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It was 7:55 p.m. The ceremony was set to begin at nine and the Moore twins were already on their way to collect what was owed. And Zora, five foot six and carved for the stage, beautiful enough that fashion houses had once pressed cards into her palm at parties, stood barefoot in a robe she tied in a furious knot. Her hair, abundant and wavy, hung in black ribbons down her shoulders because she had refused to sit for the stylist. Pins glittered on the carpet like thrown coins. Curling irons and hot combs cooled on the vanity beside a smashed perfume bottle that fogged the air with a sweet, bitter scent. The silk dress on the mannequin looked like a hostage.

“Zora,” Charles said, using the kind of gentleness that made everything worse, “you turned thirty last week. And I know you don’t wanna hear it, but it matters. Your blood changed. It reached its season. It’s heavy in the air now. Vampires can scent it from three thousand damn miles out. Women, men, all of ’em. It’s a beacon. You marry Smoke, or you spend the rest of your days fighting off creatures who will not ASK your permission.”

She flung the crystal hair brush she was holding. It struck the wall beside him and fell into the shag with a muffled chime. “So your answer is to gift me to the very beasts you say I should fear?! Brilliant.”

“I secured your protection,” he said. “And I bought us an empire.”

“You bought yourself an empire,” she said. “You bought me a fucking cage.”

The room looked like the aftermath of a storm. Feathers from a torn pillow drifted in the current of the ceiling fan. A hand mirror lay face down in a nest of stockings. A silver tray sat on the vanity, pearls slithering off its edge like a spill of moonlight. The stylist had retreated to the hall with her kit hugged to her chest, whispering apologies to no one. Zora’s robe swished around her thighs as she paced. Every step had the memory of a tendu, a held line, a discipline that only heightened the chaos. Ballet had taught her to make fury look like elegance, and right now her rage wore satin.

“Babygirl, listen,” Charles tried again, and the nickname landed like ash. “Smoke is the oldest. Tradition says he stands as husband because the Obsidian Court wants order. That man and his brother can keep you safer than I ever could. Their clan’s money older than any bank up here. They got laws, they got codes. And with your blood smelling like… like sun on copper, you ain’t got time to—”

“Stop telling me what I smell like!” she bit out. “You’re the one who’s putting me in danger. You did that. Don’t try to sugarcoat this.”

“Or I kept you from being hunted in the street,” he said, and there was that steel he carried into every back room where men signed papers that made others disappear. “I know what those things do when they want something… I been in those rooms… This is me keeping you alive.”

“By selling me,” she said.

He didn’t flinch. He stood there with his hands still in his pockets and his jaw working once, then stilling, and he wore his ruthlessness like another layer of wool. “I’ll admit, I sold a piece of my soul when I made that deal,” he said, voice even. “And I’ll do it again, and again, and again, if it means they have to go through the Moores and the Obsidian Court before they get to you.”

The grandfather clock in the hall struck the quarter hour. Zora’s spine thrummed with a dozen impulses at once. Run. Rip the gown. Throw the dress form over the balcony. Scream until the chandeliers trembled. But then the air shifted as if the house had drawn in a careful breath, and a new scent threaded the wrecked perfume… rain over clay… Bourbon breathed over cedar.

They finally arrived.

Footsteps padded over marble. Quiet, but not timid. The kind of footfalls that kept time with something older than clocks. Two silhouettes crossed the threshold, a pair of tall men in black, tailored like sins disguised as tuxedos. Smoke entered first. Elijah Moore, the oldest. He had the stillness of a judge and the face of a man carved to carry it. Broad shoulders. A mouth that seldom smiled and, when it did, counted as thunder. Skin the color of dark mahogany polished to a soft sheen. He wore his hair close, and he wore his authority closer.

Stack followed a step behind, a mirror remade, lighter around the eyes but no less dangerous, a glint of wicked humor tucked into the corner of his mouth like a spare knife. Where Smoke’s presence landed like a verdict, Stack’s slid in like a promise you would regret, but against better judgment ask for again. Both men spoke with heavy Southern drawls that warmed the room and warned it at once, as if Mississippi had put its hand on Harlem’s shoulder and squeezed.

Smoke’s gaze took the room in with a sweep that counted every broken thing. Feathers in the air. Glass on the rug. The dress untouched. The bride untamed. He didn’t look at Zora. He looked at her father.

“Mr. Huntington,” he said, accent thick as sorghum. “It eight. Why she ain’t ready?”

Zora felt heat climb her throat. He had the audacity to ignore her. To talk over her in her own room. To act like she was luggage. She reached for the nearest object, a silver perfume bottle with a glass stopper shaped like a teardrop, and her fingers closed around it.

“Don’t,” Smoke said, and he didn’t raise his voice. One syllable, low and clean, as if the word itself knew how to stand its ground.

She held his stare. The bottle felt weighty and perfect in her palm. “Watch me.”

She hurled it. The thing cut the air with a bright arc, and in that breath the world seemed to tilt. Smoke easily moved his head by a fraction. The bottle skimmed past his temple and shattered against the doorframe behind him, splashing his shoulder with a sheen of scent and diamonds of glass. He didn’t blink. He set his gaze fully on her and the attention hit like a hand on the small of her back. Not possessive. Just a notice served: I see you.

Stack lifted both brows, and he let out a soft, appreciative sound. “Well now,” he said, with a slanted smile that shouldn’t have pleased her. “She got an arm.”

“She got five minutes,” Smoke replied without looking away from Zora. “An she already used ’em.”

Zora squared her shoulders and frowned. “I am not going anywhere with you, Mr. Moore… or you Mr. Moore.”

Smoke’s eyes, a shade you couldn’t name until you stood too close, flicked once to the wrecked room and back to her face. “You think this ‘bout where you go,” he said, accent smoothing each word into something heavy. “It ain’t. This ‘bout whether you walk out that door or I carry you out. Either way, you leavin’.”

Charles cleared his throat as if he had been holding it this whole time. “Zora, put on the dress.”

She ignored him. “You talk like you own this house,” she told Smoke. “Vampire or not, you don’t scare me and you don’t own a damn thing here.”

Smoke tipped his chin a hair. “I don’t need to own a house to take what’s owed to my clan,” he said. “Your father inked papers. He spilled intention. The Obsidian Court heard it. We here to make good.”

“The Court can rot,” she said, and there was an unwise satisfaction in saying it out loud.

Stack’s playful smile thinned into something sharper. “Sweetheart, folks who say that tend to find out rot ain’t the worst of it,” he said, and the sugar in his tone didn’t sweeten a thing. “You ain’t safe with nobody but us. That scent of yours, it’s ringin’ like supper bells from here to Havana.”

Zora’s stomach turned, not with fear, and not exactly with shame, but with a brand of fury that had weight. She could feel it under her skin. One week ago… one birthday cake, one wish, one midnight later… something inside her had shifted. Healers in her mother’s line had whispered about ripeness as a season, not an age. She hadn’t believed them. Now the air itself seemed to lean toward her. Vampires would smell her from a continent away and walk until their shoes burned to find her. It wasn’t romance. It was a hunt.

Smoke took a step farther into the room, and the temperature changed by a degree you could count. He still didn’t touch anything. He didn’t need to. Authority tended to move the furniture for him. “I ain’t here to flatter you,” he said, and the drawl laid down over his words like velvet covering steel. “I’m here to keep you from bein’ dragged out your own bed by a clan that don’t respect courts or deals or daddies with money. You mad at him. I hear it. Keep it. But you comin’ with me.”

“Say please,” she said, and she lifted her chin because ballet teaches you how to make a crown with your spine.

Something like a smile threatened one corner of Smoke’s mouth and died there. “No.”

Charles exhaled through his nose. He looked older all of a sudden. Not weaker, just used. “Zora, I ain’t askin’,” he said. “I did what I did because I know monsters, and the Moores are the only monsters that answer to law. Put on the damn dress.”

She crossed to the mannequin and ripped the veil from its pins. The tulle hissed in her hands like a chorus of tiny voices. “I’ll wear this…” she said, and she flung the veil over the headboard so it slid down and hung like a ghost. “…I’ll wear it to mop the floor of the Court.”

Stack’s laughter was quiet and bright. “Lord, she a handful,” he said, and he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe with a familiarity that made the stylist gasp from the hall. “You sure you the husband, Eli? ’Cause I ain’t never seen a bride look a man in the eye like that an live to tell it.”

Smoke didn’t move. He kept his attention on Zora the way a storm keeps its attention on a field. “You finished?” he asked her, not unkindly. “Or you got one more thing you wanna throw?”

She reached for the porcelain jewelry dish. She held it up and contemplated throwing it before setting it down and meeting his eyes. “I have one more thing to say,” she answered. “I don’t belong to you.”

He nodded once. “Then I reckon we teach each other what belong means,” he said. “Do you want to walk out with dignity or do you want me to carry you out kickin’ an screamin’? Choose.”

Zora’s breath came steady because years at the barre had taught her how to breathe through fire. She could feel the edges of her choices and none of them looked like freedom. The dress glimmered in the corner like a stranger. The clock in the hall began to strike past eight, each tone landing in the room like a footstep.

“Your five minutes are long gone,” Smoke said, and the words sat on the carpet beside all the broken things. “An I’m all outta patience.”

Stack straightened, the charm dimming as he measured Charles with a glance that held knives. “Mr. Huntington,” he drawled, “if you got any men downstairs who may feel brave when a woman hollers. Tell ’em stand down. We gon’ take her through the front like she a queen, not a prize.”

Charles nodded once, pride and fear fighting a war along his cheekbones. “They’ll clear the steps,” he said.

Zora looked at the two vampires in the doorway. Old money in their cuffs. Older law in their stares. Men turned in a century that ate empires, men who had learned to eat back. She thought of the Daywalkers’ Vein… her mother’s whispered legacy, the curse dressed as a gift, the sun bottled for a price. She thought of Harlem glittering beyond the windows with a thousand bright sins. She thought of the Obsidian Court, obsessed with order, hungry for her blood’s alchemy, waiting to fold her into a ritual and call it mercy.

She lifted her chin. “I’m not a prize. I’m not a Queen. I’ll walk on my own,” she said, and her voice did not shake, and she hated that the words sounded like a confession and a challenge at once.

Smoke’s eyes didn’t soften. They acknowledged. He turned his head toward the hall and spoke without looking away from her. “Bring the car,” he said, and the command went downstairs like a scent.

Stack stepped aside and offered the doorway with a little flourish, that wicked humor back on his face. “After you, fireball,” he said, accent syrupy and lethal. “An we gon’ talk about that arm later.”

Zora passed them both, robe sashing around her legs, hair wild, bare feet silent on the runner. She did not look at her father. She did not look at the dress. She kept her gaze on the staircase and the grand foyer below, where men waited with caps in their hands and eyes studiously averted. Smoke fell in behind her like a shadow that had decided it belonged to her. Stack drifted to her other side with a half-smile that promised mischief and war.

At the landing, she paused because the chandelier threw a net of light across the marble and, for a heartbeat, she could see herself in the reflection, a woman walking into a future that did not ask her consent. She squared her shoulders and descended as if the stairs were a stage and the audience owed her their breath.

Behind her, Smoke said nothing. Beside her, Stack hummed a tune that sounded like thunder flirting with a train whistle. Ahead of her, the front doors opened onto night, and Harlem waited like a cat with gold eyes.

The night air outside the Huntington estate was heavy with jazz carried from the clubs down Lenox, a faint echo of horns and drums spilling into the dark like mischief itself. A row of polished black cars waited at the curb, engines idling low, a convoy that belonged less to mortals and more to ceremony. Men in pressed coats stood along the steps, their caps pulled low, eyes trained anywhere but on the woman their employer had just sold into eternity.

Zora stalked forward, each step a defiance against the marble beneath her feet. She told herself she would make it to the car on her own terms, that she would not be dragged like some caged thing. She would climb in barefoot and disheveled and let the entire Obsidian Court see her rage written plain across her body. If they wanted a bride, they would have to take her as she was.

But the instant her hand hovered toward the sleek door handle, a sharp snap cracked the air. Smoke hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t even glanced at her. His long fingers flicked once, the sound cutting through the night like the crack of a whip. From the second vehicle behind, four men stepped out in unison, their movements too practiced to belong to simple drivers. They closed on her before she could twist away.

“Don’t you—!” Her words strangled into a cry as two caught her arms, another seized her waist, the last plucked the sash of her robe when she tried to claw free. She fought like a feral thing, legs kicking, hair thrashing about her shoulders. Her shriek ripped into the Harlem night, loud enough that strangers might have stopped in any other neighborhood. But here, under the Moores’ shadow, men on corners folded newspapers and turned their faces the other way.

“You think you can put hands on me?” she spat, nails digging into one servant’s sleeve. “Let me go, I’ll—”

“Ma’am,” one of them grunted through gritted teeth, “we are under orders.”

They dragged her across the gravel, robe slipping from one shoulder as she twisted like she might tear herself in half before conceding. The rear door of the second car yawned open, lamplight from the interior spilling onto the steps. Two women waited inside—seamstresses or attendants… she wasn’t sure… armed not with weapons but with needles, pins, and the pale shimmer of satin.

“No!” Zora cried, heels scraping stone. “Don’t you dare—” Her words dissolved into another scream as they forced her inside, the door shutting like the lid of a coffin. The car rocked once as her fight carried on behind glass. Silhouettes shifted, arms tugged, fabric lifted. Her voice rose in ragged protest until it thinned against the sound of the engine.

Smoke stood at the curb and adjusted the cuff of his jacket as if nothing unusual had taken place. His face was unreadable and only the faint crease between his brows betrayed the irritation pulsing under his stillness. Stack leaned against the open door of their own car with a sly whistle.

“Well, hell,” Stack drawled, a sharp gold tooth glinting when the streetlight hit his grin. “She bite like she already got fangs of her own.”

Smoke cut his brother a look, sharp as glass. “A woman who walk out her daddy’s house in a robe thinkin’ she gon’ stand before the Court lookin’ like that?” His jaw tightened, words heavy with disapproval. “That ain’t a bride. That’s a motherfuckin’ disgrace.”

Stack shrugged, unbothered. “Or that’s a woman who know she ain’t nobody’s property, Eli. Can’t say I don’t admire the gall.”

“Gall don’t mean nothin’ when the Court sittin’ there watchin’,” Smoke replied. He climbed into the waiting vehicle, the interior smelling faintly of leather and cigar smoke, order pressed into every line. “Presentation is law. She walk in that hall half-naked, it don’t matter who her blood belong to. She’ll shame me, shame us, shame the clan. That woman playin’ with fire that’s hotter than the sun.”

Stack slid into the seat beside him, one arm tossed over the backrest with casual irreverence. “Mm,” he said, eyes on the window where Zora’s car rattled ahead, her shadow flaring against the curtains as attendants tried to tame her. “Or maybe she is the fire. You ever think of that?”

Smoke didn’t answer. His jaw was stone, his gaze fixed on the darkness beyond the windshield. The convoy pulled away from the Huntington estate, engines growling low as a beast’s throat, the night swallowing them whole.

Inside the second car, Zora’s screams tangled with the ripping sound of fabric, pins clinking into porcelain trays, and the low, urgent voices of women who had been paid to prepare her. Every tug of satin, every pull of a lace string was another theft of her will. And still she fought, her fury echoing against the velvet seats, until her voice carried forward to the Moores’ car.

Smoke closed his eyes for a moment, irritation knifing under his skin, order slipping like sand between his fingers. “This ceremony was meant to be seamless,” he muttered, voice weighted with authority. “Instead it already reeks of chaos.”

Stack chuckled, low and dangerous. “Maybe chaos exactly what we need, Eli’… We’ve been ‘round the world an been alive over 330 years. Court been too quiet...”

