petalpunani

you never really cared when sibella and her man got loud.

they could be in the next room, door cracked open, her voice moaning high-pitched and desperate while his sounded like it came from his chest—gritty and mean like he enjoyed knowing she couldn’t keep quiet. it happened too often for it to phase you. maybe the first time you’d been embarrassed. maybe you’d rolled your eyes, stuffed a pillow over your head, huffed loud enough for them to hear. but now? you were used to it. background noise. like the heater kicking on or a pot boiling over.

sibella had always been the wild one. you were soft. quiet. watched and listened more than you spoke. you liked your room, your books, your own air. sibella, on the other hand, liked attention, chaos, dick. she’d tell you things you never asked to hear—how good it felt when he held her neck, how she liked it rough, how you were too uptight for your own good.

“you gon’ die with that pussy untouched,” she said one night, fresh out the shower in a towel, her eyes still lined in smudged makeup.

you just looked at her from your bed, a little amused. “and?”

“girl,” she laughed, climbing up beside you, “you act like keeping it makes you better. ain’t nobody judging you, but you really ain’t even curious?”

you shrugged. it wasn’t that you thought you were better. you just didn’t want to fake wantin’ something you didn’t feel yet. and maybe it wasn’t even about sex, just the idea of someone close—really close. breath on your skin, hands down your thighs, someone else seeing all of you. you didn’t know what that would feel like, and you didn’t think it was something you wanted to rush. sibella had called you “old-fashioned.” her boyfriend, troy, had called you “uptight” once, but you didn’t care. it was your body. and they could live how they wanted, but so could you.

until he started coming around.

stack.

the first time he showed up at your apartment, you ignored him like you always did with troy’s friends. they’d come in loud, laughing, all of them trying too hard to impress each other. chain-smoking, playing music, shouting about basketball or some shit you didn’t care about. you usually stayed in your room. maybe came out to grab something to drink or use the bathroom. most of the time they barely noticed you. but not stack.

from the second he laid eyes on you, it was like he already knew you were gonna be a problem for him. and he decided to be one right back.

“damn,” he’d said loud, grinning, watching you walk to the fridge in your house shorts. “she don’t say hi? too good to speak?”

you didn’t answer. not even a glance. pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and walked back to your room. door closed behind you.

that was the beginning.

he started showing up more after that. it didn’t matter if troy was around or not. sometimes he’d knock on your front door with food for sibella, claiming she asked him to drop it off. sometimes he’d come by just to talk to troy, linger around the living room even when the conversation dried up. you caught him staring. a lot. and he didn’t try to hide it either.

“yo,” he said one night from the couch while you passed through in leggings and a hoodie, “you ever wear anything that don’t hug that ass?”

you gave him a flat look. “do you ever shut the fuck up?”

he grinned like he liked that answer. like you fed him instead of shut him down. “mmm. lil attitude. i like that. you actin’ mean, but i know that’s just ‘cause you shy.”

you rolled your eyes. sibella laughed from the kitchen.

“you might as well get to know him,” she said later, when y’all were alone. “he not that bad. cocky, yeah. but that’s just how he is. underneath all that extra shit, he cool.”

you weren’t convinced. but three months of him showing up, finding you in whatever room you tried to hide in, cracking jokes, complimenting your skin, your mouth, your shape—he wore you down. maybe it was the way he’d make you laugh without meaning to. or the fact that when you actually sat down and talked to him, he had more to him than you thought. he was smart. surprisingly observant. he’d tell you about his childhood, his mom, his twin brother. and when you spoke, he listened. remembered little things you said in passing and brought them up days later.

“you like strawberry cream in your coffee, right?”

“you said you like sade—put this on.”

“you was talkin’ ‘bout them earrings you saw at the mall. i got you a pair.”

and it started getting harder to treat him like the rest.

you didn’t mean to let your guard down. but it was hard not to with him. stack had a charm about him that crept up slow. he was always touching you. not in ways that crossed lines at first—just light brushes against your waist when he passed behind you in the kitchen, knuckles on your thigh when he leaned too close, fingers tucking a curl behind your ear. at first, you shut it down. pushed his hand off your leg. shifted away from his body. made sure he knew you weren’t that type of girl. but he never got mad. never pushed. he just gave you that same cocky-ass smile like he knew you’d give in eventually.

“you playin’ hard to get,” he said once, his thumb dragging lazy circles across your bare knee. “but you like that i’m on you. you just don’t know what to do with it yet.”

you didn’t even respond. but your breath had caught in your throat when he said it. and he noticed.

he always noticed.

still, you never told him you were a virgin. it wasn’t something you wanted to throw out casually. you figured he probably assumed you were just picky. maybe waiting for the right one. sibella never told him, and you doubted troy knew either. and honestly, you liked keeping that part of you tucked away.

then came that one night.

it was a friday. sibella and troy had gone out, probably wouldn’t be back ‘til the next morning. you were stretched out on the couch in your usual—short shorts, tank top, no bra, nipples pressing faintly through the fabric. you weren’t trying to be sexy, but you weren’t hiding either. you texted elias just outta boredom.

you busy?

he texted back quick.

for you? nah. slide thru? or you want me over there?

come here.

ten minutes later, he was knocking.

he smelled like his cologne, the one you were starting to recognize. brought a little weed with him, a smirk that made your stomach flutter even though you pretended it didn’t. y’all rolled up on the floor first, sitting cross-legged across from each other, talking shit. smoke drifted lazy through the room. the air got thick, quiet between laughs and teasing.

you felt good. loose. warm behind the eyes.

“i don’t get you,” he said low, leaning back on his elbows, watching you from the couch now. “you sexy as hell, smart, got that attitude on you… but you act like you scared of me.”

“i ain’t scared,” you said, biting your lip slightly.

“nah. you are. or maybe you scared of you. ‘cause if i touch you again, you gon’ fold. i see it all on your face.”

you didn’t answer. you were already crawling into his lap, slow and deliberate like your body moved before your brain. the weed had you floatin’. his eyes locked on yours, waiting.

“yeah?” he said, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, fingertips just under the edge of your shorts. “you sure you want me touchin’ you?”

you nodded, heart racing.

you kissed him. for real this time. not like the other stolen little moments when he’d pressed his mouth to yours and you turned your head too quick. this was deep. hot. full of tongue. he gripped your hips tighter, groaning into your mouth like he’d been holding back too long.

his hands moved. over your ass, up your back, fingers gripping the sides of your tank. he kissed your neck, sucked at the curve of your collarbone. heat spilled down your belly. your legs were straddling him now, his dick hard under you through his sweats, pressing up against your core.

he flipped you under him, moving slow like he was waiting for you to say no. one hand slipped down your stomach, toward the waistband of your shorts, and just when he hooked his fingers in—

“wait,” you whispered.

his eyes flicked up.

“what’s up?”

“i’m a virgin.”

his face went blank. still. he blinked, mouth parted just slightly like he didn’t hear you right.

“what?”

you looked away. “i ain’t never… like, at all.”

he sat back on his heels, staring at you for a long second.

“you serious?”

you nodded.

he exhaled slow, ran a hand down his face.

“…fuck.”

his “fuck” lingered in the air like heat.

for a second, you thought he might leave. thought maybe you read it wrong—maybe the way he’d chased you down for months didn’t mean he actually wanted you like that. maybe it was just for show, a game to get you to break. but he didn’t move. didn’t get up. didn’t pull away either.

he just looked at you different now. softer, but still sharp. eyes a little darker. mouth twitching like he had a hundred thoughts moving at once.

“…you shoulda told me that shit,” he muttered, finally. “damn.”

you swallowed, feeling small under him, but not in a bad way. just new. raw. like being seen too clearly.

“you mad?”

he shook his head slowly. “nah. i ain’t mad. just… surprised. you ain’t act like no virgin.”

“how they act?”

he leaned forward again, lips brushing your neck now, voice dropping lower. “not like this. not sittin’ in my lap wit’ no bra on. not kissin’ me like that. shit, i thought you was just takin’ your time. had no idea i was gon’ be the first.”

you shivered under his mouth.

“you want me to stop?”

you shook your head.

“aight then,” he breathed, hands sliding back down your thighs. “you sure, you let me handle it.”

he kissed you again. deeper this time. slower. like he was tasting you different now. his hands didn’t rush, but they didn’t hesitate either. he dragged your shorts down your legs, steady like he was unwrapping something delicate. your tank top went next, peeled off and tossed aside. your whole body burned. you covered your chest at first, instincts kicking in, but he gently pulled your hands down.

“nah. don’t hide all this. lemme see it.”

you looked away, but he tilted your chin back to face him. he stared for a long second, eyes trailing down your curves like he was trying to memorize every line.

“god damn, girl,” he whispered, low and reverent. “you really built like this under all them hoodies?”

you blushed, biting back a laugh.

he moved down your body slow, mouth brushing your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. then he was kneeling between your legs, lifting one over his shoulder, spreading you open like he had all the time in the world.

“shit,” he murmured, thumb dragging over your folds. “so fuckin’ pretty. pussy fat as hell.”

you squirmed under his grip, toes curling.

“you ever play wit’ it before?” he asked.

you nodded. “sometimes.”

“show me.”

you hesitated, but he gave you a look that melted any doubt in your chest. you brought your fingers to your slit, shy at first, dragging them up the center like you were doing it in secret. he watched you like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. eyes locked. jaw tight.

“mmm. there you go. you wet already?”

he ran his fingers over yours, dipped one between your lips and brought it up to your mouth.

“taste that shit.”

you sucked his finger slow, your own breath catching as you did.

he groaned. “fuck, you nasty already. i like that.”

then he lowered his head.

his tongue was slow at first. wide, wet licks that made your whole body tremble. he took his time, holding your thighs open, lips sealed around your clit, tongue dragging figure eights against it ‘til you moaned out loud without meaning to.

“don’t hold it in,” he said against you. “i wanna hear that shit.”

he sucked harder. circled your clit faster. then slid a single finger inside you and your hips jerked up from the bed.

“tight,” he growled. “fuckin’ gripping me.”

you grabbed at his hair, breathing fast now, your whole body winding tighter and tighter until everything snapped. your legs shook around his head, mouth open but nothing coming out except a breathy sob as you came for the first time with somebody else’s mouth on you.

he pulled away slow, lips shiny, licking his bottom one like he’d just finished dessert.

“damn. you taste like peaches or some shit,” he said, laughing low. “sweet ass pussy.”

you were still trembling when he moved back up your body, kissing you deep so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

then he pulled his sweats off.

your eyes widened.

“…elias.”

he smirked. “yeah?”

you didn’t even know what to say. he was thick. long. heavy. it curved up slightly, veins bulging down the shaft, head dark and already leaking. he stroked it slow, watching your face like he wanted to see your brain short-circuit.

“this too much for you?”

you nodded, honestly. “i dunno if it’ll fit.”

“it will,” he said, voice low and certain. “i’m gon’ go slow, baby. i got you.”

he kissed you again, then guided the head to your entrance, rubbing it through your folds.

“just breathe. let me in a lil at a time.”

he pushed slow. real slow. and it still burned. you winced, grabbing onto his arm, and he stilled right away.

“you good?”

“keep goin’,” you whispered, nails digging into his skin.

he went deeper. inch by inch, until your eyes rolled back and your breath caught. he filled you completely, bottomed out with a groan in your ear.

“fuck,” he muttered. “you tight as a fuckin’ vice. shit.”

he stayed there for a second, letting you adjust. kissed the side of your neck, your shoulder, your cheek.

“you takin’ it so good, baby. ain’t even cryin’. first dick and you already built for it.”

he moved his hips slow, dragging out, then back in, just enough for you to feel the stretch again. it was painful, but the pain faded quick. pleasure started creeping in, humming low in your belly.

“see that? told you i’d make it fit.”

you whined beneath him, eyes fluttering.

“that’s it,” he said, fucking you a little deeper now. “let me ruin you.”

your fingers gripped the sheets. he held your throat lightly—not tight yet, just enough to feel the pressure. his other hand cupped your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple.

“feel good?” he asked. “you like this dick, don’t you?”

you nodded, breathless.

he tightened his grip on your neck just enough to make your head float.

“say it.”

“i—i like it,” you stammered, brain going fuzzy from the pressure, the stretch, the sound of his voice in your ear.

“yeah you do. got that virgin pussy dumb already.”

you moaned louder.

“you ain’t never gon’ forget this dick,” he said, cock driving deeper now, hips smacking yours. “first one in it, first one to stretch it, first one to own it.”

you couldn’t even speak.

he flipped you over, pulled your hips up and fucked you from behind now, one hand on the small of your back, the other gripping your hair.

“this the angle that’ll fuck the innocence out you,” he muttered, dragging his dick slow then slamming back in, making you scream into the mattress. “you feel that in your gut?”

your whole body shook. you were drooling on the sheets, eyes wet, legs trembling.

“lemme see that face,” he said, pulling you back by your hair. “look at me while i break you in.”

you glanced over your shoulder, mouth parted, and he almost came right then.

“beautiful ass girl. i swear to god, i’m gon’ fuck you stupid.”

and he did.

he didn’t stop. kept going, made you cum again—twice, maybe three times. you couldn’t keep track. everything was wet. the sheets. his chest. your face. your thighs. he lifted your leg, drilled into you from the side, choked you through another orgasm. your moans turned into sobs. pleasure ate your brain alive.

“stack—fuck—i can’t—”

“yes you can,” he growled, pounding into you. “you takin’ it like a fuckin’ champ.”

your nails raked his back. his hand squeezed your throat again, hard enough to make the edges of your vision blur.

you came one more time, back arched, toes curling, legs locked around his waist.

he groaned deep, spilling inside you with a twitch.

everything went still.

all you heard was your heartbeat. your breath. his deep, ragged one against your skin.

you were ruined. for real.

he kissed your forehead after, gently. ran his hand up and down your back.

“you good?”

you nodded, tears drying on your cheeks.

“…i ain’t never lettin’ nobody else touch you,” he said, voice low, possessive. “you mine now. you know that, right?”

you just nodded again.

because deep down, you already knew.

you woke up before him.

barely. the sun hadn’t even fully crept through the curtains yet. just a strip of light cut across your comforter, hitting the edge of the bed where elias was sprawled out, ass-naked, sleeping like he’d just come home from war. one arm slung over his eyes, the other draped where your body had been. the sheets were a mess. the air still smelled like sex, weed, and sweat.

your thighs ached.

you groaned softly when you moved, careful not to wake him. every inch of you felt sore—inside, outside, places you didn’t even know could hurt. your hips were tender. your legs had that heavy, overworked kind of weight to them. and your pussy? bruised. not in a bad way. but like it remembered every single stroke.

you held onto the edge of the dresser for balance while you stood up, wobbling a little. took a second to catch your breath. your legs did not feel normal.

“damn…” you muttered, barely able to walk straight as you grabbed a towel and slipped out the room.

the water in the shower hit different. you stood there for a minute, letting it run over your body, steam curling around your face while you leaned a hand against the tile. your whole body was humming—raw, open, still floating a little from the night before. flashes kept replaying in your head. his hands on your throat. the way he moaned your name against your ear. how many times you came. how he kept going even after you said you couldn’t take it.

you touched between your legs under the water and winced.

he really meant that shit when he said he was gon’ ruin you.

by the time you dried off and wrapped up in a big t-shirt, your legs were moving better. you still had a little limp, but nothing dramatic. the hallway felt quieter than usual. you figured sibella and troy hadn’t come back yet. probably stayed at his place.

you walked out into the kitchen, yawning, about to fix some eggs or something light, when you saw her.

bella.

sitting on the couch in her work clothes, sipping a mug of coffee and staring right at you.

your stomach dropped.

