenty more?
Your entire backside is on fire once Smoke delivers the last hit. You’re fully shaking and hiccuping into the sheets, but you can’t deny how turned on you are. By now, you’ve soaked completely through your panties, which Smoke clocks.
He takes two fingers and runs them up and down the soiled material, “My dirty baby. What am I gonna do with you, baby? You don’t know how to listen now.”
“M’Sorry, Papa. I’ll listen to you next time.”
“I know you will because I’m gonna make sure that you do.” He flips your body around and grips your panties as he tears them clean from your body. Smoke maneuvers your body to the headboard before going to grab another tie. He loops the tie through the bedpost before securing your hands to it.
Smoke walks over to the closet and rifles through it for a few seconds. You lift your head to get a good look, but his shoulders block your view. He walks over with a long metal rod in hand, “Do you know what this is?”
You shake your head. He laughs lowly, “It’s a spreader bar. I’m gonna put your legs in these cuffs, and you won’t be able to move.” Sitting at the edge of the bed, he removes your heels one by one before throwing them carelessly to the floor. He places your ankles in the cuffs and secures them. Smoke moves to stand in front of the bed as he grabs the metal in his hands. He can already see your glistening folds as your slick pools beneath you.
He moves your legs from side to side, “See, this is a special bar, I made it myself. Every time you move babygirl, it’ll spread your legs more.” He jerks the rod, which loudly clicks as your spread apart more. You look at him in surprise.
He grabs the box that he set on the bed and opens it. Your old man is a sex fiend, apparently, as he lifts various forms of vibrators out of the box. Smoke moves to your open legs and dips his fingers inside of you to collect your slick.
He brings his wet fingers up to his mouth to suck your juices from his fingers. He takes one of the vibrators in his hand before the tip across through your wet center. You shiver at the sensation of the tip dipping into your entrance.
“This one is special, babygirl. That special spot that I’m always hitting…well my little friend is made to specifically reach that spot.” He pushes the toy inside of you as you gasp at the fullness of it.
Smoke coos gently at you as your wet eyes meet his, “There we go, baby.” He clicks a button, which brings the vibrator to life inside you. Smoke pushes the toy in and out of you as your walls cling to it.
Your eyes widen when he holds up another toy, “My other friend is for that lil’ pearl up there.” He trails his fingers through the curls that cover young mound until he reaches your clit. Your body arches into his touch as he casually rubs small circles around your clit.
“Please…” you whine into the room.
“Please what, darlin’? I need you to be more specific,” Smoke said condescendingly.
Your mind is venturing into that mushy territory where you don’t know what you’re asking the man for.
He smirks, “You don’t even know what you’re asking me for. That’s alright. Take care of my other friend for me while I get done smoking.”
He attaches the curved toy to your clit and clicks a button, and it buzzes to life. Your first reaction is to move your body. You wither across the mattress, pleasure consuming every inch of you. You go to move your legs, only for the spreader to click and spread your legs further.
You gasp.
Smoke chuckles before moving to sit in the chair in the bedroom. He grabs his early discarded blunt to relight. He inhales the smoke into his lungs as he casually watches you suffer.
Smoke casually taps the button on his phone, which increases the vibrations on your clit and inside of you. Your back arches from the bed as your release climbs higher.
Just as you’re reaching that sweet release, Smoke taps the button and turns the vibrators off. A loud whine leaves your mouth, “Please let me cum, Papa.”
Smoke blows the smoke from his nose, “Since you asked so nicely…”
He eases up the level of the vibrators to the fullest level. A loud screams erupts from your mouth as your walls clasp around the toy and your orgasm consumes your body.
Smoke leans forward, “That’s one. Give me about four more and we’ll call it even.”
You turn your head to him in disbelief. Before you can protest, he turns the vibrators back on.
You’re a mess of cum, sweat, and tears. Exactly how Smoke prefers you.
Your brain is complete mush at this point and you can feel the puddle that had formed beneath you. Somewhere between the second and third orgasm, you’d squirted.
Smoke turns the vibrators off and throws his phone on the chair. He walks over to you and pulls your ruined face to his. Your expression shows how far gone you are. He lightly taps your face, “You still with me, babygirl?”
Your tongue lolls around in your mouth, “Mhmm, Papa.”
“So you can give me one more?”
“Mhmm.”
He unties your hands from the bed. He runs his hand across your wrists and kisses them gently. Smoke pulls the vibrator from your core and observes the cream that forms around the base of the toy. He flicks his tongue out to slurp some in his mouth.
Smoke pulls his shirt over his head before dropping his boxers. You eye his hardened dick and as tired as you are, you still need to feel him inside of you.
Smoke lays down on the bed next to you and pulls your pliant body across his lap. He points his tip at your swollen entrance, “Go slow, baby. Papa will take care of the rest.”
You lower your pussy down onto his dick as you whine into his shoulder. You shudder as you feel his large tip brushing against that spot inside you.
Smoke grabs your hips in his hand as he gently bounces you up and down on his dick. You turn your head to connect his your lips to his. Smoke slides his tongue into your mouth and gently sucks at your tongue.
He gives a particular thrust that sends fresh tears to your eyes. “I know, it’s too much baby, but you’re doing so good for me. Cum for me one more time, babygirl.”
You nod weakly.
Smoke plants his feet on the bed and starts thrusting roughly into your body. Loud, wet noises fill the bedroom as your walls clench around his length.
“M’coming Papa. Right there..”
Smoke feels his own balls tightening as his release nears. He smashes his lips onto yours as your orgasm hits. He swallows your moans into his mouth as his own orgasm starts.
Smoke holds your hips firmly to his as he fills you up.
You shiver at the feeling of his cum splashing against your womb.
For a second, you both breathe in tandem as your heart calms down. Smoke runs a soothing hand up your back, “You good, Princess?”
“Mhmm, m’good Papa. I’m sorry.”
Smoke chuckles, “I forgive you, baby. Let’s get you ready for bed.”
He gently slides from inside of you as you whimper softly. A wave of Smoke’s cum slides from you as it lands on the bed. Scooping you into his arms, Smoke walks into the bathroom and sits you on the toilet.
You’d long since passed the stage of your relationship where you were shy of going to the bathroom in front of him. As wipe and flush the toilet, you raise your arms for Smoke to pick you up.
He grabs a towel and applies warm water to it before wiping at your face and between your legs. Back inside the bedroom, Smoke gives you a pair of his boxers before sliding his shirt over your head. He slides a pair of briefs on before he tucks you into bed.
He grabs a bottle of water before offering it to you. Once you’re done, you flop back on the pillow. Smoke slides in beside you as he pulls your body closer to his.
“I love you, babygirl.”
“I love you too, Papa Bear.”
He presses a kiss to your neck as he closes his eyes.
Summary: Everybody in Texas knew the story of Adonis Creed and Kyri Davis. High school sweethearts. Built from nothing. The golden couple who turned young love into an empire of money, fame, and Southern luxury. From championship belts to billion-dollar sports agencies, Donnie gave Kyri everything they ever dreamed about when they were seventeen years old. But somewhere between the ranch house, the private jets, and the expensive silence filling their home, love started rotting beneath the surface. When Donnie catches Kyri crossing a line neither of them can come back from, their relationship spirals into an open relationship built on resentment, loneliness, and emotional starvation. While Kyri chases freedom, Donnie slowly unravels beneath the weight of humiliation and heartbreak, until one unexpected night changes everything.
The ranch house sat quiet beneath the Texas sunset, golden light stretching across the wrap-around porch and bleeding into the fields beyond the property line. The land looked endless from the front steps. Acres of tall grass swaying in the evening breeze. Horses shifting lazily behind white fences. The gravel driveway curls through the property like a private road built for someone important.
And Adonis Creed had built all of it for her.
The house itself looked like something ripped from a luxury magazine, trying to sell rich Southern dreams. Dark wood beams. Massive stone fireplaces. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ranch land. Expensive leather furniture softened by handmade quilts, Kyri swore she’d replace one day but never did. Every room carried traces of the life they built together. Pictures from championship fights are framed beside old high school prom photos. Signed gloves displayed beside candid snapshots of vacations and birthdays and smiling moments that felt older than they actually were.
From the outside, they looked perfect. The former heavyweight champion turned billionaire businessman, and the woman who stayed beside him since they were kids. People in town loved telling their story. High school sweethearts. Texas royalty. Built from the ground up. Nobody ever talked about what happened after the dream finally came true.
The house smelled faintly like cedarwood and expensive candles, the kind Kyri ordered in bulk and barely noticed anymore. A massive black duffel bag rested near the front door beside Donnie’s polished dress shoes, proof he’d only been home for less than an hour. His jacket hung neatly over the back of a dining chair. His watch sat beside an untouched whiskey glass.
The dinner he made was getting cold.
Again.
Steam no longer rose from the short ribs sitting untouched at the center of the dining table. Candles flickered softly between crystal glasses and folded linen napkins. Donnie stared at the empty chair across from him for a long moment before finally glancing toward the hallway.
Nothing. No footsteps. No voice. No Kyri. Only the distant sound of her laughing softly upstairs.
Probably on the phone again.
Donnie leaned back slowly in his chair and rubbed one large hand down his face. His suit vest strained across his chest from another fourteen-hour workday, but exhaustion wasn’t what sat heavy on him.
It was disappointing. The kind that had become routine.
He looked down at his phone again.
8:43 PM
Their reservation had been for eight.
The same steakhouse they used to sneak into years ago, when they were broke teenagers splitting one plate and pretending not to be hungry afterward.
Back then, they used to sit in the corner booth sharing fries and talking about impossible futures like they were already real.
Kyri wanted a huge house.
Donnie wanted enough money so his daughters would never struggle.
She used to laugh and say he talked like an old man trapped in a teenager’s body.
Now Donnie owned half the damn city.
His company handled:
athlete management
endorsement deals
NIL contracts
PR scandals
recruiting five-star high school talent
college athlete branding
Every week, some new kid walked into his office looking at him the same way Donnie once looked at heavyweight champions on television.
Like greatness was sitting right in front of them.
He built an empire from fists and discipline.
And Kyri still canceled.
Again.
The text she sent an hour ago sat open on his screen.
Raincheck tonight babe. Headache.
No apology. No explanation. Just that.
Donnie swallowed quietly and locked the screen.
Outside, cicadas screamed into the warm Texas night.
The silence inside the house somehow felt louder.
Years ago, this place used to feel alive. Back when they were seventeen. Back before the money. Back before people started treating Adonis Creed like a brand instead of a man.
He could still remember the first time Kyri came to one of his amateur fights.
She showed up late, wearing ripped jeans, gold hoops, and a Houston Astros jacket two sizes too big for her. She spent the entire fight yelling louder than anybody in the gym despite barely understanding boxing back then.
"Get his ass, Donnie!"
Embarrassing as hell.
But he remembered grinning between rounds because she was there.
Back then, she looked at him like he was becoming something.
Not like something she already owned.
He remembered her sneaking into his room afterward through the bedroom window at his mama’s old house, laughing while trying not to wake anybody up.
"You got beat up a little," she teased quietly while pressing frozen peas against his jaw.
"Won though."
"Barely."
He grabbed her wrist then, pulling her into his lap while she laughed harder, her curls falling into her face.
"You still came," he muttered.
Kyri smiled at him differently back then. Soft. Warm. Like loving him was easy.
"Always gon’ come for you," she whispered.
And for a long time, she did.
She stayed through:
His first Golden Gloves win.
bad managers
injuries
cheap apartments
endorsement meetings
media scrutiny
championship pressure
long nights
longer mornings
She used to sit beside him while he studied contracts at tiny kitchen tables in apartments barely bigger than hotel rooms. Used to help him rehearse interviews before sponsorship meetings. Used to lay across his chest while they talked about buying land somewhere quiet once all the fighting was over.
And Donnie listened to every dream she ever spoke out loud.
The ranch house existed because of those conversations.
Kyri had been there through all of it.
Donnie never forgot that.
Maybe that was part of the problem.
Because even now, after everything had changed between them, he still loved her with the loyalty of that seventeen-year-old boy who thought she hung the moon.
The sound of heels finally echoed down the staircase.
Donnie looked up immediately.
Kyri appeared in the doorway wearing one of those silky lounge sets she liked spending absurd amounts of money on. Her hair was wrapped loosely, her lips were glossy, and her phone still in her hand.
Beautiful. Always beautiful. Even now. That was the dangerous part. No matter how distant she became, Donnie still looked at her like she was the first good thing that ever happened to him.
"You still up?" she asked casually.
Donnie stared at her for a second before forcing a small smile.
"Made dinner."
Her eyes flicked toward the table briefly.
"Baby, I told you my head hurt."
"Yeah. I know."
Kyri walked toward the kitchen island without looking at him fully, her attention already back on her phone. The screen light reflected in her eyes while she scrolled.
Donnie watched her quietly.
Watched how easily she ignored him now.
No kiss. No thank you. No noticing the candles. Nothing.
She opened the fridge.
"You eat already?" she asked.
"Was waitin’ on you."
"Oh."
Just "Oh." That one syllable somehow hurt more than yelling would have.
Donnie looked down at his plate.
He used to know how to make her smile.
Used to know exactly what she needed before she even asked.
Now every conversation felt like knocking on a locked door.
Kyri grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and leaned against the counter while typing something into her phone.
A smile tugged briefly at the corner of her mouth. Tiny. But real.
Donnie noticed immediately.
And something ugly twisted low in his chest.
Because she hadn’t smiled at him like that in months.
"Who you textin’ that got you cheesin’ like that?" he asked lightly.
Kyri barely looked up.
"Stella sent me something stupid."
"Mm."
He wanted to ask more.
Didn’t.
That had become another habit.
Avoiding conflict. Avoiding pressure. Avoiding anything that might make her pull further away.
Because lately it felt like Kyri was always halfway out the door emotionally.
And Donnie was exhausting himself trying to pull her back.
Earlier that morning, he’d sent her flowers.
Last week, he canceled meetings to take her to Austin for the weekend.
Two weeks before that, he bought tickets to a private resort in Cabo after she casually mentioned needing a vacation.
Nothing lasted.
Nothing reached her.
And the harder he tried, the more distant she became.
Kyri finally glanced up from her phone.
"You got that NIL dinner tomorrow?"
Business. That’s what they talked about most now. Business. Schedules. Appearances. Logistics.
Donnie nodded slowly.
"Yeah. Got a quarterback comin’ in from Louisiana. Five-star kid."
"The tall one from TikTok?"
He gave a tired laugh through his nose.
"That’s what you know him from?"
"That boy fine," she said absentmindedly while scrolling again.
The joke probably wasn’t meant to hurt.
But somehow it did.
Because once upon a time, Kyri used to look at him like he was the finest man alive. Now she barely looked at him at all.
Donnie stared quietly at her for another long moment.
The kitchen lights reflected softly against the marble countertops. Somewhere upstairs, the television in their bedroom played low enough to barely hear. The entire house felt too big suddenly.
Too expensive. Too quiet. Too empty.
Then finally, he stood from the table.
The chair scraped softly across the hardwood.
Kyri glanced up briefly.
"You mad?"
And there it was. Not concerned. Not affection. Just irritation at the possibility of emotional labor.
Donnie forced another smile.
"Nah," he lied smoothly.
Because that’s what he always did. Kept the peace.
Kyri hummed softly and looked back down at her phone.
Conversation over.
Donnie grabbed his whiskey glass and walked toward the back porch.
Outside, the warm Texas air wrapped around him immediately. Crickets chirped through the darkness. The horses shifted quietly somewhere beyond the fence line.
The porch lights cast long shadows across the wood beneath his boots.
He sat heavily in one of the rocking chairs overlooking the property and stared out into the night.
This was supposed to be the dream. The house. The money. The woman he loved. The life they built together. So why the hell did he feel lonely inside it?
Inside, Kyri laughed softly at something on her phone again.
And Donnie sat outside alone, pretending not to notice how much that sound hurt now.
The rain didn't just start; it announced itself with a low, guttural growl of thunder that vibrated through the chassis of the black Escalade. By the time Donnie turned off the main highway, the sky had unzipped itself, unleashing a torrential downpour that turned the long gravel driveway into a shimmering, black ribbon. The windshield wipers beat a frantic, hypnotic rhythm, but they were no match for the silver sheets of water that blurred the world outside, smearing the fence posts and the endless, rain-darkened Texas plains into an impressionist painting of grey and green.
It had been a week of paper cuts, each one deeper than the last. Three NIL negotiations that felt more like hostage situations. Two media crises that required him to be both a fixer and a therapist. And the cherry on top: a nineteen-year-old five-star recruit, a kid with the world at his feet, threatening to torch his entire future because another agency had dangled a bigger, shinier endorsement deal in his face. Any other night, Donnie would have stayed at the office, a lone warrior battling a sea of emails and spreadsheets until the city lights bled into the dawn.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he came home early.
For her.
On the passenger seat, nestled in expensive cream tissue paper, was a bouquet of deep red roses so perfect they looked almost artificial. Beside them, a sleek black velvet box lay innocently. Inside, a custom diamond bracelet—delicate, timeless, and astronomically expensive—waited. He’d spent two weeks agonizing over the design with the jeweler, every detail calibrated to a casual comment Kyri had made months ago about wanting something elegant she could wear every day, not just for special occasions. The reservation confirmation for a private rooftop restaurant downtown glowed softly on his phone's screen, a digital beacon of his intention. It was one of the first places they had ever celebrated, back when they were so broke they couldn't even afford appetizers, splitting a single entree and feeling like royalty. Now, the owner would shut down an entire section at the whisper of Adonis Creed’s name.
The Escalade glided to a stop beneath the covered porte-cochère. Donnie cut the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the drumming of rain on the roof. He grabbed the flowers, their petals cool and fragrant against his fingertips, and stepped out into the humid, storm-charged air.
The ranch house stood against the bruised twilight sky, a warm, honey-glowing beacon of comfort and stability. It was beautiful. It was quiet. It was too quiet.
The moment the heavy front door clicked shut behind him, a feeling like a cold finger traced its way down his spine. Something was wrong. The usual soundtrack of their life was absent. No neo-soul drifting from the Sonos speaker in the kitchen. No television murmuring from the living room. No scent of the vanilla and amber candles Kyri loved to burn. Just silence. A profound, cavernous silence that made the 8,000 square feet of custom-built luxury feel less like a home and more like a mausoleum.
Donnie loosened his silk tie, the expensive fabric feeling like a noose around his neck. Rainwater darkened the shoulders of his bespoke wool coat. His eyes automatically darted toward the kitchen, expecting to see her at the island, a glass of wine in hand, scrolling through her phone.
Empty.
"Kyri?"
His voice didn't echo. It was swallowed by the stillness. No answer.
He moved deeper into the house, his Italian leather shoes silent on the polished concrete floors. The flowers felt heavy in his hand, their vibrant red a jarring splash of color in the muted, monochromatic palette of the entryway. Then he heard it.
A soft sound from upstairs.
Breathing.
A moan.
Donnie froze, his entire body seizing up like a machine that had been abruptly shut off. For a beat, his brain, a finely tuned instrument of logic and reason, simply refused to process the input. No. It couldn't be. It was the wind, the house settling, a trick of the acoustics.
Then another sound followed. Quieter this time. Breathy. Intimate. Unmistakably female. And it was coming from Kyri’s office.
The bouquet of roses slipped slightly in his grip, the stems digging into his palm. His chest tightened, a sudden, vicious vise that stole the air from his lungs. The hallway upstairs seemed to stretch and warp, the distance to her office door feeling like a mile. Every step was a monumental effort, the plush carpet swallowing the sound of his footsteps as his pulse hammered a frantic, violent rhythm against his eardrums.
Another moan. And this time, there was no denying it.
Kyri.
Donnie stopped outside the partially closed door, a sliver of light cutting across the dark hallway floor. For a second, he just stood there, a statue carved from ice and disbelief. If he didn't move, if he didn't breathe, maybe reality would bend. Maybe he would wake up.
Then he pushed the door open.
Kyri jerked in her chair as if she’d been electrocuted.
"Shit!"
Her laptop slammed shut with a violent clap, the sound sharp and final in the quiet room. It skittered sideways on the polished desk, nearly toppling over. The air in the room was thick with the scent of vanilla candles and her favorite perfume, a cloying, sweet smell that suddenly made him sick. Her hair was a messy cascade around her shoulders, and the silk robe she wore was hanging loose off one shoulder, revealing the delicate strap of her camisole.
Donnie’s eyes, trained to see everything, took it all in in a single, gut-wrenching sweep. The disheveled hair. The hastily closed laptop. The panicked, wide-eyed look on her face. It was the panic that hurt the most. Not guilt. Not remorse. Panic. The raw, primal fear of a predator that had been caught in a trap.
For several long, agonizing seconds, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft, steady patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Donnie just stared at her, his face an unreadable mask. Kyri stared back, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow bursts. His heartbeat felt erratic, a wild drum solo in his chest.
"What was that?" he asked finally.
His own voice surprised him. It came out calm. Too calm. A quiet, deadly monotone that was more terrifying than any shout.
Kyri swallowed, the click of her throat audible in the suffocating silence. "Nothing."
Donnie’s gaze shifted from her face to the closed laptop on the desk. Then back to her. "Don’t do that."
"Do what?" she asked, her voice thin, defensive.
"Lie to me while I’m standin’ right here."
Kyri shot up from her desk, the motion sharp and aggressive. "Why are you home early?"
The question hit him like a physical blow. Not "Oh my god, Donnie, you're here!" Not "What a surprise!" Just immediate, naked defensiveness. A challenge.
Donnie slowly held up the bouquet of deep red roses, their vibrant beauty a cruel irony in the moment. "Wanted to surprise you."
Her expression flickered. A flash of something—guilt? regret?—crossed her features before the wall slammed back into place, hard and impenetrable. "Donnie, it’s not what you think."
"Then tell me what I walked in on," he said, his voice still dangerously quiet.
Kyri crossed her arms tightly over her chest, a classic defensive posture. "I was watching porn."
Silence.
The word hung in the air between them, so absurd, so pathetic, that Donnie actually laughed. It was a short, sharp, humorless sound. "Porn," he repeated quietly, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.
"Yes."
"So who were you talkin’ to?"
Kyri’s jaw tightened, a stubborn line forming on her beautiful face. "Nobody."
"I heard you."
"You’re overreacting."
There it was. The trifecta. Gaslighting. Deflection. Turning the knife back on him. Making his pain his problem.
Donnie stared at her for a long, hard moment, his mind racing, connecting dots he hadn't even known existed. Then, slowly, deliberately, he walked to the desk and set the flowers down. Their petals brushed against the cool, dark wood. The black velvet jewelry box followed beside them, a small, heavy testament to his hope.
Kyri’s eyes darted down to the box. Something uncomfortable, something that looked a lot like shame, flickered across her face.
Too late.
"Who was it?" Donnie asked again.
This time, his voice sounded tired. And the exhaustion hurt worse than any anger ever could.
Kyri looked away first, her gaze fixed on a point on the wall just over his shoulder. And suddenly, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, Donnie knew. This wasn't a suspicion. This wasn't a fear. This was knowledge. This wasn't new. This wasn't a mistake. This had history.
"Kyri."
She rubbed both hands over her face, a gesture of utter frustration, before finally speaking, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I met somebody online a couple months ago."
The room went completely still. The air seemed to crystallize. Donnie felt something inside him, something essential, break loose and drop into a dark, bottomless pit. "A couple months," he repeated, the words tasting like poison.
Kyri rushed forward, her voice rising, defensive. "It’s not serious!"
"You said months."
"Because we talk sometimes!"
"You were havin’ phone sex with another man in our house," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion.
"Don’t say it like that!" she cried, her face crumpling.
Donnie blinked at her slowly, his disbelief giving way to a cold, hard clarity. "How the fuck should I say it then?"
Kyri looked frustrated now, almost irritated that he was daring to be upset. "You’ve been distant too, Donnie!"
He stared at her, truly, deeply stared at the woman he had built his entire world around. "I been workin’."
"Exactly!"
"That’s not the same thing."
"You think buyin’ gifts fixes everything," she shot back.
The words landed hard because somewhere, in the deepest, most insecure part of him, he feared she might be right. He looked at the bracelet sitting unopened beside the wilting roses. The reservation confirmation still glowed on his phone screen. All the effort. All the trying. All the reaching. And she still looked emotionally checked out, a stranger standing in front of him in their own home.
"Did you sleep with him?" Donnie asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Kyri hesitated.
A fraction of a second too long.
His stomach turned. "No," she answered finally, her voice firm. But she wouldn't look him in the eye. And in that moment, Donnie suddenly realized he didn't know when she had stopped telling the truth.
The storm outside intensified, thunder rattling the windows like an angry fist. Kyri crossed her arms again, her chin jutting out in defiance. Then came the sentence that changed everything.
"Maybe we should open the relationship."
Donnie looked at her like she had just reached into his chest and torn out his heart. "What?"
Kyri exhaled sharply, a sound of pure exasperation. "I’m serious."
"You get caught cheatin’ and now suddenly you wanna be progressive?" he asked, his voice laced with incredulous disbelief.
"I’m not cheating if I’m telling you the truth now."
"Now?" The word echoed harshly, full of venom.
Kyri’s frustration bled into anger. "Maybe we got together too young. Maybe we never got to experience other people."
Donnie just stared at her. This woman knew every scar on his body, every fear that haunted his dreams, every version of himself that existed before the money and the fame. And somehow she was talking about their seventeen-year relationship like it was a college phase they needed to outgrow.