Smoke’s eyes opened again, dark as stormwater, and for the first time since stepping into the Huntington house, he allowed the truth to sit heavy in his chest. He had never despised disorder more. And he had never wanted a woman more for daring to create it…

The convoy slowed as the iron gates of the Obsidian Court opened like jaws parting. Gaslight lamps burned in precise intervals along the drive, their glow catching the sleek bodies of the black cars as they rolled up the long, tree-lined lane. At the end of it stood the Moores’ ancestral estate. Black stone, towering columns and a fortress that looked less like it was built and more like it was carved from the night itself. The windows burned faint gold against the velvet dark, every light a sentinel, every shadow a witness. This was where she would live now. This was where she would be bound.

The second car door opened first. A servant stepped aside, and Zora emerged. Satin and lace whispered over the cobblestones as if mocking her rebellion. They had pinned her hair in a crown of dark waves and tucked a veil behind jeweled combs. Pearls glimmered at her throat, her ballerina frame wrapped in silk that fit her like it was sculpted to perfection. Even when she had tried to sabotage her own appearance, she looked like a vision lifted straight from the Court’s ancient paintings. A bride of rare blood and rarer beauty.

Her eyes burned like amber coals above it all.

Smoke’s gaze swept her once. No softness, no admiration, only judgment weighing every detail. “Better,” he said.

Zora cocked her head to the side and her chest heaved. “Better? Is that all you have to say after your dogs dragged me into a car like livestock? Better?” Her voice climbed sharp as glass. “You cold-eyed, uptight bastard, struttin’ around like the world oughta bow to your shadow. You think I’m impressed by your suits and frightened by your abilities, Mr. Moore? My mama raised me to be fearless and you ain’t nothin’ but a bloodsuckin’ parasite with a stick shoved so far up your—”

Gasps fluttered through the row of servants flanking the Court steps. Eyebrows raised and a murmur rippled like wind through grass. That was the moment Smoke’s patience split.

In a blink, his hand wrapped around her throat, fingers firm and measured, lifting her chin without crushing it, but letting the threat of doing so linger in the air. His grip was iron and fire, a claim laid in flesh. His eyes bore down into hers, and his sharp fangs slid into view, white and gleaming against the dusk. He leaned close, his voice low enough to tangle the veins in her blood.

“You watch your tongue,” he said, each word a brand. “Me an my brother… we can be the very monsters you already call us. We can show you what it means when men like us stop following rules. You don’t want that, little girl. You best remember it. An when we step in front of them elders, you keep that venom sealed behind those pretty lips, or you gon’ learn real fast how cruel eternity can be.”

Zora’s eyes widened, fury trembling against a sudden, unwelcome shiver at the threat in his voice.

Stack, who had been leaning idly against the car, shifted forward. His easy grin was gone. His eyes were sharper now, colder, and when he spoke the charm had bled out of his tone, leaving something harder, hungrier. “She’s entertainin’ but talk like that again, Eli, I might not be so polite,” Stack said, his voice gone dark. He stepped closer, his height shadowing her from the left, and for a brief moment the mask slipped… his gaze went feral and his smile twisted into something not quite sane. “Ain’t no servant here gon’ get the idea they can talk slick because the bride can’t keep her mouth shut. I’ll cut that out quick. Don’t test me, little flame.”

The servants stood straighter, glances flicking down, fear and reverence mingling like smoke. The new bride’s temper might have been entertaining back at the mansion, but here in the Court, Zora’s mouth was a liability neither twin could allow… at least not right now.

Smoke loosened his grip just enough for Zora to breathe without breaking her gaze. Stack moved to her left, Smoke to her right. Their arms linked tightly with hers, not as escort but as bind. Two ancient predators walking her into the lion’s den. “Walk,” Smoke ordered, his tone final, the word carrying into her bones.

And together they climbed the long stone steps of the Obsidian Court, a perfect tableau of order: the bride in white, glowing with defiant fury, and the twin shadows on either side holding her fast.

The great doors of the Obsidian Court swung open with a creak that seemed older than Harlem itself, a sound that carried the weight of centuries. Inside, the hall stretched wide and cathedral-like, its vaulted ceiling lost in darkness except where iron chandeliers glowed with candlelight. The stone was black as onyx, veined with silver that caught each flame and sent it scattering across the room like shards of ice. The air was dense with incense and blood, the metallic tang undercutting the perfume of roses arranged in vases taller than men. Every pew was filled, every figure draped in finery cut from silks, velvets, and jewels collected across centuries. Eyes gleamed in the dim, some human, some something older, all of them fastening to the woman being led down the aisle.

Zora held her chin high because to bow it would feel like surrender. Her robe was gone, stripped from her body by women with quick fingers, replaced with one of the twenty gowns Smoke had commissioned weeks ago without her knowledge. Satin hugged her waist, lace traced her shoulders, pearls dotted her bodice like tears frozen mid-fall. She hated every stitch, but as she stepped forward with Smoke on her right and Stack on her left, she knew that hate made her radiant. Every eye followed her because she was not merely beautiful, she was rare, and rarity was worth more than diamonds in this room.

Inside her head she cursed them all. She cursed the women whose lips curled into jealous smirks. She cursed the men who let their stares linger on the soft line of her collarbone. She cursed the elders perched like vultures on the dais, their hands folded, their eyes like chips of obsidian weighing her as if she were a jewel to be bartered. Every step screamed with profanity in her mind. Parasites. Bastards. Lechers. Every last one of you can burn. Her mouth stayed shut, though, her father’s warning echoed through her memory along with Smoke’s grip around her throat, his fangs flashing, the low command that had frozen the blood in her veins. She knew better now than to give her fury sound.

The hall stretched before her like a gauntlet, pews packed with rival clans who had traveled from coasts, mountains and islands. She felt their hunger like heat against her skin. Some eyes glimmered with admiration, others with lust, others with envy, and a few with naked malice. They knew who she was and what her blood meant. They knew that if she belonged to the Moores, then her bloodline would be sealed away under their rule, its power locked from any other clan’s grasp. She was a prize and a weapon all at once.

She cut her eyes sideways, sharp as the slice of a dancer’s turn towards the center pew on the left. Her father sat like a king among his own men, twenty strong, each in dark suits with their hands resting near the hidden holsters at their hips. They were mortals among immortals, and yet they held their ground with the arrogance of loyalty paid in blood. Charles looked immovable, back straight, jaw proud, every inch the ruthless kingpin who had brokered this deal. But for the briefest second, when her gaze collided with his, she thought she saw a crack. A shadow in his eyes, something that whispered of regret. It was gone as quickly as it came, replaced with the steel of a man unwilling to bend under the weight of what he had done.

Her chest tightened. Was it guilt? Was it pity? Or was it simply her imagination clawing for mercy that did not exist? She looked away before her own expression betrayed the storm inside her.

Smoke’s arm pressed firm against hers, a reminder that escape was no more than a dream. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, his gaze locked forward as though this ceremony were nothing more than law carried out. His silence was a wall, and behind that wall was a man who despised disorder as much as he despised desire. Stack’s arm was looped through her left, his stride casual, but his eyes had completely lost their playfulness. They flicked across the room, cataloging faces and measuring threats. The smile was gone, replaced with the sharp edge of a man who knew when to laugh and when to bare teeth.

The trio moved as one down the aisle, the echo of their steps swallowed by the hushed murmurs of the clans. Servants trailed behind, carrying the long train of Zora’s gown so it floated like spilled milk. The chandeliers swayed faintly, casting fractured light over her face, and for a moment she thought she might suffocate under the sheer weight of expectation pressing down from every direction.

At the end of the aisle, the elders of the Court sat in a semicircle. Ancient men and women, their skin gleaming like dark marble, their eyes ageless and hungry. Some wore gowns that had graced royal courts centuries ago, others tailored suits that spoke of modern wealth. Together they were timeless, and together they were judge and jury. They leaned forward ever so slightly as she approached, their gazes pricking her skin.

Zora kept her head high. She would not stumble, she would not show fear, and she would not give them the satisfaction of tears. But in her mind she cursed them still, a litany of fury woven between every measured step: Rot in the ground. Choke on your riches. May the sun eat you alive when my blood runs dry.

The hall narrowed as she drew closer to the dais, the world funnelling into the sight of her father behind her, the twins beside her, and the elders ahead. She was trapped in a triangle of betrayal, possession, and power, and no amount of rage could unmake the truth… she was already theirs.

Smoke and Stack walked her forward, and the doors groaned shut behind them with a finality that echoed through the hall like the sound of fate closing its grip.

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Y’all: “Update your other series!”

Me enjoying the chaos while I start a new series:

Taglist:

Most days your life is pretty simple, mundane and routine— go to class, go to work, and come home. Most people would look at your life and weep for more, but it’s perfect for you. You desire a simple life with peace— no partying, toxic relationships, or unnecessary drama.

This year you have branched out a bit in your classes and made a few friends, but nothing more than that.

The wind in New York has picked up with the temperature steadily dropping, definitely not the kind of weather that’s fit for office skirts and heels.

You dropped your cello off at your apartment and you wait outside to catch a cab. The streets are busy with people today, normally at this time they’re not as busy.

The scent of hot chocolate fills the air as people set up their stands outside for the upcoming holidays.

A cab pulls up to the sidewalk, waiting for you to get in.

You get in the car, adjusting in your seat.

“Where to?” The man asks while looking at you in the rear view mirror.

“Giordano law firm on fifth avenue.”

“Heard.” The man replies back with a nod.

You look out the window, staring at all of the Christmas decor that’s out. A certain part of it truly feels magical still as an adult.

Your cab ride takes about 40 minutes.

The security guards at the front door of the building greet you with a smile, one of them opening the doors for you.

The sound of your heels clicking echoes throughout the lobby.

You make your way to the elevator and press the button, just waiting for your stop— dreading the paperwork you’ll have to do today.

The bell dings and the doors open at the fifteenth floor, the receptionist waving at you as you walk into the office.

“Good afternoon!” You smile, waving as you walk past.

You walk into your office space, the door gently shutting behind you as you set your bags down and turn on your lamp.

The smell from your cinnamon candle that you lit days prior is still lingering.

Just as your computer starts to load up, your boss opens your door— peaking his head in.

“I sent over some files for you to look over, it’s for a new client I just accepted last minute.”

You turn towards him, your brows slightly furrowed.

He hangs his head in defeat. “I know, I know. Don’t kill me over it.”

“I’ll start looking it over, but I probably won’t be truly focused on it until tomorrow.”

He looks at his watch and bites his lip in fear.

“What?” You ask with your head tilted out of confusion.

“Actually, he’ll be here in an hour to discuss it with you..”

Your mouth drops in shock, “Tony..”

“I know, but he’s paying top dollar for us to represent him. You’ll get a raise for this too, I’ve already added it to your payroll.”

You turn back around, facing your computer and opening up your email.

“I’ll get to work on that.”

“Thank you so much! I knew I could depend on you.” He rants before shutting the door.

You scan through the email he sent—opening up all the documents and giving a quick glimpse through all of the information.

You pull out some of your sticky notes and jot down a few pivotal notes about what you noticed in the documents.

Time slips your mind as you're going over the information and printing out the paperwork.

Your office phone rings, it’s the receptionist letting you know that the client is here and waiting in conference room three.

“Shit.” You mumble.

You grab all of the paperwork and your sticky notes before leaving your office and heading to the conference room.

You walk into the room, still face deep into the paperwork and not looking up.

You sit down at the table, before glancing up.

You see two very handsome, identical men staring back at you.

You’d be lying if you said that it doesn’t catch you off guard, you stare blankly for a few seconds.

“Twins?” You ask, flipping through the papers.

“Nah, we cousins.” One of them jokes with a grin.

You let out a slight chuckle, you can appreciate the response.

“Which one of you is Elias Moore?”

The man sitting in front of you on the left nods his head.

You slide over a piece of paper and pen to him.

“That is the client contract that we have here. It just states that we expect total compliance and honesty from you as a client, if you cannot comply then we cannot adequately represent you— which gives us the legal right to drop you as a client.”

“It also tells you the retainer fee and how much he costs per hour..”

He signs the dotted line and passes the paper back to you.

You move it to the side and glance up at the other man beside him.

“What’s your name?”

He stares at you, his eyes slowly scanning every inch of your face.

“I’m Elijah, his brother and business partner.”

You nod, pulling off the cap of your pen to fill out a few of the pages.

“Are you part of the lawsuit?”

He shakes his head no.

“We also like to be called Stack and Smoke. I’m Stack and he’s Smoke” Stack chimes in.

You nod, but it’s definitely unlike anything you’ve heard of before.

“The paperwork says that you’re being sued for two million dollars, is that correct?”

He sighs, but nods his head.

“It says that you’re being sued for repudiation, in other words— you indicated that you’d abandon the project.”

Stack shrugs. “I mean, hell the motherfucker—“

Smoke nudges him, cutting him a look.

“My apologies for my language. He already told me that things were going wrong with the project, more money than usual needing to be dumped into it. So, yeah— I told him that we were pulling out.”

You write down his statements on the forms in front of you.

“Would you say that he didn’t hold up his end of the contract?”

“Yeah.” Smoke replies.

“How long was this project initially supposed to take?” You ask, looking up at both of them.

“Six months.” Stack replies.

“How long has it been as of today?”

“Twenty months.” Smoke hesitantly informs you.

You stop writing and stare at them— looking over your glasses as they sit on the bridge of your nose.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes ma’am.” Stack nods.

All you can do is shake your head as you write the information down.

“How long have you known the complainant?”

Stack takes the toothpick out of his mouth, “fifteen years.”

“Wow.. uh, that’s unfortunate that you ended up in this position.”

You finish jotting down a few more notes while the room is silent.

You glance at your watch on the table and start organizing your papers.

“Well gentlemen, I think that’ll be all I need from both of you today.”

They both stand up, adjusting their seats.

You grab all the papers, standing up and walking towards the door.

Stack takes a phone call as he holds the door open for both of you.

“Nice meeting both of you. I’ll be in touch, if we need anything.” You mention.

Smoke holds his hand out to shake yours.

You grab his hand giving it a firm shake, your eyes meeting his. He stares into your eyes, almost like time around you is stopping.

You’re barely able to notice him saying thank you with the way you’re enamored by him. His very presence, his voice, and his overall demeanor.

You let go of his hand, an intense feeling of embarrassment festering inside you.

The rest of your shift at the office has gone by smoothly and quicker than you expected.

You sit at the desk finishing up the emails you needed to send out and slowly but surely gathering your things.

The last email is sent, you power off your computer, turn off the lamp and grab your stuff to head out the door. Just as you walk to the door, your office phone rings and you debate not picking it up— but you do anyway.

“Hello, the office is currently closed right now—“

“It’s me, Elijah. I was calling to see if Stack could get your number in case he needs to get in contact with you for anything regarding the case.”

You hold the phone to your ear, barely processing what was said.

“Um, anything he’d need he could just call the office phone.”

“Well, what if it’s after hours or on a day y’all are closed?”

Your mind races trying to think on what would be the correct course of action, but you also think about how furious your boss would be if you said no.

You take a deep breath and slowly recite the number to your cell.

“Thank you, I’ll make sure to get it to him.”

“No problem, is that all you needed from me?” You ask.

“Yes.”

“Okay, we’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

The line disconnects.

The next morning you get up and start your day early— you feed your cat Binx before you leave for class, barely leaving out in time.

You and your friend Lane are the first two people in the auditorium, killing time before class starts.

“You know, our firm just took on this pretty big case.” You mention.

Lane’s brow raises, “really? Is it a high profile one?”

You shrug your shoulders, unsure how to answer.

“I can’t really say, because I don’t know. I mean, it’s a lawsuit for two million dollars against these twins.”

“Twins? Men or women?”

You let out a laugh, nudging her. “Girl, you know I’m talking about men.”

She throws her hands up in defeat.

“Shit, I didn’t know.”

You both laugh, neither one of you taking anything serious. Y’all’s laughter echoes throughout the auditorium.

“Are they at least cute?”

You glance at her with a smirk.

Despite the fact that you don’t want to admit how fine they are, they are fine. The kind of fine that you see on tv, the kind that sounds made up.

“So, how’s it been at the firm? Is it stressful?” She questions.

You shake your head, shifting your weight and leaning against the wall.