“…you back already?”

she didn’t even blink. didn’t even answer.

just smirked.

“…you got your lil virgin ass fucked, huh?”

you blinked, froze by the fridge.

“what—?”

“don’t even try it,” she said, standing up slow, walking over to lean against the counter across from you. “we came back early. me and troy. around two. figured we’d crash here instead. we wasn’t even gon’ bother you—until we heard you screamin’.”

your face heated instantly.

“bella—”

“nah,” she cut you off, wide-eyed and laughing, “nah, girl. you was in there hollerin’ like somebody took the damn soul out your body. like—goddamn. i was impressed! my lil sis got some lungs on her!”

you groaned, turning around to hide your face behind the fridge door. “please shut the fuck up.”

“you shut the fuck up,” she cackled, sipping her coffee louder. “you had my man like, ‘ayo, is that stack in there?’ i said, ‘who else would it be?’ you know he ain’t never quiet. i shoulda known from the second he started comin’ over too often. he was locked in on you. and you was playin’ all innocent.”

you mumbled under your breath, grabbing eggs from the fridge.

“girl, spill the damn tea,” she leaned closer. “was it good? how big was it? that man fine as hell. look like he dickin’ every bitch down, and now he got you stuck.”

you refused to give her full details. your body still felt too open, too exposed from what happened just hours ago. like your skin still remembered his hands. like it wasn’t meant to be talked about yet.

so you gave her one thing.

you looked up at her, dead in the face.

then held your hands apart, slow.

a little bigger.

then a little bigger.

then wider.

her mouth dropped.

“…bitch.”

you smirked. “exactly.”

bella screamed into the kitchen towel, spinning in a circle like she just heard the juiciest gossip in her life.

“i knew it! oh my god. no wonder you limp-walkin’. ohhhh, he really broke you in!”

“bella, please go to work.”

“no, bitch, you need to call out. i know you not sittin’ in no office chair today.”

you shook your head, laughing quietly, cheeks hot, chest fluttering at the memory. she eventually left, still shaking her head and giggling like she’d just found out her favorite show got renewed. and as soon as the door clicked behind her, you walked back to your room.

he was awake.

half-sitting up on your bed now, chest bare, sheets low on his waist. eyes still a little heavy but locked on you the second you walked in.

“where you go?” he mumbled, voice thick and scratchy.

“shower.”

he yawned, then grinned slowly as his eyes trailed down your body again.

“how you feel?”

you climbed back into the bed, under the covers. still warm from where he’d been laying.

“…sore.”

he smirked, proud. “good.”

you gave him a look, rolling your eyes.

“what?”

“you proud of yourself or something?”

he pulled you in, kissed your neck slow.

“yeah,” he muttered. “you still here, ain’t you?”

you didn’t say anything. just buried your face in his chest and let your limbs tangle into his. his fingers found your thigh again. light, lazy touches.

you already knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

not even close.

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚 𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚 𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚

“stop that ‘fore i give you somethin’ to cry ‘bout.” Stack scolded you like you were a spoiled child when he heard your sniffling, pulling his mouth from your pussy, brown lips glistening with your wetness and his warm heavy breath hitting your heat in a way that made you shudder. your wiped your glossy eyes with the back of your hand, nodding slightly though you could hardly stop your whimpering and quivering of your bottom lip.

you weren’t even completely undressed, he made no effort to take off your panties before eating and you were still in your (his) shirt. he was so fed up with you that he didn’t care. it didn’t change a thing anyway, you had already came five times over, struggling to keep your legs spread now in your soaked panties.

“tried to tell you—” he said in between messy but gentle kisses with the sensitive flesh on your thigh, being just as attentive to it as he was with your clit a minute ago, kneading the skin on your tummy underneath the shirt with his free hand while the other ran up and down your thigh. “you don’t know every damn thing, baby.”

you tried to tell him you were sorry but you were helpless. it all only came out in incoherent strings of moans mixed in with pleas of his name which you just couldn’t seem to stop saying. “don’t know what’s good for ya’self sometimes.” he’d sink his teeth into the skin then kiss it better after, murmuring faux apologies to you.

“noo.” was the only thing you could cry other than his name that even made a lick of sense. it hardly resembled a real word as it fell from your open mouth though, it was only raw and soft noise. “noo?” he mocked, sitting up from his position. he still wasn’t done yet though, he still hadn’t coaxed the obedience out of you that he wanted for once.

“think i done heard enough of that from you lately.” he drawled. you knew he was right, you’d been pushing his buttons all week ( all month, really ), day in and day out. Stack let you get away with a lot of things, but he had begun to get tired of your constant need to oppose him and defy his choices no matter what. he had finally decided it was time to punish you, and you couldn’t say that you didn’t deserve it.

punishment with Stack wasn’t like the other times he fucked you. he fucked you rough and dumb on the regular, so none of that was of any use when trying to punish you. no, when you were in trouble, he was slow. painfully so. just as he was as he adjusted himself upright onto the headrest, watching you roll over on your stomach to face him. “c’mere.” he cooed, patting his lap.

he helped you to straddle his lap with your chest facing his while swatting away your hands whenever they reached down and mindlessly clawed and tugged at the buckle of his belt. his arms snaked around your waist, he wrapped you up in a tight embrace. naturally, your arms found their way to his neck, and you let them hang there loosely around his shoulders with your head falling into the crook of his neck.

he rocked you both back and forth as if lulling you to sleep. just as soon as you let your eyes flutter shut, his arm fell from around your body and his hands began to roam underneath your shirt. up and back down again he took them, leaving chill bumps in their wake. your breathing hitched at it, the touch was so gentle that his feeling of his fingers on a new area of your skin made you jump a bit every time.

he pulled your shirt up then, but not to take it off. Stack put his head underneath it then let the fabric fall back over him. a sweet moan came out of you when you felt him flattened his tongue and run it over your hardened nipple, pinching the other between his index finger and his thumb. “Stack..” you beg and he shushes you. “i know.” he hummed noncommittally, but when the incessant whining wouldn’t end, he gave in to you like he always did.

“go ahead.” he told you, lifting his head out of your shirt. you knew what it meant and immediately got to clumsily taking of off belt, lifting yourself up from him slightly whilst he pulled his pants and boxers down to his knees. you hovered there for a moment as he adjusted, pulling your panties to the side as he aligned himself with your soaking slit. you wanted to help, reaching back and wrapping your fingers around his dick, pumping it once before placing his fat tip between your swollen lips.

then, without warning, Stack thrusted up into you with a strained groan. you sat there for a moment and just felt how full of him you were, you were unsure you could even bring yourself to move. “‘s in my stomachhh.” you moaned in the highest, most pathetic pitch of your voice, starting to roll your hips as they stuttered with every inch he sunk deeper into you.

you set the pace but he controlled it. he stopped you from getting any faster than he wanted you to by keeping a firm grip on your hips. your chest rose and fell as your head rested on his shoulder. “good girl…” he’d croon into your ear sweetly at times, along with other sweet nothings. he freed a hand from your hip and rubbed soothing circles in the small of your back, listening to you mewl for him. “bein’ calm for once.”

Day one of your argument you stayed strong and moved through the house like a queen in a castle that had been overrun by a jealous beast.

Your skincare routine? Luxurious.

Your work calls? On point.

Your outfit? A soft two-piece lounge set that hugged every curve like it missed you.

When dinner came, you threw yourself into it like you were being judged on Top Chef. You marinated lamb chops for hours. Cooked up homemade honey butter biscuits with a dash of cayenne in the butter… just the way… he… liked it. But you made it very clear: that plate was yours and yours alone.

As you cooked, Smoke lingered around the kitchen and his massive frame leaned against the fridge while watching you plate your meal like a hawk. His nostrils flared as his eyes burned holes into your skin. He couldn’t believe his woman wasn’t offering him a plate of food, but he also wasn’t a man who would beg.

While completely ignoring his existence, you sat at the dining table with your legs crossed, lips glistening with lamb jus and smirking between each bite like you were daring him to say something. He didn’t. But oh, the look he gave you… Girl run

When Saturday rolled in the silence started to feel dangerous. This was the one day out of the week when Smoke would usually hit the gym with Stack, run errands he couldn’t get to during the week and any other ‘man shit’ that you didn’t care to know about. But not today. Today, that man made it a point to stay his ass at home. All. Damn. Day. And worse? He did it wearing only grey sweatpants and no shirt.

Every inch of Smoke was carved out of marble by God. Smooth brown skin stretched over thick muscle and broad shoulders. His gold chains swung low, catching the light every time he reached for something. And those damn sweatpants? They hung low. Way too damn low while leaving nothing to the imagination.

You were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, but your eyes kept sliding up catching every stretch, every shift, and every flex Smoke would make.

When he purposefully reached his arm up to stretch, that’s when he caught you. “Fuck you staring at?” His voice was deep and sharp. His lips curled into a smirk even as his eyes narrowed, knowing exactly what you were doing.

Your mouth went dry but you sucked your teeth and rolled your eyes before firing back just as sharp. “Ain’t nobody looking at you, nigga.” You turned your head fast, placed a nearby throw blanket onto your lap, and squeezed your thighs shut like you weren’t damn near vibrating with need.

Smoke let out a scoff and dropped onto the armchair across from you, legs spread wide, one hand rubbing the scruff along his jaw, the other dragging down his thigh like he didn’t know what that did to you. But he knew. Of course he knew. Because he’s a SLUT. Smoke was a man born with sin in his bloodstream and you were his favorite outlet.

“You real bold when your pussy hungry,” he goaded without looking at you, just low enough to make your stomach flip. “Real fuckin’ bold.”

You didn’t respond. Your throat tightened and your fingers curled into the blanket as heat spread between your thighs like wildfire. You hated how your body betrayed you. How your nipples perked beneath your tank top just from hearing his voice like that. How your lower belly tightened at the memory of his mouth, his hands, his— Stop. You weren’t going to fold. Not this time. No. This time you had a point to prove… So you stayed quiet.

Smoke leaned forward then, his forearms braced on his knees, honey brown eyes finally locking with yours. He was so beautiful it made your chest hurt. That hard jaw. That slow burn in his stare. The way his gold tooth caught the light when he smirked.

“You gon’ act like you don’t hear me? I said…” he repeated, his voice dropping lower, rougher, “… you real bold when your pussy hungry.”

You tossed the blanket off your lap like a challenge and stood up, storming past him toward the kitchen. But before you could make it, his hand snatched your wrist. “Don’t touch me,” you snapped.

“I ain’t touchin’ you,” he said coolly, pulling you gently, slow and patient, until you were standing right between his legs. “I’m remindin’ you. That mouth? That attitude? That little fake-ass silent treatment you think you givin’? That shit don’t work on me, pretty girl.”

He looked up at you like you were the last good thing in a ruined world. And then his eyes dropped trailing slowly down your body, soaking in every soft curve, every part of you he knew like scripture. “Go on. Keep walkin’ away,” he muttered, voice like hardened steel. “But I know damn well you miss how it feel when I grab the back of that neck and tell you to hush while I—”

“Don’t.” You said it too fast. Too breathless.

He grinned. That arrogant grin that made your knees weak and your pride falter. “You really mad?” he asked quietly, now wrapping a hand around your thigh and easing you a fraction closer. “Or you just don’t wanna admit that I had a reason to knock that pretty boy barista out his damn shoes?”

You sarcastically laughed at Smoke’s audacity. “That man smiled. That’s it. You almost went to jail over a smile.”

“Don’t care.” He leaned forward, nose brushing against your lower belly, breath warm through the cotton of your tank. “Anyone smile at you like that again, I’ll put him in the dirt.”

You stared down at him, your fingers twitching by your sides. “You’re a damn lunatic.”

“Yup.” His eyes lifted, black and unrepentant. “Your lunatic.”

You wanted to slap him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to scream and bite and ride and cry and maybe all at once. But instead, you turned your head, stared at the wall, and whispered, “Don’t talk to me.”

Smoke scoffed and his grip tightened before he kissed the inside of your thigh, right on that special spot that always makes you forget how to think straight. The kiss was gentle… dangerous… knowing “Aight, baby,” his voice muffled against your skin. “I won’t say a word.” But the fire in those orbs told a different story.

When you finally pulled away, storming back into the kitchen to cool down, you could feel his stare trailing behind you like a shadow with claws. You stood next to the kitchen island hoping for a moment of peace but instead your heart rattled like a stray bullet in your chest. The room felt too hot, too still… way too still, like the moment right before a thunderstorm when all the air gets sucked out of the sky and the ground doesn’t know whether to shake or stay still.

You ran your hands through your hair and let out a frustrated sigh. After 24 hours of being strong, you couldn’t let yourself fold from a little thigh kiss. You weren’t even hungry, but your hands moved on autopilot, opening the fridge, grabbing things, pretending like your body wasn’t still humming from the feel of his mouth on your thigh.

Smoke wasn’t slick and you weren’t safe. Not from him and not from the heat building up under your skin like it was trying to boil you alive. Behind you, the sound of the armchair creaking and his footsteps thumping across the hardwood made you hold your breath. You didn’t bother turning, you already knew the look on his face was smug and cocky like he was just biding time until your pride finally tapped out.

“You heavy-footed on purpose?” you muttered without looking at him. “Or you tryna make sure I know you comin’ so I don’t swing a skillet at your head?”

Smoke didn’t say a word but you heard the slow grind of his teeth and a slight click when his tongue hit the back of them. Then, the fridge door beside you opened. His arm brushed yours with intent and his skin was as hot as a stovetop. He reached in and grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and took a long, long drink like he had been parched since war-time.

You still didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him. Instead you stopped fiddling with the random assortment of ingredients and crossed your arms under your chest so tightly your hands started going numb. But none of that mattered. Smoke was standing so close now with his presence wrapping around you like a weighted blanket made of lustful desire, silently daring you to keep dismissing him.

“You really don’t want me talkin’ to you?” he asked finally with his tone full of challenge. “Even though your thighs damn near gave up and invited me in just now?”

You turned your head and squinted your eyes at him. “You punched an innocent man for smiling at me!”

“And I said a barista don’t need to be starin’ at what’s mine like he got a fuckin’ chance!”

“You don’t own me, Elijah,” you mumbled.

That was the first time you’d said his real name in days. And you had the nerve to use it while telling him that he doesn’t own you.

Smoke’s jaw ticked. His nostrils flared. And then he laughed like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with you right now. “I don’t own you?” he repeated, stepping in now, cornering you against the counter. “You right… You right, you grown, huh? Real grown. Is that why you been sittin’ in this house clenching your lil thighs every time I so much as stretch?”

“Back up,” you whispered. It didn’t sound as strong as you wanted it to. Not when your back hit the cold of the cabinet and your front was all warm-blooded temptation and hard muscle.

Smoke leaned in like a snake slithering across grass before striking its prey. His lips brushed your ear, and his voice dropped to a place that made your belly twist. “Tell me to back up one more time, baby,” he taunted, “and mean it.”

You swallowed thickly, chest rising fast beneath your thin top.