"So what?" he asked, his voice hollow, empty. "You wanna date other people while still livin’ in my house?"
Kyri rolled her eyes immediately, a gesture of such casual dismissal it felt more violent than a slap. "See? That’s exactly what I mean. Everything always becomes about money with you."
Donnie actually looked offended, his pride stinging. "Because I mentioned the house?"
"Because you act like providing things means I owe you ownership over my life."
The sentence hit him like a punch to the gut, a low, dirty blow. Because despite everything, despite the rage and the hurt, Donnie never once thought he owned her. He loved her. That was the problem.
Kyri seemed to sense his shift, her expression softening slightly when she saw the raw, wounded look on his face. "I’m not saying I don’t love you," she said, her voice quieter now, more manipulative. "I just think maybe we need space to figure ourselves out."
Space. Such a harmless-sounding word for something that felt like it was tearing his entire world apart.
Donnie’s gaze drifted toward the closed laptop on the desk. Then back to the woman he had spent over half his life loving. And for the first time, a terrifying, soul-crushing thought settled into his chest, heavy and cold.
This didn't start tonight.
Which meant he had already been losing her for a long, long time.
The rules started three days later.
Kyri wrote them sitting barefoot at the kitchen island, the arches of her feet pressed against the cool leather of the barstool. She sipped her iced coffee through a metal straw, the condensation beading on the glass as she discussed dismantling their seventeen-year relationship with the same casual tone she’d use to plan a weekend trip to Cabo.
Donnie stood across from her, a ghost in his own home. He was still in the slacks and wrinkled button-up he’d pulled on that morning, a uniform that felt like a costume now. He hadn't slept properly since the night in her office, not since the world had tilted on its axis. The skin beneath his eyes was a bruised, shadowed purple, his jaw a permanent, tight line of clamped muscle. Outside, the Texas heat was a physical presence, a thick, wet blanket pressing against the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the sprawling green of the ranch into a hazy, watercolor dream. Somewhere near the stables, the low, mournful twang of country music drifted from an old truck radio, a sound that used to feel like home.
Inside, the air-conditioning was on full blast, but the chill had nothing to do with the temperature. It was a cold that emanated from the space between them, a vacuum where warmth used to be.
Kyri’s fingers flew across her phone screen, her manicured nails clicking softly. "Temporary arrangement," she said, her voice crisp, business-like. "Just for a few months. To… recalibrate."
Donnie just stared at her. The effortless way she compartmentalized his agony, her neat little labels for his heartbreak, was a violence in itself. He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, a puff of air that tasted like defeat.
Kyri finally looked up, her expression faintly annoyed, as if he were being difficult. "What?"
"No emotional attachment," he continued, his voice a low, flat monotone as he recited the inevitable list. "No embarrassing each other publicly. Discretion. And don’t ask, don’t tell."
"You got all this planned out already?" The question was barely a question, more a statement of weary disbelief.
Kyri’s gaze didn’t waver. "I’ve been thinking about it for a while."
There it was again. Another confession slipped between the teeth of a lie. For a while. The words echoed in the sudden, suffocating silence of the kitchen. Donnie leaned forward, his palms pressing flat against the cool, unforgiving marble of the countertop. He looked down, not at her, but at the polished stone between them, a gulf he suddenly knew he could never cross. The woman he loved, the woman whose name was etched onto his soul, had been packing her bags in her mind for months. Maybe years. And he’d been too busy polishing the floors of the cage to notice she’d already found the key.
"You don’t gotta do this if you don’t want to," she said, a flicker of something—pity?—in her voice.
But they both knew that was a lie. A courtesy. The truth was ugly and simple: whether he agreed or not, Kyri was going to keep seeing other men. The only difference now was whether she did it behind his back or to his face. The realization hollowed him out, leaving a cavernous, echoing space where his hope used to be.
"Few months," he repeated, the words tasting like ash on his tongue.
Kyri nodded, relieved. "Just to see if space helps us."
Space. That damn word again. Like this was a benign relationship reset, an emotional tune-up, instead of the slow, methodical poisoning of everything he’d ever believed in. He looked at her for a long, hard moment. Still beautiful. Still familiar. Still the girl he’d loved since he was a boy. And yet, she felt further away than the stars in the vast Texas sky.
"Aight," he said finally.
The single word was a surrender. A white flag.
Kyri exhaled, a soft, almost inaudible sound of relief. And that, right there, was the sharpest pain of all. She had expected a fight. Expected yelling, expected tears, expected the grand, dramatic performance of a man whose heart was being shattered. Instead, he had given her permission to do it politely. To break his heart quietly.
The first few weeks were a special kind of hell. A purgatory of his own making. Donnie threw himself into the gaping maw of his work. The Creed Agency headquarters in downtown Dallas, a gleaming glass tower of his own design, became a sanctuary. At least there, he was needed. The constant, frantic hum of the office was a balm. Meetings distracted him. Negotiations gave him purpose. Contracts, media strategy, and endorsement deals were problems he could solve, unlike the gaping, unsolvable wound in his life.
His schedule became a weapon he used against himself. Five a.m. workouts that left him shaking. Back-to-back athlete meetings where he had to be charismatic, brilliant, and in control. NIL dinners with entitled teenagers and their overbearing parents. PR crisis calls at 2 a.m. Late-night sponsorship negotiations that stretched until dawn. Anything to avoid going home.
At the office, he was a king. Young athletes, giants of muscle and ego, practically bowed in his presence. Interns scurried out of his path. Wealthy, powerful men shook his hand like he was a messiah, certain that a meeting with Adonis Creed could secure their children’s future. And women… women noticed him everywhere. At charity galas, at industry events, at business dinners, at upscale bars near the agency. Waitresses slipped him their numbers on napkins. Influencers lingered a touch too long, their eyes full of open invitation. Women in power suits smiled at him, their gazes lingering just a second too long.
Donnie ignored every single one. Not out of some misplaced moral high ground. He ignored them because, emotionally, he was still hers. He was a dog tied to a post in the yard, watching his master run free through the neighborhood. She was out exploring freedom, and he still felt a pang of guilt if he looked at another woman for too long. It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic.
Some nights, he’d drive the aimless loops of the Dallas tollways for hours, the city lights a blurry smear through his windshield, before finally, inevitably, turning the Escalade toward home. Other nights, he’d sit alone on the wide wrap-around porch with a bottle of Blanton’s, watching thunderstorms roll across the property, the lightning illuminating the vast, empty darkness. The rhythmic creak of the rocking chair and the relentless scream of the crickets were the only sounds. Inside the house, he could hear the shower start, the rustle of a garment bag, the quiet hum of Kyri getting ready for a date. And Donnie would sit there, and he would pretend not to notice.
That became the rhythm of their lives. A silent waltz of avoidance. Silence. Distance. Polite, meaningless nods in the hallway.
And Kyri… she started to glow again. That was the worst part. The absolute, soul-crushing part. She laughed more, a real, throaty laugh he hadn’t heard in years. She smiled more, her eyes lighting up with a secret joy. She spent longer getting ready, a ritual of transformation he was no longer a part of. Sometimes he’d catch her in the hallway mirror, pouting her lips, taking a selfie, a private performance for someone else’s eyes. Sometimes he’d hear her from the bathroom, her voice a soft, intimate giggle as she whispered into her phone. And sometimes, she’d come home after midnight, smelling like expensive cologne that wasn’t his, and champagne, and the faint, metallic scent of another man’s skin.
Every time it happened, something inside his chest twisted, a little tighter, a little deeper. But because of the rules, he couldn’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t tell. The arrangement slowly turned their beautiful ranch house, their sanctuary, into enemy territory.
One Friday night, he came home close to one in the morning, utterly drained after finalizing a massive NIL contract with a cocky quarterback from Houston. The house was mostly dark, a sleeping giant except for the kitchen, where a single recessed light cast a warm, lonely glow.
And there she was. Kyri sat barefoot on the massive kitchen island, wearing one of his old Georgetown t-shirts, the soft cotton worn thin. She was quietly eating takeout noodles straight from the container with chopsticks, scrolling through her phone with her free hand. For a single, heart-stopping second, the image was almost normal. Domestic. Familiar. Like old times.
Then his eyes adjusted. And he saw it. A fresh, purplish hickey, low on the delicate skin of her neck, just above her collarbone. An angry brand in the shape of another man’s mouth.
Donnie stopped dead in his tracks. His blood ran cold.
Kyri looked up, her expression casual. "You just get home?"
His eyes stayed locked on the bruise. A brand. A claim. A declaration.
She noticed his gaze immediately. And her expression didn't soften with embarrassment or shame. It hardened. A wall of pure, unadulterated defensiveness. Like he was the one breaking the rules by having the audacity to see it.
"You hungry?" she asked, her voice sharp.
Donnie swallowed, the motion painful against a throat that had suddenly gone bone-dry. "Nah." His voice was a rough, scraped thing.
Kyri looked uncomfortable for a precise two seconds before glancing back down at her phone, dismissing him. Conversation over.
Donnie walked past her, his footsteps heavy, leaden, toward the staircase. Halfway up, he heard her phone buzz with an incoming text. Then he heard her laugh. That soft little laugh again. The same one he used to think belonged only to him.
Sleep became a foreign concept after that. Donnie spent most nights lying awake, staring at the expanse of the ceiling while Kyri slept beside him, a warm, breathing presence that smelled like perfume and unfamiliar places. Sometimes, in the deep of the night, she would curl against him automatically, her body seeking his out of old habit. That almost hurt more than the cheating itself. Because her body, the muscle memory of their shared life, still remembered him. Even if her heart didn’t.
Weeks bled into months. And slowly, something inside Donnie began to change. Not healing. God, no. Not yet. It was exhaustion. The kind that comes when heartbreak stops feeling like a sharp, stabbing pain and starts feeling like a permanent, dull ache in your bones. He stopped trying as hard. He stopped asking if she wanted him to pick up dinner on his way home. He stopped planning date nights; she would only cancel. He stopped waiting up.
And Kyri noticed.
One night, she found him asleep in his home office, slumped in his leather chair with a stack of endorsement contracts spread across his chest. She stood in the doorway, a silhouette in the dark.
"You could’ve came upstairs," she said quietly.
Donnie barely looked up from the glow of his laptop screen, his eyes gritty with fatigue. "Fell asleep workin’."
Kyri lingered for a moment, a silent, unresolved question hanging in the air between them. But instead of speaking, she just nodded and disappeared back upstairs.
And Donnie sat there alone, listening to the silence swallow the house all over again, a king in a castle that was no longer his home.
The bar smelled like whiskey, rain, and old wood, a trinity of scents that felt like the state’s unofficial anthem. Low R&B, smooth and melancholic, drifted through the room, a sonic blanket over the low hum of conversations that blurred together beneath the dim, honey-colored lighting. The place was a secret, tucked away on the edge of downtown behind a brick facade most people drove past without a second glance. It was one of those establishments where the town's old money oil barons sat beside retired athletes, both pretending not to recognize each other while their expensive watches flashed like silent boasts. It was a place where women in designer dresses laughed too loudly after midnight, and the bartenders had learned years ago that their livelihoods depended on being ghosts, not repeaters.
Donnie sat alone in a corner booth, nursing a glass of Blanton’s he barely tasted. The ice had long since melted, diluting the amber liquid into a pale, sad shadow of its former self. Outside, rain streaked down the tall, arched windows again, a relentless, weeping pattern. Texas storms had been following him for weeks, or maybe he was just finally noticing them, the external weather mirroring the perpetual climate of his soul. The exhaustion in his body had settled somewhere deeper now, a permanent resident in the hollow space behind his ribs, a quiet, aching void that waited for him every time he walked through the front door of the ranch house.
Across the room, a sudden burst of laughter erupted near the bar. Donnie barely looked up. His phone buzzed once against the dark wood of the table, a familiar, dreaded vibration. Kyri. For half a second, his stomach still performed its old, conditioned trick, a little flip of anticipation. Then he remembered, and the feeling curdled into a dull, heavy dread. He opened the text.
Going out with friends tonight. Don’t wait up.
No heart emoji. No nickname. Nothing soft. Just information. A dispatch from a life he was no longer a part of. Donnie locked the screen without replying, the gesture feeling more final each time. The bartender, a portly man with a kind face who knew his regulars, appeared as if by magic and poured another bourbon without a word. That should’ve embarrassed him, the public display of his misery. Instead, he just accepted the glass with a quiet nod of thanks, the ritual of it a small comfort in a world that had lost all its rituals.
A few women had already recognized him tonight. A brunette in a dress so tight it looked painted on had lingered near his table, her perfume a cloying cloud of vanilla and ambition. Another had sent him a drink, a glass of expensive tequila he’d let sit until the ice melted. Someone near the bar had whispered his name at least twice, a sibilant whisper that followed him like a ghost. Adonis Creed still carried a gravitational pull everywhere he went, a planet with his own orbit of admirers. Tall, broad-shouldered, his expensive suit loosened just enough to look dangerous instead of polished, his face was still a familiar sight from magazine covers and championship interviews. Even exhausted, he looked like someone people wanted a piece of.
Normally, he knew how to handle the attention, how to deflect it with a polite smile or a cool, distant stare. Tonight, he was a ghost in his own life, and he barely noticed it. Because no matter how miserable things became, some pathetic, loyal part of him still felt tethered to Kyri. Still waited for her. Still loved her.
The bathroom hallway sat just beyond the back bar, a dark, narrow passage. Donnie only noticed because a flash of movement caught his eye, a familiar silhouette that made his entire body go still. Kyri.
She wore a dark brown slip dress he’d never seen before, a garment so simple yet so devastatingly effective it turned heads the moment she walked in. The fabric hugged her body like a second skin, smooth and liquid against her brown skin, the high slit along her thigh flashing a tantalizing glimpse of leg with every step she took. Her hair was a cascade of soft curls around her shoulders, and large gold hoops brushed against the delicate skin of her neck whenever she tilted her head back to laugh.
And there was a man behind her. Tall, young, with a cocky grin and a hand resting low against her back, his fingers s possessively. Too comfortable. Too familiar.
Donnie stared. The room suddenly felt distant, the sounds and smells and sights blurring at the edges, like he was watching a scene from underwater. Kyri looked happy. Not the polite, performative happiness she wore at charity events. Not the tired, strained happiness she sometimes faked for him. Actually, genuinely happy. The man leaned close, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered something. She smiled, a wide, unguarded, brilliant smile. That same smile Donnie used to spend thousands of dollars on vacations and jewelry and cars just to coax out of her now came easily, freely, from another man saying something stupid in a bar.
Something cracked quietly inside his chest, a hairline fracture on the surface of his heart. He should’ve looked away. He should’ve finished his drink and gone home. Instead, he watched, a silent, tortured voyeur in his own personal horror show. He watched the man guide her toward the dark, inviting maw of the bathroom hallway. He watched Kyri glance around once, a quick, furtive check, before pulling him into the shadows near the restroom doors.
Then the touching started. Hands everywhere. The man pressed her lightly against the wall, his body a cage of muscle and intent. Kyri grabbed the front of his shirt, laughing under her breath, a sound Donnie felt in his bones. His mouth brushed near her neck, and her fingers slid into his hair, tangling, pulling. It was intimate. It was comfortable. It was practiced. Like this wasn't new. Like they had done this before.
Donnie couldn’t breathe for a second. This wasn’t some abstract arrangement anymore. It wasn’t a theory. It wasn’t the rules. It wasn’t carefully worded conversations in their pristine kitchen. This was real. His girl. The woman he’d spent over half his life loving, the woman he’d built an empire for, was touching another man like she used to touch him. He watched the stranger’s hand slide lower, lower, tracing the curve of her hip before she grabbed his wrist with a grin that looked almost playful, almost challenging.
God. Donnie remembered when she used to look at him like that.
Kyri disappeared into the men’s restroom with him a second later, the dark hallway swallowing them whole. Donnie looked down at the untouched bourbon in front of him, his hands suddenly feeling numb, detached. People around him kept talking. Kept laughing. Kept living. And somehow, the world continuing to function normally felt like the cruelest insult of all.
Ten minutes later, Kyri walked back out, smoothing down her dress while the man adjusted his watch behind her. She looked flushed. Beautiful. Happy. Neither of them noticed Donnie sitting in the corner, a shadow in his own life. The man wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her toward the exit. Kyri leaned into him naturally, her head resting on his shoulder. Like she belonged there.
Donnie watched them leave together through the rain-covered windows, their forms blurring into streaks of color and light. Then he finally looked away. For the first time since all of this started, he felt something worse than anger. Something deeper, more corrosive. Humiliation. Not because she wanted somebody else. Because somewhere along the line, he’d become the man sitting alone in bars waiting for someone who had already left emotionally.
"Damn."
The voice, a low, drawling alto, startled him. Donnie looked up.
Stevie stood beside the booth, holding a tequila soda in one hand, the condensation beading on the glass like tiny jewels. She was a study in contrasts. A short, blonde pixie cut that was both edgy and elegant. Gold rings stacked across both hands, catching the light. Her brown skin seemed to glow beneath the amber bar lights, a warm, rich tone that was impossible to ignore. A black leather jacket was thrown over one shoulder, and beneath it, a simple white tank top was tucked into dark jeans that fit her like trouble. Sharp eyes. Sharp mouth. Sharp everything. Confidence rolled off her in waves, not loud or performative, but solid, unshakable, a quiet self-assurance that was more intimidating than any boast.
He recognized her immediately. Stevie was a family friend of Kyri’s cousin Stella. Donnie had seen her at countless cookouts, birthday dinners, and holiday parties. Usually, she was somewhere in the background, holding court with a small group of people, her sharp wit and dry humor a counterpoint to the town's more saccharine social graces. And Kyri hated her. Which, in retrospect, should’ve been a flashing neon sign warning him that Stevie was probably the most interesting person in the room.
"You look like somebody shot your dog," Stevie said bluntly, her Texas accent a slow, warm drawl.
Despite everything, a rough, broken laugh escaped Donnie’s chest. It was small. Surprised. Real.
Stevie slid into the booth across from him without asking, a move that was both presumptuous and strangely welcome. "That bad, huh?"
Donnie rubbed one hand across his jaw, the rasp of his stubble a grounding sensation. "Somethin’ like that."
Stevie’s gaze flickered toward the exit where Kyri had disappeared moments earlier. Understanding dawned in her eyes, clear and immediate. But she didn’t pity him. That was important. Most people looked at Donnie like he was a god, a figure too powerful, too successful to be touched by mortal pain. Stevie just looked at him like a tired man sitting alone in a bar, a sight she’d clearly seen before.
"You want me to lie or tell the truth?" she asked, taking a sip of her drink.
"Depends on what the truth is."
"The truth is, you look miserable."
Another laugh slipped out, this one a little easier, a little more genuine. "Appreciate that."
"You rich people really don’t know how to suffer quietly," she teased, a glint of amusement in her eyes.
Donnie shook his head slowly, a small smile playing on his lips. "I ain’t rich people."
Stevie raised an eyebrow, a gesture of pure, elegant skepticism. "You drove here in a truck worth more than my first apartment."
"That don’t mean I stopped bein’ from here," he countered, his voice low, earnest.
"Mm. Fair enough," she conceded, nodding slowly.
The bartender appeared again, setting down another tequila soda for her without a word. "You come here often?" Donnie asked, feeling the need to fill the silence, to keep this strange, comforting conversation going.
"Enough to know they water down the tequila after midnight," she said, a wry smile playing on her lips.
He laughed again. And for some reason, the sound felt strange coming out of him, like his body had forgotten the mechanics of it.
Hours passed more easily than they should have. That surprised him most. Stevie talked with her hands, her fingers painting pictures in the air as she told ridiculous stories about art gallery clients trying to sound intellectual while clearly high. She complained about wealthy men treating therapy language like personality traits, her impression of a bro-y CEO saying "I'm just in my toxic masculinity era" so spot-on he almost spit out his bourbon. She roasted him twice for owning a pair of custom-made Lucchese cowboy boots that cost more than her car payment.
At one point, she told a story about an oil heir trying to explain the meaning behind a piece of abstract art while accidentally standing directly in front of the exhibit upside down, trying to see it from a "different perspective." Donnie laughed hard enough to choke on his bourbon, a real, gut-busting laugh that felt like a release, like a pressure valve being opened for the first time in months.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, Donnie started talking too. Really talking. Not the polished, media-trained version of himself. The real one. The tired one. The lonely one. He told her about the arrangement, not every sordid detail, but enough. The words came out in a rush, a confession he hadn't even known he was holding.
Stevie listened quietly, her chin resting on her hand, her eyes fixed on his. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t offer fake sympathy or empty platitudes. She just listened.
When he finally finished, the silence that settled between them wasn't awkward. It was comfortable. Stevie leaned back against the booth slowly, her gaze thoughtful. "Sounds like Kyri wanna have her cake and eat it too," she said plainly.
Donnie looked down into his bourbon, the swirling liquid a distorted mirror of his own thoughts. Because deep down, he already knew that. "Maybe," he admitted quietly.
Stevie studied him for a second, her eyes sharp, discerning. "Question is why you lettin’ her?"
That hit harder than he expected. Because he didn’t have a good answer. Love, maybe. Habit. Fear. Seventeen years of shared history. Probably all of it, tangled together in a knot he couldn't seem to untie.
Stevie watched him quietly for another moment before sighing softly, a sound that was both weary and wise. "You know what your problem is?"
Donnie glanced up, his eyes tired. "Should I even ask?"
"You keep mournin’ somebody who still alive," she said, her voice soft but firm.
The sentence landed directly in his chest, a perfect, painful bullseye. Because that was exactly what this felt like. Grief. Slow, agonizing grief. The kind that dragged itself out over months until you barely recognized your own life anymore.
Outside, rain hammered softly against the windows while the bar emptied slowly around them. The bartender eventually lowered the music. Chairs started turning upside down on empty tables near the front, a signal that the night was over. But neither of them moved. And for the first time in months, Donnie realized something important.
He didn’t feel lonely sitting across from Stevie.
Not even a little.
The first time Donnie went to The Gilded Cage, he almost drove past it.
The gallery sat tucked between an old record store and a closed-down cigar lounge near the arts district just outside downtown. From the street, it was a study in subtlety. Black brick exterior. Gold lettering, elegant and understated, across dark, reflective windows. A single gas lantern hung above the entrance, casting a warm, flickering light onto rain-slicked pavement. It whispered its presence rather than shouting it.
Which somehow fit Stevie perfectly.
Donnie sat in his truck for a moment, the engine idling softly, watching people move in and out of the building. Artists with paint-stained fingers, models with haunted eyes, rich couples dressed in black silk and cashmere, moving with the easy confidence of people who had secrets to keep. A few familiar faces from Dallas society, people he’d seen at charity galas and corporate events, were pretending not to notice each other, their polite nods a dance of social camouflage.
His phone buzzed against the center console.
Stevie.
You gon’ sit outside all night or actually come in?
Despite himself, a real smile spread across Donnie’s face. That had started happening more lately. Smiling. It felt unfamiliar at first, like a muscle he hadn’t used in years, a foreign expression on a face that had forgotten how.
Their friendship had slipped quietly into his life over the last several weeks, a slow, creeping vine that had wrapped around his barren emotional landscape. Late-night phone calls that somehow lasted until two in the morning, their conversations a comfortable mix of bullshit and brutal honesty. Random diner runs after work, greasy fries and burnt coffee shared in a booth that felt more like home than his own kitchen. Stevie was sending him blurry pictures of ridiculous art pieces with captions that roasted them so savagely he’d laugh until his sides hurt. Donnie was calling her while driving home from meetings just because the silence in the truck had started to feel heavier, more oppressive than the noise of the city.
None of it was planned. It just… happened. And somehow, all of it mattered.
He killed the engine and stepped out of the truck, crossing the street toward the gallery.
Inside, The Gilded Cage glowed gold and amber beneath low-hanging lights. Smooth jazz drifted softly through the space, a sophisticated, sensual counterpoint to the low hum of conversations and the quiet clinking of ice in expensive glasses. The gallery itself felt intimate, almost conspiratorial, instead of pretentious. Huge, arresting paintings lined dark, exposed-brick walls beside abstract sculptures that looked like captured emotions and black-and-white photography that was so raw it felt like a violation. Some pieces were beautiful. Some were deeply uncomfortable. Some were openly, unapologetically sensual.
One massive canvas near the center of the room stopped him in his tracks. It depicted two faceless figures, their forms a riot of tangled limbs, rendered in thick, impasto gold paint and deep, velvety shadows. It was a portrait of passion, of anonymity, of pure, unadulterated need.
"That one makes church women nervous," a low, familiar voice said beside him.
He turned. Stevie stood there, holding two glasses of bourbon, the amber liquid catching the light. Tonight her blonde pixie was slicked neatly back from her face, a sharp, elegant frame for her features. Delicate gold chains rested against the deep brown skin of her neck, exposed by a black silk button-up she wore with the top few buttons left open, a casual, confident invitation. Rings flashed across her fingers as she handed him a drink.
She looked expensive. But not polished. There was still something rough around her edges, something wild and untamed that no amount of silk or gold could ever cover. Something real.
"You own this place?" Donnie asked, his eyes roaming the space, taking it all in.
Stevie snorted softly, a sound of pure, unadulterated derision. "Nah, I just like bossin’ people around in here."
He laughed. And there it was again. Easy. Everything with Stevie somehow felt easy. Effortless.
"Seriously," he said, his voice sincere. "This nice as hell."