“It’s been good. This firm does take a lot of high rollers, so there can be stress regarding that— but you get used to it. The cases themselves aren’t hard at all.”

She sips on her coffee, swirling it around. “I wish it was like that at the one I’m at, that firm is a hell hole.”

Your brow raises, “really?”

She nods. “Shitty boss, huge workload, underpaid, and doing a ton of work off the clock.”

“That’s a shame, truly. I was hoping that you’d like this one.”

She scoffs, “me too.”

You start to set up your cello as more people start coming in for class.

Today, you’re performing in front of the class for your final project. At the start of the semester, the professor assigns each student a different song to work on individually, and you perform it for him at the end for a grade.

Your palms start to sweat, just at the thought of messing this up.

One thing you don’t play about is school in general and your skill with playing the cello. You’re very proud of how good you are at playing and how your practice shows up when you perform—but now doubts are seeping into your head about how good you’ve practiced.

You take a deep breath, walking over towards Lane after you finish setting up.

She stares at you and the anxiety written all over your face.

“Are you nervous?”

You wipe your hands off on your pants, giving her a slight nod.

“I just.. I just hope that I practiced enough.”

Lane wraps her arms around you, bringing you closer.

“Don’t even sweat it, girl! You did more than enough and I’m sure you’re going to ace this.”

You hug her back, grateful for a friend like her.

The doors to the auditorium, everyone’s eyes meeting the noise.

Your professor Mr. Chang walks in with his clipboard, heading to the stage.

“Sorry, everyone for being late. I got caught up in a meeting.”

You adjust your shirt, leaning up against Lane.

Mr. Chang makes his way to the front of the auditorium, stopping at the steps right before you go on stage.

“I want to say that I’m very certain all of you have prepared greatly for this assignment. I know that all of you are nervous, some are even already asking about possible re-takes and we haven’t even started—“

“Just pretend that you’re alone and that this is your time to shine.”

He gestures for you to come over to him.

You share one last look with Lane before walking away.

He writes a few things on his clipboard before looking up at you.

“Are you ready?”

You take a deep breath, “it’s now or never.”

The lights in the auditorium dim as you walk onto the stage, the whispers and conversations between your peers coming to a halt.

Your heart races in your chest, your nervousness at an all time high.

You take your seat, waiting for further instruction.

There’s a brief pause before Mr.Chang looks up and gives you the go ahead.

You close your eyes like he suggested and begin to play as if you’re alone and in your own world. You imagine playing at a sold out opera house, people coming from near and far to see you.

All of your worries and fears vanish as you play.

Your bow feels weightless in your hand as it glides against the strings, gliding in a precise movement like it has a mind of its own.

Mr. Chang and the rest of the class watch you in awe.

You end the song on a note that makes everyone stand up to applaud you.

Your best friend Lane, smiling ear to ear.

You stand up from your seat, trying not to smile too hard.

Mr. Chang finishes his notes as he walks up the stairs beside you and onto the stage.

“Wow, um—“

“Your performance was one of the best that I’ve seen in a long time. You hit every note so effortlessly and with such intricacy. Well done.”

Your eyes get glassy from his words and the overall compliment of your performance.

“It should go without saying that you’ve received a hundred on your assignment. I’m blown away, truly and I think the rest of the class has pretty big shoes to follow after your performance.”

Your friend hugs you with a big grin as the class starts clapping again.

A few minutes later Mr. Chang dismisses class and you grab your stuff to leave.

Before you walk out the door, Mr. Chang runs up beside you and taps you on the shoulder.

“Can I speak to you for a minute?”

“Uh, sure.” You reply with a little confusion.

“You are by far one of my best students and I know how much you practice and study. I wanted to ask, are you interested in the tutoring program offered for my class?”

You stand there for a second and take in the question before coming up with a suitable answer.

“I had thought about it, but I’m just too busy for it. I never have enough time.”

He nods, fiddling with the clipboard.

“I just ask that you take time to consider it again, I think it could be very beneficial to you and your classmates.”

He walks away, leaving you with your thoughts and still reeling from the high of nailing your performance.

It paid off. All of the late nights practicing and studying was worth it.

You get outside, adjusting your jacket to the cold wind while you stand there waiting for a taxi.

The man pulls the cab in front of you, a bit away from the curb.

You get in, shaking from the coldness outside.

“Shit! It’s so cold outside.”

The man laughs, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Where to?”

“Park Avenue.”

Your taxi ride is quiet, just the low hums of the car and whatever radio station he has on. He drops you off where you asked and you walk into your apartment building.

Once you get inside and take your jacket and shoes off, you’re greeted by your cat Binx. She’s meowing at a very high pitch and walking in between your legs.

“I know, I know. I’m going to feed you in a second, I promise.”

Binx always acts like she’s starving if you don’t feed her at her exact time, even a minute later and she’s meowing like you’ve abandoned her.

You pull out her food that you had prepped before you left and scrape it into her bowl. You’re barely able to finish putting it in there before she’s diving in and eating it like you’re gonna take it away from her.

Once you’re finished with that, you sit down on the couch with a glass of wine and open your laptop to start working. Normally, you’d use this time to kick your feet up and catch up on tv— but this case is taking any free time you have left.

Reading all of the documents that you have available makes this case look anything other than winnable. You’re taking notes on it and sending out dozens of emails, but even then it still feels like he will end up paying out. Maybe with some luck, he won’t have to— but it’s up in the air.

You sip your wine as you type up an email to your boss, attach the files you’ve gathered, and let him know what you have so far and what you still need.

You also note that these documents might need extra verification before they can be submitted into the system.

You set your glass in the sink and toss the empty wine bottle, stepping away from your computer while you wait for a response.

Sitting at the computer and working while watching the sun set around you is blissful, something you enjoy more now than ever.

You sit back down on the couch and your computer dings, your boss responds.

He informs you that Elias is coming to the office tomorrow to talk about his assets. You reply back acknowledging the email, closing out all of your tabs, and turning off your laptop.

Now that your work is done, you spend the rest of your afternoon and night— catching up on Real Housewives of Atlanta and eating the Chinese takeout you ordered.

Your day doesn’t have to start early as it normally does, because you don’t have any classes today. You just have to report straight to the firm.

By 10:30 am you’re walking through the firm doors and heading to your office.

You put your lunch away in your mini fridge, adjust your blinds to the window, and light a candle before getting started.

The first four hours at work are filled with calls from people needing consultations, but the firm’s schedule is booked from open to close everyday. After the last consultation call, your boss comes into your office and tells you to close off the schedule for the remainder of the year. He says that it wouldn’t be feasible to continue taking on clients with his already huge caseload.

You update the company website to reflect that you’re no longer taking on new clients and you update the phone call system to update people there as well.

Your day has already been so busy non- stop and you can feel a headache coming on. You grab your lunch and eat some of the food you packed in hopes that it would make you feel better.

You eat what you can and put the rest away before you grab your paperwork and make your way to the conference room to wait on Elias.

You sit down at the table, checking your watch and making sure that you’re still on time.

A few minutes later both of them walk in the room to your surprise.

“Hello, Good afternoon.” You smile, shuffling through the papers.

They take a seat across the table.

“Afternoon.” Smoke nods.

You pull out a pen, glancing at the paper.

“So, you’re here today for us to discuss your assets—“

“Discussing your assets is a pivotal part of working a case, we need to make sure all bases are covered and to go over what would happen if you’d lose the case.” You mention.

Stack’s fingers tap the table, a sigh escaping his lips.

“We ain’t gotta worry about us losing, that shouldn’t be happening.”

You let out a laugh, not that he’s funny— but he’s too cocky for his own good.

“There’s always a possibility, unless you have stone cold proof of something that would invalidate the complainants claim.”

He sucks his teeth and Smoke cuts him a look.

“I’m going to go down this list of properties that you have listed, you let me know which you’d be willing to lose if you end up owing the two million.”

“The Colorado ranch?”

“No.”

“This isn’t a property, but you have a yacht listed.”

“No.”

“The penthouse near Times Square?”

“Hell nah.” He chuckles.

“The penthouse in Miami?”

“No.”

“The multi use building in Chicago?”

“Nope.”

You glance up with your brow raised and a slight smirk.

“If you’re not willing to give any of your properties up, then how will you pay? They will seize them if you’re uncooperative.”

“Cash.” Smoke chimes in.

You set the pen down on the table, leaning back in your chair with your fingers intertwined in your lap.

“Cash? You’re going to pay the two million dollars with cash?”

“Yes ma’am.” Stack replies.

You sit up in the chair and pick up the pen, jotting down the info.

You pass Stack a piece of paper and a pen.

“Write down the routing and accounting number to whichever account you’ll use.”

Smoke pulls out a cigarette, “can I smoke in here?”

“No, you may not.” You reply curtly.

He licks his lips, almost as if a grin is tugging at his lips.

Stack slides the pen and piece of paper back to you.

“Is it clean?” You ask.

“As a whistle.” Smoke replies.

“Alright then, I’ll get this to Tony and he’ll verify the funds. I will be back in contact, if we need anything else.” You inform them.

You stand up, adjusting your skirt and grabbing the papers off of the table.

“Gentlemen.” You nod.

They stand up, pushing their chairs back up to the table and watching you walk out of the room.

“My, my, my.” Smoke mumbles under his breath.

From the very first glance Smoke knew that he wanted you. The way you carry yourself, the way you speak, the way that you’ve been handling the case— every detail about you has caught his eye. Especially today, seeing you in the red blouse and the short black skirt. It did something to him.

He can no longer deny what he thinks of you, despite trying his hardest to.

When you talk, he listens and nothing else catches his attention. When you grin, a heat fills his chest. It’s like you’re in control of him.

It’s been a long time since he’s looked at anyone the way he’s looking at you.

He wants to get to know you, he has to for his own sanity.

Once you get back to your office, you have to sit down and take a deep breath. Despite so little interaction with Smoke, he lives in your mind.

You finish up filling out a few things and you’re about to wrap your day up. You’ve been so busy that hours have slipped past you while you’ve been working.

As you’re about to turn your computer off, you get a text.

“Can you meet me at a restaurant in Manhattan to discuss more details about the case? -E”

You have to read it a few times out of confusion, because there’s no reason that you’d have much to discuss. You’ve already gotten most of the documents needed, you discussed their assets, and you’ve gone over all pivotal information with Elias. You text him back, “Sure thing! Just text me the address.”

You were looking forward to going home and now you’re about to go to a restaurant and discuss more work related things.

Your phone dings with the information about the restaurant and what time you need to be there. You realize you still have time before needing to head there, so you decide to head home and feed your cat. The sun will be setting soon and she probably won't get her food on time once you go to the restaurant.

You take a thirty minute cab ride home to feed Binx really quickly, drop your stuff off, and then you’re back in another cab on your way to Manhattan.

Once the cab arrives at the restaurant, you’re ready for this to be over and hoping that he doesn’t have much to talk about.

The restaurant is fancy, it’s dimly lit and requires reservations.

You step inside by passing the line out of the door and walking to the staff at the counter. You let them know that you’re supposed to be meeting someone here. You’re not even able to finish your sentence before they’re telling you to follow them— they already know who you are and who you’re looking for.

They walk you back to a table in the back, against the window with a great view.

You’re greeted by Smoke at the table instead of Stack and the confusion is written all over your face.

“Hello.”

You sit at the table, taking your coat off and putting it behind the chair.

“Hi..”

“I thought Elias needed me here for paperwork?” You question.

“You are here for paperwork, but it’s me handling this instead of Stack.”

He hands you a manila envelope, “Get this to Tony. It’s for his eyes and his only.”

You nod and put the envelope in your purse.

He calls over the waiter and has them bring over a bottle of wine.

“Do you drink?”

You shrug, “occasionally.”

The waiter pours a red wine into your glass, asking Smoke if there is anything else he’d need.

“I’d also like an old fashioned.” He mentions.

The waiter smiles, “I’ll be right back with that.”

The soft jazz music plays in the restaurant from an actual live band in the corner performing it. This is the kind of restaurant you’d bring your lover or mistress, not a place for a business interaction.

“What’s the meaning of this?” You ask while taking a sip of wine from your glass.

“I want to get to know the person handling this case. I know Tony, but I don’t know you.”

You let out a scoff that’s just short of a laugh.

“There’s not much to know, I’m just the paralegal assigned to your case and nothing more.”

The waiter brings his drink to the table and two menus, before leaving the table promptly.

“That’s a corporate response if I’ve ever heard one.”

You open your menu, browsing through it and avoiding eye contact.

“Who are you really?” He pries.

You don’t respond leaving his question hanging in the air.

“Do you bring all the Paralegals that you meet out for dinner?”

He chuckles, rubbing his finger around the brim of the glass.

“Are you assuming that we’re always in legal trouble and in need of a paralegal?”

You look up from your menu, a smirk on your face.

“Hm.”

“You gonna answer my question?” He asks, his brow raised.

You push some of your hair out of your face and sit back in your chair, staring at him.

“I’m a paralegal that works for Tony Giordano and that also attends Julliard.”

“Interesting ..” he mumbles under his breath.

“Is there anything else that you want to know?” You ask with a hint of sarcasm.

He picks up his menu, reading through it and his eyes are still somehow lingering on you.

“What instrument do you play?”

“I play the cello. Also not everyone that attends Julliard is playing an instrument.”

“Good instrument.” He comments.

The waiter comes back to the table and takes both of your orders. You order the steak salad and he orders the grilled salmon and asparagus.

A silence lingers between the two of you, both of you unsure who should take the lead in the conversation.

“How do you know Tony?”

“I only know him, because I work for him. He posted an ad for the job, I applied and I was selected—“

“How do you know him?”

He finishes his drink, almost like he’s buying time with his answer.

“Business.”

“Hmm. What do you and your brother do?”

“We own a few nightclubs and a few businesses.”

You finish the wine in your glass.

“So, what did the two of you actually do in order to get sued for two million?”

He gives you a breathy laugh, shocked by your straightforwardness.

“You’d make a fantastic lawyer, straight to the heavy hitting questions.”

The waiter comes back bringing another old fashioned and filling your glass with wine again.

“It’s not a heavy hitting question. Most people aren’t sued too quickly for breach of contract, not in this manner. The complainant doesn’t even want to settle, he wants a trial. You guys seriously pissed him off.”

He shrugs his shoulders, “we handled the situation way better than most would have.”

The waiter brings your food out and it looks absolutely delicious, Smoke digs in and so do you.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

You glance up in shock. You finish chewing your salad, taking your time with answering.

“Do I have a what?”

“You heard me.”

You squirm in your seat a little, your heart beating faster.

“I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m not sure what that has to do with me being the paralegal working on your case though.”

“I just didn’t want to step on any toes with this dinner.” He points out.

You swirl your wine around in the glass before taking another sip. This dinner wasn’t what you were expecting and that’s okay, but this man has you feeling things that you shouldn’t be feeling for a client..

The wine is making your body feel warm and tingly, the sensation carrying its way through your body.

Your eyes follow his every movement, including the way his tongue drags across his bottom lip after he takes a bite of his food.

“What are the chances that we walk away clean?”

You wipe your mouth with a napkin, trying to figure out a way to give him a genuine answer.

“Hm—“

“If you gave any solid evidence in that folder then you’ll have a chance, if not then you’ll probably end up losing.”

You finish the wine in your glass— feeling full and like your stomach could burst.

You catch a glimpse at your watch. “Shit, it’s getting late and I have to get home.”

You pull out your wallet and he puts his hand out, stopping you.

“Nah, you’ll never have to worry about a tab with me.”

He puts three hundreds on the table and stands up— putting his coat on and walking over to help you put yours on.

“Thank you for dinner, it was lovely and it was nice getting to speak to you.”

You turn to walk away and he grabs your hand catching you off guard.

“I can give you a ride, I’ll have my driver drop you off.”

He guides you through the restaurant, holding your hand.

You both get outside, standing side by side and no longer holding hands.

A blacked out Escalade pulls up and a driver gets out of the car, coming to the passenger side and opening the door for you.