His hand settled on the counter beside your hip, the other drifting ever so gently down the side of your arm, brushing like a warning. “Say it,” he taunted again. “Or let me remind you why you don’t ever sleep right unless I’m wrapped around you.”

Now it was your turn to clench your jaw but your breath betrayed you. Your thighs pressed together again, heat rushing back like a tidal wave. “Why you always gotta be like this?” you breathed, voice barely holding on.

He chuckled darkly. “Because I know what’s mine.” His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers brushing the dip of your waist. “And I know when she lyin’… putting on a front.” He kissed your neck just once to test the waters. It was soft but full of possession.

And when you didn’t stop him, when you didn’t shove him away, he nipped your collarbone and muttered, “You gon’ keep fightin’ me or you gon’ let Daddy fix this?”

“I’m still mad at you,” you said, even as your fingers gripped his sweatpants.

“Stay mad then,” he growled, lifting you up onto the counter like you weighed nothing. “But don’t pretend you don’t need me.”

It took all your might to not whimper when his hand slid between your thighs, the heat of his palm making your eyes roll back. “I told… you not… to talk to me,” you gasped.

Smoke smirked against your throat. “Then put that pretty lil pussy in my face and shut me up.”

Your eyes squinted into a glare and heat rushed up your neck as your lips parted in disbelief. Your body wanted him. Badly. But your mind… that damn stubborn, bratty, prideful-ass mind was not about to let him win this round so easily.

And so… you did what any unhinged woman dating Elijah Moore would do and shoved a hand into his perfect face… and mushed him. What color roses do you want at your funeral? You pushed his cocky expression away like you were slapping a mosquito. The suddenness made him take a step back, just long enough for you to hop down from the counter in one quick motion and scurry away like a rabbit setting itself free from a snare.

“I said don’t talk to me, nigga!” you yelled, snatching your composure back like a silk robe off the floor.

You stormed out the kitchen, and tossed a middle finger over your shoulder. “And put some damn clothes on! Walkin’ ‘round this house like I could buy you for the night with two dollars and a half-stick of gum!”

Smoke stood still like a statue and for a second he didn't know if he was dreaming or if his woman was truly out of her damn mind. Then that low, dangerous laugh rolled from his chest like thunder over wet concrete. It was a sound that did nothing but pour gasoline on the flames already licking between your thighs. He loved when you got like this, wild-eyed, stubborn-lipped, and sass pouring from your throat like it was made of honey and broken glass.

He knew you’d fold. And when you did… he’d be the one to catch you.

The rest of the day you avoided Smoke like the floor was lava and he was the devil waiting at the bottom. You locked yourself in your shared bedroom and buried yourself in the sheets like they could protect you from the walking sin on the other side of the door. You distracted yourself for hours. Scrolled through your phone. Scrolled again. Played lo-fi beats. Switched to gospel. Thought about cooking. Decided not to because that would involve you leaving your sanctuary. Thought about apologizing. Decided not to because it would be a cold day in hell before you apologize to him. Thought about touching yourself… Absolutely did not… yet.

Eventually, your body gave in to exhaustion. The softness of the pillows, the hum of the AC in the background and the scent of Smoke lingering on the sheets rocked you into a tense, twitchy sleep. And then your mind betrayed you.

Of course your unconscious mind decided to betray you as you went off into dreamland. Dream-Smoke had his mouth everywhere on your body. On your neck. Down your chest. Between your thighs. This version of Smoke was utterly ruthless. He said your name like it was a threat and a prayer. His hands gripped your legs like he was holding onto the only thing that made sense in this godforsaken world.

“Open up, baby. Yeah, just like that…”

Your body arched in your sleep, your mouth parted, a soft moan fluttering against the dark. And right when you were about to reach that shimmering edge, Dream-Smoke pulled back and taunted in your ear, “Shouldn’t’ve told me not to talk, huh?”

You gasped yourself awake and the bedroom was cloaked in darkness, only a soft sliver of moonlight slipped between the curtains. Your chest heaved and your pajama shorts were damn near soaked through. The cotton stuck to your core like it had a vendetta. A frown pulled at your lips and a tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it.

You turned your head to look at the blinking alarm clock through wet eyes and frowned again. It was currently 2:03 AM and you couldn’t believe you somehow slept the entire the day away.

Peaking over your shoulder you let out a disgruntled sigh. Smoke was laid out like he didn’t have a care in the world. One arm slung behind his head, chest rising and falling with calm, heavy breaths. That same damn pair of grey sweatpants still clung to his hips. He looked peaceful. Angelic even. You wanted to punch him and make him suffer for what Dream-Smoke started but didn’t finish. But since you already got away with mushing him in the face you didn’t want to test your luck and simply whined.

A shaky, bratty, needy whimper left your throat as you wiped your still falling tears and leaned over, gently nudging Smoke's shoulder. He grunted and cracked one eye open. “What, baby?” His voice was sleep-worn and you tried not to focus on what hearing it was doing to your already wounded up body.

You pouted in the dark, nose wrinkled, lips trembling. “This is ALL your fault.”

Raising your voice early in the morning got Smoke’s full attention and he blinked slowly, as the remnants of sleep cleared from his face like a curtain lifting. His eyes found you in the moonlit darkness. You looked so adorable to him, pouty-lipped, flushed cheeks, and thighs pressed tightly together under the covers.

“The fuck you yellin’ at me for and cryin’ this early in the morning?” he asked, now fully awake, his tone clipped with concern and confusion.

You sniffled. “I… I need… I want… I want… to touch myself,” you admitted, lip quivering dramatically. “And since I’m still mad at you… I need you to leave the bed.”

Smoke blinked once at you and then again into the darkness like he was on an episode of The Office. He didn’t expect to be so entertained by your antics today and he started to chuckle to himself. This wasn’t a typical ‘I love how bratty my girl is acting’ type of laugh. No, this was a dark, ‘this girl done lost her fuckin’ mind’ laugh.

“You woke me up,” he said slowly, to make sure he got all the details correct, “to tell me that you’re horny… and I need to leave our bed… so you can touch what belongs to me?”

Your throat tightened. When Smoke repeated everything out loud it did sound kind of insane but that was besides the point. “You heard me,” you said, lifting your chin and pointing it to the door. “Now go.”

Smoke let out a final chuckle and didn’t move. He leaned back on one elbow, eyes gleaming in the dark like he could see the mess you’d become under those covers. “You really out here throwin’ tantrums at two in the morning ‘cause you can’t handle how badly you want me to fuck that attitude out of you?” he teased.

“I am handling it,” you bit back. “I’m asking you to leave. Like a grown woman.”

His tongue slid along the inside of his cheek. Then he reached down, adjusted himself in those sweats just slightly, and let out a hum that made your thighs twitch. “You sure?” he asked gently, like he was talking to a skittish wild animal about to bolt. “You sure you want me to leave, baby?”

“Yes,” you whispered, even as your legs squirmed beneath the blanket. “I don’t need you. I can do it myself.”

“Mhm… is that right...”

Smoke sat up slowly before swinging his legs off the side of the bed. He stood to his full height and then without saying another word he discarded his sweatpants, letting the moonlight shine on his intimidating half-hard manhood. You sat in complete shock, unsure what to say or what to do. Your mouth stayed agape and you could’ve sworn you didn’t breathe for 2 minutes, Your whole body burned with need and you hated this feeling.

And he spoke again in a cruel velvet-slick tone, “Go on then.” He climbed back in bed and laid on his back with his hands behind his head like he didn’t just take his pants off. “Show me how you don’t need me.”

The silence that followed was so thick it felt like smoke itself. It crackled with the weight of what you wanted to do and what your pride wouldn’t allow. Your fingers trembled under the blanket. You hated him, yet you wanted him. And you hated how badly you wanted him. All of this only made the leaking faucet between your thighs turn into a full blown fire hose.

He bit his bottom lip before antagonizing you. “Might help if you stop cryin’, baby. You can’t see your lil fingers down there with all them tears foggin’ up your eyesight.”

Your fists balled with annoyance but your thighs began to slightly part. Smoke didn’t move or touch you. He didn’t even acknowledge the way he could smell your sweet aroma in the room. He just gave you a look that said, ‘You can play this game all night, pretty girl… I’ll be here when you break.’

And you were so, so close to shattering. You stared at him like he’d summoned a demon into the room and dared you to dance with it.

Smoke stretched his long body across the bed like he was on display. Like he wasn’t a man who just dropped his pants in the middle of a silent standoff and dared you to stay proud. With his arms folded beneath his head, the swell of his chest rose and fell as if he weren’t aware of the war going on inside your body. The tension. The hunger. The absolute need that clawed at your insides like a caged animal. His dick sat heavy between his thighs, thick and idle, like it had time to wait. Like it knew it would be fed eventually.

“You got five seconds before I close my eyes and go back to sleep,” he grumbled without looking at you. “So go ahead. Get to rubbin’. Let me hear how good you make yourself feel without my help.”

Your lip trembled. You weren’t crying anymore, not from frustration anyway. But your thighs were sticky, your panties were soaked through, and every nerve ending in your body was throbbing like you’d been edgewalking through purgatory. Still… you weren’t gonna give him the satisfaction of begging. So you huffed in a loud and obnoxious manner before wiping your cheeks like a toddler who just got scolded. You then yanked the covers off your body and laid flat on your back beside him, arms stiff at your sides.

Smoke turned his head slightly, one brow arched. “Thought you said you didn’t need me,” he said, tone sharp and mocking.

“I don’t,” you snapped. “I just need space.”

He smirked. “You sound stupid.”

You glared at the ceiling. “You look stupid.”

Another beat of silence. Then your hand slowly dragged beneath the waistband of your pajama shorts, and your breath hitched. You weren’t even doing anything yet, and your whole body tensed like you were about to commit a crime.

Smoke didn’t move but he watched from the corner of his eye. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, heavy and loaded. Like if he blinked, he might miss the exact moment you broke. Your fingers brushed against your panties and found them soaked, the cotton clinging to your folds like it was trying to apologize for being in the way. You let out a shaky breath and your fingers twitched as you slid them beneath the fabric and gently grazed your clit.

The behemoth of a man next to you exhaled through his nose but he didn’t say a word as he continued to observe. You rubbed slow circles, small and hesitant, still stubborn as hell and still trying to prove a point you were seconds from losing as a soft and breathy moan slipped out.

Smoke turned his head toward you fully now, his gaze dark and unreadable. “You always make yourself sound so pretty,” he said, voice lower now, rough and molten. “But it don’t hit the same, do it?”

You didn’t answer him but your hips rolled in response to his question. Your hand moved faster. Your breath stuttered. Your back arched. Still—not a word. You didn’t plead or cry for help. To prove your point you used your own hand and held back the silent scream in your throat. Then you finally felt it… that build. It climbed your spine and tingled through your limbs, coiling low and tight in your belly like lightning trapped behind your navel. But just as your toes curled and your moans grew louder… Smoke’s hand slammed down on your wrist and you yelped.

He was above you now, face inches from yours, his chest heaving, lips parted. “That’s enough,” he growled. “This little show? Over.”

“Wha—? I didn’t even—” you started, but he cut you.

“You really gon’ make yourself cum when I’m layin’ right here?” he snapped, pressing your wrist into the mattress with one hand while the other dragged your shorts down in one brutal yank. “Tryna act like you in control of somethin’ when this pussy don’t even belong to you no more?”

You whimpered as his mouth crashed into yours, all heat and dominance, devouring your lips like he was punishing you for breathing without permission. His tongue pushed into your mouth while his hips settled between your thighs, and you could feel all of him, heavy and hot, grinding against your bare heat.

“You should’ve just asked,” he murmured against your mouth, voice trembling with restraint.

You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. “Asked… what?”

“If I was done bein’ mad,” he answered, dragging his tip along your soaked entrance, teasing but never pushing in. “Cause I wasn’t. Not yet.” And with that he slid in excruciatingly slow. So slow you nearly blacked out.

“Now,” he growled, gripping your throat just enough to make your heart flutter, “you don’t talk to me.”

Your breath caught in your throat as he filled you inch by inch, until all nine inches of his rock hard flesh stretched you out causing your back arch off the bed. Once he was completely sheathed inside of your warm gummy walls Smoke didn’t move. Not yet. He held himself still with his hand still resting on your throat—not choking, just a firm reminder of who was in control. Of whose name was stitched into the folds of your body like ownership. Like scripture.

Your lashes fluttered as a soft, broken whimper escaped your lips.

“Yeah,” he hummed, watching your face intently. “That’s what I thought.”

The weight of him, the heat, the way his body caged yours like a storm rolling over weak land, every bit of it made your spine tremble. He didn’t have to say it, didn’t need to ask… he already knew. This wasn’t about sex anymore. This was about submission. About surrender. About you thinking you could ignore him, silence him, deny him, and still sleep soundly next to him every night.

His hips rolled meticulously and grinded so deep you swore you saw stars behind your eyes. His pace was punishing in its patience. Purposeful and steady. Like he wanted you to feel the agony he felt every second you ignored him. Every breath you wasted pretending you didn’t need him.

“You really thought you was gon’ touch yourself in this bed?” he grunted, lips ghosting over your jaw as he rocked into you again. “While I laid next to you? Like I ain’t the one that got this pussy cryin’ in the first place?”

You couldn’t even respond. Your mouth opened but no sound came out, just a sharp inhale, a choked moan, and the clenching of your legs around his hips.

He groaned low like he felt your apology in the way your walls pulled him in tighter.

“This one… if for every time you rolled your eyes at me,” THRUST.

“This one… is for every time you walked away from me,” THRUST.

“Fuck… and THIS one is for every time you told me not to talk to you,” SLAM.

You whimpered beneath him, nails digging into his arms as your pride cracked wide open and your body begged to be ruined. You couldn’t handle this torturous unhurried fuck session. You needed your walls plowed to smithereens and you needed it to happen right now. “I hate you,” you gasped.

“Shut up. You love me,” he corrected with a smirk, snapping his hips against yours harder now. “You love me when I got you stuffed full and dumb off my name.”

Your moans turned shameless… so soft, high, and desperate. Each slow thrust had you melting further, your bratty resolve unraveling like a ribbon. And Smoke? He watched the transformation like it was art. “There she go…” he whispered. “There’s my girl. Ain’t no talkin’ now, huh? Just that lil mouth open like you got somethin’ to say… but still don’t know how to say sorry.”

You finally met his gaze, eyes wide and glassy with need. “I’m—” you tried.

He pressed his fingers against your lips. “Nope.” Another thrust. Brutal. Deep. You cried out. “Don’t say shit else to me... Just take it.”

He dipped his head, kissed the corner of your mouth with an intimacy that contrasted the way he was owning you from the inside out. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, hips rising to meet him while chasing the edge of pleasure like you’d die if you didn’t reach it soon.

“I got you,” he whispered, his breath warm and ragged against your ear. “Go on, baby. Let go. Let me take it.”

Your orgasm crept up your spine like a threat, your whole body tightening under him. “Smoke—” you breathed, one hand tangling in the bedsheets beneath you, the other clutching his shoulder like a lifeline.

“I know, I know. Shhh, baby,” he cooed. “Come on. I got you.” And when you finally shattered—mouth open, legs shaking, eyes rolling—he never let up. He kept fucking you through it, hips grinding, mouth pressing kisses to your throat and chest, whispering your name like prayer and punishment all at once.

You went limp beneath him and he pulled back just enough to look you in the face, brushing a lone tear from your cheek. “You still mad?”