Her expression softened, the usual sharp wit in her eyes giving way to something warmer, more vulnerable. "Thank you." The sincerity surprised him. Because Stevie joked through almost everything, a shield as much as a weapon. But this place… this place mattered to her. He could tell.
People greeted Stevie constantly as they moved through the gallery. Artists hugged her, their faces lighting up. Bartenders smiled when she passed, their respect evident. A wealthy older couple, pillars of Dallas society, waved from across the room, their smiles genuine. Stevie belonged here. Not because of money or status, but because she had built something people actually loved. That realization sat strangely heavy in Donnie’s chest. Kyri loved luxury. Stevie loved creation. There was a difference.
Later that night, they ended up on the gallery's rooftop, a hidden oasis with a panoramic view of the city. They shared a greasy bag of fries from a 24-hour diner, the salt and vinegar a sharp, welcome contrast to the smooth bourbon they’d been drinking. Downtown lights shimmered in the distance, a sprawling carpet of diamonds. The Texas air felt warm, thick, and alive.
Stevie leaned back in her chair, one worn leather boot resting on the metal railing. "So you finally tell Kyri no yet?" she asked, popping a fry into her mouth.
Donnie glanced over, a frown creasing his brow. "No to what?"
"Anything."
He laughed quietly, a self-deprecating sound. "You make me sound pathetic."
"If the boot fit," she shot back without missing a beat.
"Damn."
"I’m serious though," Stevie said, her tone shifting, becoming more pointed. "You talk about her like she your boss instead of your partner."
That bothered him. Mostly because it wasn’t completely wrong.
Donnie looked down at the city lights below, a dizzying, beautiful maze. "It ain’t like that."
"Then why you always apologizin’ for takin’ up space?"
He frowned slightly. "I don’t do that."
Stevie gave him a look. The kind of look that said she already knew better, that she saw through the carefully constructed facade of the calm, accommodating partner. And for some reason, Donnie didn’t argue. Because lately he’d started noticing it too. How often he adjusted himself to keep the peace. How quickly he backed down from his own wants. How much of his life revolved around avoiding conflict with Kyri. Even now. Even after everything. The realization made him deeply uncomfortable.
A week later, Stevie dragged him to an all-night diner on the outskirts of town after one of his athlete meetings ran late. The place was a greasy spoon, a relic from another era, with sticky vinyl booths and a waitress who called everyone "honey." The waitress recognized Donnie immediately and flirted shamelessly while pouring his coffee, her lingering touches and overly bright smile a performance he’d seen a thousand times.
Donnie stayed polite. Distant. Professional. A wall of quiet, unbreachable reserve.
Stevie noticed. She noticed everything. The restraint. The way his voice deepened slightly when he was irritated was a low, warning rumble. The way people listened immediately when he spoke calmly, his natural authority was undeniable. The way his eyes tracked every room automatically was a fighter's instinct for assessing threats and exits. The way control sat on him like a well-worn coat, a natural part of his being, even while he pretended not to want it. Donnie carried authority without trying. But he hid from it emotionally. That fascinated Stevie.
"You know somethin’ funny?" she said, stealing a fry off his plate.
"What?"
"You intimidating as hell till it come to Kyri."
Donnie sighed tiredly, the fight draining out of him. "Everybody got a weakness."
"Mm. I don’t think she your weakness."
He looked up, his eyes meeting hers across the sticky Formica table. "Then what is she?"
Stevie held his gaze for a long moment, her eyes sharp, discerning, before answering. "Habit."
The word hit him hard enough to quiet the entire table. Because habit explained things that love no longer could. It explained the inertia, the fear of change, the slow, creeping decay of their shared life.
Weeks turned into months slowly. And somewhere amid all the conversations and late-night drives and gallery visits, Donnie started to change. Small things first. He stopped answering Kyri’s passive-aggressive comments with apologies. He stopped rearranging meetings every time she demanded attention at the last second. He stopped asking permission to exist comfortably inside his own home.
One afternoon, Kyri called him during a crucial recruiting meeting, her voice tight with irritation, demanding he leave early to pick up a piece of furniture she’d ordered. Normally, he would’ve done it. He would’ve made his excuses, apologized to the room, and left. Instead, he leaned back in his expensive leather chair, looked out at the Dallas skyline, and said calmly, "Can’t. I’m workin’."
Silence. A long, shocked silence on the other end of the line. Kyri sounded genuinely, profoundly shocked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
Another silence, this one thick with her rising anger. "You’ve been actin’ different lately."
Donnie stared out the office windows, his reflection a ghost against the sprawling city. Maybe he had. "Maybe I’m just tired," he answered. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. For the first time in years, Donnie was starting to remember himself outside of Kyri.
And Stevie saw it happening before he did.
One night after closing the gallery, she found him leaning against the front counter, watching her count the day's receipts, the quiet domesticity of the moment feeling more intimate than anything he’d experienced in months.
"What?" she asked without looking up, her fingers flying over the stack of cash.
Donnie shrugged. "Nothin’."
"You starin’."
"Am not."
Stevie smirked, a slow, knowing smile. "You smile more now."
That caught him off guard. Because she was right. The realization sat quietly between them, a truth that was both comforting and terrifying.
Stevie finally looked up from the register, her eyes finding his in the soft, amber light. "There you is," she said softly.
Donnie frowned slightly. "What that mean?"
Stevie locked the register drawer with a definitive click before walking toward him slowly, her movements fluid and deliberate. "Means I think you been hidin’ pieces of yourself so long you forgot what they looked like."
The words settled somewhere deep in his chest, a profound, unsettling truth. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that before. Not carefully. Not with kid gloves. Just… honestly.
And standing there beneath the soft amber lights of The Gilded Cage, Donnie realized something that scared him a little. He looked forward to seeing Stevie more than he looked forward to going home. That thought should’ve filled him with guilt. Instead, it filled him with a profound, undeniable sense of relief.
Later, as they were locking up, Stevie leaned against the door, her arms crossed over her chest. "You know, this ain't just about Kyri," she said, her voice low, serious.
Donnie paused, his hand on the door. "What you mean?"
"This… this new you. This backbone you're growin'. It can't just be for her. You can't only turn it on when she calls. You gotta start using it on everybody."
He frowned, not understanding.
"People been walkin' all over you for years, Donnie. Not just her. Business associates. The media. Those damn vulture recruits who think you owe 'em somethin'. You let 'em disrespect you to your face, and you just stand there takin' it, all polite and controlled." She pushed off the door and stepped closer, her eyes intense. "You need to learn to tell 'em to shut up before you fuck 'em up."
He blinked, taken aback by the raw, visceral language. "Stevie—"
"I'm serious," she interrupted, her voice dropping. "You got this fire in you, this… this power. You just keep it on a leash. You think bein' calm and collected is the only way to be respected. But there's a difference between bein' calm and bein' a doormat. You need to let 'em see the teeth. Let 'em know that if they push you too far, they ain't just gonna get a polite letter from your lawyer. They're gonna get you. And you are a fuckin' storm, Donnie. It's time you started actin' like it."
Her words were a revelation, a permission slip he didn't know he needed. She wasn't just telling him to stand up to his girlfriend. She was telling him to reclaim himself. All of himself. The calm negotiator and the storm that lurked beneath. The champion and the man.
They were back in the sanctuary of The Gilded Cage’s rooftop, the city lights a sprawling, silent galaxy beneath them. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the faint, lingering smell of rain. Donnie was leaning against the railing, a glass of bourbon dangling from his fingers, his mind a million miles away. Or maybe a few feet away, focused on the pair of black sandals Stevie had propped up on the chair opposite him. He’d been… distracted by her feet lately. It was a small, strange thing, but he’d noticed the way his eyes would track them, the elegant arch of her foot, the delicate way her ankles were accentuated by her sandals. He’d even made a joke once, a half-serious, half-desperate attempt at flirting, about emptying his bank account for a few pictures of her pedicured toes. She’d laughed it off, but he’d seen the flicker of understanding in her eyes.
"You're quiet tonight," Stevie said, her voice a low, smooth drawl that cut through his thoughts. "More than usual."
"Just thinkin'," he murmured, not taking his eyes off the distant skyline.
"About?"
"Everything. Nothin'." He sighed, running a hand over his face. "Feel like I'm livin' in someone else's life lately."
Stevie was quiet for a moment, letting his words hang in the warm night air. "Maybe it's time you started livin' in your own," she said softly.
He turned to look at her then, really look at her. The way the city lights caught the gold chains around her neck, the sharp intelligence in her eyes, the confident set of her mouth. "And how do I do that?"
Stevie took a slow sip of her drink, her gaze unwavering. "By stopin' bein' who everybody else thinks you're supposed to be. By findin' out who you are when no one's watchin'."
Donnie frowned, a familiar frustration coiling in his gut. "Easier said than done."
"Maybe not," she said, her voice dropping, becoming more intimate, more conspiratorial. "Maybe you just need the right place to do it."
He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What you talkin' about?"
Stevie leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her voice a low, seductive whisper. "You ever heard of a place called Sinners?"
The name itself sent a shiver down his spine, a thrill of something forbidden, something dangerous. "Can't say I have."
"It's a club," she said simply. "A private club. For people who want to… explore. Without judgment. Without the whole world watchin'."
Donnie felt a strange mix of apprehension and curiosity. "What kind of explorin'?"
Stevie’s eyes gleamed with a knowing light. "The kind that matters. The kind that wakes you up."
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle between them. "Look, I'm gonna be real with you, Donnie. I see things in you. Things you keep locked down tight. A need for control that's so deep it's almost a part of your DNA. A… darkness. A part of you that likes to watch, that likes to… possess."
Donnie’s breath hitched in his throat. She saw him. She saw the parts of himself he’d spent a lifetime hiding, the parts of himself he was ashamed of, the parts of himself that craved more than the quiet, desperate life he’d been living.
"I'm a Dom, Donnie," she said, her voice clear, direct, unashamed. "It's what I do. It's who I am. And I'm good at it. I have a sub. A man who pays me for the privilege of kneelin' at my feet. Who gets off on my praise, my punishment, my control."
Donnie stared at her, his mind reeling. He should've been shocked. He should've been disgusted. Instead, he was… fascinated. Aroused. A fire was starting to burn low in his belly, a fire he hadn't felt in years.
"And I see that same fire in you," she continued, her voice a low, hypnotic hum. "I see the way you look at me. I see the way you look at my feet." She smirked, a slow, wicked smile that made his blood run hot. "Don't think I haven't noticed. You got a thing for feet, Adonis Creed. And that's okay. It's more than okay. It's a part of you. A part of you that deserves to be fed."
Donnie felt a blush creep up his neck, a hot, prickling wave of embarrassment and desire. He was exposed. Seen. And it was terrifying. And it was the most liberating thing he'd ever felt.
"I want to take you to Sinners," she said, her voice softening, becoming a gentle invitation. "No pressure. No expectations. Just… a place to watch. To learn. To see what's out there. To see what's in you."
Donnie looked at her, his heart pounding a frantic, frantic rhythm against his ribs. He was scared. He was terrified of what he might find, of what he might become. But he was also tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of pretending. Tired of being a shadow of himself.
"I want to see the real you, Donnie," she whispered, her eyes locked on his. "Not the billionaire. Not the provider. Not the public figure. The man underneath. The man who craves control. The man who needs to be worshipped. The man who needs to worship."
He took a deep, shuddering breath, the air thick with the scent of her, with the promise of something new, something dangerous, something real. "Okay," he said, his voice a raw, rough whisper. "Okay."
A week later, they stood outside Sinners. It was hidden beneath an old, luxury hotel outside town, a place that looked like it hadn't been updated since the 1920s. The entrance was unmarked, a simple, black door with a single, gold knocker. Stevie knocked, a sharp, deliberate rap. A moment later, the door opened, revealing a tall, imposing man in a well-tailored suit.
"Stevie," he said, his voice a low, respectful rumble. "Good to see you."
"Marcus," she replied, her voice cool, confident. "This is Donnie. He's with me."
Marcus’s eyes flickered over Donnie, a quick, assessing glance. "Welcome to Sinners," he said, stepping aside to let them in.
Inside, the club was a revelation. It was nothing like Donnie had expected. It wasn't sleazy or grimy. It was… elegant. A study in dark wood, deep velvet, and soft, gold lighting. Live jazz drifted from a hidden sound system, a smooth, sophisticated soundtrack to the scenes playing out around them. There were voyeur balconies overlooking the main floor, a long, well-stocked bar, and a series of private rooms, their doors closed, their secrets safe.
Donnie’s eyes widened as he took it all in. He saw a woman on her knees, her head bowed, as a man whispered in her ear, his hand stroking her hair. He saw a couple on a large, velvet chaise lounge, the woman tying the man's hands with a length of silk, her expression one of pure, unadulterated power. He saw a man on a stage, his back to the audience, as a woman in a corset and thigh-high boots used a flogger on his back, the rhythmic thwack a hypnotic, mesmerizing sound.
Stevie guided him to a quiet, secluded booth in the corner, a place where they could see without being seen. "Just watch," she whispered, her hand resting on his arm, her touch a grounding, comforting presence. "Just observe. Don't think. Just feel."
Donnie did as she said. He watched. He saw the raw, unfiltered desire on people's faces. He saw the trust, the vulnerability, the profound, almost spiritual connection between the Dominants and the submissives. He saw the pleasure, the pain, the release. And he felt something inside him, something he hadn't felt in a long, long time, begin to stir.
He saw a man kneel at a woman's feet, his lips pressed against the toe of her shoe, his eyes closed in ecstasy. And he felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire shoot through him. He saw a woman praise her sub, her voice a low, husky purr, "Good boy. You're such a good boy for me," and he felt a strange, unfamiliar ache in his chest, a desire to be praised, to be found worthy, to be… good.
And then he saw her. Stevie.
She was on the other side of the room, a vision in black leather and raw power. Her sub, a tall, muscular man with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite, was on his knees before her. His head was bowed, his hands clasped behind his back. Stevie circled him slowly, her movements fluid, predatory. She stopped in front of him, her booted foot resting on his shoulder.
"Look at me," she commanded, her voice a low, sharp crack of a whip.
The man looked up, his eyes filled with a devotion so pure, so absolute, it made Donnie's breath catch.
"You've been a good boy this week, haven't you, Terrance?" she purred, her hand stroking his hair.
"Yes, Mistress," he breathed, his voice a hoarse, reverent whisper.
"Tell me what you want," she said, her voice a low, seductive taunt.
"To serve you, Mistress," he said without hesitation. "To please you. To be yours."
Donnie watched, mesmerized, as Stevie put Terrance through his paces, her commands sharp, her praise soft, her control absolute. He saw the power in her, the confidence, the raw dominance. And he saw the peace in Terrance, the surrender, the profound, soul-deep release that came from giving up control.
And in that moment, Donnie understood. This wasn't just about sex. This wasn't just about kink. This was about connection. This was about trust. This was about seeing and being seen, truly and completely, for who you were.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Stevie standing beside him, her eyes soft, her expression knowing. "You see?" she whispered.
Donnie nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear, her voice a low, seductive promise. "This is who you are, Donnie. This is the man you've been hiding. The man who craves control. The man who needs to be worshipped. The man who needs to worship."
He looked at her, his eyes wide with a newfound understanding, a newfound hunger. "And what about you?" he asked, his voice a raw, rough whisper. "What do you need?"
Stevie’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something vulnerable, something raw, passing through them. "I need to submit," she whispered, her voice so low he could barely hear it. "To the right man. To a man who's strong enough to handle me. To a man who's not afraid to take what he wants."
Donnie felt a power surge through him. He looked at her, at the woman who had shown him this world, who had seen the darkness in him and hadn't run away. And he knew. He knew what he wanted.
He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin. "I'm not afraid," he said, his voice a low, confident growl.
And in the dim, seductive light of Sinners, under the watchful eyes of the club's patrons, Donnie leaned in and kissed her. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a declaration. It was the kiss of a man who had finally found himself and who was ready to claim the woman who had shown him the way.
The first time it happened, it wasn't in the shadowed, opulent world of Sinners. It was in the sterile, impersonal quiet of a hotel room in downtown Dallas. The Four Seasons. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a city he owned but no longer recognized. He hadn't planned it. He'd just called her, the need a sudden, sharp ache in his chest. "I need to see you," he'd said, his voice a low, raw command he didn't know he possessed.
She'd arrived without question, letting herself into the suite with a key card he'd left for her at the front desk. She was wearing a simple black dress, her hair slicked back. She looked like she was there for a business meeting. But her eyes, when they met his, told a different story.
They stood there for a long moment, the silence between them thick with unspoken questions, with the weight of what they were about to do.
"You nervous?" Stevie asked, her voice a low, steady hum.
Donnie let out a slow breath, a sound that was half-sigh, half-growl. "A little."
"Good," she said, a small, wicked smile playing on her lips.
She walked toward him slowly, her hips swaying with a predatory grace. She stopped in front of him, so close he could feel the heat radiating from her skin. "You remember what I said?" she whispered, her eyes locked on his. "About needin' to submit to the right man?"
Donnie nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
"Show me," she breathed. "Show me you're him."
That was all it took. The dam broke. The carefully constructed wall of control he'd built around himself for years crumbled into dust. He reached out, his hands cupping her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. And then he kissed her. It wasn't the kiss from Sinners, a declaration of intent. This was a kiss of need. A kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperation. A kiss that said, I'm here. I'm ready. Take me.
Stevie responded in kind, her body pressing against his, a soft, willing surrender. But it was a surrender that was also a challenge. A test. And Donnie was determined to pass.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark with a hunger that was both terrifying and exhilarating. "On your knees," he commanded, his voice a low, rough growl that was both a question and a demand.
Stevie’s breath hitched, a flicker of surprise and desire in her eyes. She sank to her knees slowly, gracefully. She looked up at him, her expression one of complete and utter trust. And that, right there, was everything. It wasn't the submission that mattered. It was the trust. The fact that this strong, beautiful, dominant woman was willing to put herself in his hands, to let him see her, to let him have her, was a gift so profound it almost brought him to his knees.
He reached down, his hand cupping her chin, his thumb stroking her lower lip. "You're so beautiful," he breathed, his voice a low, reverent whisper.
And then it began.
Their relationship grew in the shadows, in the stolen moments between meetings and obligations, in the secret weekends and hidden hotel stays that became their sanctuary. It was a world built on rituals, on a shared language of desire and devotion.
There was the ritual of undressing. He would undress her slowly, reverently, his fingers tracing the lines of her body, his lips following in their wake, learning every curve, every twitch of the nerve. It was an act of worship, a slow, deliberate exploration that left them both trembling with need.
There was the ritual of the commands. He would tell her what to do, his voice a low, hypnotic hum. "Touch yourself for me." "Tell me what you want." "Cum for me." "How many spankings today" And she would obey, her body a willing instrument, her responses a symphony of pleasure and surrender.
There was the ritual of the praise. He would praise her, his voice a low, soothing balm. "Good girl." "You're so good for me." "You're takin' it so well." And she would preen under his words, her body arching, her eyes shining with a pleasure that was more than just physical. It was a pleasure of the soul.
But it was the aftercare that meant the most. After the intensity, they would lie tangled in the sheets. He would hold her, his arms wrapped around her, his lips pressed against her hair. He would whisper words of love, of gratitude, of a devotion so deep it scared him. And she would hold him back, her body a warm, trusting weight against his, her hands stroking his back, her voice a low, soothing hum that calmed the storm raging inside him.
It was in those moments, in the quiet aftermath, that Donnie became emotionally alive. He felt things he hadn't felt in years. Joy. Laughter. Tenderness. A love so pure, so profound, it felt like a revelation.
He became more confident, more assertive, not just in the bedroom, but in the boardroom, in his life. He started setting boundaries, not just with Kyri, but with everyone. He started saying no. He started taking up space. He started being the man he was always meant to be.
And people started noticing.
Especially Kyri.
The first time she noticed was at a family dinner. A loud, chaotic affair at her parents' house, with too much food, too much drink, and too many relatives asking too many questions. Donnie was there, a quiet, solid presence at her side. But he was different. He was more present. More engaged. He laughed more easily. He spoke with a quiet authority that commanded attention.
And then Stevie walked in.
She was Kyri's cousin Stella's plus-one. A fact that Kyri had conveniently forgotten to mention. Stevie looked incredible. A short, tight red dress that showed off her curves to perfection. Her blonde pixie was a mess of artful spikes. Her eyes were sharp, her smile wicked.
She made a beeline for them, her hips swaying, her confidence a palpable force. "Donnie," she said, her voice a low, seductive purr. "Good to see you."
"Stevie," he replied, his voice a low, calm rumble. But his eyes, when they met hers, were burning with a fire that was impossible to miss.
Kyri saw it. She saw the way he looked at Stevie, the way his body leaned toward her, the way his eyes darkened with a desire that was both possessive and profound. She saw the subtle, almost imperceptible touch of his hand on the small of Stevie's back, a gesture that was both intimate and proprietary.
And she knew.
She didn't know how, she didn't know when, but she knew. Something had changed. Something had shifted. And she was no longer the center of his universe.
Later that night, as they were getting ready for bed, Kyri turned to him, her eyes sharp, her voice tight with accusation. "What's goin' on with you and Stevie?"
Donnie looked at her, his expression calm, unreadable. "What you mean?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Donnie," she snapped. "I saw the way you looked at her."
Donnie sighed, a sound of weary resignation. He was tired of hiding. Tired of pretending. "She's my friend, Kyri."
"Friend?" Kyri scoffed, her voice dripping with disdain. "Is that what we're callin' it these days?"
Donnie didn't answer. He just looked at her, his eyes cold, his expression distant. He continued unbuttoning his shirt, his movements slow, deliberate, utterly unconcerned. And in that moment, Kyri knew. The game had changed. And she was no longer the one making the rules.
Her face, already tight with suspicion, flushed with a hot, angry red. "Don't you dare look at me like that," she seethed, her voice rising. "Like I'm being unreasonable. Like I'm the one who's out of line."
Donnie paused, his shirt hanging open, revealing the plain white t-shirt beneath. He turned his head, his gaze finally landing on her, and it was like looking at a stranger. "I'm not lookin' at you any way at all, Kyri. I'm gettin' ready for bed."
"You're getting ready for bed? After that? After that little… display at my parents' house?" She was pacing now, a frantic, caged animal in designer silk pajamas. "She was all over you! And you just let her! You stood there and let that… low budget, fake ass K Michelle put her hands on you like she owned you!"
Donnie’s jaw tightened, a flicker of the old anger, the old hurt, sparking in his chest before being extinguished by a wave of profound weariness. He finished with the buttons and pulled the shirt off his shoulders, tossing it neatly onto a chair. "Her name is Stevie. And she didn't put her hands on me. She said hello."
"Don't lie to me, Adonis!" she shrieked, his full name a weapon she only used when she wanted to inflict maximum damage. "I saw your face! I saw the way you looked at her! The way you leaned in. You haven't looked at me like that in years!"
He finally turned to face her fully, his bare chest rising and falling with a calm, steady breath that was an insult to her raging fury. "You wanna talk about how people look at each other, Kyri? Really?"
The question hung in the air, a quiet, deadly challenge. Kyri faltered for a second, her righteous indignation momentarily derailed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Donnie said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerously quiet tone, "that you're the one who wanted the 'don't ask, don't tell' arrangement. You're the one who said we needed space. You're the one who's been comin' home smellin' like other men's cologne for months."
"This is different!" she yelled, her voice cracking with desperation.
"How?" he asked, his voice utterly flat, devoid of all emotion. "How is it different? Because you're the one doin' it? Because you thought I'd just sit here and wait? Like a good little dog?"
"Fuck you," she spat, her eyes glistening with unshed tears of fury. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to turn this around on me. I'm trying to save our relationship!"
Donnie actually laughed then, a short, sharp, utterly humorless sound that was more devastating than any scream. "Save it? By goin' on dates? By fuckin' other men? By tellin' me it's for my own good?" He took a step closer, his presence a sudden, solid weight in the room. "You didn't want to save it, Kyri. You wanted to have your cake and eat it too. You wanted the comfort and the status of this life, but you wanted the freedom to fuck whoever you wanted without consequence. You wanted a roommate, not a partner."
"That's not true!" she cried, but her voice was weaker now, the conviction bleeding out of it.
"Isn't it?" he pressed, his voice still low, still calm, but with an edge of steel that was new and terrifying. "I haven't done anything. I haven't been with anyone. I've been sittin' here, in this house, livin' by your rules. And I made a friend. One friend. A person who actually talks to me. A person who actually sees me. And suddenly that's a problem?"
"It's the way you look at her!" Kyri shot back, latching onto her last, desperate thread of outrage. "It's not just friendly!"
Donnie just stared at her, his expression unreadable. He didn't confirm it. He didn't deny it. He just let her accusation hang there, exposed and pathetic. He let her see the hypocrisy, the sheer, unmitigated gall of her standing there, judging him for the very thing she had permitted herself to do.
"So what's the real issue, Kyri?" he asked, his voice quiet, cutting through her hysteria like a knife. "What's really botherin' you? That I might be happy? That I might have found someone who makes me feel something other than like a goddamn accessory in your life? Or is it that for the first time, I'm not waitin' for you to come home?"
Kyri stared at him, her mouth opening and closing, like a fish gasping for air on the dock. She had no answer. Because he was right. All of it was right. And the truth of it was a bitter, poison pill she couldn't swallow.
