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He had her on her stomach, one hand planted firm at the nape of her neck, the other gripping her hip like he paid for it. Sweat slicked down the dip of her spine, her legs trembling from the fifth—or was it sixth?—orgasm he had already wrung out of her.

“Don’t move,” he growled, low and dark, lips brushing her ear, “Don’t fuckin’ run from it.”

She whimpered, biting her bottom lip until she tasted blood. He was buried deep—thick, heavy, punishing. The headboard slammed against the wall in rhythm, and the only other sound was the wet, obscene slap of skin and her ragged moans.

He reached around to grip her jaw, forcing her face sideways, “You gon’ take all this dick like a good girl, right?”

She nodded weakly.

“Nah,” he barked, slapping her ass hard enough to make her yelp, “Say it.”

“I’ll take it, Daddy,” she choked out, eyes glazed, lips parted.

“That’s what I thought.”

But something in her snapped when he said it. Maybe it was the way he laughed after pulling out, letting the cool air hit her soaked pussy just to tease her. Maybe it was the cocky glint in his eyes as he leaned back on his heels, stroking himself in his fist, slapping the head of his dick against her clit with a devilish smirk.

She twisted suddenly—fast and fluid—and had him flat on his back before he could blink.

“The fuck—?”

She straddled him with a wicked smile, nails digging into his scarred chest as she sank down onto his fat dick in one smooth motion, swallowing him whole. He hissed, head snapping back, tapered locs shielding his onyx eyes, the vein in his neck jumping.

“Don’t move?” she mocked, grinding her hips slow and cruel, “You look real still now.”

His hands flexed at her thighs, muscles tightening—but he didn’t stop her. He couldn’t.

Her pussy gripped him like a vice, warm and dripping, and every slow roll of her hips dragged a curse from his throat. She watched him come undone—those gold fronts catching the light when he bared his teeth, the tendons in his neck tight with restraint.

“I said—” he growled, trying to buck up.

She slapped his chest.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned, breathless, “You don’t get to give orders tonight.”

Erik stared up at her, jaw locked, nostrils flaring. But he didn’t stop her.

Didn’t move.

She rode him mercilessly—faster now, each bounce sloppy and deep, the drag of his dick along her walls making her cry out. Her thighs slapped against his hips, and his hands fisted in the sheets like he was holding on for dear life.

“You like being used?” she panted, nails raking down his chest, “Big bad Killmonger letting a bitch ride him like a toy?”

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Eyes rolled back, lips parted, he was panting hard now. Sweat beaded down his temple, jaw twitching as he fought the urge to take control again. He wasn’t used to this—being made to feel this good and this helpless.

“Don’t cum yet,” she mocked him, voice laced with a smile.

“Shiiit,” he grit out, thighs jerking beneath her.

She leaned forward, pressing her chest to his, lips at his ear.

“Beg for it.”

His hand shot up to the back of her neck, lips brushing hers, voice low and rough.

Please.

That was all it took.

But it wasn’t that easy.

He growled, not from pleasure—but from defiance. His hand on her neck tightened just enough to remind her who he usually was, and his gold-lined teeth flashed in challenge.

“You buggin’,” he muttered, biting down on his bottom lip as she clenched around him, “Think I’ma let a lil thing like you—”

She cut him off with a sharp squeeze to his throat.

“I said beg.”

Her tone dropped into something molten, velvet with an edge of command. She shifted her weight forward, hips grinding with purpose—slow, circular, deep—each roll hitting that spot that made his abs seize and his eyes flutter.

“You always run shit, huh? Got your little rules. Got bitches on leashes. But look at you now,” she purred, licking up the column of his throat, “Trapped under me. Pussy got you quiet.”

He grunted through clenched teeth, body taut, hands twitching like he wanted to flip her over—but didn’t. Couldn’t.

Not when her grip was around his throat, not when her pussy was milking him so perfectly he was already twitching inside her.

“Mmm…oh, you feel that?” she taunted, voice all sticky heat and filth, “You close, huh? So fuckin’ close I bet your balls are tight. Bet you could bust right now and embarrass yourself.”

He groaned, a ragged, primal sound, and she smiled—dark and triumphant.

She eased off his throat just a little and slapped his cheek—light, but enough to make his eyes snap open.

“Tell me you need it.”

He didn’t answer. Jaw clenched. Sweat slicking his abs.

So she bore down on him hard—pussy tightening, hips rolling, body dropping until she was flush against him. She circled her hips once. Twice. Squeezed around him like a fist.

“Say it, Erik,” she whispered, her mouth brushing his, “Say please.”

He cursed under his breath, head falling back, throat exposed like a man about to break.

She licked a stripe up his neck, then bit down just under his jaw.

“Say it.”

And then—finally, through grit teeth and pure torment:

“…Please…FUCK.”

She slammed down hard one final time and came with a cry, back arching, nails digging into his shoulders. He grunted beneath her, body jerking, hands finally grabbing her hips tight as he came deep inside her—long, hot, and messy.

When it was over, she collapsed on top of him, slick and trembling, both of them heaving.

He was the first to speak.

“…Aight,” he huffed, voice raw, “That shit was disrespectful.”

She laughed against his neck.

“You loved it.”

————————————————————————

Smoke noticed everything.

That was what made him dangerous to some people and comforting to you.

He noticed when a room got too quiet. When someone’s smile didn’t reach their eyes. When a man’s hand drifted too close to his waistband. When a lie sat wrong in somebody’s mouth. He noticed exits, shadows, tension, weather, footsteps.

And he noticed you.

Always.

You used to think that should make you nervous, being loved by someone who saw so much. But with Elijah, it was different. He didn’t watch you like he was waiting for you to slip. He watched you like you were something worth keeping safe.

Still, lately, you wished he saw a little less.

You were standing in front of the mirror in your bedroom, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress for the third time. It was a pretty dress. You knew that. Deep brown, soft against your skin, hugging you in places you weren’t sure you wanted hugged tonight. Your hair was done, your lips glossed, earrings brushing your neck.

You looked nice.

At least, you were trying to convince yourself you did.

Outside the room, you could hear low voices and the faint sound of music from downstairs. People were already gathering. Eli and his brother had business to handle, which meant there would be eyes, laughter, drinks poured too heavy, music too loud, and women who looked like they had never once second-guessed how they entered a room.

You hated that thought as soon as it came.

It wasn’t fair. Not to them. Not to you.

But insecurity had never cared much about fairness.

You turned slightly in the mirror and frowned.

The dress clung at your hips. Your stomach didn’t look as flat as you wanted. Your arms looked softer than they had last month. You tugged at the neckline, then the waist, then sighed because nothing was actually wrong with the dress.

The problem was you.

Or at least, that was what your mind was trying to tell you.

“You fighting with that dress?”

Smoke’s voice came from the doorway, low and warm.

You startled, turning quickly. “How long you been standing there?”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, hat tilted low, eyes fixed on you with that quiet intensity that always made your stomach flutter.

“Long enough.”

You looked away first. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I got.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back toward the mirror. “I’m almost ready.”

He didn’t move for a second. Then you heard his boots against the floor as he came into the room. He moved slowly, not because he was unsure, but because he knew when to take his time with you.

He stopped behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your back, but not touching yet.

His eyes met yours in the mirror.

“You look ready to me.”

You gave a small laugh with no humor in it. “You just saying that.”

His expression didn’t change, but something sharpened behind his eyes.

“I don’t have to say nothing.”

You swallowed.

Smoke tilted his head slightly. “Try again.”

You hated when he did that. When he caught the lie before you could even dress it properly.

You shrugged, pretending to fuss with your bracelet. “I just don’t know if I like this on me.”

His gaze moved over you in the mirror, slow but not careless. It wasn’t the kind of look that made you feel inspected. It made you feel seen. That was almost worse, because you weren’t sure you wanted him seeing the parts of you that felt ugly right now.

“What don’t you like?” he asked.

“Elijah.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because you’re standing here looking at yourself like somebody said sumn' to you, and I want to know if I need to have a conversation.”

You almost smiled despite yourself. “Nobody said anything.”

His jaw worked once. “Then who got you looking like that?”

You didn’t answer.

Smoke’s eyes softened in the mirror.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

That one sound almost broke you.

Because he understood.

He always did.

You looked down, blinking fast. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it ain’t.”

“You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

“I know enough.”

You turned away from the mirror, crossing your arms over your middle before you realized you were doing it. Smoke noticed that too. His eyes dropped briefly to your arms, then lifted back to your face.

You forced a laugh. “I’m being dramatic. I’ll change and be down in a minute.”

You tried to move past him, but he caught your wrist gently.

Not tight.

Never tight.

Just enough to stop you.

“Look at me.”

You didn’t want to.

“Baby,” he said, softer.

That did it.

You looked up.

His face was serious now. No teasing. No edge. Just Elijah, standing in front of you with concern tucked behind all that calm.

“What’s going on in that head?” he asked.

You took a shaky breath and hated yourself for it. “I just… I don’t feel pretty tonight.”

The words sounded smaller out loud.

Smoke stared at you.

Not shocked. Not confused.

Hurt.

Not because of you. Because for some reason, the idea that you could look at yourself and not see what he saw seemed to actually pain him.

You laughed weakly. “See? Stupid.”

“Don’t call it that.”

“It is.”

“It ain’t.”

You looked away. “There are going to be so many women downstairs, Elijah.”

“And?”

“And they look…” You struggled for the words, embarrassed by every one. “They look perfect. Like they don’t have to try. Like they just walk in and everyone notices.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then he said, “You think I don’t notice you?”

Your eyes snapped back to his. “That’s not what I said.”

“That’s what it sounded like.”

“No. I know you notice me.”

“Do you?”

You hated that your eyes started burning.

Smoke saw it and immediately stepped closer, his hand sliding from your wrist to your fingers.

“Because from where I’m standing,” he said, voice low, “you don’t know it enough.”

You tried to pull your hand back, overwhelmed, but he held on gently. Not trapping you. Anchoring you.

“I just don’t want to feel like I’m standing next to you looking… less than,” you admitted.

His face changed.

“Less than what?”

You gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know.”

“That’s right,” he said, firmer now. “You don’t know. Because there ain’t no answer.”

You sniffled, trying to look away again, but Smoke moved with you, keeping himself in your line of sight.

“You hear me?” he asked.

You nodded, but he didn’t seem satisfied.

“No. Hear me for real.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I don’t bring you around me because you make me look good. I don’t keep you close because of what other folks think when we walk in a room. I don’t love you because you fit some picture somebody else made up.”

Your throat tightened.

He stepped closer until the hem of your dress brushed his leg.

“I love you because you’re you.”

You closed your eyes.

Elijah’s voice softened.

“And yeah, I think you’re beautiful. So beautiful it makes me forget what I was supposed to be doing half the time.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

He lifted his free hand and wiped it away with his thumb.

“But that ain’t all you are,” he continued. “You hear me? You’re not just pretty to me. You’re warm. You’re funny when you ain’t trying to be. You’re stubborn as hell. You care too much and then act like you don’t. You hum when you cook. You roll your eyes when you’re about to smile. You fix my collar like you mad at it. You pray over people who don’t even know you’re praying for them.”

You opened your eyes, tears blurring him.

His own eyes looked softer than you had ever seen them.

“That’s what I see when I look at you,” he said. “Not whatever little thing you standing in that mirror trying to punish yourself over.”

Your lips trembled. “You make it sound easy.”

“It ain’t easy,” he said honestly. “I know that. I know a man can tell you you’re beautiful all day, and some days your mind still won’t let it land.”

That sentence hit you harder than you expected.

He leaned down slightly, his forehead nearly touching yours.

“So I’m not asking you to believe it all at once,” he whispered. “Just don’t stand here lying on yourself while I’m in the room.”

A broken laugh escaped you through the tears.

Smoke’s mouth curved, just barely. “There she go.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Mhm.”

“You think you know everything.”

“Not everything.” His hand moved to your waist, careful and warm. “Just you.”

You looked down at where his hand rested against the dress you had been criticizing minutes ago.

Smoke followed your gaze.

“You want to change?” he asked.

You hesitated.

He nodded once, like your answer already mattered before you said it. “Then change. I’ll wait. You want to wear this? Wear it. I’ll still be looking at you the same.”

Your eyes lifted to his.

He meant it.

There was no pressure in his voice. No impatience. No male pride wounded because you couldn’t immediately accept his compliment. Just choice. Space. Steadiness.

“You like this dress?” you asked quietly.

Smoke’s gaze moved over you once more, slower this time, and his jaw tightened like he was trying to stay respectful about it.

“I love this dress.”

Your cheeks warmed.

His eyes came back to yours. “But I love the woman in it more.”

You tried to fight a smile.

He noticed, of course.

“Mhm,” he murmured. “That’s better.”

“Don’t get smug.”

“Too late.”

You laughed softly, wiping your cheeks.

Smoke reached for the edge of your face with both hands now, holding you like something precious. His thumbs brushed away the last of your tears.

“You know what’s gon’ happen when we go downstairs?” he asked.

“What?”

“I’m gon’ walk in with you. Folks gon’ look, because of course they gon’ look. And you’re gon’ remember that looking don’t mean owning. They can look. They can wonder. They can whisper. But they don’t get to decide nothing about you.”

Your breathing slowed.

“And if you get uncomfortable,” he continued, “you squeeze my hand. We leave. I don’t care who’s there, what’s happening, what needs doing. You squeeze my hand, we gone.”

Your heart softened completely.

“You’d leave your own party?”

“For you?” He looked almost offended. “I’d leave the state.”

You laughed, and this time it was real.

Smoke smiled, small and satisfied, then leaned in and kissed your forehead.

Not your mouth.

Your forehead.

The kind of kiss that made you feel protected instead of desired, which somehow made you feel even more loved.

You leaned into him, resting your cheek against his chest. His arms wrapped around you immediately. For a while, the two of you just stood there in the bedroom, the music downstairs muffled beneath the floor, his heartbeat steady under your ear.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His hand moved over your back. “For what?”

“For needing reassurance.”

Smoke pulled back enough to look at you.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Apologize for letting me love you.”

Your chest squeezed.

He said it so simply. Like it was obvious. Like love was not just the easy parts, the pretty parts, the kissing and laughter and being desired. Like love was this too: standing in front of a mirror on a hard night and letting someone hold up the truth when you couldn’t.

You touched his face. “You’re softer than people think.”

His brow lifted. “Don’t tell nobody.”

“I might.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Risky.”

You smiled. “Very.”

He kissed your palm, then stepped back just enough to take you in again. “You ready?”

You glanced at the mirror.

For the first time all night, you didn’t immediately search for what was wrong.

You saw the dress. Your skin. Your earrings. Your softness. Your nerves. Your beauty, even if you couldn’t fully hold it yet.

Then you saw Smoke behind you, watching like he had never doubted it.

You took a breath.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m ready.”

Smoke offered his hand.

You took it.

Downstairs, the room was warm and loud. People turned when you entered, just like he said they would. Conversation shifted. Eyes moved. Music played. Someone called Smoke’s name from across the room.

But his hand stayed wrapped around yours.

Steady.

Certain.

He didn’t drop it when people looked. Didn’t step ahead like you were something following behind him. He walked beside you, thumb moving once across your skin like a reminder.

I’m here.

You squeezed his hand lightly.

Not because you wanted to leave.

Just because you could.

Smoke looked down at you immediately.

You smiled.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

His face softened, only for you.

“I know,” he whispered back.

And maybe you didn’t feel perfect.

Maybe insecurity didn’t disappear just because the man you loved called you beautiful.

But standing beside Elijah, with his hand in yours and his eyes always finding you first, you believed one thing a little more than you had upstairs.

You didn’t have to be perfect to be cherished.

You didn’t have to be fearless to be loved.

And you didn’t have to face the mirror alone.

-------

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The table was too full that night, laughter and chatter bouncing off the dining room walls. Plates passed hand to hand, forks clinking against ceramic. Her father’s voice carried over everyone else’s, talking business with Elijah like the two were brothers. Nicole sat across from him, chin propped in her palm, eyes sliding toward him every time he reached for his glass.

Elijah didn’t look at her—at least, not directly. But she caught him anyway. The flick of his gaze when she licked gravy from her thumb. The muscle in his jaw tightening when she leaned back, legs crossing slow under the table. He smoked after dinner, always did, and she was already thinking about the curl of it between his lips.

It was a dance. Always had been. Tonight, it was just starting its first steps.