You blinked up at him, dazed and ruined. He smirked again. That same crooked, devilish thing that started it all. “Yeah… you look like you still got a fuckin’ attitude.”

Your chest rose and fell in shallow waves with your skin covered in sweat as you lay there boneless and ruined beneath him.

Smoke hovered above you like a storm cloud that refused to pass. His body didn’t press down; he just hovered, solid and still, like a hunter watching his prey breathe after the first strike. His arms caged you on either side, head tilted slightly as his gold chain swung gently from his neck and tapped your collarbone. Your legs still trembled from the aftershock and your thighs involuntarily locked around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

But Smoke didn’t move, he was so deep inside of you that you could barely think. And instead of chasing his own pleasure like any other man might, he just stared and studied you like you were the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on. You felt the subtle twitch of him inside you, ready, but not rushing. Not desperate. Because Smoke wasn’t a man ruled by impulse. He was ruled by control. And he wielded it like a blade.

“You done squeezing my dick?” he asked quietly, voice low and relaxed, like he had nowhere else to be but right here. “Or you need a minute to remember where you at?”

You blinked slowly, lips still tingling from where he kissed you, still too blissed out to string a proper sentence together. But he waited—patient, immovable—as your brows knit together, that ache you just got rid of was already building again and you finally realized… he wasn’t finished. He still hadn’t moved. And now, you were too aware of it. Too aware of the way he filled you like he’d been carved just for you. Too aware of the steady rise and fall of his chest. Of how warm and thick and ready he still felt inside you.

“Smoke,” you whined, voice hoarse and fragile.

He cocked a brow, his gold tooth glinting in the dark. “Yeah, baby?”

Your thighs flexed around him again, a needy little roll of your hips that made you whimper even as you tried to hold your pride in place. His hand slid slowly up the side of your throat, fingers curling around the hinge of your jaw to tilt your face up toward his.

“You feel that?” he murmured.

You nodded weakly, lips parting.

“I been sittin’ still. Holdin’ back,” he whispered, each word slipping into your mouth like honey and heat. “You been cryin’, whinin’, beggin’ me to leave. But I ain’t goin’ nowhere, baby.”

He leaned down, forehead nearly touching yours. “I stay when you bratty. Stay when you act like you don’t want me. Stay when you try to punish me with silence.”

A soft, broken sound spilled from your lips.

“I stay… ‘cause you mine.” Then finally… he moved again. Just a slow roll of his hips. Barely there. Just enough to make you feel the stretch again. Just enough to remind your body that your first orgasm was nothing but the beginning. Your nails found his back again, dragging lightly over the skin of his shoulders as your breath caught.

“You thought I was gon’ break first,” he said, dragging himself out slowly before sinking back into you. “Didn’t you?”

You moaned, head tipping back, throat arching beneath his palm.

“You thought that lil attitude was enough to make me lose my cool.” Another thrust. Deep and slow. The kind that made your vision blur.

“But you forgot who you dealin’ with,” he grunted as his lips brushed your ear. “I can fuck this perfect pussy slow like this for hours and still not cum.”

You whimpered again, your hips twitching, your body betraying you as your heat reignited. He kissed the curve of your cheek, your jaw, your ear.

“You don’t get quick fucks when you act like you don’t need me.” His hand slid between your bodies, fingers slipping down until they found that tender, swollen bundle of nerves. “You get discipline.”And as his fingers began to move in calculated devastating circles, his hips continued their cruel rhythm and your body began to shake again.

You could barely breathe. Every inch of your body was coated in sweat, your skin fever-hot, while your senses flooded with overstimulation. Smoke hadn’t let up and he hadn’t sped up either. That was the worst part… or maybe the best. He moved with purpose and mastery. Every grind of his hips was deep, as he poured himself into you like he was trying to combine your souls into one. And his fingers… God. The pads of them circled your clit with such devastating precision, you swore you were unraveling on a molecular level. Like you were coming apart from the inside out.

You gripped at his shoulders, his back, his biceps, wherever you could reach… but you couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t change the pace. Couldn’t make him move faster no matter how much your legs shook or your voice cracked. “P-please,” you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for. Release? Mercy? More?

Smoke leaned down, brushing his lips against your cheek with a smug grin carved into his face. “Oh… You beggin’ now?” he asked. “Wasn’t too long ago you was flippin’ me off and actin’ like I was walkin’ around here like a cheap thrill.”

His voice vibrated against your neck, dragging goosebumps down your spine. “You wanna cum again, pretty girl?” he murmured, fingers pressing down just slightly harder, swirling against your clit like he was drawing a map to your breakdown. “Is that what all them little tears are for?”

You whined, nodding frantically, your thighs beginning to quake again. Smoke didn’t speed up. He didn’t need to. Your body was desperate for him and would greedily take whatever was given. He knew you so well he could fuck you out of a meltdown without ever changing rhythm.

“You don’t deserve to cum yet,” he said lowly, pulling his mouth back to hover just above yours. “But I’m gon’ let you anyway. Just so you remember who got you moaning so loud our neighbors might file a noise complaint tomorrow.”

He moved in again with one solid and controlled stroke that made your eyes roll and your nails dig so deep into his back you swore you could feel muscle give. Your body started to quiver. “No—no, wait—” you whimpered, because you felt it building too fast, the peak rising like a wave with nowhere to go.

“Shhh,” he whispered, voice laced with hunger now, though his pace never changed. “That’s it. Go on. Cum on my dick.”

He kissed you and swallowed your cries as your walls constricted around him and you came again, harder than before. Your body jerked beneath him as your second orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave smashing through a dam. You sobbed into his mouth, a mix of bliss and frustration and pure, helpless surrender. Your thighs shook uncontrollably and your nails dug into his flesh like he was the only thing keeping you from drifting away.

Smoke pulled back just enough to look at your face that was flushed and tear-streaked, while your mouth hung open in silent shock as you rode the aftershocks. “I don’t think that attitude is gone yet” he rasped, still deep inside you, still hard as stone. “You need another reminder. Don’t you, baby?”

You nodded weakly unable to form words.

Smoke slid his hand up your ribcage, slow and reverent, until he cupped the side of your face. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, tugging it gently. “I ain’t even started your real punishment yet.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Two days you gave me attitude,” he murmured, kissing your chin. “Two days you walked around this house actin’ like you forgot what my name felt like between your thighs… I'm nowhere near done with you yet.”

You gasped, your fingers twitched around his arms, already worn down and so full of him. You didn’t know if it was seconds or minutes or lifetimes that passed with him moving inside you like that—slow, deliberate, dominant. Your body felt swollen with sensation, soaked in the aftermath of two back-to-back orgasms that had left your breath scattered like glass shards across the mattress.

Your skin was hot to the touch, your muscles limp, your mind foggy with a heady mix of defiance and surrender. And through it all, Smoke hadn’t broken his rhythm. His stamina was inhuman, like he fed off control, fed off the way your body twitched and sobbed under his. The way you needed more and hated that it had to come from him.

But then… Something shifted. His eyes… those dark, obsidian things dragged across your face. He licked his lips, slow and thoughtful. Then he pulled back again. All the way out. You cried at the loss of fullness and rose your hips involuntarily trying to chase him. Smoke grinned but it wasn’t a playful or kind grin. Without a word, he grabbed your hips, flipped you over onto your stomach, and yanked your ass up until you were on your knees, chest pressed to the mattress. He spread your legs with his own and ran a hand down your back.

“You said I looked like I could be bought for two dollars and some gum,” he growled, dragging himself against your folds, wet and swollen and already twitching from anticipation.

You swallowed, face buried in the sheets. You remembered and silently cursed to yourself.

He leaned down, mouth grazing your ear as he lined himself up behind you. “Good thing for you, I don’t charge. But I do collect.”

And then he slammed into you. No warning. No patience. The thrust knocked the wind out of your lungs. “E-ELIJAHHHH! F-FUCKKK!” you cried, hands gripping the sheets like a lifeline.

Smoke’s pace was nothing like before. All that held-back heat, all that restraint? Gone. His hips snapped against you with vicious precision, his grip digging into your hips as your ass slapped against him, over and over, filling the room with the sound of skin meeting skin and your broken cries.

“This what you wanted?” he grunted, every word punched out between thrusts. “All that mouth, all that attitude… This what you needed to calm down?”

You couldn’t even answer. Couldn’t form a thought. Your voice was raw with whimpers and your tears stained the pillow as you arched back into him on instinct, chasing every brutal, perfect stroke.

He reached around and grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper against your jaw. “You talk big,” he hissed, thrusting deep, “but this pussy always tell the truth.”

You sobbed out a yes. Or maybe his name. Or maybe just a noise—because that’s all you were now. A body molded to his pace. A vessel of heat and ache and want. And then… He slowed again. But this time, his strokes were hard and measured. That had your eyes rolling and your teeth sinking into the pillow to stop yourself from screaming his name like a confession.

“You feel how deep I am?” he groaned, voice thick and low behind you. “You gon’ run your mouth next time a man so much as smiles at you?”

You shook your head quickly, biting down on your bottom lip as you wavered between reality and subspace.

“Use your words,” he demanded before landing hard smacks on your ass that turned your ebony skin bright red.

“No—no, Smo- Daddy! I won’t, I swear—” you gasped, voice choked and high.

“Damn right you won’t.”

He dragged you up by your waist, pulling your back against his chest, one arm wrapping across your ribs, the other snaking down to rub your clit in slow, punishing circles again.

“Let another nigga smile at you again in public and I’ma bend you over right then and there,” he whispered, biting your shoulder. “Make sure everybody knows who you belong to.”

You cried out again, the pleasure building faster than your body could handle. It was too much but you loved every second of it. And Smoke? He was relentless. Focused. Determined to etch his name into your skin, your bones, your fucking soul.

“You gon’ cum one more time for me,” he ordered, fingers working faster now. “And then I’ll think about lettin’ myself nut.”

You couldn’t even reply because your body was already shaking. Your walls were already spasming around his brutal rod. You felt your mind spiral into that place that only he could take you. The place where pride didn’t exist and control was something you gave him freely.

“Go on, baby,” he ordered. “Make my dick shiny. Cum for me.”

And you did. Harder than you’ve ever climaxed before. This orgasm felt spiritual like your soul kissed the feet of God before asking for forgiveness and traveling back into your human vessel. You screamed his name into the pillow like a secret finally confessed, your body convulsed, your legs collapsed beneath you as he held you upright, grunting through clenched teeth.

Smoke held you there, both of you trembling in the twinkling moonlight shining through the bedroom. Your back was slick against his chest, your breath short and stuttering. His arm was still banded tight across your stomach, the other gripping your thigh with bruising intensity, like he didn’t trust his body not to break you if he let it go free. You felt every inch of him—still deep, still pulsing, still holding on with that impossible restraint that made you ache in places words couldn’t touch.

“Fuck… Fuck… Don’t move,” he moaned, his voice cracking down the middle—low, rasped, and dangerous. “Don’t.”

You didn’t dare disobey your man. You were already trembling too hard, barely tethered to your body. Your face was damp with tears, your thighs quaking, your walls still fluttering in waves around him.

“Shit, baby…” he growled, his voice buried somewhere between awe and agony. “You tryin’ to milk me dry, huh?”

You whimpered. Not out of pain. But because you felt it—felt that slow-building quake start to rattle through him. The way his grip tightened. The way his hips stilled just for a beat too long. You felt the flex in his abdomen, the tension coiling at the base of his spine like a spring being wound to the brink of snapping.

Your last orgasm clenched down onto his dick perfectly and now he was close trying to fight against it. You turned your face slightly from the pillow, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “Why’re you holdin’ it in?”

Smoke gritted his teeth tightly. “‘Cause once I let go…” he hissed, “you ain’t gon’ be able to walk, let alone keep talkin’ shit like you ain’t mine.”

You shivered under him. “But I am yours,” you whispered, the confession slipping out with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

That broke him. Smoke let out a low, raw groan as his grip shifted. He grabbed your hips with both hands, holding you still as his restraint finally began to splinter.

“Say it again.”

“Smoke—”

“Say. It. Again.”

Your voice caught in your throat, but you gave it to him, every word thick with truth and heat. “I’m yours,” you breathed. “I’ve always been yours.”

He let out something between a moan and a curse as he started to move again. Each thrust was rough with purpose, his rhythm tight and controlled even as his body fought against itself for release. “I should’ve made you say that two days ago,” he murmured into your neck. “Could’ve saved us both a whole lot of trouble.”

You could feel him on edge now. His hands were shaking. His thighs flexed with every grind forward. His jaw locked. “Fuck, baby… you feel too good,” he rasped. “Too fucking good.”

You whimpered, barely holding yourself up as he rutted into you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

“Where you want it?” he choked out, voice frayed and thick with hunger. His hand fisted the meat of your ass, keeping your hips tilted perfectly, helplessly open for him.

“Tell me. Right here?” he ground into you deeper—deeper—and your whole body jolted like he’d struck a nerve that reached your soul.

“Want me to fill this pretty pussy up?” he growled, hips snapping forward again, rough, rhythmic, merciless. “You want me to cum so deep you leak for days, huh? So every time you open your legs, you remember who the fuck owns it?”

You tried to answer, but your voice cracked around the sound of your own moan.

Your body was done. Shaking, oversensitive, strung out from back-to-back orgasms—but still hungry for him. Still desperate to take all of him, to feel the final blow. The one he’d been holding back since the minute he put his hands on you.

Smoke’s thrusts became heavier and it became obvious he was losing the reins. His grip on your hips turned bruising, and a deep, guttural snarl ripped out of him like it came from the base of his spine. “Answer me, baby! Where. You. Want. It?”

“Inside,” you cried, head buried in the sheets, hips bucking against him. “Please, Smoke, fill me up.”

Smoke roared before grabbing you by the back of your neck and forcing your chest flush to the mattress. His other hand yanked your ass back into him, hard enough to make your eyes roll. His body collapsed over yours, hot and massive and trembling as he began to pound into you like a man possessed. No more teasing. No more patience. Just raw, primal need.

“You fuckin’ take it,” he growled in your ear. “You take every drop. That’s mine. You hear me? Mine. This pussy… this whole fuckin’ body… you think I’m lettin’ it walk around untouched, unclaimed? Nah. Nah, baby. I’m leavin’ my fuckin’ mark.”

His thrusts were devastating now. Every stroke came with the full weight of his body. His hips snapped forward like punishment, his chest slick against your back, his voice a broken, dirty prayer in your ear.

“I can’t—” you gasped, sobbing against the sheets.

“Yes, you… can,” he growled, his voice deep and guttural, hips pounding harder now. “You will. You gon’ take every drop I give you… then lay here… and thank me for it like a good girl. Understand?”

You felt the tremor roll through his body as his thighs tensed, his back flexed, and the ragged stutter of his breath grew as he chased his own breaking point. He was close. So close. “Say it,” he demanded, his voice sharp as a razor. “Say you’re mine while I paint these walls. Say it with my dick buried in this pussy.”

You cried out, clawing at the sheets, tears streaking your face. “I’m yours, Smoke! I’m yours, please—cum inside me!”

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself so deep you screamed, and then he moaned your name like it was the last word he’d ever say.

You were on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness when you felt Smoke’s hot and heavy load spilling into you in thick waves as his body seized behind you, every muscle locked in place. His nails dug into your hips as he held you there, stuffed full, claimed and ruined. His head dropped into your neck, his moan drawn-out, ragged, the sound of a man breaking as he finally gave in.