Donnie watched her, a strange sense of clarity settling over him. The anger was gone. The hurt was still there, a dull, chronic ache, but it no longer controlled him. He saw her clearly then, not as the girl he'd loved for half his life, but as a woman who was terrified of losing the one thing she'd taken for granted: his unwavering devotion.
He turned away, his back to her, and walked into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him. The click of the latch was the final word. The end of the conversation. The end of an era. And as he stared at his own reflection in the mirror, at the man he was becoming, he felt a strange, unfamiliar sense of peace. He was done apologizing. Done shrinking. Done waiting.
The cookout was in full swing, a chaotic symphony of Southern tradition. Loud, bass-heavy music boomed from a portable speaker on the patio, mixing with the sizzle of barbecue on the grill and the raucous laughter of a dozen relatives Kyri barely knew. Her parents’ backyard was a sea of folding chairs, coolers, and red plastic cups. A game of dominoes was in full swing at a card table, accompanied by the rhythmic clatter of tiles and the occasional triumphant shout. Near the house, someone was butchering a classic R&B song at a karaoke machine, their off-key wail a testament to the power of tequila and good intentions.
Kyri stood by the grill, a forced smile plastered on her face, a plate of untouched potato salad in her hand. She was scanning the crowd, her eyes sharp, searching. Donnie was gone. Again. He’d shown up, looking infuriatingly handsome in a simple black t-shirt and jeans, had spoken to her father for exactly ninety seconds, and then disappeared. That was ten minutes ago.
Her mother, June, materialized at her side, a vision in linen and pearls. "Honey, have you seen Donnie? Charles wanted his opinion on that new smoker."
"He's around," Kyri said, her voice tight. "Probably taking a business call." It was the lie she’d been telling everyone for the last three weeks. The lie she’d been telling herself. Since that night in their bedroom, the house had been a mausoleum. They moved around each other like ghosts, their interactions reduced to clipped, functional exchanges about logistics and schedules. The silence was a living, breathing thing, a constant, oppressive reminder of the chasm that had opened between them.
But Kyri had eyes. She saw the changes. The way he carried himself now was with a new, easy confidence that was both attractive and infuriating. The way he smiled, a real, genuine smile that reached his eyes, a smile she hadn’t been able to coax out of him in years. She saw it at the office when she’d stopped by unannounced. She saw it in the way his staff, his athletes, even his rivals, responded to him. He was… lighter. Unburdened. And she knew, with a certainty that curdled in her gut, that it had something to do with Stevie.
Around the corner of the house, tucked away in the shade of an old oak tree, sat Donnie's black Escalade. It was parked on the grass, a silent, hulking monument to his success. And inside, the world of the cookout had ceased to exist.
The windows were tinted, but if anyone had been close enough, they would have seen a scene that was a million miles from family fun and games.
Stevie was bent over the center console, her upper body sprawled across the passenger seat, her jeans and panties pooled around her ankles. Her bare ass was upturned, a perfect, heart-shaped canvas of smooth, brown skin. And Donnie’s hand was a blur of motion, rising and falling in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.
Smack.
The sound was a sharp, wet crack that was swallowed by the truck's soundproofing. Stevie whimpered, a small, breathy sound of pain and pleasure, her fingers digging into the leather of the passenger seat.
"You gonna act like a brat all day, baby girl?" Donnie’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble, a stark contrast to the calm, controlled tone he used with everyone else. This was the voice of Sinners. The voice of the man who had discovered his own power.
Smack.
Another sharp slap, this one on her other cheek, leaving a matching handprint. "Answer me," he commanded, his hand stilling on her heated flesh.
"No, Daddy," she breathed, her voice muffled by the seat. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?" he asked, his hand tracing the curve of her ass, his touch a gentle, teasing contrast to the stinging blows.
"For bein' a brat," she whimpered, pushing her hips back against his hand, a silent plea for more.
Smack. Smack. Smack. Three quick, sharp smacks in succession, each one making her cry out, her body trembling with a mixture of pain and arousal. Her skin was flushed now, and that made his dick ache.
"That's my girl," he murmured, his voice softening, shifting from punishment to praise. His fingers dipped between her thighs, finding her slick, wet heat. "Look at you. So fuckin' wet for me. You like this, don't you? Like bein' put in your place."
"Yes," she moaned, her voice a ragged, desperate sound. "God, yes."
"Good," he said, his voice a low, possessive growl. He slid one finger inside her, then two, his thumb circling her clit in a slow, deliberate rhythm that had her writhing against the console. "This is what happens when you misbehave. You get punished. And then you get rewarded."
He worked her slowly, methodically, his other hand stroking her heated, tender skin, his touch a soothing balm. He was in complete control. The man who had spent years being controlled was now the one pulling the strings. And it was the most intoxicating feeling in the world.
"Who do you belong to?" he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear.
"You, Daddy," she gasped, her body tightening around his fingers. "Only you."
"That's right," he said, his voice a low, triumphant purr. "Now cum for me, baby girl. Cum all over my fingers like a good girl."
And she did. With a strangled cry, she came, her pussy clamping down on his fingers in a series of deep, rhythmic spasms. He held her through it, his arm wrapped around her waist, his body a solid, comforting presence, his lips pressed against her hair, whispering words of praise and love.
When it was over, he helped her up, his hands gentle, tender. He pulled her onto his lap, her jeans and panties still tangled around her ankles, and held her close, his arms wrapped around her, his chin resting on her head. They sat there for a long moment, just breathing, the world outside the truck a distant, irrelevant hum.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice a low, gentle rumble.
Stevie nodded, her head nestled against his chest. "Yeah," she whispered, her voice soft, content. "I'm good."
He kissed the top of her head. "Good."
They sat there for a few more minutes, a quiet, intimate bubble in the middle of a chaotic day. Then, with a sigh, Donnie spoke. "Guess we should go back out there."
Stevie groaned, a sound of pure, theatrical protest. "Do we have to? I'd rather stay in here and let you spank me again."
Donnie laughed, a real, genuine laugh that was full of warmth and affection. "Later," he promised. "Right now, we gotta go face the music."
They straightened themselves up, Stevie pulling up her jeans, Donnie adjusting his shirt. He looked at her, his eyes soft, his expression full of a love so deep it still scared him a little. "You're beautiful," he said, his voice a low, sincere whisper.
Stevie smiled, a slow, wicked smile that made his heart skip a beat. "I know," she said, her voice a confident, playful purr.
They got out of the truck, and as they rounded the corner of the house, the noise and chaos of the cookout washed over them again. Donnie’s hand found the small of Stevie’s back, a subtle, proprietary gesture. And Kyri, who had been watching the corner of the house with a hawk-like intensity, saw it.
She saw the way they looked at each other, the way Donnie’s eyes softened when he looked at Stevie, the way Stevie’s smile was just for him. She saw the lingering eye contact, the subtle touch, the easy, comfortable intimacy that was a slap in the face to every lie she’d ever told herself.
She watched as Stevie said something to Donnie, something that made him laugh, a real, genuine laugh that was full of joy. And in that moment, something inside Kyri snapped. She couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't pretend anymore.
She walked over to them, her face a mask of cold, hard fury, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, jealous light. "Can I talk to you for a second?" she asked, her voice tight, her eyes fixed on Donnie.
Donnie looked at Stevie, a silent question in his eyes. Stevie just nodded, a small, reassuring gesture. "I'll be at the karaoke machine," she said, her voice a low, confident purr. "Try not to get into any trouble."
She walked away, her hips swaying, leaving Kyri and Donnie standing there, the air between them thick with unspoken hostility.
"What's up?" Donnie asked, his voice calm, unreadable.
Kyri looked at him, her eyes burning with rage. "Are you fucking Stevie?"
The question was a direct, brutal blow. A slap in the face. A declaration of war.
Donnie didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He just looked at her, his eyes calm, his expression unreadable. And in the long, heavy silence that followed, Kyri saw her entire world start to crack.
"Yes," he said finally, his voice quiet, but clear. "Yes, I am."
And just like that, it was over. The lie she'd been telling herself, the fragile illusion of control she'd been clinging to, shattered into a million pieces.
The word hung in the humid air between them, a single, brutal syllable that seemed to suck all the sound out of the backyard. For a moment, the karaoke, the laughter, the clatter of dominoes—it all faded into a distant, irrelevant hum. All Kyri could hear was the roaring in her own ears, the sound of her world imploding.
Donnie didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He just stood there, his expression calm, his posture relaxed, a man who had finally laid his cards on the table and was waiting to see what happened next. The quiet confidence in his stance was more infuriating than any explosion of anger could have been.
"You… you can't," she finally managed to stammer, her voice a thin, reedy thing. "You can't do this."
"I just did," he said, his voice low, even. "Now, why is it a problem?"
"Why is it a problem?" she repeated, her voice rising, cracking with disbelief. "Are you serious? You're sleeping with my cousin's best friend! Someone I have to see! Someone who's been in my family's house!"
Donnie raised an eyebrow, a gesture of calm, deliberate inquiry. "And I'm supposed to care about the logistics? After you let some stranger fuck you in the men's room of a bar I had to walk past to get to my truck?"
The crude directness of his words made her flinch, a physical recoil. "That's different!"
"How?" he pressed, his voice still dangerously quiet. "Because you didn't know I was watching? Because you thought I was at home, waiting for you like a good little puppy? Explain it to me, Kyri. I'm genuinely curious."
"It's different because… because it was just sex!" she sputtered, grasping at straws. "It didn't mean anything! This," she said, her eyes darting toward Stevie, who was now laughing with Kyri's cousin Stella by the karaoke machine, "this looks like something. You look at her like… like you love her."
The word "love" hung in the air, a raw, exposed nerve. Donnie’s jaw tightened, just for a second. "And the men you were with? Did you love them?"
"That's not the point!"
"No, it's exactly the point," he countered, his voice losing its soft edge, gaining a sliver of steel. "You wanted an open relationship. You wanted freedom. You got it. You've been 'free' for months. I find one person. One. A person who actually makes me feel something other than like a goddamn checkbook. And suddenly, the rules aren't so fun anymore, are they?"
Kyri’s face was a contortion of fury and panic. "Don't you dare turn this around on me! This is about you disrespecting me! Humiliating me!"
"Disrespecting you?" Donnie let out a short, sharp laugh that was devoid of all humor. "Kyri, you have been shitting on my heart for months. You've been parading your freedom in my face while I've been living by the rules you set. I have been the picture of discretion. I haven't brought her to our home. I haven't flaunted it. I have kept my private life private, which is more than I can say for you."
He took a step closer, his presence a sudden, solid weight that made her feel small. "So I'll ask you again. Why is it a problem? Be honest. Is it that I'm with Stevie? Or is it that I'm happy without you?"
The question hit her like a physical blow. Because he was right. It wasn't just about Stevie. It was about him. It was about the fact that he was smiling again. It was about the fact that he was standing up to her. It was about the fact that he had found a piece of himself that she hadn't been able to destroy.
Her face twisted, a mask of pure, unadulterated spite. "I see how you look at her. I see how you touch her. Like you own her. Like you're some kind of… king and she's your little subject." Her voice dripped with a venomous, mocking sarcasm. "What's next, Donnie? You gonna start spankin' her when she gets outta line? Gonna teach her who's boss?"
The irony was so thick, so potent, it was almost suffocating. Donnie felt a strange, disconnected urge to laugh. Twenty minutes ago, he had Stevie's bare ass flushed a perfect shade of purple under his hand, her breathless whimpers of "Yes, Daddy" a symphony in the quiet of his truck. And here was Kyri, throwing his newfound proclivities in his face like an insult, completely unaware that she was describing his reality with an accuracy that was both terrifying and absurd.
He didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He just looked at her, his eyes cold, his expression unreadable. He let her see nothing. Let her hear nothing. Let her twist in the wind of her own bitter, ignorant mockery.
"Is that what you think this is?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Some kind of power trip?"
"I know you," she shot back, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and desperation. "I know you need to be in control. It's why you're so good at your job. It's why you're so… you. You can't stand it when someone doesn't bend to your will. And she does, doesn't she? Little Stevie, all tough and independent on the outside, but just another girl who wants to be dominated by a rich, powerful man."
Donnie just stared at her, his face a mask of stone. He was done. Done with her projections, done with her hypocrisy, done with her. He saw her for what she was: a woman who was terrified of losing her position, her status, her hold over him. She wasn't angry because he'd betrayed her. She was angry because he was no longer hers to betray.
"You don't know me at all," he said, his voice quiet, but heavy with a finality that was more devastating than any scream. "You haven't for a long time."
He turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, alone, her words echoing in the empty space between them. He didn't look back. He didn't hesitate. He just walked toward the karaoke machine, toward the music, toward the laughter, toward Stevie. And as Kyri watched him go, a single, hot tear traced a path down her cheek. The crack in her world was no longer a hairline fracture. It was a chasm. And she was standing on the wrong side of it.
The only light in Stevie’s bedroom came from the moon, a sliver of silver that sliced through the blinds and painted stripes across the rumpled sheets. The air was thick with the scent of her skin, his cologne, and the lingering, sweet musk of their lovemaking. Donnie lay on his side, his head propped on his hand, watching her sleep. He hadn’t been back to the ranch since the cookout. Three weeks. Three weeks of living out of a suitcase, of waking up in her bed, of falling asleep to the sound of her breathing. It felt like a lifetime. It felt like the first real day of his life.
He reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate line of her shoulder, the curve of her hip. She stirred, a soft, sleepy murmur, her body instinctively arching into his touch. He smiled, a small, private smile that was just for him. He felt… whole. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the pieces of himself that had been scattered, fractured, and suppressed were clicking back into place. And it was because of her.
Her eyes fluttered open, dark and soft in the dim light. "Hey," she whispered, her voice husky with sleep.
"Hey, baby girl," he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss against her temple.
She snuggled closer, her back pressing against his chest, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against him. It was their position. Their default. A configuration of limbs and bodies that felt more natural than breathing. "What's on your mind?" she asked, her fingers lacing with his where they rested on her stomach.
"You," he said, his voice a low, rumbling vibration against her back. "Just… you."
He was quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts, trying to find the words to express the tsunami of emotion that was crashing through him. "I don't think I ever told you," he began, his voice hesitant, "how much I appreciate you. What you did for me."
Stevie turned in his arms, her eyes searching his in the darkness. "Donnie, I didn't do anything."
"You did everything," he countered, his voice thick with an almost painful sincerity. "You saw me. When I was a ghost, you saw me. You gave me permission to stop shrinking. You… you brought me back to life."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. "I love having you as my baby girl," he whispered, the words a raw, vulnerable confession. "I love takin' care of you. I love… this. Us."
Stevie’s breath hitched, a flicker of something deep and unreadable in her eyes. She’d never let a sub into her home. Never. Her space was her sanctuary, her fortress. But Donnie wasn't just a sub. He was… more. He was the man who saw the Domme in her and wasn't afraid. He was the man who could handle her. He was the man who made her want to kneel.
She tried to laugh, to deflect with her usual sharp wit, but the sound came out shaky, thin. "You know," she said, her voice a forced, playful tease, "we're startin' to sound like one of those 60s relationships. You're gonna have two families in this town. You and Kyri, with your big house and your 2.5 kids. And then me and you, and our little secret life, sneakin' around in motels and art galleries."
Donnie’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening. He pulled back, just enough to look her in the eye, his gaze intense, unwavering. "Don't joke about that," he said, his voice low, serious.
Stevie’s smile faltered. "Donnie, I was just—"
"No," he interrupted, his voice firm, but gentle. "I need you to hear me. This," he said, gesturing between them, "isn't a secret life. This is my life. You are my life."
He took a deep breath, the words he'd been holding back for weeks finally breaking free. "I'm not goin' anywhere. I'm not goin' back to her. I'm not… I'm not playin' this game anymore. I'm your boyfriend, Stevie. And you're my girl. And that's it. That's the end of it. Forever."
The word "forever" hung in the air, a heavy, sacred promise. Stevie stared at him, her heart pounding a frantic, frantic rhythm against her ribs. She saw the truth in his eyes, the unwavering conviction. And she felt something inside her, something she'd been fighting, denying, and suppressing for months, finally break free.
She loved him.
It was a simple, terrifying, undeniable truth. She loved the way he took care of her, the way his big, strong hands could be so gentle, so tender. She loved the way their bodies spoke to each other without words, a silent, fluid conversation of need and desire. She loved the way he saw her, all of her, the Domme and the woman, the strong and the vulnerable. They were soulmates, not just in the shadowed world of BDSM, but in the harsh, unforgiving light of the real world.
But she was scared. So scared. Scared of saying the words, of putting a name to this feeling, of ruining the perfect, fragile thing they had built. She didn't want to be the woman who fell for the man who had a girlfriend for almost 20 years. She didn't want to be the one who scared him away with the weight of her emotions.
So she just looked at him, her eyes shining with a love she couldn't bring herself to speak, and she nodded. "Okay," she whispered, her voice a hoarse, choked whisper. "Okay."
He leaned in and kissed her, a slow, deep, tender kiss that was full of promises and a love so profound it felt like a homecoming. And as she kissed him back, she let herself believe, just for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, forever was possible.
The bell above the door of The Gilded Cage chimed, a delicate, crystalline sound that was immediately at odds with the storm walking in. Stevie was behind the counter, meticulously cataloging a new series of erotic charcoal sketches, her focus absolute. She didn't look up at first, assuming it was a curious browser or one of her regular clients.
"Well, well, well."
The voice was pure poison, a syrupy, condescending drawl that Stevie would have recognized anywhere. She slowly lifted her head, her expression remaining carefully neutral as she took in the sight of Kyri standing in the middle of her gallery, looking like a wrathful goddess in a designer pantsuit.
Kyri’s eyes swept over the space, her lip curled in a sneer of disgust. "So this is it. This little… hole in the wall. This is where you seduced my boyfriend."
Stevie leaned against the counter, crossing her arms, her posture a study in casual defiance. "Kyri. To what do I owe the pleasure? Lost on your way to a luncheon?"
"Don't you play cute with me," Kyri snapped, stalking closer, her heels clicking menacingly on the polished concrete floors. "I know what you're doing. I know exactly what kind of game you're playing."
Stevie raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Do you? 'Cause from where I'm standing, it looks like I'm minding my business and running my establishment. Something you might try sometime."
Kyri laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Oh, I see. You're the 'strong, independent businesswoman' now. Is that the role you're playing? Let me guess, you're also the 'soulful artist' who sees the 'real man' underneath all that money and power?"
She stepped closer, invading Stevie's personal space, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Let me tell you something about that 'real man.' He's mine. He's been mine since he was seventeen years old. He was wearing hand-me-down sweats and fighting in dusty gyms when you were probably still figuring out how to work a curling iron. You are nothing but a temporary distraction. A cheap, trashy thrill."
Stevie didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She just looked at Kyri, her eyes dark, unreadable. "Are you done?"
"I'm not even close to done," Kyri seethed, her face flushed with rage. "You're a gold digger. A tramp. You saw an opportunity, and you spread your legs, hoping to lock down a billionaire. But it's not gonna work. He'll get bored with you. He always comes back to me."
Stevie finally pushed off the counter, her movements slow, deliberate, like a panther uncoiling. "You know what's funny, Kyri? You keep talkin' about what he was, what he is. But you don't know shit about who he is now."
She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "You see a billionaire. A provider. A status symbol. You see a man you can control, a man you can manipulate with tears and tantrums and the weight of all your years together. You see a prize."
Stevie’s eyes flashed with a cold, hard fire. "I see a man who was suffocating. A man who was so busy tryin' to make you happy that he forgot how to be himself. I see a man who was so starved for real affection, for a real connection, that he was practically a ghost in his own life. You didn't love him, Kyri. You loved the idea of him. You loved the arm candy. You loved the lifestyle. You loved the control."
"You don't know anything about our relationship!" Kyri shrieked, her composure finally shattering.
"I know enough to know you're a spoiled, selfish little girl who's never been told 'no' in her life," Stevie shot back, her voice rising, laced with a righteous fury that was years in the making. "I know enough to see a woman who took a good man's devotion for granted, who treated his heart like it was a disposable accessory. I know enough to recognize a woman who had a king, a real king, a man who built an empire with his bare hands, and was so unimpressed, so entitled, that she got bored and decided to go slummin' for a little 'attention'."
The words were a series of precise, brutal jabs, each one landing with devastating accuracy.
"You call me trash?" Stevie continued, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "Honey, I'm a self-made woman. I own this space. I built this world with my own two hands. I answer to no one. You? You're a professional girlfriend. A leech. A pretty parasite who's been feedin' off a man's soul for over a decade. You have the audacity to come in here and threaten me? You should be on your knees thanking me for reminding him what it feels like to be alive."
Kyri stared at her, her mouth agape, her face a mask of disbelief and fury. She had been prepared for a fight, for a denial, for a catty exchange of insults. She had not been prepared for this. For this raw, unfiltered truth.
"He deserves better than you," Stevie said, her voice softening, losing its edge, becoming something more profound, more sorrowful. "He deserves a woman who sees him. All of him. The fighter and the businessman. The dominant and the gentle. The man and the little boy who just wants to be loved for who he is. He deserves a partner. An equal. Not a pretty little bird in a cage who's forgotten how to fly."
She looked Kyri up and down, a final, dismissive glance. "So you can stand here and threaten me. You can call me all the names you want. But it won't change anything. It won't change the fact that he's done. It won't change the fact that he chose me. And it damn sure won't change the fact that you, Kyri Davis, are the biggest mistake he ever made."
"Now," Stevie said, her voice returning to its cool, professional tone, "I think you should get the fuck out of my gallery. Before I call security and have your entitled, delusional ass dragged out of here."
Kyri stood there for a long moment, trembling with a rage that had nowhere to go. She had been stripped bare, her insecurities and her failures laid out for all to see. And in the end, there was nothing left to say. She turned and walked away, her shoulders slumped in defeat, the bell above the door chiming her exit.
And Stevie stood there, in the quiet, sacred space of her gallery, a queen in her castle, knowing that she had won. Not just for herself, but for him.
The ranch house was quiet, a sprawling, modern monument to a life that no longer existed. Donnie stood in the middle of the great room, his hands shoved in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over the space he hadn't inhabited in weeks. It was beautiful, expensive, and soulless. A museum of a relationship that had died on its feet.
Stevie was perched on the edge of a ridiculously expensive cream-colored sofa, her posture relaxed, but her eyes sharp, taking everything in. This was the first time he’d brought her here. To his home. To the heart of the beast. It felt like a final, necessary step. An exorcism.
"You sure about this?" she asked, her voice a low, gentle hum.
"I've been tryin' to talk to her for a week," he said, his voice a low, frustrated rumble. "She won't answer my calls. She won't text me back. She's been blowin' me off, actin' like I'm the one who's in the wrong."
His phone buzzed in his pocket, a familiar, irritating chime. He pulled it out, his jaw tightening. Another notification. A purchase. Gucci. Then another. Tiffany & Co. He’d given her that black card years ago, a symbol of his trust, his devotion. Now, it was a weapon she was using against him, a frantic, desperate attempt to punish him, to hurt him, to assert a control she no longer had.
"That's her," he said, his voice flat, cold. "Rackin' up charges like it's goin' out of style. She thinks if she spends enough of my money, it'll make me… what? Jealous? Regretful?"
He shook his head, a small, humorless smile playing on his lips. "She has no idea."
He looked at Stevie, his eyes softening. "I'm done waitin'. If she won't come to me to talk, I'll bring the talk to her. Here. In our house. On my terms."
Stevie just nodded, her expression unreadable. "Okay."
They waited. Two hours. Two long, tense hours filled with the heavy silence of the house. Donnie paced, a caged animal. Stevie watched him, her presence a calming, grounding force.
Finally, they heard it. The crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. The distant hum of an engine. The sound of a car door closing.
Donnie stopped pacing, his body going still. He looked at Stevie, a silent, shared glance passing between them. This was it.
A moment later, the front door opened, and Kyri walked in, her arms laden with designer shopping bags, a smug, triumphant smile on her face. "Donnie, you would not believe the sale they were having at—" she started, her voice bright, cheerful, a performance for an audience of one.
And then she saw them.
Her smile faltered, her face freezing in a mask of shock. Her eyes widened, first at Donnie, then at Stevie, who was sitting on her sofa, looking completely at home, as if she belonged there.
"What," Kyri breathed, her voice a thin, reedy whisper, "is she doing here?"
Donnie didn't answer. He just stood there, his expression calm, his eyes cold. He let her take in the scene. Him. Stevie. The house. The final, undeniable reality of her situation.
"Get out," Kyri roared. She dropped her bags, the expensive merchandise spilling onto the floor like a sacrifice. "Get out of my house, you whore!"
Stevie didn't move. She didn't even flinch. She just looked at Kyri, her eyes dark, unreadable. "It's not your house, Kyri. It's his."
"Don't you talk to me!" Kyri screamed, her face a contortion of fury. She rounded on Donnie, her finger pointing a trembling, accusatory finger. "How could you? How could you bring her here? To our home? After everything I've done for you? After all the years I've supported you?"
"Supported me?" Donnie finally spoke, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You mean supported yourself? Supported the lifestyle you felt entitled to? Supported the image you were so desperate to project?"
He took a step closer, his presence a sudden, solid weight that made the air in the room feel thick, heavy. "I've been tryin' to talk to you for a week, Kyri. A week. You've been ignorin' me, blowin' me off, while you're out there runnin' up my credit card like a spoiled little brat who's about to lose her allowance."