The plates clattered down, heavy with food. Nicole stabbed into her greens like they’d done her wrong. Across the table, Elijah lounged back in his chair, wine glass balanced easy in one hand, the picture of calm. Too calm. She hated when he looked like that — like nothing could touch him.

“You always chew that loud?” he drawled suddenly, just loud enough to reach her, not anyone else. His eyes didn’t lift from his plate, but the smirk tugging at his mouth gave him away.

Nicole’s fork froze mid-air. “Better loud than slow as molasses. Thought you’d be halfway through by now, old man.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him, low and rough. “Ain’t in a rush. Only kids eat like the food gon’ run away.”

She rolled her eyes, sinking her teeth into cornbread like she meant to break it. “Maybe I eat fast ‘cause I don’t waste time pretending to be unbothered.”

This time, he looked up. Their gazes locked across bowls and platters, her fire sparking against his steady heat.

“You bothered, baby girl?” he asked, voice dipping, daring her.

“Only by you,” she shot back, sweet as venom.

Her father cut in with a booming laugh about some story from work, drawing attention back to him. Conversation flowed again, but Nicole and Elijah stayed locked. A small lift of his brow. Her slow, deliberate sip of sweet tea. Every move was chess, every breath part of the game.

When she finally leaned back, her leg brushed the table leg hard enough to make the silverware rattle. Elijah’s eyes dropped, just for a second, before flicking back to hers.

“You clumsy,” he muttered, smirk sharpening.

She tilted her head, lips curving. “And you nosy.”

It was nothing. It was everything.

Dinner rolled on, laughter, drinks, the easy rhythm of family. But beneath it, the air between them thickened, thread by thread.

Nicole told a story about her friend from work, everyone laughing, but she kept sneaking glances at him, watching his hand curl around the glass, the way the light caught the veins in his wrist. Elijah leaned back, listening to her father talk business, but his attention kept sliding sideways. Every time she smiled, something in his jaw ticked.

No one else noticed. But for the two of them, the table might as well have been empty.

Dinner stretched on in waves — plates scraped clean, voices rising, laughter threading around the long table like smoke curling to the ceiling. Nicole sat with her wine glass in hand, feigning interest in whatever story her father was telling. Her smile stayed polite, but her eyes — sharp, defiant — stayed locked across the table.

On the other end, Elijah leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. One arm rested easy along the chair’s edge, his rings catching the warm light. His gaze was steady, fixed right on her like he could read every thought she didn’t say out loud.

And maybe he could.

“So, Elijah,” Nicole said suddenly, her voice sweet but sharp as a blade wrapped in silk. “How’s business? Still spending more time talking than working?”

Her father chuckled, shaking his head. “Nicole. Don’t go pokin’ the bear. You know he always gets the last word.”

Elijah lifted his glass, slow, deliberate, eyes still pinned on hers. “That’s ‘cause I don’t waste words.” He took a sip, then let the rim of the glass hover against his lip, the faintest smirk ghosting there. “Some people just can’t handle them.”

Her fork tapped the edge of her plate, her smile widening. “Or maybe they can’t handle the attitude.”

The back-and-forth was nothing new. They sparred every time they shared a room, fire and flint, sparking until one of them gave in. Tonight, though, Nicole felt something coil tighter inside her — a sharper heat.

She shifted in her chair, letting her heel slip free from the strap of her shoe. The movement was quiet, hidden beneath the clatter of cutlery and conversation. She slid her bare foot forward under the long table, slow, until her toes brushed against the cuff of his tailored pants.

Elijah didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sipped his wine like nothing had changed, though his jaw twitched once, betraying him.

Nicole pressed a little higher, tracing her foot up his shin. Her lips curved as she leaned back in her chair, tilting her glass toward her mouth. “Don’t choke,” she murmured, the words wrapped in a smile her father mistook as politeness.

Elijah’s eyes narrowed, that dark flash sparking in their depths. He lowered the glass with a soft clink against the table, then set both elbows down, leaning forward. His voice dropped, low enough to disappear into the noise of her father’s laughter.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he said.

Her toes slid higher, teasing along the muscle of his thigh. “Maybe I like regret.”

Her father looked between them, oblivious, still chuckling about the story he was telling. “What’s funny?” he asked when he caught Nicole’s grin.

“Nothing,” she answered quickly, her eyes locked on Elijah’s. “Just enjoying myself.”

Elijah let out a quiet laugh — low, dangerous, like he already knew how the night was going to end. His hand shifted under the table, not to stop her, but to catch her ankle in a firm grip. A warning disguised as restraint.

The squeeze said it all:

Keep playing, and I’ll make you pay later.

The rest of dinner happened in slow, looping waves—conversation rising and falling like warm tide, silverware clicking against porcelain, a chorus of easy laughter that should’ve softened the room and didn’t. Nicole kept her smile polished, chiming in when her father’s business partners dragged the talk toward new contracts and old grudges, but her attention never truly left the opposite end of the table. Every time she dared another swipe of her foot along Elijah’s shin, she felt the small, deliberate flex in his jaw, the measured sip of wine that meant he’d clocked her move and filed it away under later.

He didn’t let her forget it, either. Not with words—he barely spoke to her after that—but with the weight of his gaze whenever the laughter swelled loud enough to cover it. It was a touch all its own, a steady hand on the back of her neck from across polished wood and linen, saying I feel you acting up. I’m not gonna save you from what that earns.

By dessert, she’d slid her heel back on and tucked both feet primly beneath her chair like nothing had happened. It didn’t matter. The damage was done; the table felt smaller, the lights hotter, the air choked with unsaid things. When her father made a toast—something about good work and better friends—glasses lifted and clinked, and Nicole heard her own voice join the chorus while her pulse beat low and insistent, answering another rhythm that wasn’t the room’s.

Chairs scraped. Goodbyes layered the air. Men clapped Elijah on the shoulder, promising to call; women hugged Nicole, promised to set her up with somebody’s perfectly decent son. The house shifted from loud to quiet in pieces, and when the door finally shut behind the last guest, the silence that landed didn’t feel empty. It felt like a held breath.

Nicole carried plates to the kitchen because it gave her hands something to do. Steam curled up from the sink, wine stains bled into soapy water, the familiar domestic hum trying—and failing—to drown out the other hum in her blood. She rinsed and stacked, and still felt his gaze before she heard his steps.

“You gon’ leave all that for me?” her father called from the den, already settling into the comfort of his recliner and a game he’d pretend he wasn’t about to fall asleep on.

Nicole dried her hands on a towel and leaned into the doorway, smile easy. “I got the kitchen, Daddy. It’s your housewarming party part two.”

He waved her off, content. The TV volume went up a notch; the sound of a crowd roared through the walls. Nicole turned back to the sink and found Elijah in the reflection of the window, set back in the shadows just enough to make the chandelier glint off the edges of him—watchband, belt buckle, the silver on his fingers.

“I’ll take the trash out,” he said, voice low and steady, not looking away from her reflection. “Then I’m gettin’ some air.”

“Congratulations,” she said lightly, turning the faucet off. “Heroic.”

“Somethin’ like that.”

He picked up the tied trash bag with one hand, door whispering open, screen nudging after. The night rushed in—warm, crickety, thick with Florida’s late heat. Nicole counted to ten just to prove to herself that she could, that she had a choice, that what happened next would be fully hers. Then she wiped her hands one more time, smoothed the line of her dress like a woman who didn’t need to, and followed the path he’d left open.

The backyard had been dressed for company earlier—string lights draped in soft swags, citronella candles shouldering little halos, the patio table still littered with a few abandoned glasses. Now that it was quiet, the lights felt like stars bent low, listening. The grass held the day’s warmth; the air held the day’s whispers. Elijah stood at the edge of the patio near the old live oak, shoulders angled toward the dark yard, lighter in his hand and a thin roll-up resting behind his ear like a promise.

Nicole let the screen door fall soft behind her. It clicked anyway, and Elijah glanced back. That single flick of attention warmed her more than the summer night.

“You lost?” he asked.

“Found what I was looking for,” she said, matching his calm.

His mouth twitched. He took the joint from behind his ear, thumb rolled the filter, forefinger flicked the lighter. Flame licked, paper glowed, and smoke unfurled in a slow ribbon that caught the string lights and turned them a little hazy. He took the first pull like a man who knew how to savor, then held the smoke a beat too long, like a man who knew exactly who was watching.

She stepped closer. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to count the gold flecks in his eyes. “You gonna share or you just out here flexing breath control?”

He exhaled on a laugh, passing it to her between his first two fingers. His rings were cool against the back of her knuckles when she took it, his hand steady as a metronome while the heat at the tip traveled. Their fingers stayed there, overlapped, a half-second longer than manners would allow.

“Don’t test my patience,” he said, so quiet it barely disturbed the smoke.

“Maybe I like tests.” She drew in slow, felt the burn and softness hit her chest at the same time, held it till her eyes watered just a little. When she passed it back, she let her nail graze his palm. It was petty. It felt like victory anyway.

“You stay with the little games, huh?” He brought the tip to his mouth, eyes on hers the whole time. “Got all the jokes in front of folks. Feet busy under the table. Think I ain’t notice?”

Her face didn’t betray it. Her pulse did. “I don’t know what you mean,” she lied, calm as glass.

He stepped a half-shade closer. Not enough to be obvious if someone glanced through the den window. More than enough for her to smell him—cedar, a cut of bourbon he hadn’t even poured, the cologne she knew he used too sparingly on purpose. The smoke ribboned between them—sweet, slow, a curtain they kept passing through with every breath.

“You think I don’t see it?” he asked, passing the joint back; his fingertips brushed the center of her palm this time, drawing a small, involuntary shiver from her wrist to her throat. “How you look at me when you think I ain’t watchin’.”

Nicole let the smoke sit in her mouth before she took it down. It gave her time to tilt her head, to let her eyes go sleepy-cool. “Bold of you to assume I think about you at all.”

“Bold of you to stand here when you could be inside.” He leaned in the last inch to shield the cherry from the breeze, and the heat of him lapped at the shell of her ear. “You could’ve left me out here alone.”

“That why you came?” she countered, flicking ash into the tray on the patio table. “To be alone?”

He made a soft, amused sound. “Nah. I came for quiet.”

“And you want me to leave you to it?”

“I want you to stop pretendin’.” His hand lifted as if to reach for the lighter in her other palm; instead, his fingers brushed the heel of her hand, slow, then closed around the metal. The contact was nothing and everything—wrist to wrist, pulse to pulse, a handshake that told the truth with no witness but the night. He didn’t take the lighter yet. Neither of them moved.

From the den, her father laughed at something on TV, a broad burst of noise that rolled through the open window and died out here beneath the oak as if the yard refused to host it. Crickets took the space back. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked once and thought better of it.

Nicole dragged again, softer. When she passed it back, their hands didn’t part fast enough. His thumb brushed over the ridge of her knuckles, slow as an apology he’d never say out loud. Static jumped her skin; heat followed. She swallowed it like a secret.

“You gon’ keep acting brand-new?” he asked, the words warmer than the air. “After the little stunt under the table?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Got long legs. Tables are small.”

He smiled with his eyes more than his mouth, a flash of approval that felt like a hand at the small of her back. “Mm. You bold in the wrong rooms.”

“Maybe I wanted to see if you could sit still.”

“I’m sittin’,” he said. “For now.”

The joint burned lower; the smoke thickened. She should’ve stepped back. He should’ve let her. Instead, they hovered in the pocket they’d made—half-lit, half-wild, the kind of charged quiet where people say things they can’t walk back from.

“You stay talkin’ to me like I don’t know you,” he murmured finally. “But I see you when you not lookin’. I see you at these dinners, bored out your mind. I see you gettin’ smart ‘cause you scared to be sweet.” The smoke curled from his mouth, kissed her collarbone before the breeze stole it. “And I see the part you swear ain’t there.”

“You full of yourself,” she said lightly. It sounded thin to her own ears.

His smile cut precise. “Maybe. And maybe I’m just right.”

Their fingers met again when she reached for the lighter this time. He didn’t let go. For a second that stretched, they just held it together—the little metal thing suddenly a hinge, a leverage point, an excuse. Her skin went electric where his thumb pressed. Her body betrayed her with the smallest sway forward, a magnet seeking its twin. The breath she took wasn’t quite steady.

She laughed, quick and airy, trying to shake it off. “You always like this when the night gets humid?”

“Only when you walk out into it,” he said.

She meant to fire something back and found nothing loaded. The quiet wrapped them. She took one last pull to kill the cherry, crushed it gentle in the tray, and when she straightened, his eyes were exactly where they’d been all night—on her mouth, then her throat, then her mouth again. The look didn’t ask. It promised.

She broke it with a shake of her head and a soft, reckless grin. “You need to relax.”

He tipped his chin toward the dark yard, toward the quiet that had swallowed the house. “Thought that’s what we were doin’.”

“Mm.” She set the lighter down, but her hand didn’t leave the table. Not yet. “We’ll see if you got manners.”

“Manners?” he echoed, amused. “You tryin’ to test me again?”

“Maybe,” she said, and her body did what it had done at the table—told on her, pulse rising where his gaze could see it.

He noticed. Of course he did. “Keep laughin’,” he warned softly, eyes low and steady. “See what you earn.”

She held his stare, let the warning fall over her like warm rain, and smiled like a woman who already knew she wouldn’t run.

And when his knuckles brushed hers one more time—“by accident,” neither of them believing it—their hands didn’t pull away fast enough.

The walk back inside was quiet in steps but loud in pulse. Nicole kept her arms folded, not because she was cold but because she needed something to do with her hands. Elijah’s stride matched hers—measured, easy—but she could feel the heat rolling off him, the same heat that had followed her all through dinner, through smoke drifting in the backyard, through the brush of his thumb over her knuckles.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, and the shift was immediate—the hush of a house winding down for the night. The TV was off. Only the hallway lamp glowed faint in gold, throwing a warm shadow across the foyer. Her father’s voice cut through it, deep and relaxed as he moved toward the staircase.

“Goodnight, baby girl.” He kissed Nicole’s cheek, already half turned toward the steps. “Elijah, you know you welcome to stay the night. Guestroom’s there if you want it. Nicole, set it up for him, alright?”

Nicole’s throat bobbed, caught between protest and pretense. Elijah answered first, smooth and sure. “Appreciate it. I’ll take you up on that.”

Her father nodded, gave them both a smile that trusted too much, then disappeared up the stairs, each heavy footstep creaking against the wood until the last one faded into bedroom quiet.

Silence stretched in the wake. The house settled. Nicole’s pulse didn’t.

She turned toward the kitchen, needing distance, and found Elijah already leaning against the counter, watching her like the last two hours had been foreplay for this exact second.

“What?” she asked, sharper than she meant.

“You really gon’ keep pretendin’?” His voice was low, roughened silk. “Act like you ain’t been on me all night?”

“I wasn’t on you,” she snapped, moving past him to reach for a glass. Her hand shook just enough to clink it against the faucet handle. “You’re full of yourself.”

He pushed off the counter. The sound of his footsteps crossing tile made her chest tighten. “Nah. I’m full of patience. Been sittin’ on it while you out here playin’ games.”

Nicole turned, glass half full, and nearly spilled it when his body closed the space between them. The kitchen light painted his face in gold and shadow, jaw tight, eyes locked on hers like she was prey cornered and too stubborn to admit it.

“Say you don’t want me to touch you,” he said, breath brushing her cheek. “Go ahead.”

Her lips parted, the words stuck behind them. Silence was all the permission he needed.

The kiss hit hard. Filthy, teeth catching lips, mouths dragging open like they’d both been starving too long. The glass slipped from her hand, thunked against the counter without shattering, forgotten the second his palm bracketed her hip and dragged her flush.

She gasped into him, tried to push, ended up clutching. His tongue slid against hers, hot, tasting like smoke and bourbon and danger. Her back pressed into the counter’s edge; his thigh wedged between hers, thick and unyielding. The friction made her bite down on his lip, and he groaned like she’d just given him everything he’d been waiting for.

“You got a smart mouth,” he muttered against her jaw, dragging his lips down to her throat. “But right now, it’s just beggin’ me to use it.”

Her hands fisted in his shirt. “You think you’re the only one wantin’ this?”

“I know I’m the only one gonna have you like this.” His hand slid up her thigh, fingers pushing her dress higher, higher, until the hem bunched at her waist. Calloused fingertips skimmed the damp edge of her panties, and she jolted, breath sharp.

The creak of floorboards upstairs froze them both. Her father’s steps—slow, careful—crossed from one room to the other. Nicole held her breath, nails digging crescents into Elijah’s shoulder.