“Ms.” The driver smiles.

You get in and Smoke gets in on the other side.

Once the driver is in, you tell him your address. You sit back, enjoying the warm and comfortable ride to your apartment.

There isn’t any talking going on between you two during the ride, Smoke is taking a few calls and you’re just trying to relax.

After what feels like a while in the car, the driver pulls in front of your apartment building and he comes to open the door for you. As you get out, you adjust your skirt and turn to thank Smoke for the dinner.

He gives a nod and waves at you, still on the phone.

The driver shuts the door and you walk into the building.

When you get inside your apartment, you kick your heels off and collapse onto your couch. Your day has been busy and non-stop, normally you’d be exhausted and ready for bed— but after that dinner he’s all you're thinking about.

Not that you’d ever end up with him, but he was interested in you and in what you do. It’s never happened before, it feels like the stuff you see in movies.

Maybe, you’re reading too much into it and it was just simply a professional dinner— but there’s nothing professional about the way he makes you feel.

After a long and hot shower, you get into bed and try getting some rest.

When you wake up the next morning, you complete your usual routine— but this time instead of getting ready for work or class, you’re going to a Pilates class. You don’t attend as much as you used to, but when you need something to clear your mind— you immediately book a class.

The class is an hour and thirty minutes long, which is exactly what you need. More time focusing on yourself and your body instead of him.

On your way home, you get a call from your boss and he asks you to come in.

You rush home, shower, and change into your work attire. Barely enough time to do all of that, before you’re in a taxi and on your way to work.

Once you get into your office— you sit down and sign into your computer to get started on your work.

There’s a knock at your door. You turn in your seat to see a delivery man standing there holding flowers.

“I was told these are for you.”

You accept them and sit them down on your desk.

“These are beautiful, who sent them?” You mumble to yourself.

You read the card.

“Thank you for joining me for dinner last night. I had a wonderful time.”

You’re grinning ear to ear, unable to hide it.

You really felt that maybe you were reading into things too much or that you were being delusional, but maybe he does share the same attraction that you do. Why else would he have twenty four roses delivered to your office?

You get back to focusing on work and you send a few emails out, but that’s interrupted when your boss calls you to his office. At first you’re worried that he somehow found out about the dinner, but instead it was him thanking you. He thanked you for being so patient and understanding with the case load you’ve had lately. He also informs you that you’ll be getting a Christmas bonus, which makes you really happy to hear. You could use it for so many things and you’ve earned it with all of the late nights within the last few months.

You get back to your office and you’re almost jumping for joy at his praise for you and your work.

You take a quick break, searching a few things on your computer and you send an update email to Stack— letting him know that he has a court date for the case coming up in two weeks.

Lunchtime is approaching, so you grab your bag and head down the street to a local Mexican restaurant.

You wait for Lane to arrive.

She meets you at the restaurant a few minutes later.

“Hey!”

“Hey, girl!” You laugh, giving her a quick hug as she sits down.

“How have you been?”

You sit back down in your seat, scooting closer to the table.

“I’ve been good, just busy working and practicing as usual. How are you?”

She laughs, pushing her hair behind her ear.

“Shit, stressed. I’m not ready for my performance, at least I don’t feel ready. I don’t think I’ve practiced enough.”

You scoff, waving her off. “You damn near practice just as much as I do, you’re more than ready.”

“What if I mess up?”

“Then you take a deep breath and continue through your performance, you got this and you know you do.”

The waiter comes to your table and takes y’alls orders, both of you already knowing what you want. You both order taco salads and a margarita.

“So, how’s the case doing?” She asks, eyes focused on you and your body language.

“It’s going about how you’d expect it to, very up in the air.”

The waiter brings the margaritas to the table and a few napkins.

You sip on yours, looking around the room.

“What about the client?” She pries.

You try to keep from smirking and you continue to look around the room.

“What about him?”

“Girl, don’t be coy with me. You already know what I’m talking about.”

You both laugh.

“I mean they’re both fine, but the oldest twin was the one that caught my attention.”

She sips on her margarita, a smile on her face.

“Okay, I see you.”

You shake your head, still downplaying your attraction to him.

“He’s technically a client and I’d never cross that line.”

The waiter brings out your food and both of you waste no time before saying a quick prayer and digging in.

“Do you think you’d ever consider it, if he was interested?” She questions, taking another bite of her food.

“Um, still no. He’s very handsome, but I’d like to maintain that level of professionalism between us. He’s also way older than me and I just don’t have time for that.”

Lane eyes you and just nods her head to your answer. She knows you like the back of her hand and it’s very clear that she doesn’t buy it.

Part of what you said is true, you don’t have time for that. You’re not interested in any type of fling between a man, you have school and work to worry about.

Does he interest you? Yes, but blurring that line between client and anything else is always a terrible idea.

“Well, if you’re genuinely not interested in him— send him my way. I need an older man in my life.” She giggles.

You fake a smile, but you know damn well that you want him all for yourself.

Lunch wraps up about twenty minutes later as both of you have to get back to work. You cover both tabs, give her a hug and start your walk back to the office. On your way to the office, your boss calls you and tells you that he closed early. He has a family emergency and told you that you’re off for the rest of the day with pay.

You get a cab back home, excited to have a free afternoon.

Once you’re home you immediately kick your shoes off and get ready to start practicing with your cello. Lately, work has had most of your time and you haven’t spent nearly enough time practicing.

Playing your cello gives you a sense of comfort and peace, it’s the one thing you’re truly dedicated to. You were taught how to play at a young age and you’ve held that close to you ever since.

You look over your notes from class and the music sheets that Mr.Chang gave everyone. Now that the class concert is a week away— you need to be practicing even more and harder than you did before.

You sit in your chair near the window, in complete silence and you begin playing.

The sound flowing through your apartment is like something magical.

You’re in your own world when you play—free from all thoughts, worries, and fears.

Hours pass by while you’re playing, before you finally decide to be done for the afternoon and take a break.

You put your cello away, feed Binx, and sit down on the couch— opening your laptop to check your emails.

The sunset glow from outside shines through the window, casting your shadow on the wall.

You finish a few correspondence emails, hoping for fast responses— but you’re not holding your breath. You come across an email from the complainant's attorney. You open the file in the email only to realize that it’s a clear as day recording of Stack threatening the complainant.

Your skin is hot and mouth agape. This is bad, really bad.

You immediately pick up the phone and dial Tony— after a few rings he picks up.

“Everything okay?” He asks.

You sigh, pacing around your apartment.

“We have a problem, a big one.”

You can hear multiple voices in the background, sounding like he’s out to eat.

“Spill it.”

“I.. I just got an email with a clear recording of Stack threatening the complainant.”

It’s completely silent on the other end.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He replies, his voice raised.

“Unfortunately, I’m not. I’m not sure what to do.”

You can hear the anger slipping through his words.

“Get that motherfucker on the phone, we need to talk!”

You anxiously bite your lip,”I will and I’ll let you know what he says.”

The line disconnects after this.

You feel like burying your head in sand, this couldn’t possibly get any worse. It makes you look bad, like you haven’t been doing your job.

After some hesitation and even more pacing around your apartment, you pick your phone up and text Smoke.

“What’s your address?”

You feel like you could throw up once you see that the text was sent.

He responds back immediately with no questions and just sends his address.

Twenty minutes later, you put your heels on, grab your jacket, and rush downstairs. You get outside to catch a taxi, but you’re met with two blacked out Escalades parked on the sidewalk.

A man approaches you, the driver of one of the vehicles.

“Hi, ma’am. My name’s Jabari and I was sent to pick you bring you to Mr. Moore.”

You’re too stunned to speak, you just follow Jabari to the car and get in the backseat.

The drive is quiet outside of the subtle radio station that was playing. After a little bit, the cars pull up the curb of this fancy building.

Jabari helps you out of the car and you hesitantly walk through the front doors of the building, greeted by the security at the desk.

“The elevator will take you straight to floor twenty where he’s at.” The older gentleman grins.

You’re in awe at the building. It’s beautiful and very detailed. You could only ever dream of owning a penthouse in this building, maybe if you won the lottery.

The elevator dings and the doors open up to you being inside his house.

He’s standing in the kitchen when you walk in, leaning against the counter in a white tank and grey sweatpants.

“Glad you made it.”

You walk towards the kitchen— your eyes scanning the space and view from the ceiling to floor windows.

“What did I tell you two in the very beginning?” You scold him.

He grabs two bottles of water from the fridge, sliding one across the counter to you.

“Tell us about what?” He replies.

“Complete compliance and total fucking honesty.” You remind him, anger fueling your voice.

You push play on the recording that you saved to your recording device.

He listens and doesn’t have much of a reaction, almost like he knew about this the entire time.

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“I didn’t think that this would come into play, but if Tony goes through that file I gave you— that won’t matter.”

“Tony is just the figurehead for your case. I do all of the work! Me and only me. The information that I get is vetted and then it goes to him. If you can’t be honest with me and give the information to me, then I can’t properly do my fucking job. If I can’t do my job, then I get in trouble.” You yell.

He walks around the counter, standing closer to you— leaning against it and keeping his focus on your face.

“You won’t get fired or anything like that.”

“How do you know that? Huh?”

“Cause If he fires you, then he’d lose us as clients and we’d follow you wherever you went.”

You lose your train of thought when he says that, all the anger and annoyances leaves your body in an instance.

“I just need to know if there’s anything else, or I’ll recommend that Tony drop your case.”

You turn away to start walking back towards the elevator.

“Have a goodnight Mr. Moore.”

You’re barely able to finish your sentence, before he’s grabbed you and pulled you into him.

He kisses you— deep, slow, and tender. He takes his time.

His thumb brushes your cheek and you melt into him.

You pull away, ending the kiss and it’s the last thing you want to do.

“We.. shouldn’t.” You mumble.

His thumb is still caressing your cheek and his eyes staring into yours.

“Why not?”

Even with a million reasons why, you struggle to say any.

“Use your words.” He coaches.

You feel your heart skip a beat.

“We should keep things professional.”

He pushes you back against the counter, his hands wandering your body. You feel his hand caressing your upper thigh and making it’s way lower and lower.

The heat in your stomach is rising and the wetness is pooling between your legs.

His hand brushes up against your panties and you feel weak.

The way he’s rubbing your thighs and in between your legs, it’s very clear that he’s methodical with how he likes to tease. He wants to drive you crazy before he’s even done much.

He kisses the side of your cheek, sprinkling kisses down your face and onto your neck.

“Tell me to stop, especially if you want this to stay professional.”

You should want this to stay professional, he’s a client for crying out loud. This kind of behavior could cause you to lose your job, but even with that in mind you can’t fix your lips to tell him to stop.

He tears your panty hose, like it’s something he’s done plenty of times before.

His fingers slowly rubbing you through your panties before he pushes them to the side.

He starts kissing you again, his tongue gliding against yours and making your mouth its home.

He slides his fingers in between your folds, not too fast and not too slow— but just right.

Your hand grips the counter and your eyes roll back into your head.

Something so wrong shouldn’t feel so right.

Your chest rising and falling fast, moans spilling out of your mouth and into his as you suck his tongue.

A grunt leaves his mouth.

Your slick coats his fingers as he rubs your clit.

“Fuck.”

His finger slides down from your clit and he slowly presses it inside of you.

You gasp, “Smoke.”

“Mhmm..”

He pumps his finger in and out of you, the knot in your stomach building.

“You’re so needy.” He groans.

Your grip on the counter tightens.

He pulls his finger out, catching you off guard.

It’s glistening in the light, before he sucks it clean.

He brings his fingers close to your mouth, “spit.”

You spit on his fingers, your eyes tracking his every move.

He rubs your clit and then slowly pushes two fingers in.

“Oh, my.. fuck.” You moan.

He pumps his fingers in and out of your pussy, making sure that you’ll never forget him or this.

It feels better than you could’ve ever expected.

You’re barely able to hold on, your toes curling in your heels.

You kiss him on his neck, almost making him lose focus.

A few seconds later, you cum hard— harder than you ever have.

He gives you a quick kiss, pulling his fingers out and directing you to his bathroom.

You stand there in the mirror in disbelief, wondering if you’re dreaming— because there’s no way that just happened.

You pull your ripped panty hose off and toss them in the trash.

When you come out of the bathroom a few minutes later, he’s drinking some water.

“I’m going to go. I’ll make sure to talk to Tony and see if he looked over the stuff in the envelope.”

He tilts his head, “you good?”

You nod and press the button waiting on the elevator.

His drivers drive you home and the entire ride all you can think about is how you’re an idiot. Messing around with a client is wrong and beyond a bad look, you know better— and you shouldn’t have let it happen regardless of how you feel.

It’s been a few days since the interaction between you and Smoke, you haven’t heard from him and at first it bothered you— but now you’ve written him off.

It is what is and you have more important things to worry about anyway.

It’s almost time for your class performance— the concert hall is packed with faculty, family, and friends.

Mr. Chang stands on the stage, facing all of you.

“You guys have come so far and you’ve worked very hard to get to this point. I can’t wait for everyone to see how much time and effort you’ve put into this.”

He gives a thumbs up and the curtains behind him rise.

You take a deep breath, trying not to let the number of people sitting in the building make you nervous.

Two minutes later you guys begin and continue playing for the next hour and fifteen minutes. Everything goes great— there were no mistakes or off key notes. It went just as you’d hoped and it went by so quickly that you couldn’t even tell that you had just performed for an hour.

The crowd gives a standing ovation lasting for ten minutes— a crowd of two hundred people that are blown away and proud of every single one of you.

Once the clapping is done, while you’re still sitting in your seats— a photographer comes on stage and takes a few pictures of you guys. Right after that you’re able to pack your instrument and go into the crowd to meet the people you invited.

You pack your cello, taking it to the back and wiping off your sweaty hands.

The concert hall hums with laughter and voices overlapping.

You walk down towards the seats and meet your friend Lane who runs up and gives you a hug, slightly lifting you off the ground.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, you did fantastic.” She laughs.

You have a smile on your face that no one can take away.

“I was so nervous, I’ve been nervous about this concert since I was picked for it.”

She grabs your hand. “You just saw and experienced why you had no reason to be nervous.”

You guys walk around— mingling with other friends and posing for pictures.

“Are you ready to go?” She subtly whispers in your ear as you smile and wrap up a conversation.

You nod.

You and her walk to the door, laughing and talking about nothing.

Just as you’re about to walk out the door, Smoke walks up to holding a bouquet of pink roses.

“You did good, real good.”

Lane eyes you, “is this him? My god.”

He hands you the roses, “can I talk to you for a minute?”

You hold the roses and roll your eyes, “no.”

Lane nudges you.

“Well, girl— I’m about to go home. I’ll call you later, love ya!”

“Love you too!”

You move around him, continuing to walk towards the exit.

He nudges you, guiding you into the hallway on the side that’s away from the doors.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going home, Smoke—“

“I haven’t heard from you at all since I last seen you and you have the nerve to show up to a concert that I didn’t tell you about or invite you to?”

“I wanted to see you play.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to maintain your composure.

“What do you want from me? You got what you wanted, is that not enough?”

He frowns, his shoulders pulled back.

“What I wanted?”

“You couldn’t even begin to handle what I want.” He scoffs.

“Try me.” You reply.

He grabs your hand and leads you outside to his cars, you climb in and so does he. The driver takes you to his building, opening the door for you.

Smoke grabs your hand and leads you into the building.

“What up, Gerard?”

The security guard smiles, giving him a nod of approval.

As you get in the elevator waiting for his floor, he grabs your roses.

“Take your shoes off by the door and hang your coat on the rack.”

The elevator dings and he walks ahead of you, he sets the flowers on the counter and disappears down the hallway.

You take your shoes and coat off— wandering the kitchen and into the living room.

The view of the city below from his windows is breathtaking. You stare down below at the busy city streets and the people walking.

Smoke calls your name from a room down his hallway.

You walk down the hall— taking your time and admiring the paintings.

You approach the room and the door is cracked. The room is mostly black with hints of red and dimly lit.