"I'm not a brat!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with desperation. "I'm your partner! I'm the one who's been here for you! Through everything!"
"No," he said, his voice quiet, but laced with a steel that was more devastating than any scream. "You haven't. You haven't been here for me in years. You've been here for the perks. For the status. For the control. You've been here for the idea of me, not the man."
"I love you!" she cried, her voice a desperate, broken plea. "Donnie, I love you!"
And that was it. The final, desperate lie. The last, pathetic attempt to manipulate him, to guilt him, to pull him back into the web of her own making.
And Donnie finally snapped.
It wasn't an explosion. It wasn't a fit of rage. It was a quiet, terrifying implosion. A calm, certain declaration that was more final than any scream, more devastating than any tantrum.
He looked at Kyri, his eyes cold, his expression unreadable. Then he turned, his gaze finding Stevie's. And in that moment, everything else in the room faded away. The anger, the accusations, the years of shared history. All that mattered was her.
"I love her," he said.
His voice was calm. Certain. A simple, profound statement of fact.
And it hurt Kyri more than the cheating ever could. More than the betrayal. More than the humiliation. Because it wasn't an accusation. It wasn't a defense. It was a declaration. A choice. He wasn't just leaving her. He was choosing someone else. He was choosing a different life. A different love.
Kyri stared at him, her face a mask of disbelief and despair. "No," she whispered, shaking her head, a frantic denial. "No, you don't. You're just saying that to hurt me."
"I'm not sayin' it to hurt you," Donnie said, his voice still quiet, still calm. "I'm sayin' it because it's true. I love her. I'm in love with her."
He turned back to Kyri, his expression hardening, his eyes cold. "And I'm done. I'm done with this. I'm done with you. This is over. It's been over. And I'm not comin' back."
"You can't do this!" she shrieked, her composure finally, completely shattering. She lunged at him, her hands flailing, a desperate, wild attempt to physically stop him, to hold on to the last vestiges of her control. "You can't just throw away seventeen years!"
Donnie caught her wrists, his grip firm, but not rough. He held her, a final, physical restraint. "I'm not throwin' it away, Kyri. I'm lettin' it go. There's a difference."
He let her go, stepping back, creating a space between them that was permanent, unbridgeable. "I want you out of this house by the end of the week. My lawyer will be in touch with yours."
He turned to Stevie, his expression softening, his eyes full of a love so deep it was almost tangible. "Let's go."
He took her hand, his fingers lacing with hers, and he led her out of the room, out of the house, leaving Kyri standing there, alone, in the ruins of her own making, the sound of her own sobs the only sound in the vast, empty house. It was messy. It was painful. It was long overdue. And it was, finally, over.
One year later, the Texas sun was a warm, benevolent blessing, shining down on a landscape that had been reborn. The old ranch house, the mausoleum of a dead relationship, was gone. In its place stood a new home, a sprawling, modern masterpiece of glass, steel, and warm wood that Donnie had designed and built for them. It sat on more land, hundreds of acres of rolling green hills and ancient oaks that he’d bought, a kingdom for his queen.
Today, that kingdom was celebrating.
The ceremony was small. Private. Intimate. Just a handful of their closest friends and family gathered under a flower-draped arbor overlooking the valley. Stella was there, crying happy tears into a linen handkerchief. Terrance, Stevie’s sub from Sinners, was there, looking uncharacteristically soft in a tailored suit, his eyes full of a quiet, respectful joy.
Donnie stood at the end of the aisle, his hands clasped in front of him, his heart a frantic, wild thing against his ribs. He wore a simple black tux, but his eyes, when he saw her, were the most expensive thing in the world. And then Stevie appeared, and the world tilted on its axis.
She was a vision. A goddess in a simple, elegant white dress that clung to her curves like a lover’s touch. Her blonde hair was a soft, romantic cascade of curls. And peeking out from under the hem of her dress were a pair of white cowboy boots, a flash of rebellious, unapologetic spirit that was so perfectly her it made his heart ache.
As she walked toward him, a slow, confident smile on her face, Donnie felt a wave of emotion so powerful it almost brought him to his knees. He saw the last year flash before his eyes: the fights, the tears, the lawyers, the quiet mornings in her bed, the late-night talks, the rediscovery of self, the slow, steady blooming of a love that was more real, more powerful, than anything he had ever known.
He was emotional as hell. A mess. A beautiful, blubbering mess. And he didn't care. He let the tears fall, hot and free, as he took her hand, his fingers lacing with hers, a connection that was as natural as breathing.
The vows were a blur of whispered words and choked-back sobs. But the finality of it, the sacred, binding power of it, was a force of nature. When the officiant pronounced them husband and wife, Donnie didn't hesitate. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a deep, desperate, soul-searing kiss that was a promise, a possession, a homecoming.
Six months later, the sun was setting over their kingdom, painting the sky in shades of orange, pink, and purple. They were on the porch of their new home, the house that was a testament to their love, a sanctuary they had built together. Stevie was sitting in his lap, her head resting on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around her, his big, strong hands resting on the gentle, swelling curve of her belly.
She was pregnant. Glowing. A testament to their love, a new life, a new beginning.
Donnie was kissing her stomach, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses against the fabric of her sundress. He was a man possessed. A man obsessed. He talked to the baby all the time, his voice a low, gentle rumble, telling stories about boxing and art galleries and the woman who had saved his life.
"You're gonna be the most overprotective father in the history of the world," Stevie laughed, her fingers stroking his hair, her heart so full it felt like it might burst.
"Damn right," he murmured, his eyes dark with a fierce, protective love. "Nobody's gonna touch my baby girl. Or my baby boy. Or my wife. Nobody."
She laughed again, a sound that was like music to his ears. He looked up at her, his eyes shining with a love so deep, so profound, it still scared him a little. He had spent years surviving love, treating it like a burden, a responsibility, a performance. With Stevie, he had finally learned how to live inside it, how to breathe it, how to be it.
They had heard about Kyri, of course. The gossip was unavoidable. She’d had a complete mental breakdown after the breakup, a public spectacle of shame and despair. She’d been in and out of institutions for a few months, a cautionary tale whispered about at country clubs and charity events. The last they heard, she was in New York, "dating" a young, hot-headed soccer player, a pale imitation of the life she had lost. Donnie felt a flicker of pity for her, a distant, abstract sadness. But it was a fleeting emotion, a ghost from a life that was no longer his.
His life was here. In his arms. In the woman who was laughing at him, in the child who was growing inside her, in the home they had built on the ashes of his past. He was no longer a survivor. He was a man. A husband. A father. A king. And he was finally, truly, home.
Summary: Based off this prompt Annie walks into Smoke’s office ready to end fifteen years of marriage.She leaves with one uncomfortable realization: distance never taught either of them how to stop being husband and wife.
She doesn’t knock.
Smoke’s assistant is mid-sentence—“Mrs. Moore, he’s in a—” when Annie blows past her like a storm, heels stabbing the marble floor. The door swings open hard enough to bounce off the wall.
Elijah looks up from his desk, calm as ever. That only pisses her off more.
He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t even look surprised. He closes the file in front of him and watches her cross the office.
Annie keeps walking.
Past the sitting area.
Past the bar cart.
Past the floor-to-ceiling windows she once helped choose because natural light makes people feel less trapped.
Annie stops directly in front of his desk, pulling the thick envelope from beneath her arm. She slams it down so hard the pen holder rattles.
“My lawyer called your lawyer again. It’s been damn near a year, Elijah. A whole fuckin year. Sign the goddamn papers.”
He leans back slowly, his gaze moving over her face—the telltale signs only he would notice. The heat sitting beneath her skin. The slight sheen at her temples. The careful way she held her mouth when she was trying not to say too much.
Annie doesn’t let him breathe.
“What the fuck is your problem? You think this is a game? You’re selfish as hell, you know that? You always have been. Keeping me in limbo ‘cause you can’t stand not havin’ control. Newsflash, Elijah—I’m not yours to control anymore.”
His jaw flexes.
He stands, slow and deliberate, buttoning his suit jacket like he has all the time in the world.
“You done?”
“No, I’m not done!” She steps closer, voice rising. “You had a year to sign. A year to let me fuckin’ go. But you won’t, ‘cause you’re a selfish muthafucka who—”
He moves then. Gets right in her face, close enough she can smell his cologne and the faint trace of the cedarwood in the office. It wasn’t threatening. Never that. But towering and intense.
His voice drops low, dangerous.
“Who the fuck you talkin’ to like that, huh? Don’t come in my office makin’ demands like you forgot who I am.”
Annie doesn’t back down. Nose to nose now, breathing each other’s air, eyes locked in pure fire.
“I’m talking to you, Elijah. The man who checked out years ago but won’t let me leave. The man who—”
The door cracks open. The assistant’s worried voice: “Mr. Moore, is everything—”
“GET OUT,” they both snap at the exact same time.
Smoke’s assistant remains frozen in the doorway, eyes moving between them with the uncomfortable realization that whatever this is started long before titles, corner offices, and legal paperwork.
Without taking his eyes off Annie, Smoke says quietly, “Close the door.”
The assistant disappears immediately. The soft click of the door shutting somehow makes the room feel smaller.
Now Annie becomes aware of two things at once. First—at some point during the argument they ended up standing close enough that she can count his eyelashes. Second—she has absolutely no memory of how they got here.
She remembers standing on the other side of his desk. She remembers him standing. She remembers yelling. Then him yelling. Now suddenly there’s less than a foot between them. Close enough that she can see the faint tiredness beneath his eyes. Close enough she catches traces of his cologne underneath coffee and clean cotton. Close enough that she hates herself for recognizing it immediately.
She straightens slightly.
It’s instinct. Creating space.
Smoke notices. Of course he does. His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t move back either.
The space remains exactly where it is.
Her chest tightens. She folds her arms.
“Are you going to sign them?”
His eyes stay on hers.
“No.”
No hesitation.
The answer irritates her instantly. Her mouth pulls into a disbelieving smile.
“Then what exactly are we doing?”
Smoke watches her quietly.
She’s always hated that about him. The way he never seemed to waste words.
His gaze moves over her face before returning to her eyes. Then he says—
“You tell me.”
Her jaw tightens.
His voice stays calm. “You wanted this.”
The words hit somewhere she doesn’t want to acknowledge. Her stomach twists.
Immediately.
Because she’s tired. Because she’s angry. Because she hates that after all this time she still wants him to understand something she hasn’t been able to explain correctly.
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t do that.”
His expression shifts almost imperceptibly. “Do what?”
She lets out a breath and shakes her head. “Act like I woke up one day and decided I wanted a divorce.”
Smoke looks at her for a long time.
Then quietly—
“I think you decided a long time ago.”
Her breath catches. Not because she agrees, but because she understands exactly what he means. She feels herself look away before forcing herself to look back.
When she speaks again her voice comes out lower.
“No.” Her throat works. “No. I decided I couldn’t keep begging to be loved out loud.”
The words stay in the room.
Neither one moves.
Smoke’s face changes.
Barely.
Most people wouldn’t notice. She notices. Fifteen years. She knows every version of his silence. She watches his jaw work once. Watches something move behind his eyes.
Her chest hurts.
She laughs once under her breath and looks away. “You know what’s crazy?” She grips her purse tighter. “I came in here ready to fight.” Her eyes return to his. “And somehow I’m leavin’ sad again.”
She turns.
Or she tries to.
Her shoulder barely moves before his hand closes around her arm.
Immediate.
Familiar.
She stills before she can stop herself. That realization humiliates her. She looks down at his hand. Then back up.
Smoke doesn’t let go. His thumb rubs once against her sleeve.
His eyes stay on her. Not on her mouth. Not on her body.
Her.
Suddenly the room goes quiet.
Heavy.
Charged.
They’re still standing too close. Close enough she can see something moving behind his eyes now. It wasn’t anger…. exactly.
Something worse.
Want.
Grief.
Yearning.
Recognition.
Like he’s looking at her and realizing distance didn’t make her unfamiliar. It just made her unreachable.
Her pulse starts beating harder. She hates that she notices. Hates that she still knows this version of him. Hates that almost a year of separation she still recognizes the look on his face when he’s trying not to reach.
Her throat tightens.
She turns again.
This time his grip tightens just enough. Before she fully understands what’s happening, he steps closer. It wasn’t enough to trap her. Just enough that her movement stops.
His chest brushes hers. His forehead lowers.
Then she feels it.
His face turning slightly. His breath catching. His eyes closing.
And he inhales.
Deep.
Quiet.
Like a man remembering. As if after a year apart, some impossible part of him needed to know she still felt like home.
Her entire body reacts, she’s remembering now….Kitchen hugs. Standing at the stove and feeling him appear behind her. Late nights in their bathroom while she took her makeup off and he leaned into her shoulder. Sunday mornings. Hallway kisses. Years of being reached for without thinking.
Her breath hitches.
Traitor.
She closes her eyes. She hates—absolutely hates how familiar this feels.
Smoke goes still too. Like he felt it. His hand loosens slightly. His forehead stays near hers. And when he speaks his voice is low. Rough in a way she hasn’t heard in months.
“…You still wear my hoodie to sleep.”
Everything inside her freezes. Her shoulders tighten. Her fingers curl around her purse strap.
She doesn’t ask how he knows, because she already knows. Kids talk. Laundry gets mixed. Drop-offs happen.
And Smoke notices things.
Always.
Her eyes open and she swallows, looking at him. Then says quietly—
“You still have my picture in your wallet.”
His eyes stay on hers. His answer comes immediately.
“I never took it out.”
Her eyes stay on him.
Too honest.
Too easy.
Too immediate.
Like he didn’t even have to think about it.
Suddenly she understands something she’s spent trying not to admit—distance never taught her how not to love him. It just taught her how to miss him quietly.
Smoke doesn’t let go.
His thumb moves against her wrist again. His voice comes low.
“Annie.”
She looks up.
He leans in closer—
And that’s where things stop feeling legal and start feeling dangerous.
I didn’t do my normal tagging because I’m not sure who’s really interested in this, but if you want to be tagged, please let me know.
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Summary: Production days are supposed to run on precision, and Riley is the person who keeps the chaos under control. But from the moment Ryan steps onto set, something is off. He’s distracted, restless, unraveling in ways Michael has never seen before — all because of her. What starts as lingering stares and loaded touches escalates into a dangerous breaking point during a twenty-minute production reset, when Ryan finally snaps and drags Riley into a cramped wardrobe closet backstage.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, workplace relationships, power dynamics, public/semipublic sex, almost getting caught, dirty talk, rough sex, ass smacking, praise kink, possessiveness, oral sex, multiple partners, creampie/ejaculation description, voyeuristic elements, loss of control, high tension, explicit language, emotionally charged smut, dominant behavior, overstimulation, exhibitionism themes.
After the Applause Fades | After the Line Was Crossed | The Unspoken Clause | The Unwritten Clause
The soundstage was already alive before the sun fully settled over the city.
It wasn't a single noise but a symphony of them, a chaotic organism breathing in the pre-dawn chill. Voices ricocheted off the cavernous warehouse walls in overlapping layers—sharp, clipped commands from assistant directors, bursts of laughter from grips dragging thick coils of cable across the concrete floor, the constant static crackle of walkie-talkies bleeding into every corner like a nervous system. Floodlights burned hot and unforgiving overhead, washing the constructed streetscape in a sterile, artificial daylight that made every dust mote dance. Crew members moved like schools of fish, weaving around one another with a practiced, almost violent urgency. Somewhere near the makeshift wardrobe village, a metal screech of racks on concrete cut through the din. Makeup artists, faces etched with concentration, hovered near monitors, their brushes still moving as actors, half-dressed and half-awake, rehearsed lines between takes.
Chaos.
Controlled chaos.
And right in the eye of the hurricane, Riley moved like she belonged to a different rhythm entirely.
“Camera team needs updated blocking before lunch.”
“I already sent it.”
“Producer wants revised timing on scene six.”
“It’s on your email, marked urgent.”
“Background holding is backed up into the west lot.”
“Tell transportation to reroute through the cargo bay. I already cleared it.”
Every answer came before the problem fully landed, a preemptive strike of pure efficiency.
Headset pressed snugly against one ear, a clipboard tucked like a shield against her chest, her phone a persistent, vibrating hum in her back pocket, Riley flowed through the set without ever looking overwhelmed. Her voice stayed calm, a low, steady alto that somehow rose above the rising tide of panic, even when everybody else’s started climbing in volume. She stepped around thick cables like they were sleeping serpents, ducked under humming lighting rigs, and shifted between departments like water flowing through cracks no one else could see.
Ryan noticed her the second he stepped onto set.
Not because she was trying to be noticed.
That was the problem.
She never tried.
He stood near the bank of monitors, a coffee cup growing cold in his hand, his eyes scanning the controlled bedlam while a small gaggle of crew members gathered around him, waiting for direction. But every few seconds, his attention drifted back toward her automatically, a magnetic pull he couldn’t seem to fight.
The way her jeans hugged the generous curve of her hips when she leaned over the production table, her spine a graceful arc of concentration.
The way she absently pushed a thick braid back from her face, tucking it behind her ear while balancing a phone between her shoulder and her ear, her profile sharp and determined against the harsh light.
The soft, accidental brush of her fingers against his shoulder when she stepped beside him to update him on a schedule shift, a touch that was both professional and electric.
“Rain delay got pushed back another hour,” she said smoothly, her gaze still fixed on the clipboard in her hand. “If we move scene twelve before lunch, you’ll still make your day. I already flagged the new pages for crafty.”
Ryan looked at her then.
Really looked at her.
Her skin, bare of any heavy foundation, practically glowed under the unforgiving production lighting, a rich, warm tone that made the harsh fluorescents seem soft. No makeup besides a slick of gloss on her full lips and the dark, delicate fan of her lashes, but somehow she still looked better, more real, more captivating than half the actresses wandering around set in full costume. Calm. Focused. Untouchable.
And that voice.
Even through the wall of noise, through crew members yelling over each other and radios constantly squawking, her voice always cut through clean.
Steady.
Grounding.
Ryan swallowed slowly, the motion feeling thick and deliberate, before nodding once. “Aight.”
Riley gave him a quick, sidelong glance, the corner of her mouth lifting in a faint, almost imperceptible smile before she disappeared again, already solving another issue before it fully formed, a ghost of efficiency.
Michael saw the whole thing from his throne near the makeup station.
Saw Ryan’s eyes follow her.
Saw the subtle, almost invisible tightening in his jaw.
Saw him completely miss a question a producer had just asked him, the words dissolving into the air around his head.
A slow, knowing grin spread across Michael’s face.
“Oh nah,” he laughed, the sound a low rumble as he leaned back in his canvas chair. “You keep looking at her like that, nigga, we not making schedule.”
Ryan barely looked at him, his gaze still tracking Riley’s path across the set as she talked into her headset. “Mind your business.”
Michael barked out a laugh at that, loud and sharp, drawing a few glances. “That is my business.”
Ryan finally dragged his attention away long enough to shoot him a look, but it had no real heat behind it, more like a reflex than a real rebuke.
Michael noticed that too.
Which only made this shit funnier.
Because Ryan didn’t lose focus.
Not like this.
Not ever.
But every single time Riley crossed his line of sight, something in him shifted. Small. Almost invisible. But Michael knew him too well not to catch it.
The way his shoulders tightened just a fraction.
The way his eyes lingered a second too long.
The way he went quiet for a beat after she touched him, the rhythm of his thoughts momentarily disrupted.
Michael shook his head slowly, still grinning to himself while a makeup artist dabbed at the side of his beard with translucent powder.
“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, just for himself. “This nigga cooked already, and it ain’t even eight in the morning.”
Across the sprawling, chaotic set, Riley pushed open the heavy door to her trailer, her arms laden with fresh call sheets, her phone already pressed to her ear as she answered another incoming call.
And Ryan watched her go the entire way.
Ryan never lost rhythm on set.
That was one of the first things Riley learned about him four years ago, a foundational truth as solid as the concrete floor of the soundstage. No matter how chaotic production became, no matter how many schedules imploded or how many studio executives hovered around demanding rewrites and miracles in the same damn breath, Ryan stayed steady. A calm voice. Clear, concise direction. Eyes always moving, always calculating three steps ahead. Even when everybody else spiraled into a panic, he remained the gravitational center, calm enough for the entire set to orbit around him without flying off into the void.
Today?
Something was off.
It started small enough that nobody else would’ve noticed it. A flicker of static in a clear signal.
Except Riley noticed everything about him.
“Ryan, you want the tighter angle on the second take or—”
“Repeat that.”
The cinematographer blinked once, a momentary glitch in his own rhythm, before repeating himself. Ryan nodded slowly, rubbing a hand across his jaw, his gaze fixed somewhere past the bank of monitors, as if searching for a point of focus that wasn't there.
A few minutes later, he asked the head of wardrobe the same question twice.
Then he forgot where they’d moved one of the camera rigs, even though he’d personally approved the change himself less than ten minutes earlier.
Little things.
But little things didn’t happen with him. Ever.
Riley stood near the video village, flipping through updated production notes while watching him carefully from the corner of her eye. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased all morning; it was a hard, knotted line that refused to yield. Every few seconds, his jaw flexed, a subtle grinding of teeth behind closed lips. His focus drifted too easily, his attention constantly snapping toward her like a compass needle to magnetic north before he caught himself and looked away again.
Or tried to.
Because every time she crossed the sprawling set, she felt his eyes on her.
Heavy.
Lingering.
Not subtle anymore.
And what made it worse was how hard he seemed to be fighting it, a silent, internal war playing out in the rigid set of his shoulders.
“Lunch got pushed back forty-five,” Riley said as she stepped beside him, handing over a revised schedule. Her fingers brushed his hand briefly during the exchange, a spark of static in the charged air.
Ryan looked down at the paper.
Then up at her.
Then stayed there a second too long.
Riley felt the pause instantly, a beat of silence stretching into something heavy and significant.
So did he.
His eyes dragged over her face slowly, deliberately, before he cleared his throat and looked back down at the schedule like he’d just remembered other people existed in the same hemisphere as him.
“Aight,” he muttered.
But his voice sounded rougher now, scraped raw.
Riley’s stomach tightened slightly, a nervous flutter, as she stepped away, the feeling of his gaze a physical weight on her back.
Behind her, Ryan watched the sway of her hips disappear around a towering lighting rig before dragging a hand down his face hard enough to pull at his beard.
Michael nearly burst out laughing.
He sat in a canvas folding chair, getting final adjustments on his costume jacket, while watching Ryan unravel in real time like this was the most entertaining shit he’d seen all month.
“Damn,” Michael muttered, just loud enough for only Ryan to hear over the controlled chaos. “She got you distracted for real.”
Ryan ignored him completely.
Or tried to.
“Wardrobe good?” Ryan asked suddenly, his eyes still fixed somewhere across the set, tracking Riley’s movement even as he spoke the wrong name.
Michael stared at him for a solid second.
Then grinned wider, a predator scenting blood in the water.
“Nigga, you just asked me that.”
Ryan finally looked over, his gaze sharp, annoyed.
Michael looked delighted.
“Oh, you gone bad.”
Ryan exhaled sharply through his nose, a puff of frustrated air, before rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Focus on your scene.”
“I am focused,” Michael replied easily, his tone light, mocking. “You the one over here directing like you got pussy on the brain.”
Ryan shot him a look then.
A real one this time, a warning that Michael, for once, decided to heed.
Michael lifted both hands innocently. “Aight, aight.”
But he was still grinning.
Because this wasn’t normal.
Ryan was usually impossible to shake. That man could sit through sixteen-hour production days, withstand crushing studio pressure, navigate budget disasters, and cajole actors out of creative crises, all while moving through everything with the calm of a deep-sea diver. Nothing rattled him visibly.
Except Riley apparently.
And the funniest part?
Riley clearly noticed it too.
Michael caught the exact moment it clicked for her.
She was standing beside craft services, talking into her headset with her back to him, when Ryan called for a reset on a scene they’d already nailed twice. Crew members started moving immediately, a ripple of confusion passing through them, while Riley frowned slightly, her brow furrowing as confusion flashed across her face.
Ryan never wasted resets. Never.
Her eyes found him instantly across the bustling set.
He was already looking at her.
That look held for maybe two seconds too long, a silent, charged conversation, before Ryan was the one to glance away first, flexing his jaw again while he fiddled with the headset hanging around his neck.
Riley blinked slowly.
Oh.
Michael saw the realization settle over her in real time, a subtle shift in her posture, the way her shoulders straightened just a fraction.
And suddenly, she looked just as thrown off as Ryan did.
That made him laugh under his breath all over again.
Because Michael knew exactly what this was.
Ryan was trying not to think about her.
Which meant she was all he’d been thinking about all damn day.
And judging by the way Riley suddenly avoided looking directly at him afterward, her movements a little less fluid, her focus a little less sharp?
She knew it too.
Video village felt smaller when too many people packed into it at once, the air thick and humid with the heat from monitors and bodies. The noise was a physical presence—a constant, overlapping stream of voices. Producers talked over assistant directors. Somebody from wardrobe argued quietly about continuity near the back. A PA squeezed through carrying a precarious stack of coffees while another tried to update tomorrow’s call sheet, their voice lost in the din.
Ryan sat in the middle of it all, his elbows resting on his knees, one hand pressed against his mouth as footage replayed across the monitors in front of him. Usually, this part grounded him. Meetings. Playback. Problem-solving. Control. Today his focus kept slipping through his fingers like fine sand.
“Scene seven still needs approval before lunch.”
“Studio wants alternate coverage on the ending.”