He didn’t stop. His finger hooked the band of her panties, tugged it aside just enough, the pad of his finger dragging through her slick folds like he was taking inventory. His mouth brushed her ear, whisper-dark and devastating:

“Keep quiet, baby.”

Her knees buckled, caught on his thigh, his hand holding her steady as he teased her entrance with the bare edge of his finger. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, but her body betrayed her, hips rocking into his touch, pulse thrumming like it wanted to give them both away.

The footsteps upstairs stopped. A door clicked shut.

Nicole exhaled shakily, and Elijah grinned against her neck, sliding his finger deeper with a slow, claiming push. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Now let me ruin you quietly.”

The kitchen lights were low, only the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the house settling upstairs breaking the silence. Elijah sat Nicole on the counter, her thighs pressed together in a nervous lock, though her smirk said otherwise. Elijah stepped between her knees like he’d been there a thousand times before, his big frame eating up the space.

“Spread ‘em,” he rasped, already tugging at the hem of her dress.

Her lips parted, ready to shoot something smart back, but the look in his eyes snatched the words right out of her throat. That dangerous mix of hunger and authority. She held his stare, slow as sin, and slid her thighs open.

His hand hooked into the lace at her hips, yanking her panties down like they offended him. He didn’t fold them, didn’t set them aside gentle — he tore them down her legs and let them drop on the tile. Nicole gasped when the cool air hit her bare skin, when the counter pressed cold under the swell of her ass.

“Look at you,” he muttered, spreading her knees wider until she was dripping open for him. “Talk all that shit to me across the table, but the second I touch you? Pussy wetter than the faucet.”

She rolled her eyes, but her chest lifted sharp with her breath. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Elijah’s grin was slow, dangerous. “Ain’t gotta. I can smell it.”

Then he buried his face in her. No warning, no tease — just his mouth wide, tongue flat, nose pressed into the heat of her. Nicole slapped a hand against the counter, the other gripping his head instinctively.

“Oh—fuck!” It ripped out of her before she could swallow it down.

He groaned into her, the sound vibrating against her clit, sloppy and greedy. He wasn’t trying to be pretty about it; he was trying to ruin her. His tongue dragged up and down her slit, then circled her clit, then shoved inside her, fucking her with his mouth like he hated the space between them.

Her head fell back against the cabinet, teeth digging into her lip to keep quiet. But it was no use — every time his tongue curled inside her, every time his beard scraped the inside of her thighs, a sound clawed out of her chest.

“Keep it down,” he muttered against her pussy, not lifting his mouth. “Don’t want Daddy comin’ down here, seein’ me eatin’ his daughter like my last meal.”

Her thighs trembled. The filth in his tone made her wetter, dripping down his chin. “You’re—fucking insane,” she gasped.

“And you love it.” His tongue flattened again, relentless, his hand sliding up to pin her belly down so she couldn’t squirm away. He licked her like he had something to prove — dragging every slick sound out into the air until it coated the room thicker than the smoke they’d shared outside.

Her body betrayed her, hips rolling up to meet every stroke of his tongue. He lapped her like he wanted to drink her dry, groaning every time she spilled more. His forearm curled around her thigh, locking her open.

“You taste like trouble,” he murmured, then sucked her clit so hard her whole spine arched. “Sweet, messy trouble.”

Nicole’s nails raked his scalp. She tried to push him back, only for him to growl and shove deeper, tongue fucking her so hard she felt the muscles in her stomach seize.

“Elijah—fuck, wait—”

“Mm-mm,” he cut her off, mouth glued to her. “You gon’ cum on my tongue. Right here, right now. Don’t fight it.”

Her body had no choice but to obey. Her thighs snapped shut around his head as the orgasm tore through her, hot and wet. She tried to choke it back, but her moans spilled, high and broken, the kind that carried even in a quiet house.

Elijah didn’t stop. He licked her through it, groaning like he was addicted, tongue dragging every drop from her until she sagged against the cabinet, limp and shaking.

When he finally pulled back, his beard was soaked, his lips glistening. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, then smirked up at her with dangerous satisfaction.

The air in the kitchen still smelled like her — sharp, sweet, musky — clinging to Elijah’s beard and dripping down his chin. Nicole’s chest heaved, sweat clinging to her collarbones. She thought he’d stop there, thought the risk of someone coming down the stairs would cool him off.

But the way he looked at her said otherwise.

He stepped in tighter, pressing his body between her open thighs until the rough fabric of his pants rubbed against her slickness. His hand slid up her spine, dragging her forward into him. He didn’t kiss her right away — he just stared, his lips wet, beard shiny from her. Then he tilted his head, voice a low rasp.

“You really think I can taste you like that and not fuck you?”

Her stomach flipped. Her hands pressed to his chest, meant to hold him back, but instead they curled into his shirt like she couldn’t let go. “My dad—”

“Asleep.” Elijah’s hand moved lower, gripping the meat of her thigh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the heat between her legs. “Only one I hear breathin’ right now is you.”

He kissed her then, filthy and unrestrained, his tongue shoving deep into her mouth like he wanted to own her from the inside out. She gasped against him, muffling the sound into his lips as he lifted her higher onto the counter. The scrape of his beard burned delicious against her skin as his mouth dragged down her neck, teeth catching her pulse.

“Quiet now,” he muttered, voice hot against her throat. “Don’t need him coming down here, interrupting us.”

Her body clenched at that — betrayal and thrill spiking together.

Then his pants came down. He didn’t bother with finesse, just shoved them to his thighs, his dick springing out heavy and throbbing. He pressed the swollen tip against her soaked slit, dragging slowly up and down, smearing her all over him. The sound alone was obscene.

Nicole gripped the edge of the counter until her knuckles ached. “Elijah—”

“Say it right.” His eyes pinned her in place. “Say Smoke.”

Her lips parted, a whisper breaking free. “…Smoke.”

That was all it took. He thrust forward, burying himself inside her in one brutal stroke that made her back slam against the cabinet. She choked on the moan, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes screwing shut. “Tight as a fist. Gonna ruin this pretty pussy right here on Daddy’s counter.”

He set the pace, slow at first, dragging out the stretch, savoring the way she clenched around him. Each withdrawal was torture, his dick sliding wet and heavy against her walls, only to slam back in deeper, harder. Her thighs shook, spreading wider to take him.

The slap of skin on skin echoed in the kitchen. The fridge hummed, the clock ticked, but all she could hear was the filthy wet sounds of him fucking into her and his low groans against her ear.

“You feel that?” Smoke pressed his forearm across her chest, pinning her to the cabinet, while his other hand gripped her hip. “Every inch sittin’ inside you.”

Her head rolled back, hitting the cabinet. She tried to breathe quiet, tried to hold the sounds in, but every thrust knocked another moan out of her.

Then a sound froze them both.

A floorboard creaked again upstairs.

They went still, her legs still wrapped around his waist, his dick buried to the hilt. Sweat rolled down her temple as she listened. Another shift, then silence.

Nicole’s heart slammed against her ribs. “We—”

“Shhh.” Smoke’s lips brushed her ear, his voice pure grit. “Stay still, baby.”

He gave one slow thrust, just to hear her choke down a whimper. His smirk was lethal. “See? Can’t even keep quiet. You need to get fucked where it’s safe before you get us both caught.”

Her body trembled when he slid out of her, her cunt clenching on emptiness. He yanked his pants up just enough to cover himself, then leaned close to kiss her — quick, filthy, sealing the taste of her moans on his tongue.

“Guest room,” he whispered, voice sharp with command. “Now.”

He lifted her off the counter, her legs still weak, panties left abandoned on the tile. She scrambled to grab them and the hem of her dress, tugging it down as best she could, her thighs sticky with him. He gripped her wrist and led her out of the kitchen.

The hallway creaked under their weight. The house felt cavernous in the dark, every step amplified, the risk sharpening every nerve. Nicole bit her lip, the adrenaline of being caught making her wetter, dripping down her legs as they climbed the stairs. Smoke’s hand never left her wrist, dragging her like she belonged to him.

The guestroom door shut with a soft click that felt louder than a gunshot in a sleeping house. A hush settled—thin, trembling, almost sacred. Nicole’s back met the wood for a heartbeat, breath catching high in her throat, and Smoke was right there, big body closing the distance like gravity had decided they belonged in the same shape.

He didn’t rush her. He pressed in slow, one palm spreading firm over the side of her neck, not choking—just claiming the real estate—his thumb skimming her pulse like a promise. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was the kind that eats the air, a dark tangle of tongue and teeth that said every second they’d held it together at the table had only wound them tighter. She chased his mouth as he dragged it away, a soft hungry sound caught between them.

“Bed” he rasped, voice rough from smoke and want, “now.”

She didn’t trust her voice. She nodded, fingers already fisting in the front of his tee, walking backward with him crowding every step, the world narrowing to the heat of him, the press of his thighs, the rough drag of denim at her hips when his leg slid between them. Her calves met the mattress, and the bed sighed under her weight as she sat, then lay back. The ceiling fan threw slow shadows over the ceiling, the moon through the half-closed blinds lined him in silver as he stood at the edge, looking down at her like a man who’d worked for something and finally had it in his hands.

They’d already stripped half their decency in the kitchen—her panties gone, the sweet, ruined ache of his mouth still humming between her legs; his pants unbuttoned, zipper eased, control frayed. Here, he took his time because time was cruel, and he liked the cruelty when it served him.

He came down over her on his forearms, body heavy but precise, settling his weight along hers so their chests met. The first contact was a low shock—her nipples brushing his tee, the warmth of his breath at her cheek, the scrape of his stubble on her jaw—then his mouth was on her again, deeper, wetter. She arched up into him like a reflex. He swallowed the little sound she made.

“Open,” he said, not a question. She opened.

His hands skimmed down, big palms mapping her ribcage like he’d been memorizing her by touch for years. He lifted, just enough to peel his tee up, baring thick shoulders, roped forearms, that deep cut line that ran to his waistband. The shirt dropped to the floor without him looking. Nicole’s fingers shook as they traced the planes of his chest, the heat, the ridiculous solidity. He caught one wrist and kissed the inside of it, then planted her hand above her head on the pillow, spread, as if he was framing her for the room to see.

“Dress,” he murmured.

She reached for the side zip; he batted her hand away, a flicker of a smirk in the dark. “I got it.”

He rolled the dress up from her thighs slow—no hurry, no mercy—dragging it high enough that cool air kissed skin his mouth would heat next. He paused at her belly and lowered his face, breathing her in, the barest scrape of teeth at the soft curve had her hips twitching. When he reached the neckline, he sat back on his heels and took the whole thing in one confident pull, the fabric whispering over her shoulders and head, leaving her bare beneath him, sprawled and trembling and already slick from the kitchen sins.

“Look at you,” he said, voice a satisfied drag. “Messy already.”

He bent to her breasts like a man saying grace—palms cupping them heavy, thumbs pressing her peaks until she gasped, then his mouth sealed around one, dark and hungry. He sucked until her back arched off the bed, then licked slow circles to cool the sting. His free hand slid down, down, knuckles grazing the downy trail of her lower belly until he found heat—slick, swollen, pulsing under his touch. He didn’t enter. He teased with two fingers, slow strokes through the wet, spreading it, marking her thighs with it.

“Thought about this all goddamn dinner,” he said against her skin, breath hot, words burning. “You, tryin’ to stare me down while soakin’ for me. You think I ain’t feel that? Thought I couldn’t smell you?”

Her breath hitched. “Elijah—”

He kissed the corner of her mouth to swallow her name, then shushed her with a drag of thumb over her lower lip. “Hush. Keep that sweet little mouth for later.”

He stood, and the bed gave a small protesting creak at the loss of his weight. He shoved his pants down his thighs, the denim catching at the thick line of him. His dick sprang free—heavy, dark, the blunt head wet and gleaming in the low light. She sucked in air like a drowning thing. He smirked at the way her eyes fixed, at the way her thighs pressed together without her permission.

“Spread,” he said.

She did. He climbed back in, bracketing her hips with his knees, and leaned forward until the heat of him lay against her slit, sliding lazy, painting her with pre-come, letting her feel how hard he was, how serious and unhurried and inevitable this was. She rolled her hips for more. He pulled back and denied it. She swore under her breath; he grinned.

“Beg.”

She stared up at him, chin tilted, fire and defiance and hunger all tangled in her face. She didn’t beg. Not in words. She arched, tilted her pelvis just so, and offered slick, open heat to the head of him, a wordless plea his body read just fine. The smile he gave her said that would do.

He lowered, hands under her knees, folding her open, the thick head catching and parting her, pressure building, then—slow, careful, lethal—he pushed in. Inch by claiming inch, he watched her mouth fall open, watched her scramble for a grip on his shoulders, watched her eyes glaze as the stretch lit every nerve in a slow burn. He exhaled a cuss when he bottomed out, hips flush to her, balls snug to the wet. He stayed there, buried, feeling the tight rhythmic squeeze around him.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, forehead dropping to hers. “That’s a grip.”

Her nails bit his back. “Move.”

“Imma move when I’m ready,” he said, and kissed her soft for exactly one second, like he wanted to prove he could. Then he levered up, braced, and finally gave her what she asked for—long, devastating strokes that dragged his length out almost to the tip and slammed back in, punching little gasps out of her, shaking the bed frame against the wall in a rhythm that felt dangerous in a quiet house.

She tried to say his name again; it came out a broken whine. He answered with a low noise in his chest, a rumble of satisfaction, and upped the tempo a hair—still not reckless, not yet, but enough that she couldn’t catch up to the pleasure. Enough that her thighs trembled and her voice kept dissolving.

He kissed her open mouth, swallowed the noise, and then broke the kiss with a ragged inhale. “Turn,” he said.

He didn’t make her do the work. He took her by the hip and shoulder and rolled her like a page in a book, keeping himself inside her, the twist smooth and controlled, his body following in one continuous pivot until her cheek was on the pillow and his broad chest was at her back. He hooked her top knee over his thigh and slid his arm around her throat—not crushing, but firm and absolute—his forearm a bar that anchored and owned. The other hand palmed her lower belly, fingers splaying over the soft there, claiming more territory.

Then he drove.

The angle hit a place that made her see stars—deep, relentless, unarguable. He fucked her balls-deep, every thrust a full-body decision, hips slamming into the round of her ass so hard the headboard ticked the wall in warning. She grabbed at the sheets and then at his forearm at her throat, not to pry it away but to hold it there, to meet the pressure with trust and heat.

“Breathe,” he murmured, voice a rasp against her ear. “I got you.”

She pulled in air when he let her, floated there, then he tightened a hair and the world went bright at the edges. Nothing existed but the wet-slick slide, the thick insistence of him filling her over and over, the anchored hold at her throat that made her feel contained and flung wide at once.

“Talk that shit now,” he gritted, thrusts getting meaner, the line of his body carved with effort. “All that mouth at dinner—where it go? Huh?”

A sound tore out of her, half-laugh, half-cry. “Shut up and—”

He snapped his hips so hard the end of the sentence collapsed into a raw moan. He laughed once, dark and pleased. “Exactly.”

His hand slid from her belly to between her thighs, fingers finding her clit slick and swollen. He circled once, twice, merciless, in time with the thrusts. Her entire body jolted; she bit the pillow and then bit air because biting wasn’t enough.

“Keep it quiet,” he warned, and then sabotaged the warning by pushing her closer to a place that made silence impossible.

The house answered like a sleeping thing—floor settling somewhere far away, the groan of old wood, the ghost of a pipe ticking, then quiet again. The fear threaded the lust and made it brighter. She rocked back to meet him, the wet clap of skin on skin obscene in the hush, and he growled a praise that melted into a curse.

“That’s it. Throw it back. Let me see you work for it.”

She did. She met him, angle for angle, stroke for stroke, and when she almost got ahead of him—when she tried to take control in that thin space—he locked both of their bodies down with that forearm and made a new, ruinous rhythm that had nothing to do with mercy. He shoved her up the bed, chased her, shoved again, chased again, until the sheet bunched under her and her hair stuck to her cheek in damp curls.

“Tell me,” he said, low and dangerous. “Tell me what I’m doin’ to you.”

She tried. It came out in tatters. “You— you’re… deep—”

“Deeper than that,” he corrected, and ground in a circle that lit her nerves like struck matches. “Say it.”

“Ruining me,” she gasped, voice breaking on the word. “You’re—ruining—”

“Good girl,” he said, and everything he put behind the praise wrecked her as much as the thrusts did.