He stands in the middle of the room on a red mat, his white shirt slightly unbuttoned and showing off his chest.

“Come here.”

You walk over, eyes scanning the room— but you’re unable to tell what’s what.

“Smoke, what’s the—“

He grabs your chin and presses a quick kiss to your lips.

“Sit on your knees.”

Instead of asking more questions, you do it. Almost like it came naturally.

He walks around you and places a blindfold over your eyes.

All you can hear are his feet shuffling against the floor.

“I’m not your ordinary man.”

You feel a light and ticklish sensation on your arms and neck that makes you squirm, unable to pinpoint what it is or what he’s doing.

“I require submission, full submission when it comes to sex.”

Your breath hitches in your chest. This is far what you were expecting from him.

You feel a cold metal sensation against your right arm.

“I am what’s considered a sadist.”

Your eyes widen under the mask, but before you can say anything he continues to talk.

“Don’t worry, it’s only for pain in a sexual regard. Never anything outside of that and never anything that isn’t agreed upon beforehand.”

You can hear his feet circling around you on the mat and what you presume to be leather tassels moving along your body.

“Stand up.”

You stand up without even thinking twice.

“Take one step forward.”

You take one step.

Giving someone else this kind of control in the bedroom should scare you, but instead you’re interested— turned on even.

His lips brush against yours, his breath warming your cheek.

“If you want anything with me, you have to submit to me.”

“Are you gonna submit to me?—“

You nod, lips slightly parted and heart rate picking up.

He brushes your face with his hand.

“Good.”

He pulls the mask off of your face, scanning your face for any unsavory reaction. You stare back at him with admiration and want.

He grabs your hand and leads you back into the living room, shutting the door behind him.

You walk into the kitchen and see two women in uniform standing there.

“This is Marcielle and Dana, they’re my help around here. They’re like family to me, you never treat them any differently. They speak Spanish and English. They’re here if you need anything when I’m not around.”

He starts adjusting his shirt, buttoning it up.

“I’m about to go to handle some business, I can drop you off or you can stay and make yourself at home.”

You’re still trying to wrap your head around everything that he just did, but you tell him to drop you off.

In the car you’re sitting closer to him this time, trying to figure out where you go from here.

“So, does this make you my man? Or what?” You ask, breaking the silence.

His driver Jabari glances at you in the mirror and raises up the tinted glass window in between the front and back.

“Do you want to be my woman?”

You lick your lips, trying to hide your expression and you let the question linger without a response. This definitely would be a unique start to a relationship.

Jabari pulls up at your apartment, getting out and coming to open your door.

Before you get out of the car, smoke grabs your hand. You look back at him and he pulls you into a kiss, a kiss where he’s letting you know that you’re his.

“I’ll see you later, baby.”

You get out of the car and your stomach is in knots from excitement and disbelief of everything that’s happened. Being with him was just a fantasy, something that in your mind was unattainable.

You walk into your apartment— picking up Binx, who was waiting patiently for you at the door and for you to give her some attention. When you bent down to pick her up, a card fell out of your coat pocket.

A black Amex with a sticky note on it.

“For you.”

You pick up your phone, texting him and figuring that it must be a mistake.

“Did you mean to put a card in my pocket?”

He texts you back immediately.

“Yes. Your own personal card, it has no limit. Get anything you need.”

“Also, buy something nice for dinner tonight.”

You shriek, dancing around your living room while you hold Binx..

This feels like a dream.

You change into another dress in the private dressing room, while Lane stands there admiring herself in the mirror.

“Wait, so let me get this straight— all of this stemmed from the dinner you had with him?”

You adjust the dress, trying to figure out if it’s even worthy of bringing out to show her.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

You zip up your dress and pull the curtain, walking out to show Lane.

“That’s cute on you. It shows off your curves without being too revealing and it’s the perfect length.”

You stare in the mirror, adjusting the dress. “I thought so too.”

“Did you fuck him?” She asks, downing the rest of her champagne.

“Girl, what? Hell no!”

“He only fingered me.” You giggle.

“Oh, my bad! You only let him play with your cat. I’ll try to be more correct next time.” She mocks.

“Thank you, boo.” You reply back with the same level of sarcasm.

“Do you want some more champagne?” She asks, holding the bottle.

You shake your head no and walk back into the dressing room, pulling the curtain behind you.

“I wouldn’t have believed you if I hadn’t seen him for myself. A mysterious rich man, who randomly wants you like this and gives you a card with no limit— sounds made the hell up.” She laughs.

You pull the curtain back, coming out in only your bra and panties.

“Can you hand me that shirt and skirt?”

She walks over grabbing it and handing it to you.

“Damn, did you buy that set for him?”

You pull your shoulders back, a laugh escaping your throat.

“No. I bought this awhile back, I thought it was cute.”

“He will too.” She smirks, doing a humping motion.

You put on the blouse, shaking your head.

“You’re a mess.”

She looks through the dresses and skirts that you have picked out.

“What are you going to do when it’s time to put out?”

You peek your head out from behind the curtain.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, let’s see— checks notes, oh that thing about you being a virgin.”

You shrug, stepping back behind the curtain and putting the skirt on.

“I don’t like this.” You mumble, looking at yourself in the mirror.

Lane did have a good point, what are you going to do when he wants to have sex? You haven’t quite thought it all the way through and you aren’t too sure that you’d even want him to be your first.

You put your clothes back on, hanging up the pieces that you didn’t want in the dressing room.

You pull the curtain back, walking over to grab the clothes that you have set aside.

“Are you taking this thing between you and him serious?”

“As serious as he’s taking it. This is probably something to kill time for him.”

She nods, “you might be right.”

You get to the counter and the woman rings up your items.

“Your total is $4,567.21”

You almost feel as if you’re sweating bullets when you swipe the card, waiting to see if the purchase is approved or declined.

The transaction goes through, lifting an invisible weight off of your chest.

“Alright, here you go. Your receipt is in the bag.” The woman smiles.

You take the bag and start to walk away, “thank you!”

You both walk into the parking lot, gossiping about some stuff that happened on campus. You hug each other and go your separate ways.

“Let me know how tonight goes.”

“I will!” You shout.

You make one last stop before going home, you get your nails and toes done.

When you finally walk through your apartment door you have a sigh of relief. Putting the bags down and sitting down on your couch..

Your phone dings, a text from Smoke.

“A car will be outside waiting to pick you up in two hours. See you soon.”

You feel tingly inside reading his text, getting excited.

You feed Binx first, then you move on to taking a quick shower, picking out an outfit, putting on a small amount of makeup, and adding a few loose curls to your hair before pinning it up.

By the time you finish up, you’re damn near running late.

You put some more water in Binx’s water fountain and blow the candle in the kitchen out, before walking out the door.

You get downstairs and get in the Escalade that’s waiting for you.

The car smells just like a black ice air freshener.

You send a quick text to Lane, “heading there now. Wish me luck!”

The car ride is about thirty minutes or so.

You arrive there, heading in and seeing that the restaurant is completely empty.

He’s waiting for you at a table in the back.

He stands up, helping you get your coat off and giving you a kiss.

“You smell good and you look good.” He mentions.

“Thank you.”

He already has a bottle of wine at the table waiting for you.

“Where is everyone?” You ask him— looking around for anyone that’s not staff.

He pours wine into your glass, "I rented this out for us. I wanted to spend some time out with you, without the worry of other people.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

You take a sip of your wine, your eyes widening. “This is really delicious.”

“I see that you spent almost forty six hundred dollars today.”

You shift in your seat— “I’m sorry, was that too much?”

He laughs. “ Don’t apologize, I told you that you could get whatever you wanted.”

The waiter brings two menus and places them on the table.

“Tell me more about yourself.”

You glance up, holding your menu. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

You laugh, tilting your head and simultaneously looking at the menu.

“Hmm—“

“I’m a middle child and I have three sisters. I graduated high school at the top of my class and I will finish college at the top of my class. I have a black cat named Binx. I’ve been playing the cello since I was a child and I want to travel the world one day.”

He nods, “okay.”

“Pretty straight forward.” He mutters.

You put down your menu after figuring out what you want.

“It’s your turn, tell me about you.”

You follow up with a question before he can figure out where to start.

“Have you done this before?”

“This exact thing, like with you?”

You shake your head yes, sipping on more of your wine.

“No.”

“Are you married? Have you ever been married?”

“No and no.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“No.”

The waiter interrupts the conversation, coming to your order.

You order the stuffed shells and he orders the steak Alfredo.

He turns in his chair.

“There is something we have to go over.”

You raise your brow, putting down your glass.

“What’s that?”

“In order for this to continue, you have to sign an nda with my attorney. I will pay for you to get your own, so that they can be there to go over it with you. The nda is a non- negotiable, it’s something that has been carefully drafted.”

You nod your head, you don’t have much to say or ask about that.

“Are you on birth control?”

You finish your glass of wine and shake your head no.

“Well, that’s a non- negotiable as well. I don’t care what kind you’re on, you just have to be on some form in order for this to continue. If that’s not your cup of tea, that’s fine. I won’t force you, but this will stop right now. The last thing I need is you getting pregnant.”

“Okay.”

The rest of the dinner is kind of a blur, not because you don’t remember it— you were so focused on everything else that was mentioned prior. There’s nothing wrong with the nda, he’s making sure that he protects himself. Birth control and nda? Maybe this is something that’s just fun for him, maybe you did get the wrong impression.

When he drops you off, the car ride was silent. You were really withdrawn, not inherently upset— but you feel like an idiot for thinking it could be a real thing.

You got into your apartment— kicked your shoes off, took off your dress, and got into the bed.

This morning you slept in, you were exhausted from last night and could use the extra sleep. After making oatmeal and feeding Binx, you sit on the couch and catch up on some tv.

Your phone dings.

“You’ll be picked up at three to meet my attorney and your attorney will be waiting for you there. I won’t be there, but after that I’d like for you to come over. If you want.”

You read it and set your phone back down beside you, continuing to eat your oatmeal.

You spend the next few hours just laying there on the couch, watching tv as the hours go by.

At two, you get up to take a quick shower and to get ready. You almost feel like bailing on the meeting altogether, but you don’t.

Once you’re dropped off at the building, you go inside to the third floor where you’re greeted by your attorney— Mrs. Mathers.

She shakes your hand.

“Nice to meet you. I’m here to represent you and your interests, although this nda is a non- negotiable I’m here to make sure that it’s reasonable and that you’re not forced to sign.”

“Thank you, I wasn’t sure how this would work.” You point out.

“If you do not agree to the terms today, then it’s up to you and Mr. Moore to figure out the best course of action and where to go from here.”

Both of you walk into the room and sit at the table with his attorney, Mr. Dempsey.

“I’m here today to go over the non disclosure agreement that Mr. Elijah Moore is presenting you with.”

You fidget with your rings, your nervousness getting the best of you.

“Part of this agreement is acknowledging the kind of private information that you wouldn’t be allowed to share.”

He passes you the papers for you to look at and read as he goes down the list.

He sits up in his seat, coughing to clear his throat before speaking.

“With this agreement— you will not be allowed to disclose the following things to other parties without his approval and if you don’t get his approval, then you cannot share this information.”

You nod as your attorney takes the papers, flipping through them.

“You cannot disclose how much Mr. Moore makes, how much money you receive from him, or when you receive it from him. You also cannot disclose his address or any addresses of any properties he owns.”

He flips the page.

“You may not disclose anything related to his sexual behaviors, desires, or traits. You may not disclose any disparaging remarks about him on the internet and in general, if you two were to ever break up.”

“You also cannot disclose any information about the company that he keeps or his personal family business.”

Mr. Dempsey passes you a pen.

You turn to your attorney, waiting to hear anything she has to say.

“In my opinion I’d say that this is a pretty standard agreement, I figured it would be worse. Do you have any questions about it?”

You tug at the sleeves of your shirt, “no. I’m willing to sign it.”

Mr. Dempsey puts another contract on the table.

“This is the second part of the contract that is not a non disclosure agreement, this is just a simple contract agreement over the rules of this relationship.”

He slides a copy to you and Ms. Mathers.

“In this agreement, you acknowledge that you will get on birth control within thirty days of signing this. You also acknowledge that Mr. Moore has talked to you about this matter before coming here.”

“That’s interesting.” Your attorney mumbles to herself.

“If you sign this agreement and do not get on birth control within the allotted time and you were fall pregnant— you acknowledge that Mr. Moore would terminate the relationship with you and that he would terminate his parental rights.”

“Wow, what a man.” Ms. Mather mutters.

“By signing this contract you acknowledge and agree that if Mr. Moore was to buy you a property, vehicle, or company in the duration of this relationship — that those assets would be returned to him if the relationship is terminated.”

“You also acknowledge and agree that you are not entitled to any of Mr. Moore's assets should this relationship be terminated. You would leave with what you came with.”

“This last part is that by signing this contract that you acknowledge and agree, that your financial obligations are merely your own. If Mr. Moore decides to give you any money towards them, then that is a gift and nothing more. You acknowledge that if the relationship were terminated, then it is on you to maintain those obligations.”

Your jaw tenses as Mr. Dempsey finishes reading.

You get a few minutes to deliberate with your attorney, discussing the details and you ultimately agree to sign the nda and the contract.

Once the meeting is finished, you head outside and get into the car— riding to Smoke’s place.

Once you get to his building and get inside, you find him staring out the window— finishing up a phone call.

He wraps it up pretty quickly and approaches you, going in for a hug— but you move.

He frowns, “what’s wrong?”

“I went to the meeting with your attorney, that’s what’s wrong.”

“You’re a fucking liar! There’s no way in hell that you haven’t done this before, based off of the contracts and the wording of them in general. All of this is one big fucking exchange for you.”

His eyes widen, he stands there with his hands in his pockets.

“Pregnancy clauses and bullshit, none of this is about finding a potential solid relationship. It’s an arrangement and I was too stupid to see it.” You yell.

His brow raises, “you done?”

Your chest rises and falls fast, studying his reaction— but he doesn’t have much of one.

He walks behind you and helps you take your coat off, placing it on the hook by the elevator.

“Take your shoes off.” He demands.

You step out of them, no longer angry— but now anxious based on his reaction.

He walks to the coffee table, grabbing the remote that adjusts the blinds. The blinds start coming down, making it dark in the room.

“Smoke, I..”

He comes behind you and places a blindfold on your eyes.

“Bend over, hands spread out on the counter. Keep your legs apart.”

“Elijah?”

He walks past you.

“I won’t tell you again.”

You feel a knot in your stomach, based on his tone and how he didn’t take what you said to him lightly.

You can only hear his movement and have no idea what he’s doing.

He comes back behind you, making you jump.

He pulls your skirt down, exposing your brown lace panties.

You shift while standing there, still keeping your palms on the counter and feet spread apart.

He pulls your panties down, slowly and precisely.

You can feel a warm liquid running down your pussy and his finger gently rubbing it in.

You feel something like metal and cold pressed against your clit, he slowly pulls your panties back up— trapping it there.

It starts to vibrate, your mouth falls open from the surprise of it and you want to move your feet so badly.

“Shit.” You moan.

With a quickness you feel a radiating pain of something slapping your ass.

“Don’t you move them feet or hands.”

Between the pain and pleasure, you want to scream— but not in a bad way.

“What was it you were saying? Huh?—“

“I’m a fucking liar?”

You hear the crack of whatever it is, hitting your ass again.

The vibration against your clit makes your legs tremble too on top of everything else.

He bends down kissing your cheek, “I never lied to you, baby.”

Your ass bounces from him hitting again.

You grit your teeth through the pain and pleasure.

“Fuck.” You moan.

“Both contracts are put in place for my security. Not because I’ve had relationships like this one before. You’d be surprised at the lengths that people would go to in order to have what they think you might have.”

The knot in your stomach building and tears of overstimulation painting your cheeks.

He leans down looking at you, the tears running down your cheek.

“Are you crying?”

You nod your head, moans still falling from your mouth.

“Good.”

Another smack on your ass.

“I don’t like being accused of something that I was honest about from the beginning. You could’ve handled it so much better.”