“We gotta make up at least thirty minutes before wrap.”
Voices kept coming at him from every direction, but Ryan barely processed half of them. His knee bounced once under the table before he stilled it immediately, his jaw flexing hard enough to show through his beard.
Then Riley walked into the video village.
And every thought in his head scattered like startled birds.
She stepped between chairs, carrying her tablet against her chest, her headset hanging loosely around her neck now. Her fitted black top hugged her body. Her hair was pulled back halfway today, thick braids falling down her back, while smaller, softer pieces framed her face from hours of moving around set.
Ryan watched her approach before he could stop himself.
Again.
Michael sat across the cramped production space, watching the entire thing happen in real time with growing amusement. At this point, he barely cared about hiding it anymore. This shit was unbelievable.
Riley stopped beside Ryan’s chair, already scrolling through updated scheduling changes on her tablet. “We gotta swap scenes twelve and nine,” she said, leaning closer so he could see the screen over everybody talking. “Rain machine delay pushed us back another—”
Her perfume hit him instantly.
Soft.
Warm.
Dangerous.
Ryan’s eyes closed for half a second before opening again.
Fuck.
Riley leaned over him farther, one hand braced lightly against the back of his chair while she pointed at revised timing blocks on the screen.
And Ryan snapped.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just instinct.
His hand wrapped around her wrist without thinking.
Small moment.
Barely noticeable to anybody else.
But Riley froze instantly.
So did he.
The room kept moving around them, crew talking, monitors playing footage, producers arguing about budget, but suddenly all of it sounded far away, muffled underwater.
Ryan’s grip wasn’t rough.
Just firm.
Grounding.
His thumb pressed slowly against the inside of her wrist where her pulse jumped beneath his touch.
Once.
Twice.
Then stayed there too long.
Riley looked down at his hand first.
Then up at him.
And the second their eyes locked, everything changed.
Ryan’s stare was dark today. Heavy. Not the calm, observant look she was used to catching from him. This looked strained. Tight around the edges. Like he was holding something back with both hands and slowly losing his grip on it.
His voice was a low, rough murmur, meant only for her, a filthy secret shared in a crowded room. “You smell so good it’s fucking distracting.”
Riley felt her stomach flip hard enough to make her forget what she’d been saying entirely. Because Ryan never touched her like this at work. Not unconsciously. Not in front of people. And definitely not like he forgot himself for a second.
His thumb pressed against her pulse one last time before he seemed to realize where they were. But even then, he didn’t let go immediately. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second. “All day… all I can think about is bending you over this table.”
Oh, shit. Michael’s thoughts screeched to a halt. He’d been enjoying the show, the slow burn of his best friend’s unraveling. It was comedy. It was drama. But this? This was a live broadcast of a man throwing his entire career off a cliff for a wrist grab and a whiff of perfume. He really said that shit out loud? In front of the money people? He ain’t just cooked, he’s burned the whole kitchen down and is dancing in the ashes. Michael took a slow sip of his water, trying to hide the fact that his jaw was practically on the floor.
Ryan finally released her wrist carefully, his fingers dragging slightly against her skin before pulling away completely.
Neither of them spoke for a second.
Riley swallowed once before looking back down at the tablet in her hands, but her composure had cracks in it now. Small ones. Barely visible. Still there.
“Scene nine first,” she finished quietly, her voice a little breathless. “That keeps us on schedule.”
Ryan nodded once.
Couldn’t say anything else.
Because all he could think about was the feel of her pulse jumping beneath his thumb and the way her eyes had widened, just for a second, before she got it under control.
Michael leaned back slowly in his chair, fighting the grin threatening to split his face in half.
Yeah.
Ryan was absolutely fucking finished.
The assistant director’s voice cut through the soundstage, a sharp crack of a whip that momentarily overpowered the cacophony.
“Twenty-minute reset!”
Relief moved through the crew like a wave breaking, a collective release of held breath. People scattered in every direction like tension snapping loose all at once. Grips disappeared toward side exits with cigarettes already halfway out of their pockets. Makeup artists rushed actors back toward trailers for touchups before cameras rolled again. Somebody from wardrobe sprinted past carrying three garment bags while producers immediately started arguing near craft services over revised timing. The set never really stopped moving; it just changed its frantic tempo.
Riley adjusted her headset against her ear while weaving through the chaos, already shifting mentally into damage control mode before the break had fully started.
“Scene nine reset after lunch,” she said into her radio smoothly, her voice a steady current in the turbulent sea. “Somebody get updated sides to the background before they wander off completely.”
Her phone buzzed again, another schedule update, another fire to put out. She stepped beside the production table near video village, balancing her clipboard against one hip while scanning revised timing blocks on her tablet. Her braids slipped over one shoulder as she leaned forward slightly, her lips pressed together in a line of pure concentration.
Focused.
Professional.
Completely unaware that Ryan had been staring at her for the last thirty seconds straight, his gaze a physical weight.
Michael caught it immediately from his seat in makeup.
Ryan wasn’t even pretending anymore.
The man looked hungry.
Not playful. Not flirtatious.
Hungry.
His eyes tracked every movement Riley made, the way she shifted her weight onto one leg while scrolling through schedules, the way her fitted jeans curved around her hips when she bent over the table, the soft shine of her lip gloss when she tucked the stylus between her teeth for a second while thinking. Ryan dragged a hand slowly across his beard like he was physically trying to hold himself together, a man fighting a losing battle with his own restraint.
Michael almost laughed out loud.
Goddamn.
“Yo,” Michael called casually while a stylist adjusted the collar of his costume jacket. “You hearing anything anybody saying today?”
Ryan ignored him completely.
Michael leaned back deeper into the chair, his grin spreading wider as he watched Ryan’s composure deteriorate in real time. Because Ryan wasn’t just distracted anymore; he looked irritated by it, like wanting her this badly was genuinely pissing him off.
Then, without a word to anyone, Ryan turned and walked away from video village, his strides long and purposeful. He didn't head toward his trailer or the craft services table. He pushed through the heavy door leading to the crew bathrooms, the sound of it swinging shut echoing slightly in the vast space.
Inside the stark, tiled room, the air was cool and smelled of industrial cleaner. Ryan leaned against the cold porcelain of a sink, his hands gripping the edge so hard his knuckles turned white. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, a stranger with dark, burning eyes and a jaw clenched so tight it ached. He could still smell her perfume, a phantom scent that was driving him insane.
He needed relief. A moment of violent, quiet release to take the edge off, to reset his brain so he could function. He closed his eyes, his hand moving to the button of his jeans, but the image that flashed behind his eyelids wasn't some anonymous face. It was Riley. Her mouth. Her hips. The way she looked at him.
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to conjure anything else, anyone else, but it was useless. His hand stilled. He couldn't. It wouldn't work. Jerking off in a cold bathroom to the thought of her felt pathetic, a cheap substitute. It wasn't the release he wanted. It was her. He wanted to be inside her, to feel her pulse jump under his thumb again, to hear her say his name in that breathless voice. With a frustrated groan, he slammed his hand against the sink, the sound echoing in the small room. This was useless. He was useless.
When he stepped back onto set, the chaos hit him like a physical wall. Riley finally looked up from her tablet and immediately caught him staring at her again. Not glancing. Staring. Her stomach tightened instantly. There was something dangerous about him today, something barely restrained sitting behind his eyes that hadn't been there before. Or maybe it had always been there, and she was only just now seeing it clearly.
The noise around them blurred for a second.
Then—
“Riley.”
His voice wasn’t loud.
Didn’t need to be.
Low.
Rough.
Direct.
Her eyes lifted fully to his.
Ryan stood near the monitors now, one hand resting against his hip while the other hung loose at his side. Calm posture. Calm face.
But his eyes gave him away completely.
Riley swallowed once before stepping closer automatically. “What’s up?”
Ryan held her gaze for a beat too long.
Then:
“Come here.”
Not angry.
Not impatient.
Not a request either.
The words settled low in her stomach immediately.
Michael looked between both of them and nearly lost it right there in his chair.
Because Riley actually hesitated for half a second.
Not because she didn’t want to go.
Because she knew exactly why she shouldn’t.
Ryan didn’t repeat himself.
Didn’t need to.
He simply turned and started walking toward the trailers without checking whether she followed. Which somehow made it worse.
Riley stood frozen for one more second while her heartbeat started climbing hard enough to feel in her throat. Around her, crew members kept moving normally, completely unaware that the air between her and Ryan had turned electric sometime during the last hour.
Then she tucked the tablet tighter against her chest and followed him.
Michael watched her go. Watched Ryan shove both hands into his pockets like he was trying not to grab her in front of the entire crew. Watched Riley speed up slightly to keep pace beside him.
A few minutes later, Ryan re-emerged from the direction of the trailers, his face a mask of strained neutrality. He walked straight back to video village, avoiding everyone’s eyes.
Riley, however, made a beeline for Michael’s chair. She leaned in close, her voice a low, urgent whisper. “What is going on with him?”
Michael’s grin was pure, unadulterated mischief. “Who, Ry? He’s just having a day.”
“He’s not having a day, Michael,” she insisted, her eyes wide with genuine concern. “He’s… off. Is he going to make it through the day? Seriously.”
Michael leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was all teasing and no comfort. “The only way Ryan is gonna make it through this day without either fucking you on this craft services table or having a full-blown aneurysm is if you take a long lunch and give him some of that good pussy to calm his nerves.”
Riley’s mouth fell open, a shocked, silent gasp. She straightened up, her cheeks flushing, but Michael just winked at her, completely unrepentant.
Ryan walked fast when his mind was loud.
Riley learned that about him during their second year working together, somewhere between red-eye flights and fourteen-hour press junkets. When something sat too heavy in his head, his pace changed first. Longer strides. Tighter jaw. Hands buried deep in his pockets like he was physically holding himself together manually, piece by piece.
Right now?
He was moving like a man trying not to snap.
Riley followed half a step behind him through the maze of trailers and production tents, her heels clicking a soft, frantic rhythm against the sun-baked pavement while the entire set moved around them in a state of controlled disorder. The air smelled of hot metal, diesel fumes from generators, and the faint, sweet scent of craft services coffee.
“Ryan—”
A lighting tech intercepted them before they made it ten feet, a clipboard clutched in his hand. “Need you after break for camera placement approval on the rooftop shot.”
Ryan barely slowed down, his eyes fixed forward. “Mm-hm.”
That was it. A low, noncommittal grunt.
The poor man looked confused as hell, standing in their wake as Ryan kept moving, a force of nature on a single-minded track.
Riley glanced sideways at Ryan, trying to suppress the smile tugging at her lips. Normally, he’d stop. He’d ask questions. He’d pull out his own tablet and fix the issue himself with a precision that left no room for error. Today, he didn’t even pretend to care.
Another crew member, a woman from wardrobe with a garment bag slung over her shoulder, caught them near the pop-up costume department. “Yo, Coogler, wardrobe needs approval on the alternate for scene seven—”
“Later.”
Still walking.
Still not looking at anyone.
Riley’s pulse kept climbing with every long stride, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. Because this wasn’t Ryan’s behavior. Michael was the reckless one, the impulsive one, the one who touched first and thought later. Ryan was calculated. Measured. Careful.
Except his hand found her lower back the second they cleared another tight cluster of crew members huddled around a monitor.
The touch wasn’t dramatic. Barely there, just the weight of his palm through the thin fabric of her shirt. But it burned through instantly, a brand that seared her skin, a silent claim in the middle of chaos. His palm spread low against her back, guiding her around massive equipment cases and passing PAs with a quiet possessiveness that made her stomach tighten hard enough to hurt.
Riley looked up at him automatically, her breath catching in her throat.
Ryan kept his eyes forward, his profile a study in rigid control.
But his jaw flexed again, a tell-tale twitch of muscle.
“Ryan,” she said softly, trying to sound more composed than she felt, her voice barely a whisper against the din. “Where are we going?”
“Need a minute.”
His voice came out rough, scraped raw.
Low enough that nobody else would’ve caught it.
But Riley did.
And it sent a bolt of heat straight between her thighs, a sudden, dizzying rush of arousal. Because he sounded strained. Actually strained, like every word was a physical effort.
Ryan finally glanced at her while they crossed behind the wardrobe trailers, his dark eyes landing on hers for just a second before dragging down her body like he couldn’t stop himself, like his gaze was a physical thing he couldn’t rein in. He took in the curve of her hips in her jeans, the swell of her breasts beneath her fitted top, the column of her throat.
That look nearly took her knees out.
Not playful.
Not teasing.
Hungry.
“You been doing this shit on purpose today?” he asked quietly, his voice a low, accusatory rumble.
Riley blinked, her mind struggling to catch up. “Doing what?”
His hand tightened slightly against her back, his fingers pressing into her flesh, a clear, unmistakable signal. “Walking around lookin’ like that.”
The words came out flat. Honest. Almost irritated, as if her very existence was a personal affront to his composure.
Riley felt warmth crawl up her neck immediately, a flush she couldn’t control. “You serious right now?”
Ryan let out a breath through his nose that sounded dangerously close to frustration. “That's what it look like?”
The silence after that felt thick, heavy, charged with unspoken things. Crew members passed around them carrying lighting stands and garment bags, their chatter and laughter a distant soundtrack to the tension building so tightly between them it almost felt visible, a shimmering, heat-haze in the air.
Ryan’s hand slid from her back to her hip briefly as another PA squeezed past them in the narrow space. The move was too familiar. Too intimate for the middle of a workday. His thumb brushed against the curve of her hipbone, a slow, deliberate stroke.
Riley’s breath caught softly, a sharp little gasp, before she could stop it.
Ryan heard that too.
His eyes cut toward her instantly, sharp and focused. And for the first time all day, Riley saw it clearly: he was barely holding himself together. The control he wore like a second skin was fraying at the edges, the raw, hungry man underneath showing through.
That realization hit her low and hard, a punch to the gut.
Because Ryan wasn’t supposed to lose control. Not him. He was supposed to be the calm one. The grounded one. The man who watched everything, calculated every angle, before acting.
But now?
Now he looked like he wanted to drag her somewhere private and ruin every ounce of professionalism she’d managed to hold onto all morning. He looked like he wanted to erase the line between Ryan and Riley, director and assistant, until there was nothing left but raw, desperate need.
And the craziest part?
The thought turned her on so badly she almost stumbled when his hand slid back against her waist again, his grip firm, proprietary.
Ryan noticed immediately, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You good?”
Riley swallowed once before nodding too quickly, the motion jerky. “Mhm.”
A faint smirk touched the corner of his mouth, then disappeared just as fast, like a flicker of lightning. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her, and he was enjoying her unraveling as much as he was enjoying his own.
They rounded the corner behind the wardrobe trailers, away from the main stretch of set traffic. The noise softened slightly back here, muffled beneath the hum of generators and distant crew chatter. The air was cooler here, shaded by the massive metal structures.
Ryan slowed finally.
Riley thought they were heading toward his trailer, a private space where this could all either implode or explode.
Instead, he stopped near a narrow side entrance tucked between two wardrobe storage units, a nondescript metal door that led to who-knows-where. He turned to face her fully, blocking her path, his body a wall of tense muscle and simmering energy.
The look he gave her then made her entire body go warm, a slow, creeping flush that started in her chest and spread outward.
Focused.
Heavy.
Done pretending.
And Riley realized with a sharp, electric pulse between her thighs that Michael wasn’t the only dangerous one after all.
Riley assumed they were heading for his trailer, a familiar sanctuary where this tension could either be carefully defused or finally acted upon. She was already bracing herself for the click of his trailer door, the quiet privacy of his space.
Instead, his hand shot out, not to the handle of his door, but to the handle of a narrow, unmarked metal door tucked between two massive wardrobe storage units. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed her wrist, his grip firm and unyielding, and pulled her inside with him.
The door clicked shut behind them, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden, oppressive silence.
This wasn't a trailer.
This was a closet.
Cramped. Dim. Packed floor-to-ceiling with rolling racks of costumes, creating a narrow, labyrinthine aisle. The air was thick with the scent of dry-cleaned fabric, cedar, and the ghost of cologne clinging to expensive jackets. Outside, the muffled roar of the production was a distant, irrelevant world.
Ryan immediately crowded her, backing her up until her shoulders hit the cool, metal frame of a rolling rack filled with period-piece gowns. The plastic-wrapped dresses crinkled softly, a protest against the intrusion. He was in her space, all of him, his body a solid wall of heat and restrained energy that boxed her in. There was no escape. There was only him.
His eyes, dark and intense in the low light, bored into hers.
“You been distracting the fuck outta me all day.”
His voice was a low growl, stripped of all patience, all pretense. There was no teasing, no playful banter. Just need. Raw, urgent, and barely contained.
Riley’s breath hitched, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, to deflect, to deny, to regain some semblance of control, but his gaze dropped to her lips, and the words evaporated on her tongue.
“Every time you walk past me,” he continued, his voice getting rougher, his hand coming up to brace against the rack beside her head, caging her in completely. “Every time you bend over a table. Every time you push those damn braids out of your face… I see it.”
“See what?” she managed to whisper, her voice thin and shaky.
He leaned in closer, his face just inches from hers, the heat of his breath fanning across her cheek. He smelled of coffee and something uniquely him, something that made her head spin. “I see myself bending you over this rack. I see myself wrapping those braids around my fist while I fuck you from behind. I see myself making you forget every goddamn thing on that clipboard except my name.”
The filth of his words, spoken so quietly, so seriously, was a physical blow. A hot, molten wave of arousal washed over her, so intense it made her knees weak. She felt a slick rush of wetness between her thighs, her body responding with an honesty that betrayed her completely.
His other hand came up then, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who looked like he was about to come apart at the seams. “I went to the bathroom earlier, you know that? Trying to get a grip. Trying to think about anything else.” He let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Couldn’t do it. All I could think about was how you’d taste. All I could think about was how tight you’d feel.”
Riley’s head fell back against the metal rack with a soft thud, her eyes fluttering closed. This was too much. He was too much. The carefully constructed walls of their professional relationship were not just crumbling; they were being detonated from the inside out.
“Ryan…” she breathed, his name a plea, a prayer, a surrender.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a ragged, desperate thing. “Tell me to walk out of this closet and go back to being your boss. Tell me right now, Riley.”
But she couldn’t.
Because she didn’t want him to stop.
She wanted him to do every single thing he’d just said.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, filled only by the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant, muffled chaos of the set outside. And in that silence, Ryan’s control was finally, completely, shattered.
The closet felt smaller the longer he touched her.
Hotter too.
The cramped air was thick with the scent of dry-cleaned fabric, dust, cedar hangers, and Ryan’s cologne, something dark and expensive that clung to his skin even after hours under production lights. Beneath it all was sweat now. Heat. The sharp electric smell of tension finally snapping.
His mouth crashed into hers hard enough to steal the breath from her lungs. No patience left. No measured restraint. Just heat and frustration, and what had clearly been building for hours. Days. Maybe longer. The kiss was all teeth and tongue, a desperate, messy collision that tasted faintly of coffee and mint and something dangerously masculine underneath it all.
Riley gasped against his mouth as his hands gripped her hips, dragging her flush against him so she could feel exactly how affected he was. The hard, thick ridge of his dick pressed insistently against her stomach through their clothes, hot enough to make her pulse jump violently between her thighs.
The realization hit low and hard.
Ryan Coogler—
calm, composed, impossible-to-rattle Ryan—
was losing his mind over her.
And fuck if that didn’t make her wetter instantly.
“Fuck,” he muttered against her lips, voice rough and wrecked like he’d been holding those words in all day. “You got me fucked up today.”
His kisses turned sloppier after that, mouth dragging along her jaw before dropping to her throat, where he bit down just enough to force a sharp inhale from her lips. Pleasure flashed through her body immediately, hot and sudden, her knees weakening beneath her.
One of his hands shoved between them impatiently, fumbling with the button of her jeans like he was too distracted to work properly. The frustration in the movement almost made her smile if she wasn’t already too dizzy to think straight.
Ryan never fumbled.
That alone nearly drove her insane.
Plastic garment covers crackled loudly around them as his body pressed harder into hers, the sound obnoxiously sharp in the tight space. Every little noise suddenly felt amplified. Her breathing. His curses under his breath. The squeak of metal wheels beneath the costume racks shifted from the force of their bodies.
Outside, somebody laughed loudly.
Too close.
Riley’s stomach tightened instantly.
“Ryan—” she whispered, half warning, half plea.
“I know,” he rasped against her skin immediately.
But he didn’t stop.
Couldn’t.
That realization settled heavily in her chest.
He really couldn’t stop.
Ryan dropped suddenly to his knees in front of her, large hands gripping behind her thigh before lifting her leg over his shoulder in one smooth motion. Riley’s breath caught hard in her throat at the sight alone.
Jesus Christ.
The dim overhead light cut across his face just enough to sharpen everything dangerous about him, his focused stare, the slight shine of sweat across his forehead, the way his beard moved when he clenched his jaw trying to hold himself together.
He looked hungry.
His grip tightened against her thigh possessively before he leaned forward, and the first touch of his mouth against her made Riley’s head fall back against the metal rack with a sharp clang.
“Fuck—”
Ryan groaned against her immediately, low and deep like tasting her after wanting her all damn day, which almost pushed him over the edge itself.
And he didn’t tease her.
Didn’t play.
He ate her like he’d been thinking about it for hours.
Like he was angry about wanting her this badly.
His tongue flattened against her with a rough, deliberate stroke that pulled a broken sound from her throat instantly. The vibration of his groan against her body made her legs shake harder while one of his hands slid up beneath her shirt, fingers spreading across her stomach possessively like he needed to feel every reaction she gave him.
Riley could hear herself breathing now.
Short.
Shaky.
Embarrassingly loud.
And Ryan loved it.
She saw it in the way his eyes lifted to her face while his mouth worked against her relentlessly. The way his brows furrowed every time she gasped. The way his grip tightened whenever her thighs trembled around him.
Like he was finally getting exactly what he’d wanted all day.
Her fingers buried themselves into hanging costume bags beside her, plastic crackling loudly beneath her grip while pressure built hotter and tighter low in her stomach.
“Ryan…” she breathed weakly.
His response was another rough pull of his mouth that nearly made her collapse.
Then suddenly he stood again.
Breathing hard.
Chest rising sharply beneath his black shirt.
His lips glistened faintly in the dim light, beard slightly damp now, eyes darker than she’d ever seen them before.
Ryan looked gone.
Actually gone.
And Riley realized with a dizzy rush of heat that she loved seeing him like this.
Loved being the reason.
He turned her around abruptly after that, pressing her against stacked wardrobe boxes hard enough to shift them slightly beneath her hands. The cardboard scraped softly beneath her palms while costumes swayed around them from the force of his movements.
Then his mouth was on hers again.
Messy.
Deep.
Desperate.
She tasted herself on his tongue and nearly moaned from that alone.
Riley had never seen him like this before.
This version of Ryan felt stripped raw, all the quiet control he usually wore peeled away until only need remained underneath.
Ryan rested his forehead against hers briefly, both of them breathing hard in the cramped darkness while distant production noise hummed outside the closet walls.
“Couldn’t focus all damn day ‘cause of you,” he admitted quietly, voice edged with frustration. “Niggas talking to me and I’m sitting there thinking about this.”
His hand slid slowly down her waist.
“About bending you over in here.”
Heat flooded Riley instantly.
Then she heard it—
the sound of his belt.
The soft metallic clink felt louder inside the tiny space.
Ryan freed himself with visible effort, eyes squeezing shut briefly like he was trying to hold onto the last scraps of control he had left. When he guided himself against her, teasing her with slow pressure instead of immediately giving her what she wanted, Riley nearly whimpered.
Because even now—
even this far gone—
He was still trying to pace himself.
Outside the closet, footsteps passed close enough to make Riley freeze instantly.
Voices.
Crew members.
Right there.
Her eyes widened as she pushed lightly against his chest. “Ryan—”
“I know,” he repeated.
But this time, there was something reckless in the way he smiled afterward.
Something dangerous.
Then he slid into her slowly.
The stretch pulled a sharp breath from both of them at the same time.
Ryan cursed softly beneath it, forehead dropping against her shoulder while he forced himself deeper inch by inch, like he was trying not to lose it immediately.
“Fuck…” he breathed shakily. “You feel—”
He stopped himself, jaw tightening hard.
Riley could feel the tremor running through him already. The restraint. The effort it took for him not to completely lose control right there.
Then he started moving.
Slow at first.
Deep rolling movements that pressed her harder against the boxes with every stroke, cardboard scraping softly beneath her trembling hands. Each motion felt deliberate, almost punishing in its intensity, his hips dragging against hers in a way that made her stomach tighten harder every single time.
The metal rack beside them rattled softly.
Plastic garment covers swayed overhead.
Ryan’s breathing got rougher against the side of her throat.
“That what you been doing to me all day,” he muttered before his hand cracked sharply against her ass.
The sound echoed violently through the closet.
Riley jerked forward with a gasp, fingers tightening around the hanging clothes while heat bloomed instantly across her skin.
“Shit—”
Ryan groaned low under his breath, like hearing that sound from her nearly snapped the last thread holding him together.
“Walking around this set looking like that…” another hard movement against her that stole the breath from her lungs, “making me lose my fucking mind.”
Another sharp smack landed harder this time.
The sting mixed with the deep pressure of his movements until Riley genuinely couldn’t separate pleasure from tension anymore. Her entire body felt overheated, oversensitive, dangerously close to unraveling.
And outside that door—
People were still walking past completely unaware.