She shattered on his hand, on his dick, on the pressure at her throat, the orgasm ripping through her in a series of helpless clamps that dragged a rough groan out of him. He didn’t stop. He worked her through it, rode her tremors until they blurred into a second wave, wetter and sloppier, her thighs shaking, her cries swallowed by his palm when he covered her mouth for a few brutal strokes to save them both from the house hearing the truth.

“Uh-uh,” he soothed when she writhed, overstimulated. “You asked for me. Take all of me.”

She didn’t remember asking with words. She’d been asking with months of fight. Her body answered anyway, answering yes, yes, yes on a loop while he dragged her past sweet into ragged.

Sweat slicked their skin, a salt sheen under the cool fan-breeze. His forearm at her throat was a brand now, his breath a harsh music at her ear, and his hips a steady machine, each drive bottoming out, the blunt head of his dick kissing a place that made her toes curl hard enough to cramp.

“Quiet,” he reminded when her voice cracked louder. He pressed his mouth at the hinge of her jaw, teeth grazing, and whispered filth that made her wetter. “Feel how you got me? Drippin’ all over me, squeezin’ like you tryna keep me. Drownin’ me, baby.”

She didn’t have language anymore. She had the rhythm. She had the ache. She had the way he owned the pace until she forgot there’d ever been any other. He slowed for three strokes, let her think relief was coming, then gave her five savage, deep drives that knocked her back to the edge. She cried out into his forearm and he smiled into her hair like a sinner satisfied at church.

“She mine,” he told the dark, as if the room needed a record. “Ain’t nobody else puttin’ her to bed like this.”

Another wave built. She felt it like a pull low in her belly, a bright thread winding tight. He felt it too; his fingers on her clit changed from circles to a steady drag that matched the thrusts, perfect and evil. The layered sensation—pressure at her throat, hand on her, dick deep—stacked until it broke her open again, harder than before, so hard she forgot the risk and said his name too loud.

He covered her mouth with his palm, breath stuttering. “That’s it,” he hissed. “Give it to me.”

She came with a tremor that wracked her from shoulder to ankle. The clench dragged his groan from somewhere animal; his hips stuttered. He chased it, swore, lost his rhythm, found it, lost it again. He was close—she could feel the tell: the way his thighs went iron, the way his breath went wild and ugly like he didn’t want to plead but might.

“Where you want it?” he grated, forearm easing enough to let her speak, the question a courtesy he might ignore.

“Inside,” she breathed, no hesitation. “Inside me.”

A sound tore out of him—half surrender, half victory. His hand left her mouth and slid up to hold her jaw, turning her face so he could take her mouth again as he chased the end. The kiss was messy, teeth and tongue and gasp. He broke it with a curse, slammed deep once, twice, three times, then locked there, buried all the way in, grinding like he could carve himself into her. Heat flooded, thick pulses emptying into her, a groan breaking loose from his chest that she swallowed like a prayer.

He didn’t pull out. Not immediately. He held her there, forearm easing from her throat to her collarbones, pressing her down with the weight of him, keeping every drop where he’d put it. The room spun slowly back into focus around their panting.

“Don’t move,” he said, more devotion than order now.

She didn’t. She lay in the heat of it, his sweat on her neck, his heartbeat pounding against her shoulder blade, spread and owned and too gone to pretend otherwise. The fan thumped a lazy beat. Somewhere in the house, a pipe ticked again. The silence hummed with the fact of them.

When he finally slid out, it was a slow retreat, a filthy slick sound that made them both hiss. His spend followed, warm spill on her thigh and the sheets. He caught it with his fingers on reflex, pressed two into her to push it back, not ready to give up the claim. She jerked; the overstimulation shocked through her nerves, a little whimper punching out. He murmured something low and fond and indecent at once, and eased his hand away.

The bed smelled like sex and heat and the kind of trouble that rewrites a life.

He rolled, gathering her to his chest, hauling her flat on her back, then tipped her easily to face him. Big palms framed her face, thumbs sweeping damp hair from her cheekbones. Up close like this, he was all dark eyes and thick lashes and satisfaction he didn’t bother to hide.

“You good?” he asked, low, the gravel gentled.

She nodded, throat tight, breath finally slowing. “Mhm.”

“Color?”

She breathed a laugh—small, grateful. “Green.”

“Yeah.” He kissed her forehead, then each cheek, then her mouth, soft this time, not devouring, more like sealing something they both knew had shifted. “Knew you could take it. Knew you needed it.”

She swallowed. The praise warmed places that had nothing to do with sex. “You’re impossible,” she whispered, but the words carried no fight.

“Mm. And you mouthy.” He brushed a knuckle over the faint sweep his forearm had left at her throat, not bruises yet, just the ghost of pressure. “Beautiful, though.”

He slid from the bed with a reluctant hiss at the loss of heat, padded to the adjoining bathroom. The faucet whispered to life; the dim glow of the vanity lit the doorway. He returned with a warm, damp towel and a glass of water. He cleaned her slow, careful, no rush now, cupping her knee, opening her with his palm to wipe the mess from her thighs, between, the sheet getting darker and darker under each pass. She watched him do it, watched his face soften in these quiet rituals that should have been nothing but felt like vows.

“Gimme your neck,” he said. When she tilted her chin, he pressed kisses to the tender skin, reverent, then rubbed a thumb over it like he was smoothing the memory into place.

“Big talker,” she murmured, teasing thin as breath. “Big… doer.”

He huffed a laugh that felt like a hand smoothing a sheet. “Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish. House asleep don’t mean I am.”

She snorted and winced when the movement tugged at muscle he’d worked mercilessly; he smirked like he’d felt it too. He dropped the towel, climbed back in, and gathered her under his arm, her head tucked under his chin, one leg flung over his thigh like she belonged there. His palm made lazy passes down her spine, the weight of it grounding.

For a long minute they said nothing. The night held.

Then, soft enough the darkness felt like it had to lean in to hear it, he murmured, “You drove me crazy tonight. Foot on me at that table. You know what that did?”

Her smile was a slow thing he felt against his chest. “Knew exactly.”

He kissed her hair. “Yeah. You did.”

A floorboard far down the hall whispered—the house turning over in sleep. They stilled, listening. Nothing followed. He exhaled, tucked her closer, and pressed one last kiss to the hinge of her jaw.

“Gon’ be sore,” he said, not sorry at all. “Gon’ think about me tomorrow every time you move.”

She hummed, a satisfied little sound. “Already do.”

“Good,” he said, and turned off the last stray thought with the steady weight of his arm. “That’s what I wanted.”

The fan kept its quiet spin. The moon moved a fraction across the blinds, laying new silver stripes over the wrecked bed. In the hush, the claim settled—not a word, but a fact—and the rest of the house never knew a thing.

The house smelled like coffee and butter toast by the time Nicole padded down the hall. Her body ached deliciously—deep in her thighs, at the back of her throat where his forearm had pressed, in the stretch of her hips that still hummed with him. Every step whispered of last night. She’d scrubbed the evidence from her skin in the shower, but she couldn’t wash away the soreness, the phantom pulse that reminded her of what they’d done.

Her dad was already at the kitchen table, mug in hand, glasses perched low on his nose as he scanned the paper. Elijah sat across from him, broad shoulders relaxed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when Nicole entered. She forced her face neutral, praying the heat in her cheeks didn’t betray her.

“Morning, baby girl,” her dad said warmly. “You sleep okay?”

She nodded, sliding into the seat next to him, careful not to glance too long at the man across the table who had ruined her on her side, whispering filth into her ear hours earlier.

Elijah sipped his coffee slow, eyes flicking up to catch hers over the rim. That look was quiet, deliberate, and it stripped the air out of her lungs. She dropped her gaze, stabbing butter into her toast with more force than necessary.

Her dad folded the paper and looked at Elijah. “Glad you stayed, man. Always good company. You drive safe heading out, alright?”

Elijah leaned back, that easy grin sliding into place like armor. “Always. Appreciate the hospitality.”

Nicole’s dad rose, kissed her temple, and clapped Elijah on the shoulder before heading down the hall to grab his briefcase.

The second his footsteps faded, Elijah’s chair scraped back. “Walk me out?”

Nicole’s heart stuttered. She swallowed her nerves, muttered something about needing air, and followed him out the front door.

The morning was soft and golden, dew still clinging to the grass, the world so deceptively innocent it made her shiver. Elijah’s truck sat in the drive, black paint catching the light, a hushed witness to their night.

At the driver’s side, he turned, crowding her back against the warm metal door. He didn’t touch her—too risky with curtains that could twitch open at any second—but his presence pressed heavy, all six-plus feet of him a reminder of what she’d taken and what he’d given.

“You walkin’ alright?” he asked, voice low, threaded with smug concern.

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying not to smile. “You know damn well I’m sore.”

His teeth flashed in a wicked grin. “Good. Wanted you rememberin’ me every step you take today.”

She exhaled hard, glancing back at the front door. “My dad’s in the kitchen. You can’t—”

He leaned closer, his breath feathering her ear, cutting her off. “Your dad think I’m just his boy sittin’ at the table. He don’t know I had you beggin’ into the pillow. Don’t know I left you dripping all over that guest bed.”

Her knees wobbled. She gripped the edge of his jacket to keep steady. “You’re insane.”

“Insane for you,” he said, no pause, no shame. “Always been.”

The door creaked faintly behind them—her dad clearing his throat inside. Nicole jerked back, pulse spiking. Elijah only chuckled, opening the truck door. He climbed in, started the engine, and let it purr loud enough to cover the tension.

Before pulling off, he leaned out the open window, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not his grin. “Text me when you get home. Want proof you made it safe—and proof you’re thinkin’ about me.”

Her father’s shadow stretched across the porch. Nicole forced her lips into a polite smile, waving as the truck rolled down the street.

But her chest burned with a secret only she and Elijah carried: last night, her dad’s best friend had claimed her in every filthy way—and she wanted more.

The table was too full that night, laughter and chatter bouncing off the dining room walls. Plates passed hand to hand, forks clinking against ceramic. Her father’s voice carried over everyone else’s, talking business with Elijah like the two were brothers. Nicole sat across from him, chin propped in her palm, eyes sliding toward him every time he reached for his glass.

Elijah didn’t look at her—at least, not directly. But she caught him anyway. The flick of his gaze when she licked gravy from her thumb. The muscle in his jaw tightening when she leaned back, legs crossing slow under the table. He smoked after dinner, always did, and she was already thinking about the curl of it between his lips.

It was a dance. Always had been. Tonight, it was just starting its first steps.

The plates clattered down, heavy with food. Nicole stabbed into her greens like they’d done her wrong. Across the table, Elijah lounged back in his chair, wine glass balanced easy in one hand, the picture of calm. Too calm. She hated when he looked like that — like nothing could touch him.

“You always chew that loud?” he drawled suddenly, just loud enough to reach her, not anyone else. His eyes didn’t lift from his plate, but the smirk tugging at his mouth gave him away.

Nicole’s fork froze mid-air. “Better loud than slow as molasses. Thought you’d be halfway through by now, old man.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him, low and rough. “Ain’t in a rush. Only kids eat like the food gon’ run away.”

She rolled her eyes, sinking her teeth into cornbread like she meant to break it. “Maybe I eat fast ‘cause I don’t waste time pretending to be unbothered.”

This time, he looked up. Their gazes locked across bowls and platters, her fire sparking against his steady heat.

“You bothered, baby girl?” he asked, voice dipping, daring her.

“Only by you,” she shot back, sweet as venom.

Her father cut in with a booming laugh about some story from work, drawing attention back to him. Conversation flowed again, but Nicole and Elijah stayed locked. A small lift of his brow. Her slow, deliberate sip of sweet tea. Every move was chess, every breath part of the game.

When she finally leaned back, her leg brushed the table leg hard enough to make the silverware rattle. Elijah’s eyes dropped, just for a second, before flicking back to hers.

“You clumsy,” he muttered, smirk sharpening.

She tilted her head, lips curving. “And you nosy.”

It was nothing. It was everything.

Dinner rolled on, laughter, drinks, the easy rhythm of family. But beneath it, the air between them thickened, thread by thread.

Nicole told a story about her friend from work, everyone laughing, but she kept sneaking glances at him, watching his hand curl around the glass, the way the light caught the veins in his wrist. Elijah leaned back, listening to her father talk business, but his attention kept sliding sideways. Every time she smiled, something in his jaw ticked.

No one else noticed. But for the two of them, the table might as well have been empty.

Dinner stretched on in waves — plates scraped clean, voices rising, laughter threading around the long table like smoke curling to the ceiling. Nicole sat with her wine glass in hand, feigning interest in whatever story her father was telling. Her smile stayed polite, but her eyes — sharp, defiant — stayed locked across the table.

On the other end, Elijah leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. One arm rested easy along the chair’s edge, his rings catching the warm light. His gaze was steady, fixed right on her like he could read every thought she didn’t say out loud.

And maybe he could.

“So, Elijah,” Nicole said suddenly, her voice sweet but sharp as a blade wrapped in silk. “How’s business? Still spending more time talking than working?”

Her father chuckled, shaking his head. “Nicole. Don’t go pokin’ the bear. You know he always gets the last word.”

Elijah lifted his glass, slow, deliberate, eyes still pinned on hers. “That’s ‘cause I don’t waste words.” He took a sip, then let the rim of the glass hover against his lip, the faintest smirk ghosting there. “Some people just can’t handle them.”

Her fork tapped the edge of her plate, her smile widening. “Or maybe they can’t handle the attitude.”

The back-and-forth was nothing new. They sparred every time they shared a room, fire and flint, sparking until one of them gave in. Tonight, though, Nicole felt something coil tighter inside her — a sharper heat.

She shifted in her chair, letting her heel slip free from the strap of her shoe. The movement was quiet, hidden beneath the clatter of cutlery and conversation. She slid her bare foot forward under the long table, slow, until her toes brushed against the cuff of his tailored pants.

Elijah didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sipped his wine like nothing had changed, though his jaw twitched once, betraying him.

Nicole pressed a little higher, tracing her foot up his shin. Her lips curved as she leaned back in her chair, tilting her glass toward her mouth. “Don’t choke,” she murmured, the words wrapped in a smile her father mistook as politeness.

Elijah’s eyes narrowed, that dark flash sparking in their depths. He lowered the glass with a soft clink against the table, then set both elbows down, leaning forward. His voice dropped, low enough to disappear into the noise of her father’s laughter.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he said.

Her toes slid higher, teasing along the muscle of his thigh. “Maybe I like regret.”

Her father looked between them, oblivious, still chuckling about the story he was telling. “What’s funny?” he asked when he caught Nicole’s grin.

“Nothing,” she answered quickly, her eyes locked on Elijah’s. “Just enjoying myself.”

Elijah let out a quiet laugh — low, dangerous, like he already knew how the night was going to end. His hand shifted under the table, not to stop her, but to catch her ankle in a firm grip. A warning disguised as restraint.

The squeeze said it all:

Keep playing, and I’ll make you pay later.

The rest of dinner happened in slow, looping waves—conversation rising and falling like warm tide, silverware clicking against porcelain, a chorus of easy laughter that should’ve softened the room and didn’t. Nicole kept her smile polished, chiming in when her father’s business partners dragged the talk toward new contracts and old grudges, but her attention never truly left the opposite end of the table. Every time she dared another swipe of her foot along Elijah’s shin, she felt the small, deliberate flex in his jaw, the measured sip of wine that meant he’d clocked her move and filed it away under later.

He didn’t let her forget it, either. Not with words—he barely spoke to her after that—but with the weight of his gaze whenever the laughter swelled loud enough to cover it. It was a touch all its own, a steady hand on the back of her neck from across polished wood and linen, saying I feel you acting up. I’m not gonna save you from what that earns.

By dessert, she’d slid her heel back on and tucked both feet primly beneath her chair like nothing had happened. It didn’t matter. The damage was done; the table felt smaller, the lights hotter, the air choked with unsaid things. When her father made a toast—something about good work and better friends—glasses lifted and clinked, and Nicole heard her own voice join the chorus while her pulse beat low and insistent, answering another rhythm that wasn’t the room’s.

Chairs scraped. Goodbyes layered the air. Men clapped Elijah on the shoulder, promising to call; women hugged Nicole, promised to set her up with somebody’s perfectly decent son. The house shifted from loud to quiet in pieces, and when the door finally shut behind the last guest, the silence that landed didn’t feel empty. It felt like a held breath.