He stayed like that. Still pulsing inside you and panting. His lips grazed your skin, open-mouthed, breath hot. Then, after a long, heavy silence—he exhaled and murmured low, almost reverent: “Mine.”

And this time, you didn’t argue. Because your body? It agreed.

.

.

.

.

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Authors Note: This was just a one shot to get all the horn horn energy out before I finish my series🥴🙂‍↕️ I understand mean Smoke isn’t for everyone but… HE IS VERY GORGEOUS TO MEEEE!!!

Annie was born into a line of powerful women. Her grandmother, Miss Letha, was known in Baton Rouge as a midwife and seer. Her mother, Celestine Moreau, was a traveling healer and conjure woman, moving through the river towns and Deep South communities offering her skills. Celestine didn’t just pass down tools—she passed down the memory of power, oral traditions, and spirit-led work.

Annie learned rootwork in childhood, helping grind herbs, fold petitions, tend crossroads altars, and gather graveyard dirt respectfully. After her mother died when Annie was in her late teens, Annie traveled for several years, learning from different practitioners in Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. She returned seasoned, powerful, and revered—a woman people now call ‘priestess,’ though Annie doesn’t claim the title herself.

Smoke is Annie’s first.

Not just sexually—but spiritually tied. She grew up watching him from a distance, knowing he was dangerous and fine and not meant for her, until one day he became hers anyway.

Their love is carved in survival and fire. She held him when he came back from war, shaking and hollow. When the world felt like ash in his mouth, she was the one who reminded him how to breathe again.

Smoke had his twin brother, Stack—blood, bone, ride-or-die.

But Annie?

She was the home he came back to.

The place no man, no battlefield, no ghost could take from him.

Their bond runs deep but not smooth. They fight. A lot. But every word flung is a tether. Every wound bleeds red, but it binds them tighter.

“I hate how much I love you.”

“Then love me harder.”

Annie knew Elijah Moore before he became Smoke. Before the war, before the blood, before the prison. She knew him when they were both just poor Black Southern kids, raised hard and fast, picking cotton under the sun, running wild in the same dirt fields.

He had that quiet fire even then—the kind of stare that made grown men nervous, and women lean closer without knowing why.

She loved him before he had anything.

Before the guns.

Before the name.

Before the ghosts.

They married before he went away, ensuring to remain bound. He’d kissed her hand in the sugarcane rows and whispered:

“You wait for me, Annie. I’ll come back different.”

Elijah and Elias got locked up in 1925 for robbing a bootlegger, pistol-whipping him, and stealing crates of liquor meant for white hands only. They were twenty-five. Poor. Desperate. Tired of being broke and owned.

Annie had lost hope.

They went down for seven years—hard labor, chain gang, Red River stone quarries. The prison work that killed men slowly.

But Annie never stopped waiting.

And she didn’t just wait, she worked. To get that hope back. Even when she felt their love slipping through the floorboards beneath her feet.

She lit candles every Thursday. The day they were sentenced.

She made him a mojo bag and kept them in her drawer, feeding them with oil, tears, and blood on the new moon.

She buried a lock of Elijah’s hair in her backyard, tied to a coffin nail and a red thread, chanting:

“He ain’t gon’ break. He ain’t gon’ bow.

My man’s comin’ back whole somehow.”

She paid conjure women from Memphis for bone dust, war water, and secret psalms. She left food at crossroads. She carried the burden of belief every time no letter came, no word arrived.

And when she dreamed of blood, she’d burn sulfur and scream his name at the river.

“Don’t you die in that place, Elijah Moore. You don’t leave me here in this world alone.”

When the twins stepped off that prison bus, Annie could sense a change. Especially in Elijah. He was still her man, but he wasn’t the same.

He smiled when he saw her. He kissed her like nothing else mattered. But his eyes were sharper. His hands twitched more. He slept with a revolver under the mattress and didn’t talk about the nights he didn’t sleep at all.

He was happy to be free, yes.

But he was hungry—not just for her body, but for power.

“I ain’t goin’ back to the fields,” he said, “Ain’t breakin’ my back for pennies while somebody else eats.”

She understood. She did.

But she felt it, too—something new growing in him. Something wild. Something cold.

Smoke refused to return to sharecropping. He didn’t give a damn about quotas.

“I did time already. I ain’t gon’ do no more for a white man with a whip made of math.”

He’d rather run numbers. Hustle dice. Take money instead of beg for it.

And Stack?

Stack was the dreamer. The smooth talker. The one who’d sit on the porch at sundown and say:

“We could be kings, Eli. I’m talkin’ juke joints, backroom whiskey, heat in our pockets. We don’t gotta stay broke. We just gotta be bold.”

Smoke believed him.

And Annie?

She saw the road rising ahead of them like a snake stretched out in sunlight.

As their lives turned sharper, Annie’s magic deepened.

She started pulling cards more often.

Worked candle divinations.

Slept with a bowl of water at her bedside to catch visions.

She saw Smoke’s shadow stretching too far. She saw Stack’s eyes turning toward her in moments he didn’t mean to. Her own face, caught between love and sacrifice.

She asked the spirits, “Can I keep him safe and still love him right?”

They answered only with smoke and silence.

Smoke began to believe that money was the only real magic.

“Ain’t no root in the world stronger than a fistful of green,” he argued, “Money make men live longer. Make cops look away. Make white folks call you ‘sir.’”

Annie disagreed.

“Money don’t stop bullets. Don’t stop curses. Don’t stop grief.”

She never backed down. Not once.

“But I do,” she whispered, “Me and the spirits.”

And so began the quiet rift—not a betrayal, but a difference in faith.

Smoke chased control.

Annie conjured protection.

They loved each other with their whole bodies. But they were walking parallel paths, barely keeping touch at the fingertips.

The OG: Clifton “Cleve” Ray.

Born in 1882 in the swamps near Yazoo, Mississippi. His mother was a seamstress. His father, a violent gambler who vanished after a card game gone bad. Cleve grew up in juke joints and gambling houses, running whiskey before he could shave. He watched white bootleggers get rich and vowed to carve his own piece of the underworld, no matter the blood price.

Came to Clarksdale in his twenties. Cleve started small. Dice games in alleys, cheap moonshine in tin cups, a stolen pistol under his coat. By 1915, he had three businesses laundering his income, two women fronting brothels for him, and lawmen on his payroll.

“Rule one,” he told his men, “Don’t get caught without money for bail. Rule two: Don’t get caught twice.”

He earned the name ‘Cleve’ from how he ‘cleaved’ his enemies: split men open with his switchblade before he could afford a gun.

Cleve wasn’t flashy. He was strategic and calculating.

When Prohibition hit, he expanded his territory. Speakeasies, bootlegging routes, moonshine stills out in Lyon and Rosedale. Had a silver-handled cane he took off a white banker he pistol-whipped after the man tried to short him on a real estate deal. Kept it ever since. He survived gang wars with rival crews in Memphis and Greenville by outsmarting, not outgunning. Paid conjure women for luck. Hired thugs for everything else.

“I ain’t spiritual, but I don’t play with spirits.”

Cleve first heard of the Moore boys while they were still in prison.

Word came through his contacts. Two brothers, sharp as blades, fresh from a seven-year stretch for robbing a bootlegger. When they were released, he kept tabs on them. Watched how Smoke moved in silence, and Stack smiled like sin and gold.

Their first interaction came at one of Cleve’s backroom dice games. Stack cleaned the table with loaded charm. Smoke stayed near the door, back to the wall, watching everything. When one of Cleve’s men accused Stack of cheating, Smoke broke the man’s wrist in a single move.

Cleve just laughed.

“That kind of loyalty’s hard to come by. You young bloods lookin’ for work?”

He offered them muscle and money. Said he’d teach them the game if they kept their heads down. Gave Stack a job running books and ledgers, laundering Cleve’s bootlegging profits through a dry goods store. Gave Smoke control over collections and enforcement —his “left hand” as he called it.

“I made this town,” Cleve spat egotistical, “I’m lookin’ for the ones who’ll inherit it after I’m dead. Not before.”

But it was a lie.

Cleve never intended to share his throne. He believed the twins were tools—young, hungry, and eager. Replaceable.

He underestimated them both.

Stack started getting too slick with the numbers. Made side deals. Took meetings Cleve didn’t authorize. Smoke started earning a reputation of his own— feared, admired. Even the police spoke his name in whispers. Worst of all: a woman. A young, light-skinned Black girl Cleve kept as both his mistress and his prisoner. Annie never knew her—but Smoke saw her.

One night, Smoke helped her escape. Gave her train fare and told her to run fast and far.

Cleve found out days later. Didn’t say a word.

But his smile soured.

Cleve sent the boys to ‘handle a job’—collect from a man who owed him for crates of shine. But it was a trap. The man was already dead. Blood on the walls. A planted pistol with Smoke’s fingerprints. If the law got there first, Smoke would hang.

They left fast.

“You feel that?” Stack asked, “That was a funeral Cleve just wrote for us.”

Smoke said nothing. Just clenched his fists and lit a cigarette.

That night, they cleaned their guns, and they don’t wait.

The next night, they show up at Cleve’s juke joint like nothing’s wrong—dressed sharp, clean, cool.

Stack buys drinks. Laughs with the musicians. Smiles at the bartender.

Smoke disappears into the back with Cleve, supposedly to talk business.

Five minutes later, a single gunshot cracks through the music.

He died the way he lived: with a smirk on his lips and a hole in his chest.

“You boys think you runnin’ this town?” he gasped before he bled out.

Smoke leaned close, voice cold.

“We don’t think. We know.”

When Stack pushes through the door, he finds Smoke standing over Cleve’s body — the silver cane in one hand, the bloody pistol in the other.

“He was gonna kill us,” Smoke says simply, “So I killed him first.”

“You sure?” Stack asks.

“Ain’t gotta be sure. Just gotta live.”

They dump Cleve’s body in the river—cut his face, so no one can ID it too fast.

They take his books, his contacts, his stash. Some of Cleve’s men stay loyal out of fear. Others vanish. The Moore twins move fast—clean up the mess, take over the rackets, and quiet the town with violence.

But Stack knows something’s shifting in Smoke.

He’s not just hungry now. He’s blood-fed.

Cleve’s death didn’t just make space, it created monsters. The Moore twins took the empire, but the violence it took to get it never left them.

And Cleve? His name still hangs over Clarksdale like a ghostly whisper.

Some say his ghost haunts the juke joint they killed him in.

Some say he left a buried stash no one’s found.

Some say he watches from Hell, proud as hellfire of the boys who took his crown.

Meanwhile, Annie feels all of it.

The moment Cleve dies, her altar goes cold. She dreams of smoke, blood, and fire on the riverbank. When Smoke comes home afterward—silent, lips tight, jaw twitching—she knows something’s ended…and something worse has begun.

She works a ritual that night, alone in the kitchen.

“Don’t let my man get drunk on blood. Don’t let him turn into the thing he’s fightin’.”

But the spirits whisper.

You ain’t just holdin’ him. You feedin’ him. You love the fire too…

Even with Cleve’s operation in their hands, they need real capital to grow, to pay bribes, arm up, expand beyond Clarksdale.

Stack says it first.

“We get in, get out. Arkansas bank. Payroll day. No one’s expectin’ us.”

Smoke doesn’t blink.

“Long as I get to pull the trigger if someone flinches.”

Stack studies his brother a long time.

“You gonna like this too much.” Stack said.

“Already do.” Smoke replied.

August 1932. First National Bank. Little Rock, Arkansas.

The country’s neck-deep in the Depression. Banks are failing. Working folks are desperate.

Stack got the location and routine from a woman he seduced—a teller who worked the early shift. He charmed her, watched her movements, and learned the layout. The Plan: Hit the bank just after closing on a Friday. Fewer people, limited staff. They’d come in from out of town dressed as a traveling jazz duo: Stack with his guitar, Smoke carrying a horn case loaded with weapons.

The black Ford Coupe rumbled into Little Rock just past noon, heat shimmering off the pavement. Inside, Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore lit a cigarette off the car lighter, dark shades over his eyes, jaw tight. Beside him, Elias ‘Stack’ Moore adjusted his cuffs and checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothing his hair back into place.

“You ready?” Stack asked, voice smooth as a psalm.

“Always,” Smoke replied, blowing a thin stream of smoke through his nose.

They pulled around the side of First National Bank, nestled between a tailor and a tobacco shop downtown. Stack climbed out first, dressed like a traveling bluesman—double-breasted linen suit, guitar case slung over his back. He didn’t give his twin a backwards glance, wanting to get this shit going to avoid getting caught. Stack entered the bank and he tipped his hat at the pretty clerk inside, flashing gold-capped teeth.

“Afternoon, sweetheart. Y’all still takin’ deposits from the Lord’s musicians?”

The teller giggled. He always had a way of making women forget their job. As she chatted him up, Stack’s eyes danced around the lobby. He clocked two guards, an old white banker in the glass office, a sleepy-looking manager, and just three civilians.

Exactly what the girl had described.

Outside, Smoke exited the car with a horn case slung at his side. Not a note of music inside—just a sawed-off shotgun, two pistols, and a soft velvet bag for the cash.

He stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

“Ain’t no music today,” he growled. “Just business.”

The guards reached, but Smoke moved faster, shotgun raised.

BOOM!

One caught a blast to the shoulder, sent spinning into the marble wall. The other froze, dropped his weapon.

Stack pulled his pistol from his jacket and pointed it at the manager’s head.

“Don’t be stupid. We don’t want your blood. Just your goddamn money.”

Smoke hurled a satchel over the teller counter.

“Fill it. Big bills. No tricks.”

The room fell silent except for the shaky rustle of money being packed into bags.

The vault opened—a stroke of luck, or fear. Inside:

$42,000 in cash. A lockbox of private jewelry, heirloom wedding sets, pearls, uncut stones. Two gold watches, war bonds, silver dollars. Stack lifted a silver cigarette case with engraved initials and smirked.

“Somebody’s daddy gon’ miss this.”

Smoke tossed in a handful of rings and chains, then moved to the front door—watching.

“Two minutes,” he barked, “Clock’s runnin’.”

A new face emerged—a rookie guard, young and dumb, probably just stepped out of the back.

“Freeze!”

He raised a revolver and fired. The bullet clipped Stack’s shoulder—not deep, but enough to piss him off.

Smoke turned and fired once—clean and fast. The guard dropped like a bag of rocks, head against the teller’s counter, blood already spreading across the floor.

“Fuck,” Stack hissed, clutching his shoulder.

Blood seeped between his thick fingers. He hissed with pain and a furrow of his sweaty brows.

“He moved first,” Smoke muttered, “He chose.”

The mood shifted. The civilians whimpered. The banker pissed himself.

“We done here,” Smoke snapped, “Load it up.”

Smoke snatched the bag full of the stolen goods, finding it heavier than he expected. Stack glanced over at the Bank Teller, winking at her before rushing out the door behind his twin.

They burst out the back, climbed into the Coupe, and peeled off down 7th Street, tires shrieking.

They didn’t speed at first. Stack insisted on blending in until they hit the outskirts. Once clear of town, Smoke floored it, roaring through the backroads of Arkansas, headed toward Mississippi.

Little Rock to Helena then they crossed the Mississippi River, straight Into Clarksdale by backroads.