The world was still moving while Ryan fucked her like he’d been starving for her all damn day.
The knock at the door hit like a gunshot through the cramped closet.
“Ryan?” a muffled voice called from the other side. “You in here?”
Riley froze instantly. Every muscle in her body locked up at once, breath catching somewhere high in her chest as panic and adrenaline slammed into her system so hard it almost made her dizzy. Ryan’s reaction was immediate, a fluid, predatory motion. He didn’t pull out. He didn’t stop. He spun them both, a maneuver so swift and sure it left her breathless, pressing her front against the cool, unyielding surface of the metal door. He kicked her feet wider apart with his own, his body a solid weight pinning her there.
His hand came up immediately, covering her mouth before instinct could betray her with a sound. His palm was warm and rough against her lips, the tendons in his forearm flexing hard as he held her there. But he didn’t stop. That was the insane part.
He slowed for half a second, just enough for Riley to think maybe reality had finally caught up to him, then his hips rolled forward again, dragging a sharp inhale through his nose. The thick, swollen head of his dick dragged against her walls, which made her eyes roll back in her head.
The plastic garment covers hanging around them swayed softly from the movement, whispering against each other in the dark like they were trying to tell on them. The entire closet smelled thickly of fabric starch, cedar hangers, sweat, and sex now, humid air clinging to their skin, trapping every ragged breath between them. She could feel how wet she was, an obscene cream coated his dick.
Ryan lowered his forehead to her shoulder, eyes shut tight for one strained second, like he was fighting himself and losing badly. “Stay quiet,” he whispered against her skin, voice wrecked and low. “You can do that for me, right?”
The words should’ve grounded her. Instead, they made heat spiral violently through her stomach because he sounded gone and not controlled, not composed. Not the Ryan she knew. This Ryan was reckless. And apparently, that turned her on way more than it should have.
Outside, the PA knocked again, lighter this time. “Ryan?”
His pace picked up. Not frantic. Worse. Intentional. The kind of rhythm that builds pressure instead of releasing it. Each movement was stronger than the last, measured like he was forcing himself not to lose control completely. The door rattled softly in its frame with every deep thrust, a tiny, damning sound.
She bit hard against the center of his palm to keep quiet, the pain a welcome distraction from the overwhelming pleasure building inside her.
Ryan cursed softly under his breath at the feeling, the sound rough and wrecked. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a low, filthy taunt. “Good girl.”
The praise hit her embarrassingly hard.
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a low, dangerous hum. “They right on the other side of this door, ain’t they? Right there. You feel that? Every time I push, this door moves. Just a little. You make one sound, one little gasp, they’re gonna hear you. You gonna let them hear how good I’m fucking you, Riley? Hmm?”
Riley’s response was a muffled whimper against his hand, her body trembling. Her own hand slid down her stomach, her fingers finding her clit, swollen and throbbing. She began to rub in tight, frantic circles, matching the rhythm of his hips. The dual sensation was almost too much, a dizzying spiral of pleasure that had her seeing stars.
“Yeah, you like that,” he growled, his voice thick with satisfaction as he felt her body clench around him. “Playing with that pussy while I’m in it. My greedy princess. You hear that? How wet you are? Shit… dripping all down my dick, making a mess. You hear that sound?”
She could. The slick, rhythmic sound of his dick sliding into her, a wet squelch that was loud in the quiet of the closet, a sound that was both mortifying and incredibly arousing.
Outside the closet, the PA sighed loudly enough for them to hear it through the door. “Man, where the fuck did he go…”
A second voice answered farther down the hallway. Crew chatter. Someone laughing. A radio crackling.
Ryan used the distraction to drag her tighter against him, one hand planting beside her head on the door, trapping her completely between his body and the cold metal. His breathing had turned uneven against her shoulder, hot bursts of air dampening her skin. Riley could feel how badly he was trying to hold himself together. And failing.
The realization sent another pulse of heat through her, her fingers working her clit faster.
He lifted his head just enough to look at her profile in the dim light leaking through the cracks around the door. Her lips parted beneath his hand. Eyes glassy. Braids slightly messy now from his fingers.
Beautiful.
Completely fucking him up.
“You got any idea,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself, “how hard it’s been sitting across from you all day acting normal? Smelling you. Watching you. Thinking about this exact moment. Bending you over and taking what’s mine.”
His pace sharpened again, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, more demanding. Not enough to get sloppy. Enough to make her knees weaken, to make her hand falter on her clit as pleasure, sharp and overwhelming, began to crest.
Riley grabbed blindly for balance, her free hand slapping against the metal door for support as another muffled voice passed outside. Her palm was slick with her own arousal, a damp print left on the cool metal.
Then—
Silence.
The footsteps finally started moving away.
Ryan heard it too. But instead of stopping, relief only seemed to make him worse. His shoulders dropped slightly, tension releasing from his frame all at once, and the next breath he let out sounded almost dangerous. He pulled his hand from her mouth, a thin string of saliva connecting her lips to his palm before it broke.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, more to himself than her now. “That’s what the fuck I thought.”
The silence outside lasted all of three seconds.
Then the footsteps finally started moving away down the hallway, fading gradually beneath the distant chaos of the set. Riley sagged against the metal door with a shaky exhale, her forehead pressing briefly against the cold surface as adrenaline drained from her body in uneven waves. Her entire nervous system felt lit on fire. Every nerve ending sharp. Sensitive. Alive.
Behind her, Ryan finally lost the last thread of restraint he’d been hanging onto.
His hand slid from beside her head down to her hip, fingers digging in hard enough to make her gasp. Not gentle anymore. Not careful. He dragged her back against him with a rough pull that rattled the entire door again, his breathing turning ragged against the side of her neck.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked beyond repair now. “Can’t do this shit slow anymore.”
And then he wasn’t.
The measured control disappeared completely. The next movement hit deeper, rough enough to force a broken sound from Riley’s throat before she could stop it. His hand immediately returned to her mouth, but this time it felt less about silencing her and more about grounding himself, holding onto something while he unraveled behind her. The costume racks around them shook softly with every impact now, hangers clicking together in nervous little bursts. Plastic garment covers whispered and crackled around their bodies. The cramped closet had turned unbearably warm, humid air sticking to their skin, carrying the scent of sweat, cedarwood, expensive fabric, and sex so thick Riley thought she might drown in it.
Ryan’s forehead dropped heavily between her shoulder blades for a second, his grip on her hips bruising now, fingers flexing hard every time he pulled her back against him. She could feel how close he was. Not just physically. Emotionally and mentally, Ryan didn't exist. And something about seeing Ryan, the calmest man she knew, completely fucking destroyed because of her made heat coil viciously low in her stomach.
His movements turned rougher again, harder, the rhythm no longer restrained by caution or logic. Just need.
Then—
The closet door cracked open.
A thin slice of bright hallway light cut through the darkness.
Riley’s heart nearly stopped.
Michael leaned casually against the doorframe as if he’d stumbled into the funniest thing he’d seen all week. And honestly? Maybe he had. His eyes swept over the scene slowly: Riley bent over the stacked wardrobe boxes and metal door, braids disheveled, lips swollen, jeans shoved down just enough. Ryan, behind her, wrecked, jaw clenched tight, hands locked possessively onto her hips like he’d forgotten how to let go. The entire closet smelled like sex and bad decisions.
Michael stared for exactly one beat before a huge grin spread across his face. “Ahhh,” he laughed softly, shaking his head. “This is where ya'll disappeared to.”
Riley wanted to die.
Ryan barely even looked at him. Usually, Ryan would’ve cared. Would’ve straightened up. Re-centered himself. Not now. Now he just kept going, eyes half-lidded, breathing rough as his grip tightened harder against Riley’s hips.
Michael’s eyebrows shot up slightly at that. “Well shit,” he muttered, amused as hell now.
Ryan finally glanced toward him, irritation flashing briefly across his face through the haze. “You gonna stand there talking,” he said hoarsely, “or shut the fuck up and close the door?”
Michael laughed outright at that, deep and entertained, pushing the door open just enough to slip inside before letting it click shut behind him again. The tiny closet somehow got even smaller with all three of them inside. Michael leaned back against the door, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching them with open satisfaction. Not jealous. Not impatient. Just enjoying the show.
That did something to both of them. The moment Michael stepped into the room, it stopped being just reckless desperation between Ryan and Riley. It became them again. The three of them. The same dangerous gravity that always pulled them back together.
Riley felt it immediately. Ryan did too. His hand slid from her mouth down to her throat—not squeezing, just holding—as he buried his face against her shoulder with a low curse. “Fuck,” he breathed.
Michael watched the way Riley melted further against Ryan’s body, watched the last pieces of tension and fear dissolve into pure overwhelmed pleasure, and grinned knowingly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s our girl right there.”
Then he moved. He stepped forward, his movements fluid and confident, closing the small distance between them. He stopped right in front of Riley, his body a solid, warm presence. “C’mere, princess,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. He took her hands, which had been braced against the door, and guided them around his neck. “Hold on to me.”
Riley’s fingers tickled the hair at the nape of his neck, her grip tight as she looked up at him. This new position, bent over with her arms wrapped around Michael’s neck, arched her back, pushing her ass up at a perfect, devastating angle for Ryan.
Ryan bit his lip at the new position, at the sight of her offering herself up to him so completely. He used the leverage, his hands gripping her hips even tighter as he drove into her, deeper than before. The new angle was exquisite, a brutal, perfect glide that had her crying out softly against Michael’s chest.
“That’s it, Ry,” Michael murmured, his eyes on Ryan over Riley’s head. “Give it to her. Make her feel that shit.” He looked back down at Riley, his gaze softening, his thumb stroking her cheek. “You feel that, baby? How deep he is? He’s been thinking about this all day. Fucking you right here on set where anyone could find you.”
Ryan’s rhythm became erratic, his thrusts losing their last semblance of control. He was close. Michael could see it in the tense line of his shoulders, hear it in the ragged gasps of his breath.
“Look at me,” Michael commanded Riley softly. She lifted her head, her eyes glassy and unfocused with pleasure. He leaned in and kissed her, a deep, possessive kiss that was all tongue. “He’s about to cum, baby,” he whispered against her lips. “You gonna be a good girl and take it? You gonna let him paint this pretty ass?”
The filthy words, combined with the relentless pressure of Ryan’s dick, sent Riley spiraling. With a final, brutal thrust, Ryan pulled out with a hoarse shout. Riley felt the hot, thick ropes of his cum stripe her ass and lower back, a visceral, possessive claim that made her whole body tremble.
Before she could even process it, Michael’s hand slid down her body, his fingers finding her clit, still swollen and sensitive from her own frantic touches. He didn’t hesitate. He rubbed her clit in circles. Then he brought his other hand down in a sharp, stinging slap directly on her pussy.
The sensation was a lightning strike.
Riley’s orgasm tore through her, violent and overwhelming. A sharp, broken cry escaped her lips as her body convulsed, her legs shaking so badly she would have fallen if not for her grip on Michael’s neck and Ryan’s hands on her hips, holding her up as she came apart in their arms.
Michael held her through it, his fingers stilling on her clit as he kissed her forehead, a gentle, tender gesture in the aftermath of their shared storm. Ryan leaned against her back, his forehead resting on her spine, his breathing harsh and uneven in the sudden, ringing silence of the closet.
The silence that followed was a physical presence, thick and heavy, broken only by their ragged, uneven breaths. The air in the tiny closet was thick with the scent of their exertion, a humid, intoxicating mix of sweat, sex, and the faint, clean smell of the costumes surrounding them.
Michael was the first to move. He pushed himself off the door with a soft chuckle, his movements fluid and unhurried. He glanced at them, Riley still bent over, Ryan leaning against her, both of them looking thoroughly and beautifully wrecked.
“Aight,” he said, his voice a low, amused rumble. He reached for the door handle. “Five minutes, then y’all gotta stop fucking around and make this movie.” He slipped out, pulling the door quietly shut behind him, plunging them back into a dim, private world.
The click of the latch was a signal. Ryan’s entire body seemed to deflate, the frantic energy draining out of him. He straightened up slowly, pulling Riley with him, his hands gentle now where they had been bruising. He turned her to face him, his dark eyes soft, searching.
Riley was breathless, her legs shaky and unsteady. She leaned against him, her head on his chest, listening to the frantic but slowing beat of his heart. For a long moment, they just stood there, a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing.
Then, Ryan began to fix her. He knelt, his hands careful as he pulled her jeans back up over her hips, the denim rough against her sensitized skin. He smoothed her shirt, his palms flattening the fabric. His fingers then went to her hair, gently tucking the messy braids back into place, his touch impossibly tender. Finally, his thumb came to her swollen lips, brushing softly against them, a silent apology.
He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. No words were spoken. None were needed. The gesture was everything. An apology. And a promise.
Riley looked at him, at the raw vulnerability in his eyes. A slow smile touched her lips. Before Ryan could straighten up, before he could retreat into his shell of composure, she acted.
With a strength that surprised them both, she pushed him. He stumbled back a step, his legs hitting the low stool in the corner of the closet. He sat down hard, his eyes wide with surprise. Before he could say a word, Riley was on him, straddling his lap, her knees bracketing his thighs.
She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him.
It wasn't a frantic kiss. It was a deep kiss. All tongue. A slow, sensual exploration that was opposite to the frantic fucking from moments before. She rolled her hips, grinding her still-sensitive core against the hard length of him trapped in his jeans. A slow, deliberate circle that was designed to tease, to remind him of what he’d just had, of what was now his.
Ryan groaned into her mouth, his hands automatically coming to rest on her hips, his fingers digging in, but he let her lead. He let her take control.
When she finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark. She looked down at him, her expression a mixture of satisfaction and genuine concern. “You okay to go back out there?” she asked, her voice a low, husky whisper. “Or do you need more?”
A slow, real laugh rumbled in Ryan’s chest, the sound deep and relieved. He looked up at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the tension finally gone, replaced by a lazy, satisfied heat. “I’m good,” he said, his voice still rough. “But Mike might want a taste before the day is over with.”
Riley’s smile widened. She leaned in, nipping at his lower lip. “Good,” she whispered, her voice a promise. “Let him wait.”
The set swallowed them whole again.
The second Riley stepped back onto the soundstage, the world snapped back into motion around her like the last twenty minutes had never happened at all. Radios crackled nonstop, a symphony of static and clipped commands. Crew members crossed paths carrying lighting rigs and coffee trays in a carefully choreographed dance of controlled chaos. Someone in wardrobe was yelling about missing boots, their voice rising in pitch with each passing second. A PA sprinted past, shouting revised call times, their message lost in the din.
Chaos.
Normalcy.
Riley slid right back into it seamlessly, a ghost returning to the machine. Headset on. Clipboard tucked against her chest. Phone vibrating endlessly in her back pocket.
“Scene 14 moved to Stage B.”
“Lunch push got approved.”
“No, production wants the revised shot list before three.”
Her voice was calm again. Efficient. Sharp. The same composed assistant whom everyone on set trusted to keep the machine running smoothly. Like she hadn’t just been bent over a costume rack ten minutes ago. Like her lips weren’t still swollen and tingling beneath a fresh coat of gloss. Like her thighs didn’t still ache with a deep, satisfying soreness every time she walked.
Nobody noticed.
Or if they did, they were too busy drowning in production chaos to question it.
And Ryan—
Ryan was back.
Completely.
The transformation was almost terrifying. By the time he stepped into video village again, he looked composed enough to make Riley wonder if she’d hallucinated the entire closet incident. His posture was relaxed. Focused. Calm. He answered lighting questions without hesitation, adjusted blocking with precision, and gave notes to camera operators with his usual measured confidence.
Sharp again.
Grounded.
Like he’d purged the distraction straight out of his system.
Michael noticed immediately.
He leaned back in his chair beside the monitors, arms crossed loosely, as a slow grin spread across his face. “There he go,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Riley to catch.
Ryan didn’t even glance at him. Just kept watching playback footage with maddening professionalism. That somehow made it worse.
Riley tried very hard not to blush while flipping through schedule revisions nearby, focusing on the neat black and white type as if it held the secrets to the universe.
Michael caught it instantly. His grin widened. “Ohhh,” he laughed quietly, a low, teasing sound. “She embarrassed now.”
“Michael,” Riley warned without looking up from her clipboard, her voice tight.
“What?” he said, all mock innocence. “I ain’t say nothing. Just admiring your… professionalism.”
Ryan finally looked over then, his expression unreadable, but his eyes dark for half a second too long when they landed on Riley. That tiny glance alone sent heat climbing back up her neck, a slow, creeping blush she couldn’t stop.
Michael saw that too. “Nah,” he murmured, leaning back further in his chair, looking between them like he was watching a particularly interesting tennis match. “At work is crazy.”
The day continued like that. Professional on the surface. Something else entirely underneath. Every now and then, Ryan’s hand would brush Riley’s lower back while passing behind her, a touch that lingered just a fraction too long to be accidental. Michael would catch her eye from across the set and smirk like he knew exactly what she was thinking, like he could still hear the sounds from that closet echoing in his head. And Riley—Riley kept trying to act like her body didn’t react instantly to both of them now, like her heart didn’t skip a beat, like a fresh wave of arousal didn’t wash over her every time they were near.
Nobody on set realized exactly what had happened during that twenty-minute reset. Nobody noticed the way Ryan looked calmer now, like a tightly wound spring had finally been released. Nobody noticed Riley occasionally pressing her lips together like she could still feel the ghost of kisses lingering there. Nobody noticed Michael watching both of them with quiet, knowing amusement all afternoon.
To everyone else, it was just another exhausting production day.
But underneath it?
Everything had shifted again.
And it wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Because two weeks later, Ryan would leave for a three-day studio meeting in Atlanta.
Which meant it would just be Riley and Michael at the office.
Alone.
And Michael—unlike Ryan—had never been particularly good at patience.
Especially not when Riley walked into his office wearing a fitted black skirt and heels while he was already halfway through a stressful morning.
Especially not when he forgot he had a meeting scheduled in fifteen minutes.
Especially not when Riley ended up hidden underneath his desk while executives sat across from him talking budgets… and Michael had to grip the edge of his chair hard enough to keep from completely losing his composure in front of all of them.
Premise: An innocent milking session turns into a freaky test of willpower between our favorite twins & Mrs. Moore.
A/N: School's finally out for the summer, so guess what that means? Your favorite fairy priestess is back to deliver that fire you all know & love. Special thanks to my boo @theegoldenchild for helping me flesh this out, as well as @nahimjustfeelingit-writes & @soufcakmistress for the idea for this filth! I love y'all real bad! 💛
Warning(s): 18+ | Modern AU | Threesome | Degradation Kink | Praise Kink | Oral Sex | Breastfeeding Kink | Masturbation | Edging | Voyeurism | Elijah "Smoke" Moore x Annie Moore x Elias "Stack" Moore
Word Count: 4K
Divider by: @saradika-graphics
Sunlight spills through the open nursery windows in thick golden ribbons, warm enough to turn the dust floating through the air into glitter. The gauzy curtains sway lazily with the breeze rolling in from the Quarter, carrying the scent of rain-damp pavement, magnolia blossoms, and the faint trace of incense burning downstairs on Annie’s altar. Wind chimes clink softly somewhere on the back gallery, mixing with the distant sound of a trumpet player serenading tourists three streets over. Outside, the city buzzes with its usual mix of music, heat, and morning chaos.
But in here, the world felt gentler.
Autumn babbles happily to herself from the patchwork quilt laid across the rug, tiny gold bangles jingling around her ankles every time she kicks her feet. Her fat cheeks puff around the big toe currently shoved in her mouth, suckling as though it were the finest delicacy in all of Louisiana. Her chocolate curls were wild from sleep and haloed by the morning light, making her look less like a baby and more like a cherub the ancestors had handcrafted for Annie and Smoke’s enjoyment alone. She was perfection.
Annie leans against the doorway with sleepy eyes, her satin robe resting loosely around her shoulder as she watches her daughter. Her hand lightly caresses the small protection sigil Smoke had discreetly painted in the threshold, the blackened symbol nearly invisible against the wood unless you knew what to look for.
“Those toes providing you enough nutrients,” Annie teases softly, “or would you like some goodness fresh from the tap?”
Autumn lets out an excited squeal at the sound of her mother’s voice, nearly choking on her own laughter as she rolls onto her belly. She kicks her legs wildly behind her, determined to army crawl across the blanket despite only managing a few pitiful inches.
“Mm-hmm,” Annie laughs under her breath. “There goes that impatience. You just like your daddy.”
Autumn answers with another delighted shriek at the mention of her father, reaching for her mother with clumsy little hands.
“Calm down,” Annie giggles, pushing herself off the doorway and crossing the nursery barefoot. The old wooden floor creaks beneath her steps. “I was going to come to you.”
She scoops her into her arms, breathing in that powdery baby scent mixed with shea butter and chamomile oil. The infant immediately tucks herself against her mother’s chest with a happy little sigh. Annie pulls down one side of her night gown and settles into the rocking chair near the window, letting Autumn latch while sunlight pours over them both in warm, honey-colored waves.
Downstairs, the coffee maker gives a soft ding, followed by the familiar sound of cabinet doors opening and closing somewhere beneath the nursery floor. Annie smiles to herself. Smoke was up.
A second later, music crackles low through the house from the old speaker he refused to replace. One of Sammie’s blues records. He’d never admit it out loud, but he was his little cousin’s biggest fan and owned every album he’d ever made on cassette, CD, and vinyl.
Before long, the scent of breakfast begins creeping upstairs. First coffee, dark and rich enough to wake the dead. Then butter hitting hot cast iron. Bacon shortly after that. Annie closes her eyes for a second when the smell of sautéed bell peppers and onions finally joins the mix, followed by the unmistakable scent of seasoned shrimp cooking in garlic and Cajun spices.
Smoke was making his famous shrimp and grits.
She could already picture him downstairs moving around the kitchen, half-dressed, tattoos peeking beneath a black tank top, while he stood over the stove with the same ridiculous amount of focus he put into everything. Probably dancing a little too, if the faint sound of cabinet tapping was anything to go by. A soft laugh leaves her throat.
Annie loved it when Smoke cooked. Not because he was good at it, though Lord knew he was. It was the care behind it that always got to her. The way he plated her food like it mattered. The way he remembered she liked extra cheese in her grits and her peaches sprinkled with sugar. The way he’d slide a cup of coffee into her hands before she even realized she needed one.
She always told him she could taste the love in his food. And every single time, Smoke would roll his eyes like she was being dramatic, even though the smug grin tugging at his mouth always gave him away.
“You wanna go say hi to daddy, babygirl? I’m sure he could use some of this good loving, too.” Autumn blinks up at her with sleepy, milk-drunk eyes, one hand still gripping Annie’s robe as she finishes feeding. A soft little sigh escapes her once she’s full, cheeks warm and round as she settles against Annie’s chest.
“Yeah,” Annie murmured, kissing the top of her curls. “That’s my spoiled girl.”
The old hardwood creaked beneath Annie’s bare feet as she carried Autumn downstairs, the smell of breakfast growing stronger with every step. Annie hums along to Sammie’s record as she crosses into the kitchen, and to her surprise, there are two Moore men waiting to greet her.
“There’s unc’s baby!” Stack grins the second he spots Autumn. His whole face lights up so fast Annie nearly laughs. “Come here, Moonbeam.”
Autumn squeals at the sound of his voice, immediately reaching for him with little grabby hands.
“Traitor,” Smoke snorts.
“Don’t be mad that I’m the favorite twin,” Stack shoots back, reaching out for his niece.
“You don’t even like kids,” Smoke mutters behind his coffee mug.
“Correction: I don’t like outside kids. Moonbeam is different.”
Annie laughs under her breath as Stack carefully scoops the chunky chocolate drop from her arms like she was made of glass. Autumn immediately tucks herself against his chest with a happy hum, tiny fingers grabbing onto the gold chain around his neck.
“Aht-aht,” Stack warns gently, untangling her fist before she could yank it hard enough to choke him. “That chain cost too much money for all that.”
Autumn only blinks at him before smacking her tiny palm against his cheek.
“That’s what your ass get,” Smoke says, barking out a laugh loud enough to echo through the kitchen.
“Abusive like her damn daddy,” Stack fusses as he rubs his cheek.
“You’ll be aight.”
Autumn yawns suddenly against Stack’s shoulder, tiny mouth stretching wide before her face buries into the crook of his neck. The fight drains out of her all at once.
“Annnd she’s out,” Smoke notes, pointing the spatula towards her.
“She’s been up since before sunrise,” Annie nods softly.
Stack glances down at the chocolate cherub curled against him, his expression softening so fast it almost didn’t look like him at all.
“Y’all eat. I got her.”
“You sure?” Annie asks.
“Please,” he scoffs. “I’m Uncle Stack. My baby knows she’s in good hands like Allstate.” Smoke rolls his eyes, but doesn’t protest further.
Annie smiles as Stack disappears upstairs with Autumn resting against his shoulder, one massive hand spread protectively across her tiny back while he hums softly under his breath. A minute later, the house falls quiet again.
Sensing a chance to seize the opportunity, Smoke stalks quietly behind Annie before snatching her up, expertly pinning her back to the counter. He’d been eyeing the growing damp spot beneath the thin fabric of her night gown for the last ten minutes, and his patience had finally run dry.
“E-Elijah,” Annie breathes, though there’s no real threat behind it. “What are you doing?”
He answers by sliding the strap of her gown from her shoulder slowly, exposing warm brown skin and the fullness of her breast beneath the kitchen light. A fresh bead of milk gathers there, and the sight alone nearly drives him insane.