The vibration turns up, higher than it was.

Despite it feeling good, you’re really starting to regret having opened your mouth.

“This feels so good.” You mumble.

“I’m going to—“

He pulls your panties down and takes the vibrator, sliding your panties back up.

You try looking around in confusion, you were so close.

“Stand up.”

You stand up slowly.

“Turn around towards my voice.”

He walks up kissing you passionately, his hand gripping your ass.

“You don’t get rewarded for being wrong.”

He pulls your blindfold off and heads into the other room.

You stand there an overstimulated mess— your cheeks wet from crying and your legs still shaking.

You grab your skirt while he’s in the other room and put it back on.

He comes back a few minutes later, you standing by the window and drinking some water.

“Do you want to stay the night?” He asks.

You nod your head yes.

He wraps his arms around you, placing a kiss on your forehead.

You walk over to the couch, sitting down and placing your glass on the coffee table.

“What made you want this with me?” You ask, cutting straight to the chase.

He walks to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water.

“You interested me, from the very beginning. I was attracted to you in general, but the dinner solidified my attraction and interest.”

He walks back over, sitting on the couch with you.

“Is this too much for you?” He questions.

You stare at the wall, looking at the paintings.

“It’s not too much, it’s just different. Maybe, because it feels like more of an arrangement than anything.”

“How so?” He asks, his interest piqued.

“I mean, you stopped talking to me after you fingered me— because I couldn’t handle you, in your own words. It wasn’t because you wanted to slow things down or because of the age gap, it was because of your sexual desires.”

He sips some of his water, placing the glass on the table.

“It wasn’t inherently sexual. What I showed you was part of me, one of the biggest parts— the part that can matter the most and everything else comes after that.”

“What I want in the bedroom can only be fulfilled by certain individuals and I’d never want to jump into anything without mentioning it.”

You nod, adjusting on the couch so that you’re facing him.

“I understand that and that’s not a part that scares me away or has questions. It was the contracts and that level of control that it seems you have outside of the bedroom. It’s just different.”

He scoots over on the couch, closer to you.

He grabs your hands.

“Hey, when I say that this isn’t an arrangement— I mean that. It’s different for me too and there isn’t any shame in saying that. The sexual attraction is through the roof, but I want you to see other parts of me as well.”

You guys lay on the couch together for a while, just cuddling and talking about nothing. A different kind of vulnerability for both of you, a much needed change in pace.

“Do you want to order pizza?”

Your fingers trace his chest, “that sounds good— but only if it’s from Marciano’s on park avenue.”

He laughs, his hand rubbing your arm.

“Great minds think alike.”

He gets off the couch, going to grab his phone to order pizza and you turn on the tv to kill time.

He comes back a few minutes later, rubbing his hands together.

“I got the food ordered, it should be here in a bit. What are we watching, baby?”

“The family that preys. I’ve never seen it and it comes on in a few minutes.”

He sits down beside you, “I’ve never seen it either.”

The pizza arrives about forty minutes later and gives you two a much needed break from the emotional rollercoaster of a movie.

You both sit on the stools at the counter, eating your pizza.

“Do you travel a lot?” You ask.

He wipes the corner of his mouth, nodding.

“Do I?” He laughs.

“Do you?”

“No, not really. School takes priority and I also don’t like the idea of traveling alone.”

“Well, If you did ever travel anywhere— where’s the first place you’d want to go?”

You finish chewing on your slice of pizza and you sit there thinking.

“I’d like to go skiing in Colorado. I’ve been before but that was years ago.”

“Skiing, hmm. I see you have more skills that I’m hearing about—“

“What else do you do?”

You grab another napkin, wiping your hands.

“I’m really good at soccer and archery. I was on both teams in high school.”

He turns in his seat, looking at you with shock.

“Archery and soccer? I’m gonna need you to show me that.” He jokes.

“What are your long-term goals?” You pry.

“Big ones or small ones?”

You shrug, “both.”

He taps his fingers on the counter.

“My biggest goal overall is that I want to focus more on myself. I’ve always been business oriented and focused since I was young, something my mother instilled in me. I’m older now and I want more out of life than worrying about work or making money.”

You walk over the sink, rinsing your plate off and washing your hands.

“Do you think that wanting more out of life is in connection with wanting to settle down or just having more time to yourself without thinking of work?”

You turn facing him, leaning up against the counter.

“Settling down, a wife and children wasn’t exactly what I was ever looking for. For the longest, I struggled with making romantic connections outside of what fulfilled my desires. I’ve just within the last two years gotten over that and want something more than sex.”

You listen to what he’s saying and give him your undivided attention— but you’d be lying if you said that you didn’t have questions.

For a few hours after that, y’all continue watching movies before he eventually invites you into his bedroom to go to sleep.

His bedroom is huge— almost bigger than your damn apartment. The room is clean, so clean that you could probably eat off the floor.

Dim, ambient lighting.

Black, silk sheets on his bed.

Everything is organized to an extraordinary degree.

“Babe, I don’t have anything to sleep in.”

He scratches his brow, “I forgot about that.”

He walks into his closet and comes back out, handing you a Bone Thugs- N- Harmony shirt.

“You can sleep in this.”

You pull your blouse off— folding it and placing it in his chair along with your skirt.

He sits on the edge of the bed, biting his lip and admiring you.

“Come here, baby.”

You walk over to him, standing in front of him and slowly straddling his lap.

His hands rubbing your thighs and ass.

“You look so good in this set.”

He kisses your neck and sprinkles them down your chest.

You can feel the bulge in his sweatpants growing.

You slide off his lap and onto your knees.

“Baby?”

“Shh. Let me be in control of this.” You put your hand to his lips and slowly push him back.

Your heart is racing as you pull his sweatpants down. Your hand rubbing over his dick in his boxers, teasing him.

You slowly pull his boxers down, his dick springing free.

You sit there in awe, it's way bigger than you expected and way bigger than you’d want to take for your first time.

His tip glistens with precum coating it.

You wrap your hand around it, barely able to with how thick it is.

Your tongue swipes his slit, licking up the precum and you see his legs twitch.

You pump his dick a few times, a heat filling your stomach from how much this turns you on.

A few groans leave his mouth as you slowly stroke him.

Spit fills your mouth from the excitement of sucking his dick.

You push the tip into your mouth, spit dripping down his as you try pushing every inch down your throat.

You remember the trick Lane told you about, so you breathe through your nose to keep from gagging.

“Shit.” Smoke grunts.

You bring your head back up, rubbing the spit around.

You start sucking his dick, your head slowly bobbing up and down.

Smoke makes you stop, sitting up.

“Damn, you’re making a mess baby.”

You keep sucking, your tongue trailing the veins.

“Fuck.” He grunts.

“Baby, is it okay if I try something different?”

You nod.

He places his hands on both sides of your head, thrusting his dick into the back of your throat.

He throat fucks you, his moans filling the air.

Spit drips down your chin and onto your chest.

You gag a few times, but you’re surprisingly good at keeping it under wraps.

“You look so fucking good, your mouth full of my dick.”

Hearing him grunt, moan, and groan from the pleasure of fucking your mouth has you soaked.

He pulls out abruptly, stroking his spit covered dick.

“Open for me.”

You open your mouth, sticking your tongue out.

“Mhmm.”

He lays the tip on your tongue, eyes rolling back as he paints it white.

You keep eye contact with him, closing your mouth and swallowing.

He walks away, grabbing a towel and bringing it over to you.

You wipe your mouth and chest.

“I’m going to go take a shower. Do you want to join me?”

He winks, pulling his boxers up.

“Of course.”

He grabs your hand, walking you into his bathroom.

The bathroom isn’t far from the size of the bedroom, a dream bathroom for you.

The floors are heated, there’s a bathtub and a huge walk-in shower with two heads.

The windows are tinted with an amazing view of the city and people below.

He turns the shower on, letting it heat up.

“Are the floors too warm for you? I can adjust the temperature.”

You laugh, “that’s something I never thought I’d hear.”

He walks over to you, wrapping his arms around you as you stare out the window.

“This is a view that I could get used to.”

You both get into the shower both using the separate heads. At first you're nervous about him seeing you naked, but the way he gets hard all over again— you realize that you were nervous for nothing.

You lather your body in soap, humming a song that you heard earlier on the radio.

The water runs over your body, the soap washing down the drain.

You turn to see Smoke watching you and admiring you from his side.

“You got me feeling a way that I haven’t felt before.” He admits.

You start to smirk, “that’s just the sexual aspect.”

He walks over to you, placing his hands on your waist.

“I mean it, though. You’re different.”

“Am I?”

He nods.

You pull him close, your lips crashing into his.

You pull away before getting too carried away, “let’s finish showering. We need to get in the bed.”

Y’all finish up the shower— you put on the shirt he gave you and make your way back into the bedroom, Smoke following right behind you. 

Y’all cuddle in the bed and exchange a few words, but it doesn’t take long before you’re asleep with your head on his chest and lightly snoring.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The night didn’t loosen.

It lay heavy in the cabin, moonlight dragging across the warped floorboards, cicadas still sawing outside, the sheets twisted and damp. Zariah tried to breathe past the weight of him, past the thick press of Elijah’s body stretched over hers, his chest slick against her back.

He hadn’t pulled out.

His dick sat heavy and deep inside her, twitching every so often like his body didn’t know how to let go. Each little pulse made her walls squeeze, made her stomach flutter, kept her too aware of him to pretend at rest.

“Stay warm for me,” he’d murmured against her hair before his breathing slowed into sleep.

And she had. She couldn’t have moved even if she wanted to—the wolf in him had locked her against his chest, one arm braced hard around her middle, his nose pressed into the soft of her neck. He breathed her like oxygen. Every exhale burned low across her shoulder. Every inhale dragged her scent deeper into him.

Zariah’s thighs ached, her skin stung where his beard had rasped, and still, her body betrayed her—wet clinging around him, every breath catching when his length shifted inside her. She told herself to sleep. Told herself this was temporary. But sleep came slow under the weight of being used like a sheath.

When she finally drifted, it was with the thought that she wasn’t just lying in his bed—she was caught in him.

—

Her eyes snapped open at dawn.

The light was gray, weak, leaking through the slats. Elijah was still pressed to her back, heavier now with sleep. But his dick hadn’t softened. It was still there, still deep, still thick with that steady pulse that matched his heartbeat against her spine.

She shifted, careful. His grip only tightened.

“Elijah…” she whispered, half a warning, half a plea.

The wolf inside him must’ve heard it, because before she could slip free, his hips rolled once, slow and deliberate. The stroke dragged heat through her already sore body, a gasp breaking out of her throat before she could smother it.

He was still asleep. Or close enough that his drawl came out rough and fractured, words soaked in dream.

“Stay,” he mumbled, grinding again, filling her with lazy, dangerous ease. “Stay warm for me, baby.”

The sound of his voice made her cunt clench, made her thighs tremble.

Zariah pressed her forehead to the pillow, biting down hard. Every time she thought she’d found the edge of his obsession, he showed her another layer. He didn’t just want to claim her when the moon burned him alive. He wanted to keep her like this—even in sleep, even in morning light—plugged full, bound by his dick, marked in a way no shower, no daylight could rinse away.

And the worst part—the part that made her bite down harder, that made her hips shift back into his, slow and secret—was that her body liked it.

Elijah stirred behind her, not fully awake but not gone either. His hips had stilled again, his dick buried so deep she felt him at the root of her belly.

Then he moved.

Not out. Just a slow drag of his nose along her throat, under her jaw, down to the hollow where her pulse fluttered too fast. He inhaled, long and rough, like her skin carried something sweeter than air.

“Mmm,” he hummed against her, lips grazing the damp salt of her collarbone. “Vanilla. Sweat. Mine.”

The words were half-growl, half-prayer.

Zariah’s chest seized. “You always talk like that?”

His arm locked harder around her waist. “When it’s true.” He buried his nose in her curls, dragging a lungful in like he could drink her through scent alone. His teeth grazed the curve of her ear. “Right now you smell ripe. Wolf-loud. Body already beggin’ for more.”

Her thighs clenched, traitorous. She shifted to push his hand away, but he caught her wrist, pressed it back against her own belly like he wanted her to feel the way his dick twitched inside her.

“Elijah—”

“Don’t run from it,” he murmured, low and steady. “Your smell tells on you. Warm sugar when you laugh. Smoke when you scared. Right now?” His mouth dragged down the slope of her shoulder, breath hot. “You smell like wet heat. Like you been opened up and marked right.”

Zariah bit the inside of her cheek, pulse pounding. The words weren’t sweet, weren’t meant to soothe. They stripped her bare, laid her out like he could read her better than she could read herself.

He lifted her arm, nosed into the tender dip of her underarm, inhaled sharp, groaned low. “Fuck… that’s soft. Pure woman. Nobody else ever gets this. Just me.”

Zariah shivered hard, caught between shame and something darker. Her body pressed back into his, back into the steady heat of him, even as her mouth whispered, “You sound crazy.”

“Crazy?” His teeth scraped lightly at her throat, not biting yet, just tasting. “Baby, that’s the wolf. Wolf don’t lie ‘bout scent. You smell like mine, and now the whole world’s gonna know it.”

Her skin burned under the weight of his words, but Zariah twisted anyway, testing the hold he had on her wrist.

“Elijah—”

The name broke when his hips rolled once, lazy and heavy, dragging a stroke through her already tender walls. She gasped sharp, her body clenching tight around him.

He chuckled low in her ear. “See that? You say my name, your body squeeze me harder.” Another slow grind, his length thick and deliberate. “Wolf reads that too.”

She braced her palm against the mattress, tried to shift away. His arm locked firm across her stomach, keeping her pinned back on him.

“That’s not fair,” she snapped, breathless.

“Life ain’t fair.” He dipped his mouth to her throat again, inhaled long, groaning rough. “But I’ll give you fairer than most.”

Her lips parted, pulse frantic. “You mean… if I tell you stop—”

“I stop.” His voice cut low, steel under the drawl. No hesitation.

Her chest tightened. “Even if the wolf—”

“Wolf listens to me.” His hips pressed in again, a slow punishing grind, as if to underline the point. “You say stop, baby, it’s done. Don’t matter how loud he gets.”

Her breath shivered out.

“But you gotta say it,” he went on, voice softer now, mouth still pressed to her skin. “Not just a whimper, not just a push. Give me the word. Red. Yellow. Green. You give me red, I stop. You give me yellow, I hold still, breathe you quiet. Green… means I take you how you beg.”

Zariah’s throat went tight. Her mind spun, her body hot, his dick still seated deep, throbbing against every soft place inside her.

“You understand?” he asked, rough, almost pleading.

She nodded against the pillow.

“Say it,” he ordered, voice sharp enough to cut through the haze.

Her lips parted. “Red. Yellow. Green.”

“That’s my girl.” His grip eased just a little, like her words steadied even the beast under his ribs. “Now I know. Now wolf knows.”

Then he rolled his hips again, slow and merciless, groaning into her neck. “And now you know I ain’t lettin’ you go.”

Zariah’s pulse hammered against his mouth where it pressed to her throat. Every inhale of his rattled her bones, every lazy grind of his hips drew another sound out of her she swore she didn’t mean to make.

But she wasn’t just going to lie there and let him carve her open with words.

She twisted in his hold. Not enough to break free—his arm was a steel band at her waist—but enough to catch his shoulder with her mouth. Her teeth snapped down before she could think twice.

Elijah froze.

The bite wasn’t gentle. Her teeth sank hard into the curve where his neck met his shoulder, not breaking skin but deep enough to sting.

He jolted, breath tearing ragged from his chest. For the first time since the night began, the wolf inside him went silent.

Zariah’s jaw clenched, refusing to let go, even when she felt his muscles tense under her teeth. She bit harder, staking something raw and wordless into his flesh.

When she finally released him, her lips wet from the press, she whispered against the mark she’d made:

“Not just yours.” Her voice trembled, but the words didn’t. “You’re mine too.”