Nicole carried plates to the kitchen because it gave her hands something to do. Steam curled up from the sink, wine stains bled into soapy water, the familiar domestic hum trying—and failing—to drown out the other hum in her blood. She rinsed and stacked, and still felt his gaze before she heard his steps.

“You gon’ leave all that for me?” her father called from the den, already settling into the comfort of his recliner and a game he’d pretend he wasn’t about to fall asleep on.

Nicole dried her hands on a towel and leaned into the doorway, smile easy. “I got the kitchen, Daddy. It’s your housewarming party part two.”

He waved her off, content. The TV volume went up a notch; the sound of a crowd roared through the walls. Nicole turned back to the sink and found Elijah in the reflection of the window, set back in the shadows just enough to make the chandelier glint off the edges of him—watchband, belt buckle, the silver on his fingers.

“I’ll take the trash out,” he said, voice low and steady, not looking away from her reflection. “Then I’m gettin’ some air.”

“Congratulations,” she said lightly, turning the faucet off. “Heroic.”

“Somethin’ like that.”

He picked up the tied trash bag with one hand, door whispering open, screen nudging after. The night rushed in—warm, crickety, thick with Florida’s late heat. Nicole counted to ten just to prove to herself that she could, that she had a choice, that what happened next would be fully hers. Then she wiped her hands one more time, smoothed the line of her dress like a woman who didn’t need to, and followed the path he’d left open.

The backyard had been dressed for company earlier—string lights draped in soft swags, citronella candles shouldering little halos, the patio table still littered with a few abandoned glasses. Now that it was quiet, the lights felt like stars bent low, listening. The grass held the day’s warmth; the air held the day’s whispers. Elijah stood at the edge of the patio near the old live oak, shoulders angled toward the dark yard, lighter in his hand and a thin roll-up resting behind his ear like a promise.

Nicole let the screen door fall soft behind her. It clicked anyway, and Elijah glanced back. That single flick of attention warmed her more than the summer night.

“You lost?” he asked.

“Found what I was looking for,” she said, matching his calm.

His mouth twitched. He took the joint from behind his ear, thumb rolled the filter, forefinger flicked the lighter. Flame licked, paper glowed, and smoke unfurled in a slow ribbon that caught the string lights and turned them a little hazy. He took the first pull like a man who knew how to savor, then held the smoke a beat too long, like a man who knew exactly who was watching.

She stepped closer. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to count the gold flecks in his eyes. “You gonna share or you just out here flexing breath control?”

He exhaled on a laugh, passing it to her between his first two fingers. His rings were cool against the back of her knuckles when she took it, his hand steady as a metronome while the heat at the tip traveled. Their fingers stayed there, overlapped, a half-second longer than manners would allow.

“Don’t test my patience,” he said, so quiet it barely disturbed the smoke.

“Maybe I like tests.” She drew in slow, felt the burn and softness hit her chest at the same time, held it till her eyes watered just a little. When she passed it back, she let her nail graze his palm. It was petty. It felt like victory anyway.

“You stay with the little games, huh?” He brought the tip to his mouth, eyes on hers the whole time. “Got all the jokes in front of folks. Feet busy under the table. Think I ain’t notice?”

Her face didn’t betray it. Her pulse did. “I don’t know what you mean,” she lied, calm as glass.

He stepped a half-shade closer. Not enough to be obvious if someone glanced through the den window. More than enough for her to smell him—cedar, a cut of bourbon he hadn’t even poured, the cologne she knew he used too sparingly on purpose. The smoke ribboned between them—sweet, slow, a curtain they kept passing through with every breath.

“You think I don’t see it?” he asked, passing the joint back; his fingertips brushed the center of her palm this time, drawing a small, involuntary shiver from her wrist to her throat. “How you look at me when you think I ain’t watchin’.”

Nicole let the smoke sit in her mouth before she took it down. It gave her time to tilt her head, to let her eyes go sleepy-cool. “Bold of you to assume I think about you at all.”

“Bold of you to stand here when you could be inside.” He leaned in the last inch to shield the cherry from the breeze, and the heat of him lapped at the shell of her ear. “You could’ve left me out here alone.”

“That why you came?” she countered, flicking ash into the tray on the patio table. “To be alone?”

He made a soft, amused sound. “Nah. I came for quiet.”

“And you want me to leave you to it?”

“I want you to stop pretendin’.” His hand lifted as if to reach for the lighter in her other palm; instead, his fingers brushed the heel of her hand, slow, then closed around the metal. The contact was nothing and everything—wrist to wrist, pulse to pulse, a handshake that told the truth with no witness but the night. He didn’t take the lighter yet. Neither of them moved.

From the den, her father laughed at something on TV, a broad burst of noise that rolled through the open window and died out here beneath the oak as if the yard refused to host it. Crickets took the space back. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked once and thought better of it.

Nicole dragged again, softer. When she passed it back, their hands didn’t part fast enough. His thumb brushed over the ridge of her knuckles, slow as an apology he’d never say out loud. Static jumped her skin; heat followed. She swallowed it like a secret.

“You gon’ keep acting brand-new?” he asked, the words warmer than the air. “After the little stunt under the table?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Got long legs. Tables are small.”

He smiled with his eyes more than his mouth, a flash of approval that felt like a hand at the small of her back. “Mm. You bold in the wrong rooms.”

“Maybe I wanted to see if you could sit still.”

“I’m sittin’,” he said. “For now.”

The joint burned lower; the smoke thickened. She should’ve stepped back. He should’ve let her. Instead, they hovered in the pocket they’d made—half-lit, half-wild, the kind of charged quiet where people say things they can’t walk back from.

“You stay talkin’ to me like I don’t know you,” he murmured finally. “But I see you when you not lookin’. I see you at these dinners, bored out your mind. I see you gettin’ smart ‘cause you scared to be sweet.” The smoke curled from his mouth, kissed her collarbone before the breeze stole it. “And I see the part you swear ain’t there.”

“You full of yourself,” she said lightly. It sounded thin to her own ears.

His smile cut precise. “Maybe. And maybe I’m just right.”

Their fingers met again when she reached for the lighter this time. He didn’t let go. For a second that stretched, they just held it together—the little metal thing suddenly a hinge, a leverage point, an excuse. Her skin went electric where his thumb pressed. Her body betrayed her with the smallest sway forward, a magnet seeking its twin. The breath she took wasn’t quite steady.

She laughed, quick and airy, trying to shake it off. “You always like this when the night gets humid?”

“Only when you walk out into it,” he said.

She meant to fire something back and found nothing loaded. The quiet wrapped them. She took one last pull to kill the cherry, crushed it gentle in the tray, and when she straightened, his eyes were exactly where they’d been all night—on her mouth, then her throat, then her mouth again. The look didn’t ask. It promised.

She broke it with a shake of her head and a soft, reckless grin. “You need to relax.”

He tipped his chin toward the dark yard, toward the quiet that had swallowed the house. “Thought that’s what we were doin’.”

“Mm.” She set the lighter down, but her hand didn’t leave the table. Not yet. “We’ll see if you got manners.”

“Manners?” he echoed, amused. “You tryin’ to test me again?”

“Maybe,” she said, and her body did what it had done at the table—told on her, pulse rising where his gaze could see it.

He noticed. Of course he did. “Keep laughin’,” he warned softly, eyes low and steady. “See what you earn.”

She held his stare, let the warning fall over her like warm rain, and smiled like a woman who already knew she wouldn’t run.

And when his knuckles brushed hers one more time—“by accident,” neither of them believing it—their hands didn’t pull away fast enough.

The walk back inside was quiet in steps but loud in pulse. Nicole kept her arms folded, not because she was cold but because she needed something to do with her hands. Elijah’s stride matched hers—measured, easy—but she could feel the heat rolling off him, the same heat that had followed her all through dinner, through smoke drifting in the backyard, through the brush of his thumb over her knuckles.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, and the shift was immediate—the hush of a house winding down for the night. The TV was off. Only the hallway lamp glowed faint in gold, throwing a warm shadow across the foyer. Her father’s voice cut through it, deep and relaxed as he moved toward the staircase.

“Goodnight, baby girl.” He kissed Nicole’s cheek, already half turned toward the steps. “Elijah, you know you welcome to stay the night. Guestroom’s there if you want it. Nicole, set it up for him, alright?”

Nicole’s throat bobbed, caught between protest and pretense. Elijah answered first, smooth and sure. “Appreciate it. I’ll take you up on that.”

Her father nodded, gave them both a smile that trusted too much, then disappeared up the stairs, each heavy footstep creaking against the wood until the last one faded into bedroom quiet.

Silence stretched in the wake. The house settled. Nicole’s pulse didn’t.

She turned toward the kitchen, needing distance, and found Elijah already leaning against the counter, watching her like the last two hours had been foreplay for this exact second.

“What?” she asked, sharper than she meant.

“You really gon’ keep pretendin’?” His voice was low, roughened silk. “Act like you ain’t been on me all night?”

“I wasn’t on you,” she snapped, moving past him to reach for a glass. Her hand shook just enough to clink it against the faucet handle. “You’re full of yourself.”

He pushed off the counter. The sound of his footsteps crossing tile made her chest tighten. “Nah. I’m full of patience. Been sittin’ on it while you out here playin’ games.”

Nicole turned, glass half full, and nearly spilled it when his body closed the space between them. The kitchen light painted his face in gold and shadow, jaw tight, eyes locked on hers like she was prey cornered and too stubborn to admit it.

“Say you don’t want me to touch you,” he said, breath brushing her cheek. “Go ahead.”

Her lips parted, the words stuck behind them. Silence was all the permission he needed.

The kiss hit hard. Filthy, teeth catching lips, mouths dragging open like they’d both been starving too long. The glass slipped from her hand, thunked against the counter without shattering, forgotten the second his palm bracketed her hip and dragged her flush.

She gasped into him, tried to push, ended up clutching. His tongue slid against hers, hot, tasting like smoke and bourbon and danger. Her back pressed into the counter’s edge; his thigh wedged between hers, thick and unyielding. The friction made her bite down on his lip, and he groaned like she’d just given him everything he’d been waiting for.

“You got a smart mouth,” he muttered against her jaw, dragging his lips down to her throat. “But right now, it’s just beggin’ me to use it.”

Her hands fisted in his shirt. “You think you’re the only one wantin’ this?”

“I know I’m the only one gonna have you like this.” His hand slid up her thigh, fingers pushing her dress higher, higher, until the hem bunched at her waist. Calloused fingertips skimmed the damp edge of her panties, and she jolted, breath sharp.

The creak of floorboards upstairs froze them both. Her father’s steps—slow, careful—crossed from one room to the other. Nicole held her breath, nails digging crescents into Elijah’s shoulder.

He didn’t stop. His finger hooked the band of her panties, tugged it aside just enough, the pad of his finger dragging through her slick folds like he was taking inventory. His mouth brushed her ear, whisper-dark and devastating:

“Keep quiet, baby.”

Her knees buckled, caught on his thigh, his hand holding her steady as he teased her entrance with the bare edge of his finger. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, but her body betrayed her, hips rocking into his touch, pulse thrumming like it wanted to give them both away.

The footsteps upstairs stopped. A door clicked shut.

Nicole exhaled shakily, and Elijah grinned against her neck, sliding his finger deeper with a slow, claiming push. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Now let me ruin you quietly.”

The kitchen lights were low, only the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the house settling upstairs breaking the silence. Elijah sat Nicole on the counter, her thighs pressed together in a nervous lock, though her smirk said otherwise. Elijah stepped between her knees like he’d been there a thousand times before, his big frame eating up the space.

“Spread ‘em,” he rasped, already tugging at the hem of her dress.

Her lips parted, ready to shoot something smart back, but the look in his eyes snatched the words right out of her throat. That dangerous mix of hunger and authority. She held his stare, slow as sin, and slid her thighs open.

His hand hooked into the lace at her hips, yanking her panties down like they offended him. He didn’t fold them, didn’t set them aside gentle — he tore them down her legs and let them drop on the tile. Nicole gasped when the cool air hit her bare skin, when the counter pressed cold under the swell of her ass.

“Look at you,” he muttered, spreading her knees wider until she was dripping open for him. “Talk all that shit to me across the table, but the second I touch you? Pussy wetter than the faucet.”

She rolled her eyes, but her chest lifted sharp with her breath. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Elijah’s grin was slow, dangerous. “Ain’t gotta. I can smell it.”

Then he buried his face in her. No warning, no tease — just his mouth wide, tongue flat, nose pressed into the heat of her. Nicole slapped a hand against the counter, the other gripping his head instinctively.

“Oh—fuck!” It ripped out of her before she could swallow it down.

He groaned into her, the sound vibrating against her clit, sloppy and greedy. He wasn’t trying to be pretty about it; he was trying to ruin her. His tongue dragged up and down her slit, then circled her clit, then shoved inside her, fucking her with his mouth like he hated the space between them.

Her head fell back against the cabinet, teeth digging into her lip to keep quiet. But it was no use — every time his tongue curled inside her, every time his beard scraped the inside of her thighs, a sound clawed out of her chest.

“Keep it down,” he muttered against her pussy, not lifting his mouth. “Don’t want Daddy comin’ down here, seein’ me eatin’ his daughter like my last meal.”

Her thighs trembled. The filth in his tone made her wetter, dripping down his chin. “You’re—fucking insane,” she gasped.

“And you love it.” His tongue flattened again, relentless, his hand sliding up to pin her belly down so she couldn’t squirm away. He licked her like he had something to prove — dragging every slick sound out into the air until it coated the room thicker than the smoke they’d shared outside.

Her body betrayed her, hips rolling up to meet every stroke of his tongue. He lapped her like he wanted to drink her dry, groaning every time she spilled more. His forearm curled around her thigh, locking her open.

“You taste like trouble,” he murmured, then sucked her clit so hard her whole spine arched. “Sweet, messy trouble.”

Nicole’s nails raked his scalp. She tried to push him back, only for him to growl and shove deeper, tongue fucking her so hard she felt the muscles in her stomach seize.

“Elijah—fuck, wait—”

“Mm-mm,” he cut her off, mouth glued to her. “You gon’ cum on my tongue. Right here, right now. Don’t fight it.”

Her body had no choice but to obey. Her thighs snapped shut around his head as the orgasm tore through her, hot and wet. She tried to choke it back, but her moans spilled, high and broken, the kind that carried even in a quiet house.

Elijah didn’t stop. He licked her through it, groaning like he was addicted, tongue dragging every drop from her until she sagged against the cabinet, limp and shaking.

When he finally pulled back, his beard was soaked, his lips glistening. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, then smirked up at her with dangerous satisfaction.

The air in the kitchen still smelled like her — sharp, sweet, musky — clinging to Elijah’s beard and dripping down his chin. Nicole’s chest heaved, sweat clinging to her collarbones. She thought he’d stop there, thought the risk of someone coming down the stairs would cool him off.

But the way he looked at her said otherwise.

He stepped in tighter, pressing his body between her open thighs until the rough fabric of his pants rubbed against her slickness. His hand slid up her spine, dragging her forward into him. He didn’t kiss her right away — he just stared, his lips wet, beard shiny from her. Then he tilted his head, voice a low rasp.

“You really think I can taste you like that and not fuck you?”

Her stomach flipped. Her hands pressed to his chest, meant to hold him back, but instead they curled into his shirt like she couldn’t let go. “My dad—”

“Asleep.” Elijah’s hand moved lower, gripping the meat of her thigh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the heat between her legs. “Only one I hear breathin’ right now is you.”

He kissed her then, filthy and unrestrained, his tongue shoving deep into her mouth like he wanted to own her from the inside out. She gasped against him, muffling the sound into his lips as he lifted her higher onto the counter. The scrape of his beard burned delicious against her skin as his mouth dragged down her neck, teeth catching her pulse.

“Quiet now,” he muttered, voice hot against her throat. “Don’t need him coming down here, interrupting us.”

Her body clenched at that — betrayal and thrill spiking together.

Then his pants came down. He didn’t bother with finesse, just shoved them to his thighs, his dick springing out heavy and throbbing. He pressed the swollen tip against her soaked slit, dragging slowly up and down, smearing her all over him. The sound alone was obscene.

Nicole gripped the edge of the counter until her knuckles ached. “Elijah—”

“Say it right.” His eyes pinned her in place. “Say Smoke.”

Her lips parted, a whisper breaking free. “…Smoke.”

That was all it took. He thrust forward, burying himself inside her in one brutal stroke that made her back slam against the cabinet. She choked on the moan, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes screwing shut. “Tight as a fist. Gonna ruin this pretty pussy right here on Daddy’s counter.”