They burned their clothes behind an old shack near Tunica, tossed the horn case into the river. Stack’s shoulder was bandaged in silence. Smoke didn’t say much—just kept stroking the mojo bag Annie gave him, the weight of blood settling in his chest.

“We did it,” Stack said finally, exhaling.

“Yeah,” Smoke replied, “Ain’t nobody gon’ stop us now.”

The shack outside Tunica reeked of mildew, soot, and sin. The inside was lit only by the golden hush of late afternoon. Dust floated thick in the still air. Stack sat shirtless on an overturned crate, teeth gritted, a clean bullet hole in his upper shoulder. Not deep. Not fatal. But it burned like hell.

He poured moonshine over it and hissed through his teeth.

“Son of a bitch got lucky. Shoulda aimed lower. Might’ve earned himself another breath.”

Smoke didn’t answer. He was pacing the length of the room, gun still clutched in his hand, knuckles bared. His shirt was streaked with blood—not his own—and his eyes were somewhere else.

“You hear me?” Stack called, “I said I’m fine.”

Smoke didn’t stop pacing. Just grunted.

Stack pulled the bandage tighter, hissing again. He watched his twin from beneath furrowed brows.

“You still mad about the kid?”

Smoke stopped. Looked up. His jaw was clenched, the cigarette dangling from his lips barely smoked.

“He raised his gun,” Smoke said flatly.

“I ain’t sayin’ you was wrong,” Stack replied, “I’m sayin’ you liked it.”

A beat passed. Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“You ain’t never killed someone and felt a piece of yourself go quiet? Like you don’t hear the guilt, just the silence after?”

Smoke looked at him then—really looked. And something flickered behind his eyes. Not regret. Not remorse.

“No,” he said, voice low, “When I kill, I feel alive.”

Stack leaned back, eyes narrowed.

“That’s what scares me.”

Smoke flicked his cigarette out. Turned away. Began peeling off his blood-soaked shirt.

“Don’t get soft on me now.”

“Ain’t soft,” Stack spoke, “I just ain’t ready to burn up with you.”

They didn’t speak again. The silence between them wasn’t peace. It was weight. Blood. The slow slide toward a line they wouldn’t be able to uncross.

Annie sits in the living room of their Delta cottage as dusk settles in, the blues of the evening sky filtering through lace curtains. The quiet is thick and quiet enough that she can hear a cicada’s buzz deep in the swamp. She settles into a straight-backed chair by the fireplace, her hands wrapped around a tin cup of bittersweet tea flavored with moonflower and honeysuckle. The room hums with roots such as ginger, cedar, and willow, bursting from jars plus the scent of amber and tobacco smoke she’s kept simmering in a small iron bowl.

Years of rootwork have tuned her senses to her husband Elijah and his brother Elias. As she takes a slow sip, she closes her eyes, sinking into a trance. Her breath lengthens, her nostrils flare, and she inhales deeply into the aroma of cedar and smoke. The essence of their presence lives here, in the air she breathed when they were home, the dim corners where they exchanged silent glances, the old oak floorboards that still carry the echo of their boots.

She reaches for a small oyster shell on the table, tracing its edge, and sprinkles a mix of honey, fine ash, and valerian root from a small glass phial. It smolders and curls into smoke. With each rising wisp, she whispers their names.

“Elijah…Elias…” Her voice is soft, barely more than a wind through reeds, “Where are you now? Are you safe?”

In her mind’s eye, she sees two silhouettes creeping low through a moonlit field. Elijah’s broad shoulders leading the way while Elias glided not too far behind. The smoke in the room thickens, shifting like fog on the water. Creepily. Annie watched the swirling vapor, feeling every beat of their hearts, every calculated step, the sound of gunmetal in their fists echoing in her chest. Heavy. Exhausting.

She breathes in their heartbeat, feeling its steady rhythm, not frantic. That alone tells her they made it back, that they’re together and safe…for now. A wave of relief floods her, followed by gratitude and a sharp sting of pride. They’d planned this bank job for weeks, she’d helped them in her own way, crossing their paths with root-barns and honey-jars to dull suspicion, layering spells to keep luck on their side.

The room empties of tension, and for a moment, memory and flame flicker across the walls. The risk, the adrenaline, all of it melted away, and yet the ache for Elijah is fresh and raw. She stands, sets the cup down, and moves to the front window. In the distance, the old bayou whispers secrets against the hush of her house.

She whispers again, a blessing this time, brushing a single, feather-soft dandelion seed across the sill. She knows they’ll find it when they cross the threshold, her silent signal that she felt them home. That she carried them in her bones.

And just like that, she waits. She’s attentive, full of love and lingering fear, but anchored by one unshakeable truth.

they’re alive, they’re together, and in her place of roots and spells, she held them safe.

But then something else stirred within her.

Suddenly, her breath stills. Annie’s hands hover midair, eyes half-lidded. She feels it. That tug. That ache of longing. It’s not on her dress. Not on her skin. It burns deeply, right between her ribs. Like someone’s trying to call her by name but can’t speak.

Her lips part, slowly, “He thinkin’ on me…”

She walks to the front porch, standing in the doorway, moonlight draping her like a second skin. Her hips shift, her hand rests just above her belly, and she closes her eyes. The connection flares again. It’s searing hot and steady. Annie knows in her mind’s eye that Elijah’s holding something of hers. Probably that folded black and white photograph with a permanent crease in the center that she gave him the night before his last run, her laughing in her garden, a headscarf tied up high, lips painted beet red. Or maybe it’s more than that.

Something more salacious.

A pair of her bloomers. All silk, soft, still faintly holding her scent or a little strip of textured paper with her name written in his hand, three times over, blood pricked on the corner. Sometimes, when he’s alone, holed up after a job, Smoke’ll light a cigarette and pull out that keepsake bundle. He’ll press her panties to his face, eyes closed, breathing her in deep like she’s gospel and ghost. His hands would shake, not from fear, but want. Ached-up longing. Deep desire. He can’t be away from Annie for too long. It makes him primal. Animalistic.

Each time he touches those things, especially the mojo bag or her panties, Annie feels it. It’s in the curl of her spine. The warmth that spreads low in her belly. The way her heart skips a beat just before the wind kicks up out of nowhere. Sometimes she’ll hum a tune she doesn’t remember choosing. Sometimes her nipples harden without cause.

Sometimes she stands in the garden, barefoot in the dirt, and whispers soft and strong, “Come home to me, Smoke.”

And somewhere out there many miles away, he shifts in his seat or where he stands, rubbing the pouch and swears he can smell jasmine on the air. Because love like theirs? It don’t fade. Not when it’s rooted in hoodoo, blood, and breath.

Tunica was a rural area—mostly cotton fields, juke joints, dirt roads, and poverty, but also rich with blues culture and river trade. It sat in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, soaked in the same heat, ghosts, and gospel Annie knows. Folks might pass through there on the run, looking for work, laying low, or meeting with dangerous people under cover of night.

Fifty miles north of Clarksdale, the house ain’t much. It’s just one long room, patched with old boards, walls damp with river air and regret. A crooked screen door hangs open to the wind. Smoke sits on the edge of a thin mattress, elbows on his knees, his whole body humming with restlessness. Stack is in a different room, sleeping off the exhaustion of hiding out.

A single bare bulb swings overhead, casting shadows across his face like ghosts still lingerin’. His suit jacket hangs from a nail by the door, dripping wet from river water. He’s peeled off everything else but his slacks, sweat slicking his chest, the scent of blackpowder and steel still clinging to his skin.

Laid out in front of him are a bundle of keepsakes, careful as scripture. A pair of Annie’s bloomers, soft, silken, folded like a prayer. A photo of her, creased at the corners and the center, worn thin from being touched too often. Her smile in the picture got sunlight in it. She’s barefoot, garden behind her, one hand on her hip like she owns the whole damn world. Smoke picks up the bloomers first. Brings ’em to his face. Inhales.

Lavender. Honey. All Annie.

His fingers tremble. He ain’t afraid of no lawman, no devil in the swamp. But that feeling in his chest? That’s different. That’s missing her so bad it makes his ribs ache. He leans back, lays flat. One arm drapes across his forehead. The other clutches the mojo bag around his neck, stitched by Annie herself.

Inside that bag is dirt from under their bed, her hair twined with his, dried violet, his name written in red ink three times. Bound magic. Bound love. And he can feel it now. He can feel her. His woman. His wife. Not just memory. Not just longing. Her spirit presses against him like warm breath on his skin.

“You callin’ me, baby?” Smoke whispered low and hoarse.

He swears he hears her hum, all soft like she do when she’s makin’ salve or sweepin’ the front porch at sundown. He closes his eyes, and there she is in his mind, standing under their magnolia tree, arms crossed under her heavy breasts, lips pursed and sheened with lemon balm.

Then her voice, whispered and bold, drifts into the stillness all distant and aching.

Come home to me, Smoke…

He jolts upright, heart slammin’ like a drum. That wasn’t just his imagination. That was her spirit hand reachin’ through miles of swamp and field, tugging on his chest. He grabs the bloomers, kisses them rough, almost angry.

His voice cracked, “You got me out here losin’ my damn mind, woman.”

He presses her photo to his lips next. Then tucks both deep into the inner pocket of his suit jacket like something sacred. Heavy rain pellets hit harder outside. The wind whistles low through the cracks in the boards. He reaches for his pistol, checking the chamber out of habit, not fear. Ain’t no ghost or man could touch him while he carries her.

“I’m comin’, Annie. I ain’t stayin’ out here no more.” He spoke in a hushed voice soft and steady with a deep rasp.

Smoke lights a blunt with shaking hands, watching the smoke curl up like her scent might ride it all the way back to Clarksdale. Every breath he draws tastes like memory. He stays up the rest of the night, eyes wide, waiting for dawn and the road to carry him home to their porch, her blade, her hips, her arms.

All of it.

The screen door creaks as Annie steps out, her hands dusted with flour, apron tied snug around her waist. Morning light breaks across the field, gold and pink streaking the sky like bruises healing.

She sees them coming up the dirt road in Stack’s car—two dark silhouettes against the mist. The car rolls to a stop beneath the dirt of The Delta, and then they both open their doors in unison. Elijah walks steady, but his eyes are tired. Elias—Stack—has a hand clutched tight to his upper arm, a dark smear running through his shirt sleeve.

Annie’s heart kicks in her chest.

They make it to the porch before either speaks. Elijah’s taller in this light, jaw clenched. Stack is limping slightly, face unreadable behind those sharp cheekbones and shadowed eyes.

Annie spoke stern but soft, “Y’all look like hell froze over and spit you back out.”

Stack grunted, “Ain’t far off.”

Smoke was quiet for a beat, then he parted his lips to speak with a low rasp.

“We made it home.”

She steps forward, holding the screen open with one arm. They cross the threshold like weary soldiers, boots tracking in Delta mud.

Smoke kisses her first—slow, deliberate. His lips land on her cheek but linger far too long, the corner of his mouth sliding near hers like he forgot where it was supposed to stop.

Annie stood half-smiling, pushing at his chest.

“Boy, don’t be actin’ needy soon as you cross my porch.”

Then Stack leans in, brushes her opposite cheek with rough lips—shorter, less weight to it.

“Thank you, Annie.”

She studies the blood on his sleeve, her smile fading. She places her hands on her hips, eyes sharp.

“Elijah Moore, you gon’ let your brother bleed out so you can get handsy?”

Smoke grinned low, “Ain’t like he dyin’. It’s a graze. Man caught a whisper of a bullet, and now I can’t even kiss on my wife?”

“Your what?” Annie sassed.

“You mine, Annie. You know that.” He whispered.

Annie narrows her eyes. The air between them tightens. She pulls Stack gently by the elbow and guides him to the kitchen table.

“Sit down ‘fore I tie you to the chair myself.”

Stack smirked through the pain. Annie removed her apron, nothing but a fitted haint blue dress underneath that left little to the imagination. She could feel Smoke’s eyes burning a hole into the back of her head.

“That supposed to be a threat or a promise?”

“Hush. Ain’t got time for neither.” Annie said.

She moves fast—pulling out a jar of pine gum salve, a tin of cayenne soaked in vinegar, and clean cloth. Smoke leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her every move. He’s itching, twitching. His fingers run along the edge of the table, eyes glued to her hips as she leans over Stack.

She rips the sleeve with a practiced motion. Stack winces.

“Mmhm. Just a graze, but y’all always act like you done fought the war again.”

He spoke low and rough, “Ain’t fought no war, but I fought the devil himself to get back here.”

Annie doesn’t answer. Just wipes blood, applies salve, wraps Stack tight. But her movements slow when Smoke steps behind her, hands grazing her waist. His fingers slide around her hips, thumbs brushing the curve of her hips. His mouth dips close to her ear.

Smoke spoke, voice husky, “Been thinkin’ ‘bout your skin every night. Smellin’ you in my dreams. Had your bloomers in my damn pocket like a fool.”

Stack snorts behind them, shaking his head.

“Lord. I’ll leave y’all two alone ‘fore this kitchen catch fire.”

Annie turns just as Smoke’s lips brush her neck. She slaps his hand—firm but not unkind.

Smoke wouldn’t move. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling deep. Annie chewed on her bottom lip to fight the tremble that fought to break through.

Annie elbowed him, “He still bleedin’, fool.”

Smoke growled, not backing off, “Then let him bleed outside. I’m tryna taste what’s mine.”

Annie looks over her shoulder, chin lifted, a slow smile pulling at her mouth.

“You taste me after you sweep this mess and clean your brother’s blood off my floor.”

Stack stands, nodding once.

“Thank you, Annie. You a good woman. Smoke, I’ma bow out. I’ll catch you later. I need a bath and my bed.”

He leaves without another word, the screen door clattering shut behind him.

Now it’s just them. Smoke steps in closer, arms sliding around her waist from behind. She leans into him, just for a second, then pulls away, smirking.

“Don’t think just ‘cause I missed you I’m gonna make it easy.”

Smoke spoke low, “I don’t want it easy.”

She turns to face him, and the heat between them ignites like the kindling of old sin and older love. Her hands rest on his chest, his heartbeat pounding like it’s tryna tell her something true.

“Then close the door, Elijah.”

And he does—slow, like he’s sealing in something sacred.

Annie stands with her back to the table, arms folded tight under her breasts, lips pursed. Her eyes lock on Smoke, who stands there like he owns the air she’s breathing.

He starts to speak, but she cuts him off with a hand in the air.

“Don’t even open that mouth, Elijah Moore.” Annie spoke low and sharp.

Smoke grinned, “Ain’t even said nothin’ yet.”

“And you don’t need to. ‘Cause I already know how it go. You vanish for two nights. You come back slick with sin and smellin’ like gunpowder. Got your brother damn near shot, and you lookin’ at me like I’m supposed to fall in your arms just ‘cause you brought your fine ass home in one piece.”

He doesn’t move. Just lets her talk. Let’s her feel it.

Annie spoke, voice rising, “I waited, Smoke. I sat up every night, watchin’ that road, fingers itchin’ for that blade, heart poundin’ like it was gonna give out. You out here makin’ moves and leavin’ me in the dark.”

Smoke spoke slow and low, “You done?”

“No, I ain’t done. You don’t get to disappear and then think you can just roll up, kiss on me, and—”

He crosses the space in two strides, grabbing her face in his palms—rough and warm—and tilts her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

He spoke, voice like thunder, “Hush all that gahdamn complainin’, woman.”