Elijah’s chest rose sharp against her back, his whole body vibrating with the effort of holding still.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice cracked wide, torn between reverence and need. His forehead dropped against her shoulder, sweat slicking where their skin met.

The wolf stirred, low, restless, but it didn’t fight her. It crouched instead—watching, listening—as if her teeth had cut through to something it respected.

Elijah dragged in a breath, shaky and slow, and whispered like confession: “You don’t know what you just did.”

Zariah closed her eyes, a shiver racing down her spine. “Maybe I do.”

His dick twitched deep inside her, so hard it hurt. His grip flexed at her stomach, rough, hungry, but he didn’t move. He held himself still like stillness was the only thing keeping the world from breaking.

Elijah didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Her bite still burned into his shoulder, a phantom imprint pulsing under his skin like a second heartbeat. His chest heaved against her back, breath breaking ragged, the wolf crouched inside him, quiet for the first time all night.

Zariah had gone still too. Her mouth hovered at the mark she’d made, her whisper echoing like a scar: you’re mine too.

The words sat between them, thick as the moonlight on the sheets.

Slowly, Elijah dragged his forehead along her shoulder until it pressed against hers. His breath was hot at her ear, rough with everything he couldn’t hold back anymore.

“You carry me in you,” he rasped, voice gravel and reverence all at once, “you carry me through every moon cycle.”

The words weren’t a tease this time. They weren’t the filthy growl he’d used when the wolf was clawing loud. Now they landed heavy, weighted like a law spoken aloud.

Zariah shivered. Her lips parted, her chest shaking with each breath, her body still clenching around his dick like it wanted to remember every word in muscle.

He stayed pressed to her, forehead tight against her temple, and said it again—slower, deeper, like he needed her to hear it in marrow:

“You carry me in you. You carry me through every moon cycle. That means somethin’. That means you mine when the moon’s high, and you mine when the sun’s burnin’, and you mine when there ain’t nothin’ but dirt and breath between us.”

Her throat worked, swallowing hard.

Then, quiet but steady, she whispered back, “Then you carry me too.”

Elijah’s breath tore out of him, guttural, like the words split something open in his chest. He let his eyes fall shut, his lips brushing the sweat-damp curve of her cheek.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice raw. “You don’t even know what you’re askin’.”

“I know enough,” she said, her voice trembling but stubborn.

His hand tightened on her stomach, his body trembling with the effort it took not to move. His dick throbbed inside her, every beat syncing with her pulse.

And for a moment, the whole world was only that vow, suspended between them like breath too dangerous to let go.

The vow sat between them like fire, too hot, too sharp. Neither of them moved.

Elijah’s arm locked at her waist, his chest shuddering against her back, his dick throbbing so thick and steady inside her it felt like another heartbeat. He wanted to stay still, wanted to let the words hang unbroken. But his body betrayed him first.

His hips rolled, slow, deliberate, dragging his length through her soaked heat until she gasped, trembling.

Zariah arched back against him without meaning to, the sound slipping from her throat raw, needy. “Elijah—”

“Shhh.” His lips brushed her temple, his voice dark with reverence. “Let it happen. Don’t fight it.”

Another grind, deeper this time. Her walls clutched him tight, clinging like her body already knew the shape of his. Every push was torture, every drag a promise.

“Feel that?” he groaned, his forehead pressing hard to hers. “That’s me. Inside every nerve you got. You think I’m lettin’ you go after this?”

Her nails dug into his forearm where it clamped her belly. “I—”

“You ain’t,” he cut her off, hips rolling harder now, breath breaking against her cheek. “Say you mine. Say it while you squeeze me.”

The words hit low, vibrating through her chest. Her body clenched around him again, helpless, betraying her.

“I’m—yours,” she gasped, the syllables ragged.

Elijah groaned like it ripped out of his chest, his hips jerking harder. “That’s it. My girl. Wolf’s girl. You feel how deep you got me? You gon’ milk me till I got nothin’ left.”

The rhythm built, relentless in its slowness—no frantic pounding, just grinding, claiming, each stroke timed with the ragged drag of his breath. His beard scraped her cheek raw, his sweat smeared into her skin, the cabin air thick with sex and pine and smoke.

Zariah broke first. Her whole body arched, clamped down, walls fluttering in desperate pulses. She cried out, the sound swallowed by his mouth crushing hers, and her release shook through her like fever.

Elijah held her through it, groaning, grinding, the pulse of his dick swelling hotter inside her. “Fuck, you takin’ me—so sweet—so tight—”

Then he shattered, his whole frame locking, his voice cracking into a growl that sounded too big to fit in one man’s throat. His hips pressed hard against her ass as he spilled deep, his breath catching on every ragged curse, every filthy prayer.

They clung together through it, trembling, grinding through the aftershocks until every nerve was raw.

Zariah collapsed forward into the sheets, limp, her breath jagged. Elijah didn’t pull out. He slumped heavy over her, chest pressed to her back, his length still buried thick inside her, still pulsing with aftershocks.

He kissed her temple, rough and almost broken. “You sleepin’ with my dick still in you. That’s how it is now. You stay warm for me.”

Zariah’s eyes fluttered closed, her body already giving in. She felt him settle, felt his breath slow against her ear.

And then the cabin went still again—two bodies tangled, sweat drying, wolf satisfied, both of them bound by something thicker than sleep.

The cabin was hushed except for the low hum of cicadas giving way to birds. Dawn light crept through the warped slats in thin yellow lines, spilling across tangled sheets and damp skin.

Zariah woke first.

Her lashes fluttered, body heavy, thighs still trembling with aftershocks. She was pinned in the same position she’d fallen asleep in—Elijah behind her, chest plastered to her back, arm clamped tight around her waist like she might slip away if he let go.

And his dick was still inside her.

Full. Hot. A weight she couldn’t ignore, pulsing slow against her walls. Even after hours, he hadn’t softened completely. It was like his body didn’t know how to release her.

Her throat went dry. Carefully, carefully, she shifted her hips forward, meaning only to ease herself off of him.

His arm flexed instantly, dragging her back against his chest. A groan rumbled low in his sleep, more wolf than man, and his hips rolled forward, thick length dragging a slow stroke through her sore cunt.

Zariah gasped into the pillow, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle it.

“Elijah—” she whispered, not sure if she meant it as warning or plea.

He didn’t wake. Not fully. His face pressed deeper into her curls, nose dragging along the slope of her neck as he inhaled her like oxygen. His breath came hot and rough, words spilling broken from his throat, half-dream, half-command.

“Stay warm… stay full for me, baby.”

Her chest seized. Her body betrayed her. The lazy rut of his hips pressed him deeper, made her walls clutch around him, made heat stir low in her belly even though she was wrung out from the night before.

“Elijah,” she tried again, weaker this time.

A guttural sound caught in his chest. He gave her two more slow strokes, his grip iron at her waist, as though even in sleep he needed to remind her she wasn’t going anywhere.

Zariah’s breath hitched. Her nails dug into the sheets, her thighs trembling. The room was thick with the musk of them—sweat dried into skin, the tang of him still dripping inside her, pine and smoke and salt. She couldn’t move without feeling him everywhere.

Finally, with a sharp exhale, his hips stilled. The arm at her waist slackened just enough for her to slide free. His dick slipped out of her with a wet drag, the sudden emptiness making her knees wobble when she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

She stood a moment, catching her reflection in the cracked mirror across the room. Her lips were swollen, her neck striped with bruises, thighs marked where his fingers had held her open. She looked ruined. She looked claimed.

Behind her, Elijah stirred, groaning low in his sleep, turning onto his back. His dick lay heavy against his thigh, slick with the mess of her. Even soft, it looked obscene.

Zariah’s breath caught in her chest. She should have felt shame. Instead, heat pooled low in her belly again, sharp and sweet, as the echo of his words clung to her like a brand.

Stay warm for me.

Zariah lingered by the bed, bare feet pressed against the cool boards. Her chest rose too fast, breath shallow from the lazy strokes he’d given her half-asleep. The weight of them lingered, the memory sharp in her cunt like he was still inside her.

Behind her, Elijah shifted again, arm falling heavy across the pillow where she’d been. A groan rumbled low from his throat, sleep-dragged but satisfied, like his body knew even without her there he’d already won.

She dragged in a breath and forced herself to move.

One step. Another. Her knees wobbled, thighs still aching. The wood creaked under her weight as she padded toward the small bathroom at the edge of the cabin.

The air was cooler there, shadows sharp under the weak dawn light. The mirror was old, mottled in the corners, glass warped with age. Still, when she caught her reflection, her breath snagged.

She looked different.

Her lips were swollen, plush and wet-looking. Her neck was striped in bruises where his mouth had dragged, dark blooms at her collarbone, a bite-shadow at her shoulder. She reached up, touched the mark, shivered when her fingertip pressed into the sore flesh.

Lower, her breasts looked heavier, rounder, the weight of them tugging at her chest. Her nipples were peaked, darker than she remembered, sensitive even in the cool air. She cupped one absent, and heat shivered low in her belly.

Her belly itself felt tender, stretched. Not bloated—but full, like something lived there that hadn’t before.

Her thighs carried him too: bruised fingerprints at her hips, the faint scrape of bark at the back of one leg, her skin still sticky where he’d spilled in her again and again.

She turned slightly, catching the curve of her ass in the mirror. It looked rounder. Plusher. Her body carried the night like a second skin.

Zariah swallowed hard. Her reflection didn’t just look fucked-out—it looked changed. Like she’d been fed something more than dick, more than sweat. Like her body was blooming under the weight of him, fuller with every breath she took.

She pressed her thighs together, but even that small movement made her shudder. The soreness between her legs was sharp, but beneath it was an ache she couldn’t name.

Her eyes flicked up, caught the wildness in her gaze. Hair loose and tangled, skin glowing despite the sweat and the mess.

Behind her, the floor creaked.

Zariah’s head whipped around.

Elijah stood in the doorway. Shirtless, sweat still drying on his chest, hair mussed from sleep. His eyes were heavy-lidded, but his nostrils flared when he saw her bare in the mirror, his scent still wet on her thighs.

He leaned against the frame, slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep and something rougher. His gaze dragged down her reflection like a hand. “Full already. Body know who you belong to.”

Zariah’s breath caught. Her hand dropped from her breast, but she couldn’t pull her eyes from his in the glass.

Elijah didn’t step closer. He just stood there, arms folded against the frame, eyes heavy on her reflection.

“You see it too,” he murmured. Not a question—fact.

Zariah’s mouth parted, but no words came. The way he said it made her skin tighten, made her belly clench.

Finally, he pushed off the frame, slow and steady, and walked past her into the kitchen. The scent of him followed—smoke, pine, and the musk of their night, thick and undeniable.

She stood frozen a beat longer before moving after him, wrapping her robe halfheartedly around herself.

The kitchen was small, one narrow counter and a stove that looked older than her grandmother. Elijah stood shirtless in front of it, lighting the burner, shoulders broad under the soft morning light. He cracked eggs into a pan like he’d done it a thousand times, wrist steady, body loose.

Zariah slid into the chair at the small table, pulling her knees together under the robe. She tried to sit normal, to breathe normal, but the soreness between her thighs wouldn’t let her forget what they’d done.

The sizzle of eggs filled the cabin. The smell of butter crept into the air. It should have been domestic, ordinary. But nothing about Elijah was ordinary.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes catching her where she sat.

Then he crossed the room.

Pan still hissing behind him, he leaned down, buried his nose in her curls, and dragged in a breath so deep she swore she felt it in her bones. His groan was low, guttural.

“Sweet,” he said against her temple. “Sweeter than syrup. Wolf-drunk on you.”

Zariah froze, her hand tightening on the table edge. “You’re supposed to be cooking.”

“I am.” He inhaled her again, slower this time, his lips grazing the crown of her head. “Just got distracted.”

He kissed her temple—rough, unthinking—then went back to the stove like nothing happened.

Her chest wouldn’t calm.

The eggs popped. The pan clanged as he slid them onto two chipped plates. He set one in front of her, sat across the table with his own.

For a moment, they almost looked normal. Eating breakfast, quiet morning light, the hum of cicadas outside.

But then Elijah leaned across the table, caught her wrist, and brought it to his mouth. His nose pressed into the inside of her wrist, right where her pulse jumped. He inhaled sharp, eyes half-lidded, before pressing his lips there.

“You smell ripe,” he murmured against her skin. “Like you already carryin’ me.”

Zariah’s fork clattered against the plate. Heat flared up her chest, up her throat. She yanked her wrist back, glaring. “You can’t just—”

His grin was slow, dangerous. “Can’t help it. Wolf don’t let me.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but his eyes dropped to her throat, his nostrils flaring again, and she realized he wasn’t listening. He was scenting. Even over butter and eggs, he was drowning in her smell.

Breakfast went half-eaten. Every time she lifted the fork, he was leaning in again—at her hair, her neck, her wrist, nosing her like she was food he couldn’t stop tasting.

And the worst part—the part she couldn’t admit, even to herself—was that she let him.

The eggs cooled on her plate, half-eaten. Zariah shoved her fork down with a clatter and pushed back from the table.

“I need a shower.”

Elijah’s gaze tracked her, slow and heavy. His mouth curved like he already knew what she meant before she said it.

“Got water here,” he said, nodding toward the back of the cabin.

“I said my shower,” she corrected, tugging the robe tighter around herself. “At my house.”

For a second, the wolf in him bristled—she could see it in the hard line of his jaw, the way his nostrils flared. But then he leaned back in the chair, thighs spread, eyes low on her.

“You think I’m lettin’ you walk there alone?”

“I didn’t ask you to,” she shot back. Her voice was steady, but her insides were buzzing, raw from how he kept smelling her like his favorite meal. “I just want clean clothes, my space. One shower without you breathing down my neck.”

Elijah hummed low, tongue pressing into his cheek. Then he stood, slow and deliberate, setting his plate aside.

“Fine. But I’m walkin’ you.”

—

The air outside was thick with sun already, cicadas buzzing loud. The path between his cabin and her little house wasn’t far—just a thin strip of grass and old fence lines.

Zariah walked ahead, robe fluttering around her thighs, her skin sticky where his seed still clung. Elijah trailed just behind her, silent, his steps eating ground with unhurried patience. She could feel his gaze pressed between her shoulder blades, heavy as touch.

When they reached her porch, she turned, blocking the door with her body.

“You wait here.”

Elijah’s head tilted, a slow wolf’s measure. His eyes dragged down her legs, lingered at the damp hem of her robe, then came back to her face.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

For a beat, neither moved. Then he stepped closer, crowding the air without touching her. His nose brushed her temple, and he inhaled sharp, a groan catching in his chest.

“Don’t take too long,” he rasped. “Smell of you already drivin’ me stupid.”

Her knees wobbled, but she yanked the door open and slipped inside, closing it with a firm click.

—

The shower was scalding, steam filling the small bathroom. Zariah braced her palms against the tile, letting the water wash sweat and dirt and Elijah’s musk from her skin. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she swore his scent clung—smoke, pine, and the slick heat of his body.

When she dressed—soft jeans, a clean tank, hair tied up—her reflection still looked… changed. Fuller. Glowing. Like her body had remembered him in places soap couldn’t reach.

Her stomach twisted at the thought.

—

When she stepped back onto the porch, Elijah was exactly where she’d left him. Leaning against the rail, shirt finally tugged on, arms folded, watching the trees like they were suspects.

His gaze cut to her instantly, sweeping from head to toe. A low sound left him, almost a laugh, almost a growl.

“Still smell like me,” he muttered. “Can’t wash wolf out that easy.”

Zariah rolled her eyes, brushing past him down the steps. “Let’s go.”

—

Town was small enough that everyone noticed when you walked in. The café bell chimed as they stepped inside, air heavy with coffee and fried dough.

Heads turned. Women blinked at Zariah, smiles sharp, eyes narrowing. Men let their gazes snag too long before they remembered Elijah was there, his frame filling the doorway like shadow.

“Girl, you look good,” one woman behind the counter said, squinting at her. “Glowin’. You do somethin’ different with your hair?”