He set the pace, slow at first, dragging out the stretch, savoring the way she clenched around him. Each withdrawal was torture, his dick sliding wet and heavy against her walls, only to slam back in deeper, harder. Her thighs shook, spreading wider to take him.

The slap of skin on skin echoed in the kitchen. The fridge hummed, the clock ticked, but all she could hear was the filthy wet sounds of him fucking into her and his low groans against her ear.

“You feel that?” Smoke pressed his forearm across her chest, pinning her to the cabinet, while his other hand gripped her hip. “Every inch sittin’ inside you.”

Her head rolled back, hitting the cabinet. She tried to breathe quiet, tried to hold the sounds in, but every thrust knocked another moan out of her.

Then a sound froze them both.

A floorboard creaked again upstairs.

They went still, her legs still wrapped around his waist, his dick buried to the hilt. Sweat rolled down her temple as she listened. Another shift, then silence.

Nicole’s heart slammed against her ribs. “We—”

“Shhh.” Smoke’s lips brushed her ear, his voice pure grit. “Stay still, baby.”

He gave one slow thrust, just to hear her choke down a whimper. His smirk was lethal. “See? Can’t even keep quiet. You need to get fucked where it’s safe before you get us both caught.”

Her body trembled when he slid out of her, her cunt clenching on emptiness. He yanked his pants up just enough to cover himself, then leaned close to kiss her — quick, filthy, sealing the taste of her moans on his tongue.

“Guest room,” he whispered, voice sharp with command. “Now.”

He lifted her off the counter, her legs still weak, panties left abandoned on the tile. She scrambled to grab them and the hem of her dress, tugging it down as best she could, her thighs sticky with him. He gripped her wrist and led her out of the kitchen.

The hallway creaked under their weight. The house felt cavernous in the dark, every step amplified, the risk sharpening every nerve. Nicole bit her lip, the adrenaline of being caught making her wetter, dripping down her legs as they climbed the stairs. Smoke’s hand never left her wrist, dragging her like she belonged to him.

The guestroom door shut with a soft click that felt louder than a gunshot in a sleeping house. A hush settled—thin, trembling, almost sacred. Nicole’s back met the wood for a heartbeat, breath catching high in her throat, and Smoke was right there, big body closing the distance like gravity had decided they belonged in the same shape.

He didn’t rush her. He pressed in slow, one palm spreading firm over the side of her neck, not choking—just claiming the real estate—his thumb skimming her pulse like a promise. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was the kind that eats the air, a dark tangle of tongue and teeth that said every second they’d held it together at the table had only wound them tighter. She chased his mouth as he dragged it away, a soft hungry sound caught between them.

“Bed” he rasped, voice rough from smoke and want, “now.”

She didn’t trust her voice. She nodded, fingers already fisting in the front of his tee, walking backward with him crowding every step, the world narrowing to the heat of him, the press of his thighs, the rough drag of denim at her hips when his leg slid between them. Her calves met the mattress, and the bed sighed under her weight as she sat, then lay back. The ceiling fan threw slow shadows over the ceiling, the moon through the half-closed blinds lined him in silver as he stood at the edge, looking down at her like a man who’d worked for something and finally had it in his hands.

They’d already stripped half their decency in the kitchen—her panties gone, the sweet, ruined ache of his mouth still humming between her legs; his pants unbuttoned, zipper eased, control frayed. Here, he took his time because time was cruel, and he liked the cruelty when it served him.

He came down over her on his forearms, body heavy but precise, settling his weight along hers so their chests met. The first contact was a low shock—her nipples brushing his tee, the warmth of his breath at her cheek, the scrape of his stubble on her jaw—then his mouth was on her again, deeper, wetter. She arched up into him like a reflex. He swallowed the little sound she made.

“Open,” he said, not a question. She opened.

His hands skimmed down, big palms mapping her ribcage like he’d been memorizing her by touch for years. He lifted, just enough to peel his tee up, baring thick shoulders, roped forearms, that deep cut line that ran to his waistband. The shirt dropped to the floor without him looking. Nicole’s fingers shook as they traced the planes of his chest, the heat, the ridiculous solidity. He caught one wrist and kissed the inside of it, then planted her hand above her head on the pillow, spread, as if he was framing her for the room to see.

“Dress,” he murmured.

She reached for the side zip; he batted her hand away, a flicker of a smirk in the dark. “I got it.”

He rolled the dress up from her thighs slow—no hurry, no mercy—dragging it high enough that cool air kissed skin his mouth would heat next. He paused at her belly and lowered his face, breathing her in, the barest scrape of teeth at the soft curve had her hips twitching. When he reached the neckline, he sat back on his heels and took the whole thing in one confident pull, the fabric whispering over her shoulders and head, leaving her bare beneath him, sprawled and trembling and already slick from the kitchen sins.

“Look at you,” he said, voice a satisfied drag. “Messy already.”

He bent to her breasts like a man saying grace—palms cupping them heavy, thumbs pressing her peaks until she gasped, then his mouth sealed around one, dark and hungry. He sucked until her back arched off the bed, then licked slow circles to cool the sting. His free hand slid down, down, knuckles grazing the downy trail of her lower belly until he found heat—slick, swollen, pulsing under his touch. He didn’t enter. He teased with two fingers, slow strokes through the wet, spreading it, marking her thighs with it.

“Thought about this all goddamn dinner,” he said against her skin, breath hot, words burning. “You, tryin’ to stare me down while soakin’ for me. You think I ain’t feel that? Thought I couldn’t smell you?”

Her breath hitched. “Elijah—”

He kissed the corner of her mouth to swallow her name, then shushed her with a drag of thumb over her lower lip. “Hush. Keep that sweet little mouth for later.”

He stood, and the bed gave a small protesting creak at the loss of his weight. He shoved his pants down his thighs, the denim catching at the thick line of him. His dick sprang free—heavy, dark, the blunt head wet and gleaming in the low light. She sucked in air like a drowning thing. He smirked at the way her eyes fixed, at the way her thighs pressed together without her permission.

“Spread,” he said.

She did. He climbed back in, bracketing her hips with his knees, and leaned forward until the heat of him lay against her slit, sliding lazy, painting her with pre-come, letting her feel how hard he was, how serious and unhurried and inevitable this was. She rolled her hips for more. He pulled back and denied it. She swore under her breath; he grinned.

“Beg.”

She stared up at him, chin tilted, fire and defiance and hunger all tangled in her face. She didn’t beg. Not in words. She arched, tilted her pelvis just so, and offered slick, open heat to the head of him, a wordless plea his body read just fine. The smile he gave her said that would do.

He lowered, hands under her knees, folding her open, the thick head catching and parting her, pressure building, then—slow, careful, lethal—he pushed in. Inch by claiming inch, he watched her mouth fall open, watched her scramble for a grip on his shoulders, watched her eyes glaze as the stretch lit every nerve in a slow burn. He exhaled a cuss when he bottomed out, hips flush to her, balls snug to the wet. He stayed there, buried, feeling the tight rhythmic squeeze around him.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, forehead dropping to hers. “That’s a grip.”

Her nails bit his back. “Move.”

“Imma move when I’m ready,” he said, and kissed her soft for exactly one second, like he wanted to prove he could. Then he levered up, braced, and finally gave her what she asked for—long, devastating strokes that dragged his length out almost to the tip and slammed back in, punching little gasps out of her, shaking the bed frame against the wall in a rhythm that felt dangerous in a quiet house.

She tried to say his name again; it came out a broken whine. He answered with a low noise in his chest, a rumble of satisfaction, and upped the tempo a hair—still not reckless, not yet, but enough that she couldn’t catch up to the pleasure. Enough that her thighs trembled and her voice kept dissolving.

He kissed her open mouth, swallowed the noise, and then broke the kiss with a ragged inhale. “Turn,” he said.

He didn’t make her do the work. He took her by the hip and shoulder and rolled her like a page in a book, keeping himself inside her, the twist smooth and controlled, his body following in one continuous pivot until her cheek was on the pillow and his broad chest was at her back. He hooked her top knee over his thigh and slid his arm around her throat—not crushing, but firm and absolute—his forearm a bar that anchored and owned. The other hand palmed her lower belly, fingers splaying over the soft there, claiming more territory.

Then he drove.

The angle hit a place that made her see stars—deep, relentless, unarguable. He fucked her balls-deep, every thrust a full-body decision, hips slamming into the round of her ass so hard the headboard ticked the wall in warning. She grabbed at the sheets and then at his forearm at her throat, not to pry it away but to hold it there, to meet the pressure with trust and heat.

“Breathe,” he murmured, voice a rasp against her ear. “I got you.”

She pulled in air when he let her, floated there, then he tightened a hair and the world went bright at the edges. Nothing existed but the wet-slick slide, the thick insistence of him filling her over and over, the anchored hold at her throat that made her feel contained and flung wide at once.

“Talk that shit now,” he gritted, thrusts getting meaner, the line of his body carved with effort. “All that mouth at dinner—where it go? Huh?”

A sound tore out of her, half-laugh, half-cry. “Shut up and—”

He snapped his hips so hard the end of the sentence collapsed into a raw moan. He laughed once, dark and pleased. “Exactly.”

His hand slid from her belly to between her thighs, fingers finding her clit slick and swollen. He circled once, twice, merciless, in time with the thrusts. Her entire body jolted; she bit the pillow and then bit air because biting wasn’t enough.

“Keep it quiet,” he warned, and then sabotaged the warning by pushing her closer to a place that made silence impossible.

The house answered like a sleeping thing—floor settling somewhere far away, the groan of old wood, the ghost of a pipe ticking, then quiet again. The fear threaded the lust and made it brighter. She rocked back to meet him, the wet clap of skin on skin obscene in the hush, and he growled a praise that melted into a curse.

“That’s it. Throw it back. Let me see you work for it.”

She did. She met him, angle for angle, stroke for stroke, and when she almost got ahead of him—when she tried to take control in that thin space—he locked both of their bodies down with that forearm and made a new, ruinous rhythm that had nothing to do with mercy. He shoved her up the bed, chased her, shoved again, chased again, until the sheet bunched under her and her hair stuck to her cheek in damp curls.

“Tell me,” he said, low and dangerous. “Tell me what I’m doin’ to you.”

She tried. It came out in tatters. “You— you’re… deep—”

“Deeper than that,” he corrected, and ground in a circle that lit her nerves like struck matches. “Say it.”

“Ruining me,” she gasped, voice breaking on the word. “You’re—ruining—”

“Good girl,” he said, and everything he put behind the praise wrecked her as much as the thrusts did.

She shattered on his hand, on his dick, on the pressure at her throat, the orgasm ripping through her in a series of helpless clamps that dragged a rough groan out of him. He didn’t stop. He worked her through it, rode her tremors until they blurred into a second wave, wetter and sloppier, her thighs shaking, her cries swallowed by his palm when he covered her mouth for a few brutal strokes to save them both from the house hearing the truth.

“Uh-uh,” he soothed when she writhed, overstimulated. “You asked for me. Take all of me.”

She didn’t remember asking with words. She’d been asking with months of fight. Her body answered anyway, answering yes, yes, yes on a loop while he dragged her past sweet into ragged.

Sweat slicked their skin, a salt sheen under the cool fan-breeze. His forearm at her throat was a brand now, his breath a harsh music at her ear, and his hips a steady machine, each drive bottoming out, the blunt head of his dick kissing a place that made her toes curl hard enough to cramp.

“Quiet,” he reminded when her voice cracked louder. He pressed his mouth at the hinge of her jaw, teeth grazing, and whispered filth that made her wetter. “Feel how you got me? Drippin’ all over me, squeezin’ like you tryna keep me. Drownin’ me, baby.”

She didn’t have language anymore. She had the rhythm. She had the ache. She had the way he owned the pace until she forgot there’d ever been any other. He slowed for three strokes, let her think relief was coming, then gave her five savage, deep drives that knocked her back to the edge. She cried out into his forearm and he smiled into her hair like a sinner satisfied at church.

“She mine,” he told the dark, as if the room needed a record. “Ain’t nobody else puttin’ her to bed like this.”

Another wave built. She felt it like a pull low in her belly, a bright thread winding tight. He felt it too; his fingers on her clit changed from circles to a steady drag that matched the thrusts, perfect and evil. The layered sensation—pressure at her throat, hand on her, dick deep—stacked until it broke her open again, harder than before, so hard she forgot the risk and said his name too loud.

He covered her mouth with his palm, breath stuttering. “That’s it,” he hissed. “Give it to me.”

She came with a tremor that wracked her from shoulder to ankle. The clench dragged his groan from somewhere animal; his hips stuttered. He chased it, swore, lost his rhythm, found it, lost it again. He was close—she could feel the tell: the way his thighs went iron, the way his breath went wild and ugly like he didn’t want to plead but might.

“Where you want it?” he grated, forearm easing enough to let her speak, the question a courtesy he might ignore.

“Inside,” she breathed, no hesitation. “Inside me.”

A sound tore out of him—half surrender, half victory. His hand left her mouth and slid up to hold her jaw, turning her face so he could take her mouth again as he chased the end. The kiss was messy, teeth and tongue and gasp. He broke it with a curse, slammed deep once, twice, three times, then locked there, buried all the way in, grinding like he could carve himself into her. Heat flooded, thick pulses emptying into her, a groan breaking loose from his chest that she swallowed like a prayer.

He didn’t pull out. Not immediately. He held her there, forearm easing from her throat to her collarbones, pressing her down with the weight of him, keeping every drop where he’d put it. The room spun slowly back into focus around their panting.

“Don’t move,” he said, more devotion than order now.

She didn’t. She lay in the heat of it, his sweat on her neck, his heartbeat pounding against her shoulder blade, spread and owned and too gone to pretend otherwise. The fan thumped a lazy beat. Somewhere in the house, a pipe ticked again. The silence hummed with the fact of them.

When he finally slid out, it was a slow retreat, a filthy slick sound that made them both hiss. His spend followed, warm spill on her thigh and the sheets. He caught it with his fingers on reflex, pressed two into her to push it back, not ready to give up the claim. She jerked; the overstimulation shocked through her nerves, a little whimper punching out. He murmured something low and fond and indecent at once, and eased his hand away.

The bed smelled like sex and heat and the kind of trouble that rewrites a life.

He rolled, gathering her to his chest, hauling her flat on her back, then tipped her easily to face him. Big palms framed her face, thumbs sweeping damp hair from her cheekbones. Up close like this, he was all dark eyes and thick lashes and satisfaction he didn’t bother to hide.

“You good?” he asked, low, the gravel gentled.

She nodded, throat tight, breath finally slowing. “Mhm.”

“Color?”

She breathed a laugh—small, grateful. “Green.”

“Yeah.” He kissed her forehead, then each cheek, then her mouth, soft this time, not devouring, more like sealing something they both knew had shifted. “Knew you could take it. Knew you needed it.”

She swallowed. The praise warmed places that had nothing to do with sex. “You’re impossible,” she whispered, but the words carried no fight.

“Mm. And you mouthy.” He brushed a knuckle over the faint sweep his forearm had left at her throat, not bruises yet, just the ghost of pressure. “Beautiful, though.”

He slid from the bed with a reluctant hiss at the loss of heat, padded to the adjoining bathroom. The faucet whispered to life; the dim glow of the vanity lit the doorway. He returned with a warm, damp towel and a glass of water. He cleaned her slow, careful, no rush now, cupping her knee, opening her with his palm to wipe the mess from her thighs, between, the sheet getting darker and darker under each pass. She watched him do it, watched his face soften in these quiet rituals that should have been nothing but felt like vows.

“Gimme your neck,” he said. When she tilted her chin, he pressed kisses to the tender skin, reverent, then rubbed a thumb over it like he was smoothing the memory into place.

“Big talker,” she murmured, teasing thin as breath. “Big… doer.”

He huffed a laugh that felt like a hand smoothing a sheet. “Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish. House asleep don’t mean I am.”

She snorted and winced when the movement tugged at muscle he’d worked mercilessly; he smirked like he’d felt it too. He dropped the towel, climbed back in, and gathered her under his arm, her head tucked under his chin, one leg flung over his thigh like she belonged there. His palm made lazy passes down her spine, the weight of it grounding.

For a long minute they said nothing. The night held.

Then, soft enough the darkness felt like it had to lean in to hear it, he murmured, “You drove me crazy tonight. Foot on me at that table. You know what that did?”

Her smile was a slow thing he felt against his chest. “Knew exactly.”

He kissed her hair. “Yeah. You did.”