Annie’s breath hitches. He’s so close she can smell herself on him—how long he’s carried her scent. The pulse between her thighs throbs against her will.

“I know you mad. You got every right. But I ain’t out there chasin’ nothin’ that don’t belong to us. Every risk I take, every mile I run—it’s for you. For this house. For that fire in your eyes that’s burnin’ me up right now.”

She tries to pull back, but his grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to hold.

He continued, voice dipped in honey and iron, “I need you, Annie. Not just your mouth. Not just your hips. I need that peace you carry in your chest and that hell you stir in my bed. So go ‘head and fuss. Let it out. But when you done? You gon’ come over here…” His hands slide down to her waist, pulling her into him, hard, “…and take what you want too.”

Her hands push at his chest, weakly now.

Annie’s breath is still ragged, her palms pressed to Smoke’s broad chest. His voice is in her ear, his hands claiming her hips like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he don’t hold tight.

But she narrows her eyes, not letting him have all the power—not yet.

Annie’s voice was low, dangerous sweet, “You keep runnin’ off and comin’ back bold…you gon’ find I’ve replaced you with my own peace and a clean blade.”

That makes Smoke pause. His mouth twitches—not in fear, but in pleasure.

He steps back slightly, reaching into the inner lining of his suit jacket, slick and damp from the rain. He pulls something long and narrow, wrapped in an oilcloth stained with soot.

“That right? Then maybe I oughta give you what I found…somethin’ to remember me by if I don’t make it home next time.”

He unwraps it slow—like a man offering something sacred.

It’s a knife. Not just any knife.

The handle is carved bone, smoothed by time and use, shaped to fit perfectly in a woman’s hand. There’s a faint rose motif etched along the base, and the blade gleams like silver lightning.

But it’s the engraving that stops Annie cold.

Right near the base, small and clean and wicked as sin, it reads

For a good boy.

Annie inhales sharply, lips parting. Her whole body tenses, thighs pressing together without thinking.

“Lord have mercy…” Her fingers twitch, needing to touch it. She reaches out slow, runs her thumb across the hilt, then the blade, “Where’d you find this?”

“In a drawer ‘longside some man’s wedding band and two stacks of dirty money. He ain’t need it no more. Figured…you would.”

He watches her eyes darken as she lifts the blade up to the light, admiring the craftsmanship, the weight, the message.

“You know what this say?”

“I know exactly what it say, baby,” Smoke leans in, voice low, “And I ain’t never been nobody’s good boy…but I’d be yours, if you ask right.”

Her lip curls, smile wicked now

“That so?”

Smoke spoke stern and hungry, “I brought you blood, money, and steel. All I want is you.”

She turns the blade in her hand once more, then looks him over slow—up and down, eyes heavy with want and mischief.

“Then you best act like it.”

That’s when he moves—fast, strong, scooping her clean off the floor. She lets out a soft, breathless yelp but doesn’t fight it this time. The knife remains in her hand as he carries her through the narrow hall to the bedroom.

Smoke spoke gruff and possessive, “Keep that knife close. You might need it…case you wanna mark me as yours while I’m underneath you.”

She laughs—low, dangerous, aroused.

“You already marked, Elijah Moore. I ain’t gotta carve nothin’. You carry me in your bones,” Annie spoke low and breathless, “You think you just gon’ sweet-talk me and I’ll melt like sugar in ya’ hands, Elijah?”

Smoke smiled slow, “Ain’t gotta think. I know.”

Annie spoke firm, but softening, “You ain’t gon’ disappear again, Smoke. Not without tellin’ me.”

“No, ma’am. I done learned my lesson.” Smoke said, voice thick.

“And you still owe me for them sleepless nights, nigga.”

“Oh, I’ma pay. In full. With interest.”

Smoke drops her on the bed like an offering. She lands with a soft gasp, dress bunched at her hips. He stands over her, dark eyes sweeping her from curls to toes.

“Now quit all that fussin’ and come get what you been missin’.” Smoke barked out.

Smoke just looked at her. Slow. From head to heel. Then back up. His chest rose with a deep breath, the kind that came before trouble. He reached up and undid the top buttons of his shirt with rough fingers, not rushing—not one bit.

“Take it off,” he rasped.

Annie didn’t move.

He let his shirt hang open, exposing a chest broad and scarred, with thick muscle carved from war and work. Sweat glistened in the dips of his collarbone, his skin the color of polished bronze kissed by dust and sun. A trail of hair led down past his navel, to where his slacks hung low, heavy at the crotch.

“I said, take off that goddamn dress.” Smoke barked out.

Annie sucked her teeth but obeyed, slow and deliberate. Letting the straps fall one at a time, baring thick, heavy breasts with dark nipples that jutted out like a challenge. Her belly curved soft and round, hips wide enough to birth a kingdom. That dress hit the floor, pooling at her feet like spilled conjure soap.

“Mmm…mmm…”

Smoke dropped his shirt. Undid his belt with one pull. His dick sprang free when he shoved his slacks down—thick, veined, already hard and twitching. Bobbing up and down in her face. Annie’s tongue poked out at the sight.

“Damn, Smoke…”

Smoke cocked his head as he stared her down, “You miss this big dick but wanna yell my fuckin’ ear off ‘bout me bringin’ bread home for us. I’m ’bout to tear your ass up, Annie.”

Her breath hitched but her eyes remained cold.

He stepped out of his boots, bare now, looming, his chest rising with short, deep breaths.

“I ain’t come home for no talk,” he growled, “Ain’t come back for no damn backtalk or bedtime stories. I came home for my wife. And I came home to bury myself between them thick thighs and take what’s mine.”

Annie’s eyes narrowed, lips parting to speak—but he cut her off.

“Nuh uh,” he warned, voice low and mean, “Don’t say a word. Not a sound ‘less it’s a moan. Or a cry. Or my name. ‘Less you want me to shove this dick down your throat to quiet you.”

He stepped closer, fingers curling around her jaw, rough and hot.

“You know what I been doin’, girl?” he whispered against her mouth, “I been sniffin’ them bloomers you left me. Lickin’ the crotch like a goddamn dog. I could taste you. Damn near lost my mind in that room, strokin’ my pole with your scent all over me.”

Annie whimpered—soft, defiant.

“I need the real thing. Need it wet. Need it wide. Need it now.”

He pushed her back—rough—onto the bed. She bounced against the mattress, thick thighs parting without him having to ask. But he still did.

“Wider,” he growled.

Annie spread for him, mouth parted, hands clutching the sheets.

“That’s it,” he muttered, climbing over her, “Just like that. Look at you—look at what you give me. Goddamn, you always open up so sweet.”

Smoke got down on his knees and used his tongue to slither between Annie’s pussy lips. Annie’s hips bucked. Smoke wasted no time using his long, thick tongue to suck and lick his wife’s neglected pussy. Annie kept her legs wide and her knees to her ears but Smoke applied a firm hand to keep her open. He wanted to see that pink. He wanted to see her open so wide with nowhere to go.

He slurped up her clit between his plush lips, making sure to keep it sloppy with his spit mixed with her arousal. He would close his eyes whenever the tip of his tongue slipped inside of her, tasting what spilled, then he would open his eyes to watch her face. He had her clit stiff and folds flushed and throbbing with a type of horny she’d been trying her best to satisfy in his absence.

Annie watched her husband suck her pussy up with a gaping mouth and shimmering eyes. Her breath would hitch and a choked up moan would escape each time his tongue flicked her clit.

“Fuck, Elijah.”

“Found ya’ voice? Eating this phat puss so good got you quiet now, huh?”

Annie gripped the back of his head.

“Elijahhhhhh—”

“Nuh uh…shut up.”

She was dripping so much it sounded like a stream between her thighs. Annie felt the beginning flutters of release. Smoke slowed down his feasting to give her open mouth slurps. His bottom lip would glide while his top lip remained flush against her clit. His tongue flicked up and down at a torturous pace.

Annie rolled her head from side to side, bringing her hands up to hold both fat tits. From Smoke’s position, all he could see was two big ‘ol titties with jutted out nipples swaying back and forth. He groaned so deep Annie shuttered. Smoke reached up to roll her nipples between his fingers.

“Smoke…I’m a cum…”

He didn’t speak. He continued with his slow eating. Lips smacking. Tongue flicking.

“Unhhhhhhhhhh—”

With a final flick of his thumb on her nipples and a graze of his tongue Annie fell apart. Smoke continued to eat her through her release.

Annie felt another creeping up. She couldn’t move. Smoke had her pinned and open.

“Fuck you, Smokeeeeee—”

Annie’s entire body writhed beneath his tongue.

Smoke gave her a final kiss to her clit that made her hips jerk. He stood and hooked his hand on the underside of his shaft, raising it up a little before releasing it, watching it collapse between her pussy lips with an obscene noise.

He pressed the tip of his dick against her wet folds, teasing the slick heat but not sliding in yet. He wanted her squirming. Wanted her needy. Wanted her ruined.

“You miss this dick?” he asked, grinding slow against her slit, “You miss me stretchin’ you out? Poundin’ you till your eyes roll?”

Annie didn’t answer. Just moaned—head thrown back, hands gripping the bedframe now.

Usually he would make her speak but the way her wet pussy felt on his dick he couldn’t take it.

So Smoke slammed in with one hard stroke.

“Goddamn—” he cursed, choking on the feel of her.

The bed groaned. Then rocked.

Annie groaned so deep. She gripped him tight.

Smoke pulled out to the tip and then drove into her again. Harder. Deeper. The slap of skin echoed through the room, rhythmic and filthy. He grabbed her thigh, bent it high over his shoulder, splitting her open and fucking her rough, unforgiving.

“You feel that?” he growled, “Ain’t no man ever gone fuck you like this. Ain’t nobody else ever gonna touch this pussy. You hear me?”

Annie tried to nod. Tried to breathe. Titties swaying and slapping into each other.

Smoke leaned in, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. He sucked on her nipples, unable to control himself because they were sitting erect and begging to be played with. He drilled with a roll of his hips. Never breaking aim at her spot.

“I’ll fuck you till you can’t walk. Till you limp for days. So everybody know you mine.”

She clawed at his back, mouth open in a silent scream. Her body shook, thighs trembling.

He didn’t stop. Not till he felt her break apart beneath him, her back arching like a bow, her climax rippling around his dick like a vice.

Smoke braces himself on her thighs, got up on his toes, and slammed down into her. Annie took it all like she always did, pussy so used to his big dick.

“Fuck your pussy, Papa!”

“Where am I?” Smoke growled.

“On Papa’s spot! On Papa’s spot!” She cried.

“Fuckin’ that attitude out real quick.”

Smoke slowed down. He buried himself deep, then his let his hips withdraw slow and steady, all the way to the tip. Then he would sink back in slow and with a roll of his hips. Over and over on his spot. Annie was at a lost for words.

She looked down and saw cream and whimpered.

“You gushing, baby…tell Papa how good he make this fat pussy cream.”

“Oooh–Papa…shiiit…you–fuuuuck…you makin’ it creamy…so damn good…”

Annie reached between and cuffed his balls. Heavy and tight. She rolled them in her palm while he stroked.

“I can feel it…”

Her voice was faint but Smoke knew. He knew his wife’s pussy. She was ready to let go.

“Keep that hand on my nuts…and keep this puss open.”

Annie used her free hand to spread her left cheek. Smoke increased momentum. The iron headboard banged louder and louder and louder the faster he went.

Sweat droplets flew from his body.

His balls sat warm in her hand.

His dick twitched against her walls.

“I’m ready to fuckin’ cum….gahdamn, Annie…”

Annie let go of his balls and felt them slap against her ass. The sensation mixed with the way he was claiming that pussy had her eyes crossing. Smoke leaned in and sucked on her jaw. Hard muscle surrounded plush flesh. Annie’s finger nails dragged down his arms, but his skin was so sweaty it didn’t mark him. Smoke peppered his kisses down her neck, over her nipples, and back to up until his lips founds hers. He buried his tongue in her mouth to quiet her.

When he broke the kiss, only then did he grunt, spill deep, and grind slow, letting every drop mark her as his.

When it was done, he hovered over her, chest heaving, voice thick with worship.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, baby,” he whispered, “This home. You my home.”

And the bed rocked one last time beneath the weight of his love.

The week after the heist rolls in hot and heavy, thick with summer heat and the kind of need that don’t fade with morning light.

Smoke’s been on Annie like a man starved.

He fucks her in the hallway before she can reach the kitchen, backs her against the pantry door with one hand up her dress and the other wrapped tight around her hair. He bends her over the table in the front room, knocks over her candle jars, and don’t even flinch.

He takes her in the rootroom, too—up against the shelves where she keeps her oils and dried herbs, her dress hiked high and her moans swallowed in the crook of his neck. The scent of sage, pine, and sex lingers in the walls now like incense that won’t lift.

They don’t talk about it much.

But it’s clear—ever since he came back, ever since he brought that blade and dropped his guard—he’s been claiming her over and over, body and breath, like a man afraid she might slip away.

And Annie lets him.

She lets him because every time he touches her, it’s with the heat of guilt and something deeper—like he’s trying to make up for every hour he left her wondering. When he kisses the inside of her thigh, it feels like an apology, slow and aching. And when he whispers “you mine” against her skin, he don’t mean it as a threat.

He means it as a prayer.

Outside, the house hums with life.

Smoke’s out back, hammer in hand, rebuilding the porch steps that have been threatening to give way all summer. He’s shirtless, sweat slick across his chest and shoulders, broad back flexing with every movement. The Mississippi sun glows off his bronze skin, the slope of his collarbone catching light like a blade.

He’s wearing coveralls, but the top half’s tied around his waist, hanging low on his hips, dirt smudged across the knees. A red rag’s tucked in the waistband. His boots are unlaced. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a thin streak of sawdust across his stomach.

Annie watches him from the kitchen window, one hip cocked, apron tied tight, her arms folded under her chest.

He don’t even know how good he look.

She turns back to the stove, stirring a pot of smothered pork chops. Collards simmer on the back burner, seasoned with smoked turkey neck and a little sassafras. Cornbread’s cooling on the counter. Sweet tea’s sweating in a glass jar near the sink.

She don’t say it out loud, but it feels good to take care of him like this. To feed a man who’s put so much fire in her and left so much ash in his own mouth.

And yet…

He ain’t hers all day. Not with what’s rising in Clarksdale.

Word travels fast in the Delta. Since Clifton “Cleve” Ray’s blood soaked the dirt behind the juke joint, Smoke and Stack been pulling in power like a high tide.

Bootleggers, gamblers, brothel owners—they all checking in with the twins now. Asking permission. Paying tribute. Some out of respect. Most out of fear.

Smoke’s been gone more and more—meetings in backrooms, shady deals behind barns, handshakes soaked in blood and whiskey. He leaves in the morning with a pistol tucked under his arm and comes back smelling like other men’s sweat and dirt and long silence. But every time he steps through that door and finds Annie barefoot in the kitchen, curls wild and her eyes watching like she sees straight through him?

He softens.

At least, for a while.

The screen door creaks. Smoke steps inside, shirt still off, rag now wiping his brow. He smells the food before he sees her.

Smoke spoke low and smiling, “You tryna feed me or fuck me?”

Annie didn’t look back as she spoke, “Both.”