“Lord have mercy,” he mutters softly, more to himself than her.
Smoke leans down without another word, mouth closing around her with a quiet groan that sends electricity through Annie’s body. Her fingers tighten against the cool marble instantly while his tongue soothes and teases in slow, deliberate strokes, savoring her like something sweet he’d been craving all morning.
“Eliijahhh,” she whimpers as she squirms, attempting to free herself from his grasp.
“Be still, woman,” he fusses. “I’m tryna take care of you.” His free hand carefully glides up her thigh and finds solace in the slick between her legs. Annie’s knees buckle as his fingers expertly work that sensitive bundle of nerves while he indulges in his daughter’s life force, desperate to increase his calcium intake for the day.
“Aye, family! Baby Autumn is down for the coun—” Stack stops short in the kitchen doorway, one brow lifting slowly. “Now what the fuck y’all got going on in here?”
Annie’s knuckles whiten from how tightly she grips the counter while Smoke nurses from her with a low hum of approval, his fingers working quickly under the hem of her dress.
“Well,” Stack drawls, dragging his gaze over the scene in front of him, “I see Autumn ain’t the only one that likes her milk from the tap.”
“Mind ya business,” Smoke mutters against Annie’s skin, though the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth ruins the threat completely. Stack only laughs, stepping farther into the kitchen.
“Hard to mind my business when my brother got his wife soundin’ like a damn late-night R&B playlist at breakfast. And in front of my shrimp and grits, no less.”
Annie lifts her head just enough to glance at him over Smoke’s shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded and amused.
“Then stop staring.”
“Nah,” Stack says easily, leaning against the island. “I’m entertained now.”
Smoke sucks his teeth while Annie fights a smile. The twins had always been dangerous together. Same crooked grin. Same wolfish confidence. But where Smoke burned low and steady, Stack carried chaos in his pockets like loose change.
“Careful, Stack,” Annie murmurs sweetly. “You keep looking at me like that, and your brother gon’ start growling.”
“He is already growling,” Stack shoots back instantly. “I heard him from the hallway.”
Smoke lifts his head just long enough to glare at him. “Get out my kitchen.”
“Make me.”
Stack watches from his spot against the island, arms folded tightly across his chest as he tries to ignore the growing tension low in his stomach every time Annie lets out another soft sound. He’d always thought she was the finest woman he’d ever seen, but watching her melt beneath Smoke’s touch nearly unraveled what little self-control he had left. The sight of her flushed and breathless had temptation crawling straight up his spine.
“Y’all nasty as hell,” he says after a beat, watching the way Annie’s eyes rolled back in her head as slick warmth slowly trails down her thigh.
“And yet you’re still watching instead of coming to do something about it,” Annie challenges.
“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, Antoinette,” Stack warns, stalking closer to her. “I’ll have you in a puddle of ya own nut before you can blink.”
“All bark and no bite,” Annie teases, caressing the back of Smoke’s head as he strokes himself through his pajama pants. And in that moment, something in Stack snapped. One of his biggest pet peeves, and secret turn-ons, was a woman who challenged his manhood. He quickly closes the short distance between the island and Annie, attaching himself to her left breast in one fluid motion. Annie almost screamed at the sensation of having both twins on her at once while Smoke’s fingers still danced in her slick.
“Oooh shiiiit,” she purrs, rolling her hips against Smoke’s rough fingers.
Though she knew it was wrong, she’d often fantasize about how it would feel to have both twins worshipping her body, and now, here she was experiencing it in 8K. Though they were identical, each brother had his own way of pleasuring her that made her feel like a goddess being worshipped. Smoke took his time, slow and steady, like he enjoyed drawing every reaction out of her piece by piece. Everything he did felt deliberate. Controlled. The gentle pull of his mouth, the lazy flick of his tongue, the slow drag of his fingers between her thighs.
Stack was the complete opposite. He kissed her like he was starving and touched her like restraint had never once crossed his mind. Every impatient movement, every rough little sound he made against her skin sent another rush of heat straight through Annie’s body until she could barely think past the sensation of both brothers surrounding her at once.
“W-Wait,” she says as she feels that familiar bloom in the pit of her stomach. “I don’t want to cum yet, I want to play a game.”
Smoke ignores her initially, glaring daggers at Stack when he notices Annie’s moans growing louder because of him. The two carry on their silent bickering until Annie grips them both by their curls, lifting their heads to meet her gaze. The pair groan in frustration at the loss of contact.
“I said I want to play a game,” Annie repeats, watching them both with lidded eyes.
“A game?” Smoke echoes.
“What kind of game?” Stack presses.
“A game of willpower, between the two of you,” she coos, wrapping a hand around each of their third legs. Their dicks felt heavy in her hands as she mentally noted the similarities between them. They were both 9 ½ inches, with Smoke curving to the right and Stack curving to the left. Her pussy throbs as she imagines how it would feel to have one twin fucking her throat while the other fucks her into oblivion.
“I’m going to stroke you both. Whoever cums first has to watch the other one fuck me.” They both stare at her blankly, blinded by the way her soft hands work them both with steady precision. Smoke weakens almost instantly, and it takes a moment for him to register the proposition.
“You must be out yo mind,” he growls through clenched teeth, eyes darting between his wife and his twin. But Annie ignores him and keeps stroking, her mouth secretly watering as both of their tips begin leaking precum. Stack remains quiet, except for the few small moans that escape his lips as Annie’s thumb swipes over the sensitive head of his dick. When he finally regains his voice, it’s to taunt his grumpy dopplegänger.
“What’s the matter, ‘Lijah? Scared you gone have to watch me bend your wife over?” he teases.
“It’ll be a cold day in hell,” Smoke barks back, already positioning himself back at Annie’s dripping right nipple. Her right hand strokes him with calculated motions, drawing curses from his lips like prayers.
“Gahdamn woman,” he moans, thrusting into her palm like he would her pussy.
“It’s just a friendly competition, ‘Lijah,” she mewls. “You can share me this one time.”
Smoke ignores his wife’s statement, opting to continue pumping his fingers in her slopping wet hole. He wasn’t in the mood to share his lover with his menace of a brother. All he wanted was to indulge in a little breastmilk and enjoy an early morning fuck. Part of him wanted to appease Annie and see where this little competition would lead, but the other side of him, the possessive, unstable side, wasn’t fully convinced.
One second, his fingers were deep in her core, thrusting in and out. The next, he was curling them to hit that sweet spot that made her toes curl.
“I don’t like sharin’,” he grumbles.
“L-Lijah…”
He uses her moans as fuel to continue working his tongue and fingers until her orgasm rips through her before she has time to process it.
“Fuuuuuck!” she screams, before reeling her voice back in, afraid of waking Autumn.
Stack doesn’t falter. He uses his tongue to guide Annie through her orgasm and work her up for another one. Annie rewards him with a firm squeeze of his shaft.
“Damn Elias,” she purrs softly. “You might be the little brother, but that dick is full-grown.” Stack groans deeply against her chest as she uses his precum to stroke him faster. As much as he loves bringing a woman to her knees and turning her into his personal free-use doll, Stack’s ultimate kink is praise. He loves being told how good a job he’s doing or how well he’s pleasing his woman.
Annie’s praises, coupled with the way her soft hands alternated between slow, deliberate strokes of his dick to fast, precise ones, had turned Stack into a leaking, moaning mess around her nipple. Shivers shoot down his spine as he tries his best to match the rhythm of her strokes with the flicks of his tongue. His orgasm was building fast.
“You’re being such a good boy for me, Elias,” Annie purrs. “I might let you fuck me just for that.”
Stack shoots Smoke a devilish grin as he suckles a mouthful of breastmilk. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back for Smoke. In one swift motion, he lifts Annie onto the island, spreading her legs as wide as they can go.
“Say that shit again and I’ll edge you every night for the next week,” Smoke warns, positioning his face right in front of her dripping center. Annie bites her lip as she looks down to meet her husband’s gaze, shivering slightly at the menacing look in his eyes.
“You still wanna try that Eiffel Tower shit you showed me the other night?” he asks, lazily licking up her thigh before placing a gentle kiss on her pussy. The sensation pulls a desperate whimper from Annie’s lips.
“Eiffel Tower? Oh you nasty nasty, Mrs. Moore,” Stack smirks, pressing a trail of kisses from her nipple, down her stomach, and right on top of her mound. “I like it.”
Annie squirms in anticipation as the twins take their places, Stack at her head and Smoke between her legs. Her mouth waters as she comes face to shaft with Stack’s dick, the weight of him resting warm against her lips while that cocky grin slowly spreads across his face.
“Say ahh, pretty girl,” he purrs, amused at how quickly she complies.
He carefully eases himself into her awaiting mouth, knees buckling as she expertly wraps her tongue around his thick tip. A soft curse slips from his throat almost instantly, one hand bracing against the counter while the other disappears into her curls.
“Fuck,” he breathes, head tipping back for a second before his eyes lock onto her again. “There she go.”
Annie looks up at him through heavy lashes, taking her time like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him. Every slow movement of her mouth pulls another strained sound from deep in his chest, his confidence cracking little by little beneath the heat of her attention.
“Shiiiit woman,” he growls through clenched teeth as he watches his dick disappear down Annie’s throat before reappearing again, completely covered in thick ropes of saliva. He rolls her nipples between his fingers, as she sucks him like her favorite popsicle on a warm, summer day.
Smoke watches the exchange from his place between her legs with dark, possessive eyes, his hand sliding along her waist while Stack struggles to keep himself together above her. Without warning, he plunges deep into her sex, pulling a strangled moan from her throat. Annie squirts unintentionally on impact, but Smoke keeps on fucking. Annie gasps softly as Smoke buries himself against her neck with a low sound that barely sounds human anymore. The friendly competition between brothers had become possessive.
Smoke had always worshipped Annie openly. Anybody with eyes could see that. The soft kisses against her forehead when she was tired. The way he fixed her coffee exactly how she liked it every morning without asking. The way his hand automatically found the small of her back whenever they walked through a crowded room.
But moments like this pulled something rougher out of him. Something territorial. He was more than willing to give Annie anything under the sun. Jewelry, time, devotion. Hell, blood if she wanted it.
But her pussy? That was his and his alone. And judging by the dark look in his eyes, Smoke intended to remind everybody in the room of that fact.
“Now what was all that shit you was talking about Elias fucking my pussy?” he mutters against her skin, voice rough enough to send heat rushing through her chest. Annie could barely form words, let alone answer him. Her thoughts had melted into scattered fragments somewhere between Stack teasing her nipples and the overwhelming sensation of Smoke filling her to the hilt.
Stack fists her curls, driving himself deeper down her throat as the coils in the pit of his stomach began to unravel.
“Anniiiieeeeee,” he moans as she wraps her hand around the base of his dick, using both her mouth and hand simultaneously to encourage his release. She pulls him out of her mouth just as cum flies out in thick ropes, covering her supple breasts in his unborns.
“Shiit!” he rasps, planting both hands beside her head as he struggles to catch his breath. Annie takes in the sight with pride before shifting her attention to her husband. She readjusts, locking her thick thighs around Smoke’s waist, winding her hips to match his thrusts.
“Cum in your pussy, Papa,” she purrs, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck. “It’s yours. Claim it.”
And with that, the little resolve Smoke had left diminished. The feeling hit him hard and sudden, ripping through his body with enough force to leave his knees weak beneath him. A broken sound tore from his chest as he buried his face against Annie’s neck, teeth sinking lightly into her skin while he tried to ride out the overwhelming rush of it. She shivers at the feeling of his mouth against her neck, immediately threading her fingers into his curls while trying to steady her own breathing. Smoke was gone now. This was Elijah again.
“Damn,” Stack laughs softly under his breath, shaking his head while Smoke stays buried against Annie’s throat. “Boy sound like he just saw God.”
Smoke blindly flips him off, keeping his position on Annie’s chest. She laughs, breathless and warm despite the exhaustion settling into her limbs.
“Y’all are ridiculous.”
“And yet, you love us,” Stack retorts, tugging his sweats back on. He pulls his shirt over his head just as a sharp cry crackles through the baby monitor sitting forgotten near the fruit bowl.
All three of them freeze before another cry follows, loud and offended.
“Oh, she up,” Annie sighs instantly, already trying to sit up, despite Smoke’s large body still pinning her to the island. He groans dramatically.
“Swear that child got the worst timing I ever seen,” he fusses as he reluctantly sits up.
“She your child,” Stack reminds him, making his way towards the stairs as Autumn’s angry little cries echo through the speaker. “Y’all stay cuddled up. Uncle Stack can take it from here.”
“Still tryna solidify your spot as her favorite twin,” Annie accuses.
“Because I am her favorite,” he yells back confidently before disappearing up the stairs. A few seconds later, the crying softens upstairs, replaced by the faint sound of Stack’s voice talking nonsense to calm her down. Smoke watches Annie with tired eyes and a crooked smile.
Summary: You and Michael both love anime. You always talk about visiting Japan if you had the chance to be free from work. Little did you know, the man was gonna make his woman’s travel dreams come true.
Disclaimer: use of the n word. Majority fluff.
(A.N. Got the idea from looking on Pinterest and seeing him in Japan. Plus, I grew up loving anime and manga and really want to visit Japan!)
“Mike, I’m so jealous of Brittany..” You mumble out a whine. It’s a Sunday morning, the day he relaxes from work and unwinds. It usually consists of eating all his favorite foods and binge watching anime.
A ritual easily adjusted to considering you’re a huge foodie and anime lover like him.
“Why you jealous of her, baby?” Michael glances over at you, a chicken enchilada half way in his mouth.
“Man, she got a custom made kimono, yukata and a furisode as gifts from Kareem. Remember I told you he went to Japan last week?” You gesture with your hands dramatically. A slight pout forming on your face as you stared at him.
That familiar deep chuckle sounds from him. Michael shakes his head, hand grabbing a napkin from the coffee table.
“Baby, you jealous because her nigga got her stuff from Japan?” Michael questions, his eyebrows raising slightly in amusement.
“Yes!” You stated without hesitation. “I want that stuff too! Along with other things. I’ve been trying to go since I declared Inuyasha as one of my many husbands.”
Michael snorted at that. “Inuyasha? Really?”
“Yes. What’s wrong with Inuyasha- you know what that’s not the point.” You stand up from the couch crossing your arms.
The sunlight beaming through the windows illuminates your deeply moisturized skin. You pace back and forth between him, a bag of potato chips in your hand as you begin to ramble.
Two of your quirks that he always adored. Michael remembers the first day he saw your quirks come out. It was when you were giving a detailed breakdown on who was the true villain in the TV sitcom ‘Girlfriends’.
Switching from the bag of chips to a bowl of donut holes. You break down your whole reason for going to Japan like it was a college thesis paper. He listened to every word. Chiming in every so often to offer different opinions and ideas.
“Baby girl, slow down before you choke like last time.” His voice snaps you out of your rambling. You pause, fingers wrapped around a donut hole ready to bite into it.
“Sorry, I just really want to go.” You let out a sigh, body plopping onto the couch. “I haven’t even used vacation time yet. Every time I go to, my supervisor is always complaining. Saying how they need me to do this or that.”
Michael watches as you bite into the sweet delicacy. The soft clink of your nails against the glass bowl echoing through the air. He studies you for a few moments.
If it’s one thing the man knows you do, is work hard. Too hard. Especially for a job that doesn’t respect you or your efforts.
“You need to quit your job.” He suggested as he leans over, pressing a tender kiss against your neck. A soft smile creeping on your lips.
“Baby, I need money and need to pay my bills. Another reason why I can’t go to Japan just yet. Niggas taking all my money.” You place another chip into your mouth. A couple of crumbs clinging to your glossy, plump lips.
He reaches up, his knuckles caressing your jaw as he wipes away the crumbs. God, do you love how attentive he is.
“You really wanna go to Japan.” The words come out more as a statement than a question.
“Mhm. I should become a bottle girl or something. Make enough money to pay bills- ah! Hehe! Baby I was joking!”
You burst into laughter as he sunk his teeth into your neck. “Keep playin’ with me. You ain’t doin shit.” As he laughed, the heat of his breath tickled the sensitive skin of your neck.
“Okay! Okay! I was playin. Over here biting me. Vampire Stack coming out, huh?” You joke lightly, fingers playing with the hem of his grey shirt.
“Nah, this all me. You got jokes today.” He side eyes you before focusing on the TV. “When is your next day off?”
You pause for a moment as you think about it. Michael watches you stare off into space. Another quirk of yours he adores.
“Hm, I’m usually off the weekends. I have a lot of PTO saved up as well,” a brief pause happens before you cut your eyes to his. “You taking me to Japan?”
A breath comes out his mouth, a blend of an exasperation and humor. “I ain’t say all that and I ain’t making no promises, but-“
A sharp scream erupts from your mouth like a volcano. “AHHH! MY MAN TAKING ME TO JAPAN!”
He doesn’t even have time to process what’s happening. He’s just watching his girl dance, ramble and pace all at once.
“Baby,” he says once. He doesn’t even know why he said anything. You not even paying attention to him anymore. To preoccupied with scrolling on Pinterest for outfits and TikTok for hair inspiration.
“Baby girl, babe. Jesus…baby, I know you hear me.”
“Huh?” You look up at him wide eyed.
“Focus on me. Look, let me plan it out first before you go all crazy and get to doing your thing. Aight?” He tries to hide his smile, but fails.
“Yes, yeah. You right. Hehe! I’m so excited!” You exclaim while sitting back on the couch. “Michael Bakari Jordan, you just earned yourself a voucher for 3 free lap dances from me.”
That part got him. He laughs hard at the audacity. “Only 3? C’mon girl, I’m taking you to Japan and I only get 3?? Nah, make it unlimited.”
“Okay now you just being greedy.” You roll your eyes while smiling. “I’ll give you 7.”
“No. Unlimited lap dances.” He states stubbornly.
“You can have unlimited lap dances when and only when I get a ring.”
He stares at you quietly. The words flowing through his mind. “A ring? You mean like…”
“Yes.” You deadpan.
“You deadass right now?” He asks slowly to confirm.
“I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t. You know that.”
And he does know that. You don’t say anything serious like that without meaning it.
“Okay.” He says simply. “Let me work some things out and then we can talk about a ring.”
“No rush on any of that. Do it when you feel comfortable and ready.” A reassuring smile appears on your face.
“God really did his big one when he sent you to me.” The words slip from his mouth without hesitation. He leans over and kisses your forehead.
“Yeah he did and don’t forget it.”
“Kinda hard to forget. Especially since your ass is expensive.” He teases while chuckling.
“Excuse me? Me?! I’m expensive??” You point to yourself in disbelief. “Coming from the man whose closet is worth more and bigger than my entire existence.”
“It ain’t bigger than your forehead.”
Silence fills the space between you and him. You blink once. Twice. Next thing he knows, you swing the decorative couch pillow at him.
“Yo chill-“
“Nah nah! You wanna talk about my forehead? You got a couple more years before your hairline start receding. Old man.” You hit him again.
He gasps dramatically while looking at you like you just disrespected his entire bloodline.
“Bro, don’t be saying that. I’m still in my prime.”
“Don’t be saying I got a big forehead.”
“But you do-ayo! Chill!” He grabs your arm, yanking you into his chest. Locking you in place as he tickles you.
“Michael! Stop!”
“Nope. Talking about my hairline and my age. Just cause you younger. Gon learn today.”
“Babe!” Your laughter comes out in broken gasps and whines.
He eventually stops and places a small kiss on your lips. “I love you.”
Genre: Forced Proximity. Age Gap. Arranged meeting.
Synopsis: After winning big this past award season, Michael celebrates with everyone who’s been there throughout his entire career. Until his mama mentions the promise he made her: to meet the woman of her choosing.
Enjoy ~ S.
Thursday, 1:45 pm. Family Gathering.
The house is filled with warm laughter and familial joy. Everyone discussing random topics: news, relationship gossip, successes and more.
Michael stands in the center of it all. A glow around him after enduring a strong award season. He was once a kid trying to make it big in the industry. Now?
He’s a certified Academy Award Winning Actor. A Black one at that.
His first Oscar win for his role in Sinners opened up several doors in his career. He had everything he wanted.
Fame. Status. Recognition. Money.
Yet, the question on everyone’s mind is: when is the Academy Award Winner gonna finally settle down?
“Michael, boy are you listening to me?” that soft, maternal voice echoing from the side of him. Michael glances over and sees his mama staring at him. An annoyed look on her face.
“Huh, ma? Yeah. Yes, I’m listening.” Michael clears his throat as he gives his full attention.
“Mhmm. I said, she’s coming today. She should be here soon. You’re gonna love her,” Mrs. Jordan, or Donna, exclaims with a smile. “Be nice to her. She’s younger, but she’s smart. Has a good head on her shoulders. Very respectable young woman.”
Michael nods along as he processes his mamas words. If he were to be honest, he isn’t exactly sure about this meeting. Not because his mama set it up, no. He trusts her judgement. It’s because he doesn’t know what to expect of the woman he’s meeting.
He mostly doesn’t want to mess up anything, or come off as being too much. He wants whoever she is to see him as himself. Not just ‘Michael B. Jordan’ the actor. But as a man. A regular person.
“Yo Mike! Come join us for this pool game bro!” One of his cousins shouts from outside.
2:15 pm. Backyard.
It’s packed and busy in the large yard. Kids running about. Elders at the table drinking and reminiscing about their childhood and experiences.
However, what has most of the adults attention is the Photo Booth that’s set up on the right side of the yard. Placed with intention. For memories to be made and shared.
“Mike, we still waiting on your pictures. Hurry up and gon on to that photo booth baby,” one of his aunts ushered him to the left side of it.
“Okay, okay. I’m goin’.” He mutters as he steps inside the Photo Booth. The space not too small, but not quite big either for his large frame. “Alright, let’s see what we got here..” he scans the screen, looking at the different frames and filters.
Michael selects the desired frame and filter, and prepares himself to do his poses.
Then the unexpected happens.
“Mrs. Jordan! Why are you pushing me- ah!” A voice laughs until it’s cut off by a shocked gasp. Michael stumbles back into the chair behind him. His hands out to catch whoever just fell through the Photo Booth.
“Oh my god! I am so sorry! I wasn’t tryna-“ your voice cut off when your eyes meet his.
A silence filling the space instantly. Michael stares back in shock for several reasons. One being the fact his photos were interrupted. Another being the fact they’re interrupted by one of the writers he met this award season.
“Y/n?” His voice comes out gruffly as he adjusts his grip around your waist. His hands placed firmly.
“Hi..Michael..” you whisper.
The energy between you both climbing up. It all starts to make sense now. Why his mama was so adamant about meeting you.
It’s because he already has. He remembers instantly mentioning your name at a dinner he had with his family a few weeks back.
Little did he know, his mama was paying attention to how he said and talked about you. That familiar sparkle in his eye when someone has deeply intrigued him.
Click
Both of you turn towards the sound instantly. Bewildered and surprised by the fact the camera just snapped a picture of you two in black and white.
The countdown happens again. Click.
Another picture taken of your faces.
A soft laugh erupts from you as you cover your mouth with your manicured hand. Michael cuts his eyes over at you. The sound of your laughter addictive and all too familiar.
A grin appears on his face. Click. The third picture taken.
“Oh my god. How do you stop this thing?” You ask as you search around at the screen.
“Hold up, look at me real quick,” Michael says right when the counter starts. His right hand coming up and guiding your face back to his. You hold his gaze for moment before your eyes flicker over his features.
They land on his jaw. A piece of fuzz sitting in his beard. Unconsciously, your hand raises up touching his jaw to remove the random bits. The gesture causing his heart to pick up in pace.
“There you go, you had lint or something in your beard.” You explain slightly nervous from the way he’s looking at you.
Click. The camera captures the last image. It happens to be the best one out of all of them.
“How long you staying?” He asks abruptly.
“Oh? Uhh.. until the event ends.” You brush a strand of hair out of your face. “Why do you ask?”
“Because we’re gonna need better pictures together,” he exhales with a slight nervous smile. That causes a giggle to come out your mouth.
“Agreed. I think I blinked too hard in the second one.” You admit while looking over at the screen and camera.
“And I was wondering if we could finally have a proper conversation. To know each other better. Away from all the noise and chaos of the events. If that’s cool with you.” Michael rambles on while scratching the back of his head.
“I’d like that.”
“Yeah? Good, good.
A pause happens for a moment.
“You know your mama slick right? She told me to come here because she said she made me a cake and had ribs for me.”
“A cake and ribs? Oh my..” Michael mutters under hush breath.
“Yes! A cake and ribs! She knows I’m a big back. Especially after the way I tore up that cupcake at the Golden Globes.” You snort while clapping your hands together in amusement.
“That cupcake ain’t stand a chance against you. I thought I was bad when it came to food.” He chuckles when he glances over at you. “Guess I met my match, huh?”
“I guess you did.”
Meanwhile…
“Donna, you set them up? I gotta give it to you girl. That was good.” One of the other women spoke up while watching from the window.
“What? These kids needed a push. You should’ve seen Michael when he talked about her,” Donna explained while she wiped the counter down. “Especially at the Oscars when they talked. He was very attentive with her. I’m not sure if either of them noticed the spark they had.”
“They fit together. You can tell just by looking at them.” An uncle chimes in.
“Donna expect a wedding and grandkids soon.” A cousin jokes which causes everyone to chuckle as well.
“Oh trust me, I’ve already been planning for both.”
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