A floorboard far down the hall whispered—the house turning over in sleep. They stilled, listening. Nothing followed. He exhaled, tucked her closer, and pressed one last kiss to the hinge of her jaw.

“Gon’ be sore,” he said, not sorry at all. “Gon’ think about me tomorrow every time you move.”

She hummed, a satisfied little sound. “Already do.”

“Good,” he said, and turned off the last stray thought with the steady weight of his arm. “That’s what I wanted.”

The fan kept its quiet spin. The moon moved a fraction across the blinds, laying new silver stripes over the wrecked bed. In the hush, the claim settled—not a word, but a fact—and the rest of the house never knew a thing.

The house smelled like coffee and butter toast by the time Nicole padded down the hall. Her body ached deliciously—deep in her thighs, at the back of her throat where his forearm had pressed, in the stretch of her hips that still hummed with him. Every step whispered of last night. She’d scrubbed the evidence from her skin in the shower, but she couldn’t wash away the soreness, the phantom pulse that reminded her of what they’d done.

Her dad was already at the kitchen table, mug in hand, glasses perched low on his nose as he scanned the paper. Elijah sat across from him, broad shoulders relaxed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when Nicole entered. She forced her face neutral, praying the heat in her cheeks didn’t betray her.

“Morning, baby girl,” her dad said warmly. “You sleep okay?”

She nodded, sliding into the seat next to him, careful not to glance too long at the man across the table who had ruined her on her side, whispering filth into her ear hours earlier.

Elijah sipped his coffee slow, eyes flicking up to catch hers over the rim. That look was quiet, deliberate, and it stripped the air out of her lungs. She dropped her gaze, stabbing butter into her toast with more force than necessary.

Her dad folded the paper and looked at Elijah. “Glad you stayed, man. Always good company. You drive safe heading out, alright?”

Elijah leaned back, that easy grin sliding into place like armor. “Always. Appreciate the hospitality.”

Nicole’s dad rose, kissed her temple, and clapped Elijah on the shoulder before heading down the hall to grab his briefcase.

The second his footsteps faded, Elijah’s chair scraped back. “Walk me out?”

Nicole’s heart stuttered. She swallowed her nerves, muttered something about needing air, and followed him out the front door.

The morning was soft and golden, dew still clinging to the grass, the world so deceptively innocent it made her shiver. Elijah’s truck sat in the drive, black paint catching the light, a hushed witness to their night.

At the driver’s side, he turned, crowding her back against the warm metal door. He didn’t touch her—too risky with curtains that could twitch open at any second—but his presence pressed heavy, all six-plus feet of him a reminder of what she’d taken and what he’d given.

“You walkin’ alright?” he asked, voice low, threaded with smug concern.

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying not to smile. “You know damn well I’m sore.”

His teeth flashed in a wicked grin. “Good. Wanted you rememberin’ me every step you take today.”

She exhaled hard, glancing back at the front door. “My dad’s in the kitchen. You can’t—”

He leaned closer, his breath feathering her ear, cutting her off. “Your dad think I’m just his boy sittin’ at the table. He don’t know I had you beggin’ into the pillow. Don’t know I left you dripping all over that guest bed.”

Her knees wobbled. She gripped the edge of his jacket to keep steady. “You’re insane.”

“Insane for you,” he said, no pause, no shame. “Always been.”

The door creaked faintly behind them—her dad clearing his throat inside. Nicole jerked back, pulse spiking. Elijah only chuckled, opening the truck door. He climbed in, started the engine, and let it purr loud enough to cover the tension.

Before pulling off, he leaned out the open window, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not his grin. “Text me when you get home. Want proof you made it safe—and proof you’re thinkin’ about me.”

Her father’s shadow stretched across the porch. Nicole forced her lips into a polite smile, waving as the truck rolled down the street.

But her chest burned with a secret only she and Elijah carried: last night, her dad’s best friend had claimed her in every filthy way—and she wanted more.

Terry Richmond would likely be the death of you.

Not for any violent reason; the rough pads of his fingers just felt heavenly against your skin as he idly rubbed them across your neck. He sat behind you on a stool and had you tucked in front of him, so that the heat of his chest seeped through your back and warmed you in all of the right places. All of them.

A soft rock band called Infinity Song was on a small stage belting out their most popular song, Hater's Anthem. The sibling quartet had a vibrancy on stage as they danced along with the music, played instruments, and engaged back and forth with the intimate audience.

When Terry suggested that you go to a distillery for a date…yeah, you had reservations. But it surprised you with the wide open patio behind the distillery's bar that had a roof so you weren't getting burnt by the setting sun, a food truck that made the most delicious pizza you'd ever had outside of Italy itself, and plenty of wooden benches, tables, and stools to linger around. Plus, the smell from the grains used to make the whiskey was absolutely divine and you wished you had a candle to capture it. The music had a folksy, almost R&B kind of feel that made you sway your shoulders.

The middle of the floor was kept open for people who wanted to dance and there were plenty of couples both young and old who took advantage. There was an older Black couple on the floor dancing, the man twirling his wife around. His wife had the biggest grin across her face, instantly making her look like she was in her twenties again. The husband only had eyes for her and you had to blink away some unexpected tears.

"You want another drink?" Even sitting down, Terry was a massive giant. His lips pressed against the top of your ear so as he spoke his lips tickled you. His breath fanned across your neck and you suppressed a shiver.

"Yes, please," you said.

"Another Sweet Potato?" He asked. You nodded so he collected the empty glasses on the small, square table and walked towards the bar. He wore light wash denim jeans, a long sleeve white thermal, and thick heavy boots. His gold chain rested on the inside of his shirt, but every now and then, it caught the light and sparkled against his almond colored skin. The bar was located inside the distillery, so he bent to clear the door and then disappeared inside.

You finally had time to breathe and collect yourself. It had been six, long months of not going further than second base. That was your decision and Terry had been nothing but a gentleman, willing to go at your own pace. You started the six month standard because these men out here were absolute dogs.

You'd never met a consistent liar who could be patient for six months and abstain from sex. If you were going to invite someone into your bed, they better have the personality to match the bass in their tone. And so far…Terry most definitely matched it. He was funny with his dry humor, sexy as sin, and was nothing but a gentle giant. Those stormy eyes and secret smirk of his promised there was a whole other side to him you weren't familiar with and you were excited to see where that took you.

But he also frightened the absolute hell out of you. Terry walked like it was heavy with big steps and a slow gait. More than a few times, you felt that monster brush up against your hand while making out or against your ass when he stood behind you. And that was him at rest. You'd never taken someone as big as him and quite frankly, you didn't know what to do with all of that.

You had better learn quick though, because you didn't know how much longer you could hold out. Terry exited the bar with two glasses and he smiled as he walked back to you. Every time you saw him, however brief the absence, he took your damn breath away. He was letting his hair grow out, so he had a neat crop of curls that made your belly flip. He handed the glass to you and you took a sip, letting the whiskey cocktail work its magic. It had a toasted marshmallow as a garnish and you took bites as you sipped the drink.

Terry returned to his seat behind you, tucking you back into his chest. One hand wrapped around your waist possessively, while the other wrapped around his own drink. You weren't typically a whiskey girlie, especially the high proof ones Terry preferred, but this had been one of the best dates you'd ever went on.

"So what did you think about my band?" Terry asked.

"Not bad, not bad," you had to turn to the side just to be heard over the music. Your shirt rode up, exposing your back. Terry adjusted your shirt without prompting, pulling it down to protect your modesty. Your heart and pussy melted even further.

One of the female members, Momo, wore a sparkly blue dress that caught the light from the bulbs around the sign proclaiming them as the headliner for the night. She was in the middle of a solo song, so it was easier to talk, but only just.

"I see why you like them. They have a vibe," you continued.

Terry nodded. "A friend introduced me to them after her wife put her on. I figured you'd like them."

"Oh, you know me like that, huh?" You asked. You grinned at him and he playfully narrowed his eyes.

"I know a lot about you," he said quietly and from the look in his eyes, you wondered just how much he knew. As if he could read your mind, his thumb absently caressed your hip.

"Yeah? Like what?" You asked.

Terry only responded with a smirk. The bastard. He took a sip of his drink and his fingers wrapped around the glass in a way that made it look tiny. His lips wrapped around the edge and you watched, mesmerized, as his throat worked to take a quick sip.

The song ended and everyone began to clap and cheer, pulling you from eye-fucking the man. The oldest band member, Abraham, started talking to the crowd, saying they were going to play one more and then end the night. He thanked everyone for coming out, sounding like he was sixty-seven with his mannerisms and proper way of speaking.

"Dance with me," Terry said.

You turned back to him and nodded. Maybe that was what you needed. Because after sitting and drinking, you were warm and fuzzy all over forgetting why you had the rule in place. You needed some movement, somewhere for all the pent-up energy to go.

Terry stood and held out his hand for you. Other couples had the same idea, getting onto the dance floor as well. You took his hand and let him lead you to a spot and then he drew you closer, pulling you by the waist so that there wasn't an inch of space left to the imagination.

Terry drew you into him and you fit like the last piece of the puzzle. He was able to hold you and make you feel wholly engulfed in him even though your hand was on his shoulder and not round his neck or he had to bend slightly to hold you. He didn't complain, didn't show an ounce of it bothering him, as he carefully maneuvered you around the other dancers flailing their partner around.

Terry's thumb rubbed circles into your back and you kind of regretted the thick, ribbed, mustard colored shirt. You felt his thumb, but you wanted to feel it skin to skin. You shook that errant thought away.

"You are so damn beautiful," Terry said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest and vibrated against yours.

You dipped your head so he wouldn't see the bashful grin on your face. "You are very good for the ego, Mr. Richmond," you giggled. "Thank you."

Terry chuckled, spun you away from him, spun you back, and dipped you slightly. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" You couldn't help but ask. This man was impossible.

Terry righted you and smirked. "Doing what?" He asked, picture of innocence.

"This…you…" You couldn't bring yourself to name it because he had it. He had a presence most people didn't. Intense but not stiff, confident without being cocky, or secure without throwing his weight around. It was honestly a miracle no one had snatched him up by now.

Hell, you were doing the same thing in a way. Keeping him at arm's length because there was no way someone like him could exist. He wasn't perfect, not by a long shot. He had a few habits that bothered you but not enough to kick him to the curb. He was a terrible dancer with any song faster than a slow dance, drank whiskey that could choke a horse, and was an early riser.

None of that lessened the impact he had on you whenever you got around him. Like all of those minor annoyances faded to the background the minute he smirked or joked. And when he gave you a full, unobstructed view of that grin…it fueled plenty of fantasies over the weeks.

It doesn't have to be a fantasy.

Terry spun you again, waiting for your response. But the only thoughts on your mind right now…was filthy and disgusting and you were tired of fighting it. You gave up, gave in, and surrendered.

When you were back against his chest, you looked him in the eye and grinned. "Take me back to your place?" You asked.

His eyebrows shot up in the most adorable way but he recovered enough with a grin. "Are you sure? There's no pressure," he said.

You pressed closer to him, your boobs resting against his chest. "I want you," you said with a low, sultry tone. It'd been long enough. You were God's strongest soldier for six months and now you were beyond denying yourself what was clearly a fun ride. You'd just have to communicate that he had to go extremely slow. Otherwise he'd split you open and you didn't want to explain that to EMT's.

Terry's eyes dipped from your titties and then to your face. Without hesitation, he grabbed your hand and dragged you off of the dance floor. Your giggles were impossible to stop as he grabbed your jacket and helped you into it. He chuckled with you, the both of you acting like you were teenagers off to do something naughty.

Terry pushed the boundaries of speeding as he drove to his place, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your thigh. The casual way he showed his possession was one of the first things that made you fall for the man. Consent was always sexy, but sometimes you wanted to feel wanted. And he made you feel wanted each and every time you were around him.

Terry pulled into his driveway, outside of a modest one story brick house with white trimmings and a black roof. You'd been here plenty of times before over the months you'd started dating, but now practically felt like the first time.

Terry hopped out, coming round to your side to help you out of his colossal truck. Once out, it took no time at all for him to open his door and let you inside. He flipped on a few lights to illuminate the way, but once the door was closed, his lips descended upon yours.

You kissed him back, no longer restricting yourself. No longer holding yourself back. You gave yourself permission to enjoy the way his soft lips crashed to yours, as if should he stop, even for a second, you'd disappear. Your hands wrapped around his shoulders, digging your nails in.

His knee pushed your thighs apart and then he rested it against your pussy, giving you much needed pressure but it wasn't enough for any true relief. His hands grabbed and squeezed your ass, sitting you more fully on his knee. You moaned into his mouth, the whiskey on your tongue dancing with his.

Your brain needed more oxygen so you were forced to break apart to get more air into your lungs. Terry's hands went wandering, unbuttoning your shirt to reveal your brown lacy bra beneath it.

He groaned as he looked his fill. He cupped your breasts, kneading the soft flesh, and ran his thumbs across your nipples.

"Fuuuuck," you moaned.

"So fuckin' beautiful," he murmured.

The alcohol plus his comments made your cheeks turn flaming hot. Sweat beaded against your temple and your rational side fought with your irrational side. You needed to slow down, needed to get a few ground rules out of the way. But your body wanted more, more, more. Your hips canted against his knee, seeking a type of relief that only comes with either his mouth, fingers, or dick.

His juicy big lips returned to yours and he sucked on your bottom lip. You felt the answering tug in your pussy, your clit throbbing for some attention as well.

"Terry, wait," you whispered, so out of breath you were light headed.

Terry immediately stilled, his hands around your waist and he pulled back to look at you. "Talk to me," he said.

You giggled at the seriousness but he was only turning you on more. "I, uh, I should," you started but took a deep breath and started over. "I very much want to have sex with you. But I think we should go slow. You know how big your dick is, right?"

Terry chuckled, closing his eyes to laugh with his full body. He shook in your arms and you couldn't help but join in. When he sobered, he gave you a serious look. "We can go as slow as you want, I promise."

You nodded but you weren't that convinced. After all, that monster pushed against the fabric of his jeans and it looked painful. Something on your face must've given away your thoughts, because Terry retreated.

"Wait, no!" You said.

Terry chuckled and stepped closer once more. The heat of his skin was a balm to your racing heart. The woodsy scent of his soap wrapped around you until that was the only thing you could smell. One of his hands came up to cup your face. His thumb traced a pattern against your jaw and he gave you a kiss so damn tender, you gasped. "We have plenty of time to explore all of the ungodly things I want to do to you. But tonight, we'll take it as slow as you want. Deal?"

"Deal," you said with a grin.

He stepped back so he could untie his boots. You did the same, kicking off your shoes and taking off your jacket. Your shirt hung loose from when he opened it, so you let that fall to the floor as well.

Terry grabbed your hand and led you further into the house, bypassing a cozy living room with the bare essentials and dark, wooden tables and a leather sofa. His kitchen was just as clean, not a fork or cup out of place. At the end of the hallway, Terry turned on the light to his bedroom, dimming it to make it more intimate.

The curtains were drawn and his king-sized bed still looked too small for his big ass. The carpet underneath muffled your footfalls as you joined him at the foot of the bed, reaching for each other at the same time to peel off your clothes.

His shirt went first, his gold chain swinging and then settling back against his broad chest. He had a light smattering of hair dusted around and you greedily ran your hands all over him. He did the same, his hands never lingering anywhere long as if he didn't know where to start.

He opted for your jeans, unbuttoning them and stripping it and your panties in one fell swoop. You stepped out of it, taking your socks off as well. You helped Terry with his pants, giggling as you fought with the button.

"It's a little tricky," he said.

"I can handle a button," you said, tugging the damn thing free and sliding the zipper down. He hissed as your fingers brushed his erection through his boxer briefs, his long eye-lashes fanning across his cheeks as his eyes narrowed with unfiltered lust.

Fully naked, Terry backed you into the bed. Once the back of your legs hit the edge, he pushed you onto it and encouraged you to bare yourself to him. He kept his hands on your knees, looking at the very core of you.

"Terry," you squirmed from his scrutiny.

"You are so damn gorgeous," he said, looking at you like you just presented him with the best gift ever. Yup, this man would be the death of you.

"You're so fuckin' hot, it hurts," you confessed.

Terry gave you a sexy grin and then knelt on the ground. He wrapped his arms beneath your legs and then yanked until your ass half hung off the bed. Without preamble, his lips suckled your clit into his mouth and you screamed from the pressure.