She spoons gravy over his plate, still in her house dress, nothing under it but skin. Her thigh glints where the slit parts. The same garter he loves still wrapped high.

Smoke steps behind her, crowding her space. He pressed his body against hers, her backside against his crotch. He smelled like sweat and whatever his natural musk was.

“Goddamn, woman. You tryna kill me in my own home.”

“Just remindin’ you where you supposed to rest.”

He kisses her neck, lips hot and slow.

And Annie—despite her worries, despite the ache in her chest every time he’s gone too long—leans back into him and lets herself be held.

Because for now?

He’s home.

He’s hers.

And the rest of the world can wait.

The kitchen is thick with warmth—sweet tea sweating on the table, the smell of smothered pork chops hanging in the air like memory. The screen door still swings gently from where Smoke came in, carrying the heat of the Delta and something heavier on his shoulders.

He’s halfway through his plate when the silence between them grows too thick to ignore. Annie’s at the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel, but she’s watching him with that look—the one that sees through bone.

“Me and Stack…we settlin’ in. But this thing? It’s bigger than we thought.”

Annie turns, leans back against the counter, arms crossed beneath her breasts.

“You mean takin’ over after you two buried Cleve in the dirt like a dog?”

“He earned that dirt,” Smoke spoke with a gruff tone.

“Didn’t say he didn’t.”

There was a momentary pause.

“Just wonderin’ what y’all thought was gonna happen after you cut the head off the beast.”

Smoke sets his fork down, eyes low, jaw ticking.

“Didn’t expect it to go smooth. But now everybody sniffin’ ‘round. Out-of-towners. Folks that used to bow to Cleve tryna decide whether to bow to us—or test us.

“So now you gotta bark louder. Carry bigger guns. Sleep lighter.” Annie said.

“Stack’s tryin’ to build structure. Numbers. Runners. I’m handlin’ the ones that need handlin’.”

Another pause.

Smoke continued, “We ain’t just fillin’ Cleve’s shoes. We burnin’ ‘em and makin’ our own.”

Annie watches him a long moment.

“You makin’ money. Keepin’ your name in men’s mouths. That what you want?”

“I want control. So nobody ever gets to pull strings on us again. Not like Cleve did. Not like anybody did.”

Annie walks over slow, holding her hand out.

“Then give me that mojo bag.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He slips the worn leather mojo bag from around his neck and drops it in her palm like a weight he’s ready to surrender.

“It still holdin’?” Smoke questioned.

“It’s tired. Like you.”

She closes her fingers around it, and without another word, walks out of the room.

In the front room, the altar is quiet, glowing with low candlelight and the hush of old spirits. Annie kneels, legs folded beneath her, white cotton robe brushing the floor. She unwraps the mojo bag, empties it into her palm. Dirt from under their bed. His hair. A sliver of bone. A small square of red flannel tied with black thread.

She breathes in deep, lips barely moving.

“Keep him grounded. Keep him safe. Keep his mind sharp, his hands clean, his body whole. And keep him mine.”

Annie adds crushed bay leaf, fresh snips of his hair, a pinch of red pepper. She smears it with a dab of her oil—one she made herself, heavy with patchouli and iron filings.

She ties it back up, wraps it tight.

Smoke’s still at the table, shirtless, chewing slow. His eyes drift toward the front room. One hand rests on the table; the other rubs at the space where the charm used to hang.

He don’t like how it feels—being without it, even just for a while. He finishes his plate but doesn’t move, like his body knows she’ll be back before long.

Annie steps back into the kitchen, bare feet silent against the floorboards. She places the recharged mojo bag in his palm.

“Wear it. Keep it close.”

“I will.” Smoke spoke softly.

He slips it back over his head, lets it fall against his chest, skin to skin.

“You built yourself a kingdom outta Cleve’s ashes. But don’t forget—power can feed you or eat you whole.”

Smoke replied sincere, “I ain’t forgettin’. That’s why I come home to you.”

She brushes past him, and he watches her move—hips swaying under her cotton robe, soft strength in every step.

And in that moment, Smoke knows the truth:

He might rule outside these walls…

But inside this house?

Annie is the crown.

It’s deep in the night. The kind of stillness that feels pressed down by the weight of the Delta heat, everything hushed but the distant sound of cicadas and a soft drip of water from the bath.

Smoke steps into their bedroom, steam still clinging to his skin. The towel around his hips hangs low—too low—riding the line of temptation. His chest glistens, water beading along the hard lines of his torso. Wide shoulders, arms thick and veined, torso carved by work and war. There’s strength in him—but also softness in the belly, just above the dip of his navel, where Annie loves to press her lips. His skin is the color of dark bronze left out in the sun—rich, warm, and glimmering where droplets trail down from his collarbone to the dark hair on his chest. He’s toweling his head, slow and lazy, and he hasn’t even noticed her watching.

Annie sits at her vanity in a silk slip the color of cream. Her full thighs spill over the seat, legs crossed, coils wild and haloed around her face. Her eyes are locked on him through the mirror—hungry. She picks up a small bottle of oil she blended herself—infused with cinnamon bark, orange blossom, and a drop of sweet almond to keep it soft on the skin. It smells like fire and sugar.

She spoke softly, “Come here.”

Smoke lifts his head, towel slung over his shoulder now. A smirk plays across his mouth.

“What you plannin’, woman?”

“I’m plannin’ to oil what belongs to me,” Annie paused, eyes dragging up and down his body, “Before the streets take another piece of you.”

He doesn’t argue. He steps closer and stands before her like an offering—barefoot, tall, solid, heat rolling off his skin. Her eyes travel over him, slow. She uncaps the bottle, pours a little into her palm, rubs her hands together until they glisten.

Then she begins.

First, she oils his neck, thumbs pressing into the tension at the base of his skull, rubbing slow circles down the cords of muscle. His head tilts back with a low groan. Then his shoulders—broad and thick beneath her hands. She kneads deep, slow strokes gliding over scars and strength.

“Mmm…Lord…you tryna make me beg, baby?”

“Not yet.” She teased.

Annie moves to his chest, spreading oil across muscle and bone, letting her fingers linger at the rise of his pecs, the thick muscle beneath the soft that only she’s ever touched tender. Then his abdomen, slow strokes across the ripple and dip—her nails scrape lightly just above his hip, and he shudders. She turns him and does his back next—broad, strong, the kind of back that’s carried burdens and bodies. She takes her time, sliding her palms from his shoulders to the small of his spine, then down again, oiling every inch like he’s hers to preserve.

When she’s satisfied, she turns him around to face her.

“Sit down, baby.”

He sits on the edge of the bed. Legs wide. Breathing heavier now.

Annie kneels.

Her hands glide over his feet, ankles, shins, up to his thighs—slow and measured. She doesn’t rush. The towel’s barely hanging on now, the shape of him pressing full and heavy beneath it.

She rests her palms on his knees, then slips the towel aside.

He’s already hard—thick, long, dark, and pulsing.

Annie pours a little more oil into her palm. Then she wraps her hand around him—slow, smooth, twisting at the top with practiced ease.

She spoke low and filthy, “Look at you. So full. So hard. You been carryin’ all that weight out there in them streets, and still come home heavy for me.”

Smoke grits his teeth, jaw clenching, his thighs tensing under her.

“You know this dick don’t belong to nobody but me, right?”

Smoke growled, “Yes ma’am.”

She strokes him slow, base to tip, letting the oil glide as her other hand cups his balls, squeezing gently. Smoke groans, tilting back. His dick reminded Annie of a steel rod covered with flesh. The sensation of his veins, the girth stretching her fingers, the crown of his dick wide and purplish from arousal. Smoke teased her with his full lips.

“You kill men. You run Clarksdale. You sit on a throne made of fear and blood. But right now?” She squeezes tighter, speeds her stroke just a little, eyes locked on his face, “You just my good boy.”

Smoke moans—deep and hoarse, one hand bracing on the bedframe, the other sliding into her curls.

“Goddamn…Annie…”

“That’s right. Give it to me. Let me take it.”

Ain’t nobody gon’ hold you down like I do. Stroke this dick like I do,” Annie held him at the base and slapped his dick against the palm of her other hand.

“So heavy and thick…”

Annie lowered the straps to her slip and her heavy breasts spilled out. She slapped her cleavage with his tip. Smoke furrowed his brows and groaned.

She let go of him and watched how his dick pointed up on its own like a stick in the mud. Annie grabbed each heavy breast and circled his dick with both, gliding up and down. Smoke rocked his head back, revealing his neck that glistened from the oil. Each time her breasts would come down they would smack against his thighs.

“Fuck, just like that, baby, fuck…”

Annie continued titty-fucking him, licking her lips as he starts loft his hips to chase that feeling.

His tip would disappear and reappear and each time Annie would flick her tongue in his slit. Smoke fisted the quilt beneath him and flexed his thighs. He was about to fall apart under her big titties, hips jerking, breath ragged.

“Annie,” Smoke reaches down to grab both tits, releasing his dick, watching it bounce free, “Time to give me my pussy, girl. You done fucked ‘round and woke Papa up.”

Smoke didn’t give Annie a chance to stand up. He lifted her himself and yanked that slip the rest of the way down.

“Got me goin’ crazy since I been back in this damn house, shit,” Smoke circled behind her and double cuffed both her ass cheeks. That motion brought Annie on her tip toes as she tilted forward against the bed.

“This body don’t make no sense, woman…be having my Johnson achin’ for you.”

Annie loved when he spoke like that—filthy, desperate, greedy—it made her pussy wetter and her body more pliable.

“On ya’ knees. Open up.”

Annie stared at herself in the vanity mirror. Smoke caught her eye. She arched her back and when her ass pointed up Smoke drew back a wide open palm and whacked her so hard on both cheeks. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a sensual dance.

Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack

“Spankin’ this big ass good, huh?”

Annie leaned into the strikes. That sting had her pussy dripping.

Smoke was pointed straight out like a flag pole. He was ready. Annie scooted further to the edge. She knew to bring both arms up, hook them around Smoke’s neck with her hands cradled. Smoke dipped his hips. He lined himself up and then pushed up into her wet pussy with one stroke.

Annie moaned beautifully.

Smoke rest his hands on her love handles and stares straight ahead in that mirror.

Breasts hanging.

Belly sitting low.

Big thighs spread open.

Then his eyes fell to her back.

Spine arched.

Ass sitting wide.

He wasted no time banging her back in. Each stroke was like a tidal wave, slamming into her and creating ripples across her brown flesh. Smoke dug his fingers into her flesh and drove his dick in deep and shallow. Annie had this defeated, ‘fucked out’ look in her eyes.

Dick drunk.

Annie couldn’t hold on anymore. She let go of his neck and reached back for his hands. Smoke interlocked his fingers with hers and Annie fell forward, cheek hitting the quit.

“FUCK ME, PAPA!” Annie shouted with ecstasy.

Smoke did just that. Handling her good. Rough. Tender.

Had that bed rocking.

The quilt was warm beneath her hands, her breath ragged from the momentous heat. Her body is arched, hips tilted back, the soft weight of her breasts swaying with every thrust. Behind her, Smoke moves slow and deep, hands gripping her wide hips like they’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Her eyes flick up—and there it is.

The reflection.

Her full figure bathed in low lamp light, skin glowing and slick with sweat. Her ass bounces with every push of his hips, jiggling beneath the force, the garter belt still clinging to her thighs like a vice. Her back is arched into a perfect curve, spine dipping down to where they meet—where he’s buried deep, stretching her full, making her cry out in time with every roll of his hips.

His body gleams. Chest and stomach sheened with the oil she rubbed into him earlier. Muscles flexing under bronze skin, veins thick in his forearms. And his eyes—Lord, those eyes—locked on the mirror, locked on her, face smoldering, jaw clenched, sweat dripping from his temple to her back.

“You feel that? How deep I am?” He spoke low with a gravel.

She moans, mouth parted, watching herself gasp. She looks beautiful like this—undone but powerful. Her hair wild, her lips trembling, her body being worshipped through motion and rhythm.

She spoke, breathless, “God, yes…You in my stomach, Elijah.”

He grunts, hips slapping harder now, the sound filthy, wet, possessed.

And all she can do is stare at the mirror, watching the way her body blooms around him, how good she looks being taken—owned—and how gone he looks inside her.

The mirror ain’t never lied.

It told her the truth—

She was made for this. And he was made to take her.

“Elijah, you thick in me, Papa!”

“You don’t want me to go, do you?”

“No!”

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

“Where you want me to stay?”

“Deep in your pussy!”

“Why you like for me to fuck you like this? Say it.”

“‘Cause you deep and in my stomach, Papa!”

“You ready to cum?”

“Yessssssss—”

“Paint this dick!”

Annie stilled, body frozen with her release. Smoke kept stroking. Annie’s toes curled, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands fisted the quilt.

Smoke wasn’t far behind. Hisses spilled from his thick lips and repeated grunts bubbled in his throat.

Annie rolled her hips as she threw it back on his tip and his tip only. Smoke poked out his bottom lip and shut his eyes. His fingers twitched on her hips.

“You on my tip…Annie…fuuuck…I love this pussy…fuckin’ my tip good…Annie…fuck, woman…pussy wet…ughhhhhhhhhhhhh—”

And when he came, it was with her name in his mouth and his eyes locked on hers—like she’s the only altar he’s ever knelt before.

The room is quiet now—just the soft tick of the wall clock and their breathing, slowing in rhythm.

Smoke is still inside her, hips pressed flush to the curve of her ass, his chest blanketing her back. His arms are wrapped around her middle, hands splayed wide—one over her belly, the other slipping higher to rest just beneath her breast. Their bodies are slick, skin sticking slightly with sweat and oil. The scent of sex clings to the air, warm and heady.

Annie’s cheek rests against the quilt, her eyes half-lidded. Her lashes flutter. She’s boneless, breathless, lips parted in a soft moan that never fully left her throat.

Smoke spoke lowly behind her, “You still with me, baby?”

Annie hums. Doesn’t speak. Just presses her hips back into him the smallest bit, as if to say Don’t move. Stay.

And he does.

He nuzzles into her shoulder, lips brushing the skin right where neck meets collarbone.

“Ain’t never seen anything as pretty as the way you look when I’m inside you.”

There was a comfortable pause.

Smoke continued, “Like your body know me better than I know myself.”

His voice is thick, worn at the edges. Tender.

She shifts slightly, the motion pulling another soft gasp from both of them. Her voice comes out quiet but sure.

“You feel so good…still fillin’ me up.” Annie whispers.

“I ain’t ready to let go,” He tightens his grip, arms firm around her belly, anchoring her there, “We don’t get peace like this out there. World full of enemies, snakes, men grinnin’ while they plottin’. But right here? This the only place I trust to breathe.”

Annie closes her eyes. Her hand reaches back, fingertips brushing his thigh. A silent I hear you. I got you.

He presses a kiss to her shoulder. Then another, softer. Slower.

Smoke whispers, “I wanna grow old with you, Annie.”

She lets that settle. Lets the ache in her legs remind her she’s alive. Lets his weight sink into her. And finally, she speaks—barely above a whisper.

“Then stop disappearin’.”

A beat of silence.

“I’ll try.”

A pause between words settled.

“…God help me, I’ll try. I’ll try, baby.”

They stay like that for a while—joined, pressed together, her wrapped in his arms, him wrapped in her body, in her scent, in her strength.

And outside, the Delta wind shifts—but inside?

They are still.

Held.