Terry suckled, licked, and kissed on your pussy until his mouth was coated with your juices. Your body flailed on the bed, gripping the berry colored comforter with everything you had. Your nails dragged against the fabric as your body tried to process Terry's wicked machinations.

"Oue shit, oue shit," you moaned, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. His popcorn ceiling winked in and out of view, your mind caught between the physical plane and somewhere else entirely. Somewhere of Terry's own making because all you could hear was him moaning. All you could feel was his tongue lapping up your juices like a man starved. The scent of your essence filled the room quickly; Terry turning you on so much that you'd explode right there on the spot.

One hand kept you open for him while his other arm jerked. You had enough strength to peek and found his arm jerking furiously. You moaned and went off like a firework, building and building, until your body broke apart in a shower of sparks and light and colors.

Terry didn't slow. He kept going, tasting one orgasm with a lick of his lips and a curse and then wrung another one right behind it. "Shiiiiiit," you moaned, your thighs squeezing his head. You didn't mean to, but fuck, you couldn't help yourself. It felt too good. Too amazing. So damn good you feared you died somewhere in the middle of it and his tongue brought you back.

Terry moved both his hands to open you wider while he drowned in your pussy. Your legs shook from being too sensitive. You slapped at his head and whined. He chuckled and then moved to nibble and kiss your thighs.

"I want you to ride me. You can control the pace," he whispered against your slick thighs.

"Can't. Too dead," you panted for air.

Terry chuckled. He nipped your thigh and you jerked, ending it with a giggle. He chuckled again while he stood up. "Dead folk don't giggle."

You groaned but it was time to put your money where your mouth was. You got to your elbows and examined every delicious inch of him. His body was well-honed and chiseled from many hours spent in the gym or hiking. Corded muscle flexed with every movement he made. His dick swung heavily, tapping lightly against his thigh.

You lied. You were not prepared for how big he was. The pants he's worn around you must've been designed to hide it, because there was no way this was the same dick you felt up on earlier.

"You better stop lookin' at me like that," he said with a smirk. He turned to approach his nightstand, pulling out lube and a condom.

"Or what?" You taunted, getting onto your knees to walk across the bed to him. He sighed as you ran your hands over his shoulders, his back, and down his bubble ass. You gripped him tight and he chuckled.

"Or I'ma put you through this mattress," he said. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he turned away to uncap the lube.

"I'm on the pill," you said and kissed his back.

He stilled. "Don't play with me right now." His voice took on a darker, raspier tone that made you shiver.

"I want you. No barriers. If you're comfortable," you said. You waited long enough. You just wanted to feel him in every way you could. Anyone else, you'd tell them to double wrap it. But Terry could have you ten ways from Sunday and you were done denying yourself that.

Terry growled low in his throat. He turned and gave you a scorching kiss, hot enough to make your skin bead with sweat. He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself in the middle. He pulled you until you climbed on top of him, reverse cow girl, popping your ass in his face.

He chuckled and gave you a few quick smacks. You moaned while he grabbed the lube and rubbed his dick with it. "We go at your pace, okay?"

"Yes, sir," you said.

"Fuck me, you're perfect," he said. He helped guide you until he was lined up. Then he let you take over as you slowly took him in.

It burned deliciously but it did burn from the stretch. How the hell did women bounce on big dicks like their favorite trampoline? His tip was barely inside you and you were ready to call it quits.

"Nice and slow. There's no rush. Take your time, baby," he encouraged as you slipped further and further down. You leaned up and then slid back down on it, finding a nice, slow rhythm.

He hummed and groaned, digging his thumbs into your back. "Ouue shit," you moaned. Between his fingers and his dick, fuck cloud nine. You were on cloud five hundred.

He gave you wet kisses to your back while you rode him but you couldn't manage to fit all of him inside. It was already too much. He filled you completely, dick throbbing deep inside. You felt every last veiny inch of him sliding against your slick inner walls.

"Sit on it," he demanded.

You shook your head, though he couldn't see your face.

"No fuckin' way," you sighed with a giggle.

Terry chuckled. He gripped your arms and pulled you backwards, opening you in a way that you were able to fit more of him inside. He leaned forward and then trapped your arms when he brought his hands around to cup your breasts and squeeze your nipples.

"Oh fuck," you moaned, your pussy clenching around the length of him.

"Sit your pretty ass on this dick. To the base," he commanded, his deep voice working a spell on you.

"I can't," you whispered. You were too afraid, too nervous to take him fully. You didn't know why. Or perhaps you did and you just didn't want to face the truth. This man was going to ruin you for all others.

He already has.

You whined, but you worked with him, trying to work more of him inside. He retreated so that he could apply more lube, the sweet, sweet man making sure that you were comfortable. Then, he slammed you down in one rough thrust that immediately made you scream, curse, and go cross eyed as another orgasm tore through you. Your nails raked his thighs as the overwhelming pleasure was a little too much. Nothing made sense; you're pretty sure you could taste colors, as Terry fucked you through it.

Nonsense poured from his lips as you took him to the base. The pace was still lazy and slow, but he made you feel it all. He thrust a few more times.

"I'm finna bust," he groaned low in the back of his throat.

He bit your shoulder, fingers pinching your nipples to bring delectable pain, as he finally bust. His hot cum flooded you, gushing out, causing you to smack lewdly against his pelvis. He groaned and jerked, his dick throbbing a steady beat.

"Fuuck," you whined. You couldn't describe how otherwordly it felt while he emptied himself, but it was over too soon as he panted against your damp skin.

"You're fuckin' perfect," he said. He turned your chin so that he could kiss you. It was an awkward angle, but you were already greedy for more. He nibbled on your lower lip before he pulled away to nuzzle your neck.

"Wanna get cleaned up?" He asked.

You already felt him throb once more, his erection was only half mast but seemed to be rising. You chuckled and looked back at him. "You are so damn nasty," you said with a wide grin.

"I can be worse," he promised.

You had no doubt in your mind that he could be. It didn't stop you from following him into the shower where you got all kinds of dirty before you could get cleaned up again.

Yup, Terry Richmond would be the death of you. And that didn't matter one bit to you.

The end.

Thank you so much for reading. There's so much more!

The Secret Terry Richmond Files

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“Apparently Annie had been released from jail. How you feel?”

Seventeen years and Smoke didn’t visit her once. He had let Stack handle the parlor mess, too busy clearing his image.

“Like a busy businessman, Stack. You deal with her.”

“She was your girl Smoke. Melannie took those years for you.”

“And I’m grateful.” He signed another paperwork and looked at his brother, pen still in hand. “But when the past is dirty. You mopped it clean.” He stood up and tapped his brother’s shoulder once — firm, final. “Give me great news by tonight.”

Smoke left his office and Stack stood there, cupping his face.

Killing a stranger was not complicated.

But killing his best friend was something he never expected to do in his life.

He dialed Tay — one of his men he’d ordered to tail Melannie.

“Hey. Is there movement? (…) the 9th Avenue? (…) keep an eye on her.”

San Jose penitentiary should have been more strict — Stack had thought, still outraged by Smoke’s orders.

“I’m sorry poupée, your last time is now.”

“Melannie— you don’t listen to me at all. I have children, I can’t have you there.”

“Shana I just need somewhere to sleep until I figure out how to get my share.” Annie begged, explaining.

“And from what? The biggest Chocolate Factory in the country? The recipe you handed to your ex-husband who happened to be one of the richest men alive? And as who exactly? A jailbird sentenced for selling edible drugs and allegedly being part of a dangerous gang?”

Annie clenched her jaw, working it. Her eyes flicked side to side — a small habit she’d picked up somewhere between year two and year three inside. She wasn’t always aware she did it.

“You safe here?” She asked.

“Why?” Shana retorted.

“I’m under a plea deal, I can’t tell you everything — but I didn’t do all of that. Please. Just this one night. I’ll—”

“I begged Stack. He made sure nobody demolished your pastry. You can stay there. Here it’s not possible Melannie, I got kids. Sorry.”

Annie understood. Of course it would be troublesome with children around.

She smiled short, eyes dropping to her shoes. “I’ll take the keys please.” She concluded.

“Here.”

Shana pressed the keys into her palm and shut the door. Annie stood on the step a beat, then moved. Cautiously she worked the neighborhood block by block, reading each street before she crossed it. Then came the national lane — she made a stop, exchanged two words with an old woman on a porch — then drove through the highland road to her destination.

“Thank you very much.” She said to the old woman.

Her pastry sat two stops away. From there she could already see the sign, tilting east the way it always had.

She didn’t move immediately.

“You best pull the trigger before me.” She exhaled, her hand hovering over her front waistband. “Stack.”

“I’m sorry Annie…”

POW.

A gunshot. A body hitting the dusty valley floor, blood opening dark into the dry ground.

It wasn’t hers though.

“A millisecond ago and I would have been the one dying on this ground.” She crouched, balancing the pistol over Stack’s glazing eyes. “The little guy you ordered to follow me around. What was his name again?”

A strangled moan. That was all she got from the man agonizing under the valley’s hellish sun.

“Ha.” Annie sighed. “It’s difficult to talk with broken ribs.” She slid her sunglasses on. Her red polished fingers drummed the gun’s chamber while her brain ran a mile. “I will call an ambulance.”

Stack spat blood — his eyes dangerously shutting.

“Convey this message to Smoke.” She stood, smoothed her jeans, and smiled. “I’m coming to visit, papa.”

The ambulance siren announced her departure. She walked, unhurried, and disappeared inside the pastry building.

Nothing prepared Smoke for that kind of news.

The first chair hit the floor before his assistant finished the report. Books cleared from the shelves in one sweep of his arm, paper scattering across Italian marble. The office that had taken three interior designers and four months to complete absorbed it all without comment.

Then the carnage stopped.

He straightened. Adjusted his cuffs.

One could still read the rage on his face, a different kind from minutes ago : more controlled, cold and calculated.

“Sir, the reunion—”

“Therise.” He cut a deadly glance at her. “Tell Conrad to bring the car.”

Therise’s strict bun spiked but the hairs at her edges curled, moistening. Therise disliked working for the Moore. She had once begged her husband Conrad to resign but he’d refused, mentioning stupid words like loyalty and friendship.

Dead men don’t bother themselves with futilities. Yet Cornbread — that how she used to call him — failed to understand.

What kind of friend always rang your phone when he needs you to clean the mess he made? And Therise might not know every details but something was fishy about that sudden summon.

“Alright Mr Moore.”

She would tell her husband — Conrad — about the urgency, hopefully he learned the truth on his own soon.

She left.

Standing in the middle of his office wreckage, Smoke exhaled through his nose before dropping into his chair and loosening his tie. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, repeating Tay call : Stack. Hospital.

An uncalled sneering laugh escaped his lips.

“Viper.” He muttered, tasting the word. “You didn’t lose anything to the years after all.”

He leaned over his desk and picked up the phone :

“Aymar. I want full badge access on every floor by end of week. Staff, maintenance, catering, everybody walking through that building gets badged or they don’t walk through. Visitors need a clearance code out of my office before they even pull into the parking lot.” He opened his drawer, uncapped a pen and started signing where he’d left off. “No code, no entry, zero exceptions. I don’t care if it’s the mayor, no code means your boys turns them around at the gate.” He wrote something down. “I want the system live before Friday. Make it happen.”

He hung up and leaned back.

Annie wanted his empire. Fine. She was welcome to try.

“Kff— Kff…Damnit they could have at least keep it clean— Kff Kff” Melannie coughed, covering her mouth with her palm.

The whole room was covered of dust and spider webs. Tables were flipped over, chairs stacked against a far wall, the floorboards were covered of bullets marks.

Annie locked the entry behind her and lit up the light. At least Stack kept paying the bills. It couldn’t be Smoke that was for sure.

She crouched, dropped her gun by her side, fluttered the marks with her fingertips and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Elijah—“

“Gnn— baby no—! Leave her alone”

The cuffs tautening, chafing her wrists.

The police siren’s sound.

Stack knocked unconscious on the ground, riddled with bullets.

Two officers pressing their forearms against Smoke’s neck — his whole body crashed on the floor.

And Pearline. The young woman she had welcomed in, not meeting her gaze, discussing with officers.

She hadn’t heard clearly, nothing else than a congratulations agent and Pearline smiling small, wearing a police badge.

An Indic then.

“That bitch.” Annie opened her eyes, breathing hard.

She stood up and walked around the counter to the back quarters. Nothing changed, except for the spiders’ webs, dusty windows and—?

“Where is it?” Alarmed, she searched for her souvenir.

A odd one.

Not like she was attached to it in anyway but it was hers : that picture of three of them.

At the time when love and friendship meant something. That time where money and ambition were far away from their threshold.

Nowhere to be found. It seemed useless to keep searching.

“I could use a drink.” Annie sighed, balancing her bag on the too worn mattress. “That being said, let clean up a bit.”

She styled her coils in a loose bun and walked out to the grocery store. The street changed — the barbershop she’d known were replaced by a Western Union spot, beside it, the store itself grew bigger but kept the same narrow aisles and the same fluorescent buzz overhead that gave everybody the same ashy undertone under the light. She grabbed a basket at the entrance, moved through without stopping, picking her essentials : bleach, scrub brush, mop head, garbage bags, a bar of soap, a washcloth and some other little things she might need.

The teen cashier looked at her up and down then inside of her basket and said : “28$”

Annie didn’t move.

“I said 28$.”

“Your education? Kinda cheap I must say.”

The boy’s ears went red. He cleared his throat and looked back at his register. “28 dollars ma’am.”

Annie sneered and counted the bills. She gave him the exact amount — no more no less, took her bags and exited.

She spent hours mopping, scrubbing, cleaning the quarters from the bathroom to the kitchenette. Her labors done, she prepared her bath, filling the old tub until the pipes stopped groaning. She undressed, stepped in and sat with her knees bent, eyes closed, the water cooling around her by the time she was done. She dried off, pulled on clean clothes — dark jeans, a fitted top, her jacket over it — checked the gun, slid it back into the waistband and picked up her bag.

“I’m wondering if Joe still by the Avenue.” She left by the back door and locked behind her.

Stack was half conscious when Smoke crossed the threshold of the hospital sterile room. He dropped into the chair at his bedside, taking in him hooked to half a dozen machines.

“How’s the viper’s bite?”

“Just a little kiss…” Stack struggled to retort, his ribs broken and aching.

“Ts. I wonder where she learned to aim that well.” He smirked, praising his own teaching.

“Hope you keep that smile — gnn.” Stack winced.

“What do you mean?”

“She left a message for you. I’m coming to visit, papa.”

Smoke’s eyes widened and he grinned, a cigarette hanging between his lips, unlit.

That crazy woman.

He let out a short chuckle then turned toward the door. “Guess I’ll have to set an extra plate then.” He muttered, amused. “I had the guys outside your room tonight. Rest.”

He left.

Conrad kept the drive in pure silence. At least for one or two miles, then he cracked up.

“I heard Annie is back, Smoke.”

“Mhm. I also heard.”

“What you going to do, I mean between you all?”

“Cornbread.” He cut straight.

The bulky chauffeur stiffened, hands tightening on the wheel. He felt the air turned icy.

“Me and Annie it’s over. I don’t spend time between jail bird’s legs.” He opened the car door, as they arrived in his sumptuous six stories full glasses and marble house. “Don’t be that tight. And keep an eye on Stack. Don’t let anything happen to my brother.”

“Yes, Smoke.”

Korinne the head maid welcomed him in, taking his bags and jacket before he strode to his glamorous living room.

You are trespassing in my property so I advise you to get out before I call the police.

Are you listen to me? How rude— I’m telling you to leave. I don’t tolerate criminal in my space

“Korinne.” Smoke called, recognizing the high-pitched authoritarian voice.

“Yes sir.”

“Is Thania here?”

“Yes, she is receiving one of your guest.”

“A guest?” He thought out loud. “Alright, brew me an earl grey please. Add some scotch to it.”

“Alright Sir.”

A guest?

Slim?

Smoke walked easy, opened the glassed gold-ornate door and his heart skipped a beat.

“Ah Smoke, you here. Could you tell your Barbie hundred percent plastic to stop barking in my ears, I can’t hear the bugs flying.”

His eyes grazed up from the red stiletto heels at her feet, through the flared fine fabric black pants hugging the top of her thighs to her face : those big brown eyes that had him under spell for so many years, that hearty mouth glossed with brilliance he’d spent nights and nights kissing, that mahogany complexion that had nothing to envy the finest tastiest cocoa silk.

Years did her good.

Annie.

“Viper.”

He had expected her at his company building not his house. At least not that soon.

————————————————————

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