Zariah forced a laugh, tugging at her bun. “Just showered.”

But the stares didn’t ease. She felt them—like everyone could see the bite marks on her neck, the swell of her breasts under the thin cotton of her tank. Like they could sense something she hadn’t meant to carry into daylight.

She was still processing it when it happened.

At the far end of the café, a man brushed past. Not just a man. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. His nostrils flared as he passed her, and his eyes flicked sharp—gold flashing for just a second.

Wolf.

Zariah froze, stomach plummeting.

Elijah was at her side before she could blink. His arm brushed the small of her back, his presence a wall. His voice came low, lethal, meant for wolf ears only.

“Don’t bother sniffin’. She already smells like me.”

The man’s gaze flicked between them. His mouth twitched like he wanted to test the claim—but he didn’t. His eyes dropped, head ducking, and he slipped out of the café without another word.

The air in the room seemed to settle again. Townies went back to their chatter.

But Zariah’s pulse kept pounding.

She turned to Elijah, whispering sharp, “What the hell was that?”

He looked down at her, eyes steady, jaw tight. His nostrils flared once more, catching her scent, and his answer was simple.

“Wolf law.”

The walk back from town was quiet.

Zariah carried a paper bag with coffee and bread, the strap cutting into her fingers harder than it should have. Elijah walked beside her, too close, his arm brushing hers like he couldn’t help it.

She didn’t look at him. Not after the café. Not after the way the other man’s eyes had flashed gold and dropped the second Elijah spoke.

By the time they reached her porch, her chest was tight with words. She set the bag on the small table by the door and turned, arms crossed.

“What did you mean—wolf law?”

Elijah stopped on the step below her, looking up. The angle should have softened him. It didn’t. His jaw was sharp, eyes steady, body loose in a way that made her more nervous than tension ever could.

“Means what I said,” he replied, voice low. “Means you smell like me now. Ain’t a wolf in this county that won’t catch it.”

Her pulse jumped. “So that guy—”

“Knew.” Elijah’s lips curved, not into a smile but something meaner, more certain. “Knew not to test me. Knew not to test you.”

Zariah’s stomach twisted. “And if he had?”

His eyes flashed, the wolf close enough to show. “Then he’d be bleedin’ on that café floor.”

She swallowed hard.

Elijah climbed the last step, close now, his shadow spilling over her. His voice dropped to a rasp.

“Claim ain’t just a word, Zariah. It’s law. It’s protection. It’s permanence. You mine now, under moon and under sun. Any wolf smell you, they know it. Any man look too long, they feel it in their bones.”

Her chest tightened. “And me? What do I get in this deal?”

His nostrils flared. He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed her lips.

“You get me,” he said simply. His eyes locked hers, steady and hot. “Wolf don’t play house. Wolf don’t date. Wolf claims. You let me inside you under the full moon, that’s forever.”

The words rattled through her, heavy as chains. Zariah’s chest rose hard, her pulse a drum in her throat.

She searched his face, jaw tight. “That’s it? Forever? Just because your wolf decided?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Not just wolf. Me.”

“That’s not an answer.” The heat in her voice surprised her, trembling with something sharper than fear. “Do wolves even fall in love, Elijah? Or is this just instinct? Just claim and rut and permanence, and the rest doesn’t matter?”

For the first time, his eyes softened, though the silver still threaded faint in the brown. His hand dropped from her chin to her waist, holding her steady.

“Wolf don’t lie ‘bout feelings,” he said rough. “If I say you mine, it ain’t just body. It’s all of me. You think I’d keep breathin’ if I didn’t want you?”

Zariah’s throat went tight. Her next words came out smaller. “And if I get pregnant?”

His nostrils flared, heat flooding his gaze. His grip tightened at her waist.

“You will.”

Her breath caught. “That’s not what I asked.”

He hesitated, then spoke slow, deliberate. “If I put a baby in you, it’s ours. Ain’t no litter, ain’t no curse. Wolf blood run deep, yeah, but it don’t mean you carryin’ pups. Means our kids gon’ be strong. Maybe human. Maybe wolf. Maybe both. But they’ll be ours.”

Zariah’s chest clenched. “And what about marriage? Do wolves get married? Or is that dream gone for me too?”

Elijah blinked, surprise flickering across his face like she’d spoken a word he hadn’t expected.

“Wolf law don’t need a preacher,” he said finally, voice low. “The claim is the vow. Blood, seed, bite—that’s binding.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” Her voice cracked sharp. “I want to know if you’d stand up with me in front of people. If you’d say I’m your wife, not just your claim.”

His jaw flexed. For the first time, he looked uncertain, his thumb dragging slow against her hip. The wolf in him shifted restless, growling low in his chest.

Finally, his eyes met hers again, steady, dark. “If you want a ring, Zariah, I’ll put one on you. Ain’t wolf law, but I’ll give it to you anyway. You hear me? You ain’t losin’ no dream just ‘cause I’m built different. Family, home, vow—I give you all of it.”

Her breath stuttered. She searched his face, hunting for a crack, for a lie. But he held her look like stone, shoulders broad, chest rising steady, wolf quiet in the shadow of his words.

Zariah swallowed hard, eyes stinging. “I wanted that my whole life. Husband. Kids. A family.”

“You still can,” Elijah rasped, leaning in close, his forehead brushing hers. “Only difference is, now you don’t get to wonder if he gon’ stay. Wolf don’t leave.”

Her lips parted, shaky. The word forever no longer felt just like a cage. It pressed against her like a promise she wasn’t sure she wanted—but couldn’t stop herself from aching toward.

Elijah’s breath roughened. His hand slid from her waist to her stomach, palm spreading wide across her belly like he was testing the space. His thumb rubbed small, absent circles, eyes locked low.

“Wolf law don’t lie,” he muttered. “You gon’ carry me. Don’t matter when—moon cycle, heat, or just ‘cause I get greedy. Sooner or later, your body gon’ swell for me.”

Zariah’s throat went dry. She should’ve pushed him off, stepped back, argued. But her body betrayed her—heat curling low where his palm pressed, her thighs tightening together.

His nostrils flared sharp. He bent down, nose brushing the crook of her neck, dragging slow along her skin. Inhaling her like he was drowning.

“Sweet,” he rasped against her. “Still smell like I filled you last night. Body holdin’ me in. You was made for it. Made to keep me.”

Her knees weakened. She clutched the porch rail behind her, heart slamming.

Elijah groaned low, his nose pressing into her hairline, mouth grazing the soft spot just under her ear.

“You gon’ be a good mother,” he said, voice filthy and reverent all at once. “I can smell it on you already. Scent say your womb waitin’ for me. Your hips, your tits—already changin’ for the work. Gonna give me strong babies. Wolf-claimed, wolf-fed.”

Zariah’s lips trembled. “You don’t know that.”

His teeth grazed her shoulder, sharp enough to make her gasp. His hand flexed on her belly, possessive.

“I do,” he growled. “Wolf don’t guess. Wolf knows. You gon’ carry my line, Zariah. Every drop I give you, your body keepin’ it. Gonna swell with me, glow with me, smell like me even heavier. Town gon’ see, wolves gon’ smell, and nobody gon’ doubt who fucked you full.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, her whole body shaking—not from fear, but from the hot, dizzy pull of his certainty.

He lifted his head, catching her gaze with silver-bright eyes, and his words landed like vow and threat both.

“You mine now. My woman. My mate. My children’s mother. That’s your forever.”

Zariah’s breath broke. Her body burned. And deep down, past the fear, past the doubt, something in her bones responded to the truth of it.

The porch boards were warm under Zariah’s bare feet, the kind of heat that came from long hours of sun. She sat on the step with her arms looped around her knees, chin tilted up toward the slow drag of cicadas in the trees.

Elijah sat behind her, not on the step but in the chair leaned back against the wall, the picture of a man at ease. Except he wasn’t.

His body kept giving him away—one leg bouncing slow, his fingers flexing against the armrest, jaw working like he was chewing something unseen. He should’ve looked lazy, half-lidded eyes and wide frame soaking up the afternoon. But Zariah felt it—the restless coil under his skin, the wolf pacing inside his chest.

She didn’t have to look at him to know his eyes were on her. She felt them burn at the back of her neck.

“Y’know,” she said finally, voice dry, “you’re making me nervous.”

Elijah hummed low, a sound deep in his throat. “Ain’t touched you.”

“Don’t have to,” she muttered. She tipped her head to the side, just enough to catch him in her periphery. He looked like tension carved into flesh: beard shadowing his jaw, eyes dark, shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. The air around him felt charged, humming.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, gaze dragging slow from her face down the length of her legs. His nostrils flared once, sharp.

“Smell it,” he said rough.

Zariah frowned. “Smell what?”

“You,” he answered simply. His tongue pressed against his teeth like he was holding more words back.

Something prickled hot along her skin. She tucked a curl behind her ear, tried to play it off. “And what do I smell like now?”

The corner of his mouth curved, not a smile—something darker. He inhaled again, deep, dragging the air in through his nose until she swore she felt it in her bones. His eyes fluttered half shut.

“Like heat sittin’ low in your belly. Like your thighs still sticky from this mornin’. Like you want me back inside you so bad it’s sittin’ on your skin.”

Zariah’s breath caught. She looked away fast, toward the trees, but it didn’t help—the words painted her body hot.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“Don’t what?” His chair creaked as he stood, steps heavy against the porch. In two strides he was behind her, lowering slow until his mouth hovered just above the crown of her head. His nose brushed her hairline, pulling in another sharp breath. The growl that followed rumbled straight through her spine.

“Don’t tell me not to smell what’s already mine.”

Zariah clenched her arms tighter around her knees, body trembling despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

Elijah’s laugh was low, humorless. “I told you, Wolf don’t do easy. Wolf does truth. And truth is—every second you sit out here, your scent gettin’ heavier. You drivin’ me crazy.”

His hand brushed the back of her neck, rough fingers grazing the slope of her skin. He didn’t grip, didn’t pull—just lingered there, heat bleeding into her.

“Sun up or sun down,” he rasped, “I’m gon’ keep smellin’ you, Zariah. Don’t matter if it’s breakfast, don’t matter if it’s midnight. Wolf don’t rest when his mate smells this sweet.”

Her chest heaved. She wanted to tell him to stop, wanted to shove his hand away. But instead she sat frozen, thighs pressed tight, every nerve alive.

The afternoon stretched, heavy with cicadas, with heat, with him.

And still Elijah stayed bent over her, inhaling slow, as if her scent was the only air worth breathing.

Zariah stayed curled on the step, but her voice cut through the heavy air.

“Elijah.”

“Mhm.” His thumb brushed lazy over the back of her neck, calloused skin warm against the fine hairs there.

She hesitated, then asked, “How will I know… when I’m in heat?”

His body stilled. The cicadas buzzed louder, filling the silence that followed.

Slowly, he crouched beside her, close enough that his thigh pressed against her arm. His eyes burned down into hers, wolf-bright even under the sun.

“You’ll know,” he said finally, voice deep as gravel.

Zariah’s throat worked. “That’s not an answer.”

His mouth curved—half grin, half growl. He loved that edge in her voice, the way she pressed him for truth. He leaned in closer, nose brushing her hairline again, inhaling sharp.

“Feels like ovulatin’, yeah. Body hot, restless. But worse.” His voice dropped filthier, like he was savoring each word. “Worse ‘cause your cunt don’t calm down. You ache, and it don’t matter what you do—your scent’ll scream for me. I’ll smell it before you even know it hit.”

Her belly clenched. She looked away fast, eyes catching the shimmer of sunlight through the trees. “So you’ll know before me.”

“Every time.” He pressed the words against her temple, rough and certain. “I’ll know the second your body shifts. I’ll smell your pussy gettin’ ready to take me. I’ll smell when you fertile. Smell when you needy. Smell when you can’t think straight till I fuck you through it.”

Zariah shivered, heat licking low in her gut. “That sounds… like hell.”

Elijah chuckled, low and dangerous. “It’s heaven if you let me handle it.” His hand slid from the back of her neck down to her shoulder, squeezing once before letting go. “You don’t fight it. You open for it. I keep you full till the fever breaks.”

Her thighs pressed tighter together, her body betraying her. She whispered, “And if I don’t want that?”

Elijah’s jaw flexed. His nostrils flared, wolf bristling—but his voice stayed even, rough but steady.

“Then you tell me. Always.”

Her chest loosened, but her pulse wouldn’t slow. She glanced at him sidelong, lips parted. “So you’ll smell it. You’ll smell my heat before I even feel it.”

His grin sharpened. “I smell you now. And it ain’t even heat yet. Just you sittin’ here wet from me talkin’.”

Zariah whipped her head away, biting her lip hard to stifle the sound that wanted to leave her throat. Elijah’s chuckle followed her, low and knowing.

“You keep askin’ questions, baby,” he rasped, leaning close enough for his breath to brush her ear. “I’ll keep givin’ answers that make your body tell on you.”

The silence after his words was too heavy. Zariah stood, brushing her palms against her jeans like she could wipe off the heat curling low in her belly.

“I need water,” she muttered, already heading for the cabin door.

Elijah followed without a sound, his steps steady behind her like he was tethered.

Inside, the air was cooler, the boards creaking under her weight. She went to the counter, grabbed a glass, and filled it from the tap. When she lifted it, the water hit her tongue cold, sharper than it had any right to be. She swallowed hard, blinking down at the glass.

Weird.

She reached for the bread they’d brought back from town, tore off a piece, and popped it into her mouth. The taste exploded—warm yeast, salt, a hint of butter still clinging to the crust. Bread. Just bread. But her body reacted like it was a feast.

Her brows knit. She looked up, only to find Elijah watching her, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, eyes heavy-lidded.

“You feel it,” he said low, not a question.

Zariah swallowed the bite, throat dry. “Feel what?”

He tilted his head, inhaled sharp through his nose, and his grin came slow, dangerous. “Your body linkin’ to mine. Senses sharpening. Food sweeter, sounds louder, skin buzzin’ like it’s stretched too tight. Ain’t that right?”

Her lips parted. She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t—not when she could hear the faucet dripping behind her, each drop like a drumbeat. Not when the wood under Elijah’s boot creaked and she felt the vibration through the floor.

Her gaze flicked back to him, sharp. “So this is what? Me turning into a wolf?”

“No.” He shook his head, his beard catching light as he moved closer. “You ain’t shiftin’. You bondin’. Your body just learnin’ mine. Linkin’ so you feel me even when I ain’t touchin’ you.”

Zariah’s pulse stumbled. She set the bread down, rubbed her palms against her thighs. “And this is permanent?”

“Permanent as blood.” He reached out, brushed a curl from her face, let his knuckles trail down her jaw slow. “Your body already keepin’ my seed, Zariah. Already holdin’ me deep. You think it ain’t gon’ change you?”

Her breath caught. She could smell him now—closer, thicker. The musk of his sweat, the pine-and-smoke of his skin, the faint tang of iron under it all. It hit the back of her throat like a drug.

She staggered a half-step back, shaking her head. “It’s too much.”

Elijah followed, not crowding but close enough that his presence pressed against her like heat. His grin was sharper now.

“You just feelin’ the bond,” he rasped. “Don’t fight it. Let your body tell you the truth.”

Zariah’s hands tightened against the counter, nails digging into the wood. Every sense was screaming—bread too rich, water too sharp, Elijah’s scent too heavy.

Her voice shook when she whispered, “What truth?”

He leaned down, nose grazing the curve of her throat, inhaling deep. His answer rumbled against her skin.

“That you mine in every sense that matters.”

Her whole body shivered, caught between protest and pull.

The glass slipped in her hand, clinking against the counter. She barely noticed. All she could hear was his breathing, all she could taste was the salt of her own skin, all she could feel was the bond thickening between them like invisible chains.

Zariah steadied herself against the counter, trying to breathe through the buzz under her skin. Every sound was sharp, every taste too strong, and Elijah’s scent wrapped around her like a second skin.

She opened her mouth to tell him to back off, to give her air—when his head snapped toward the window.

His whole body went still.

Not human still. Wolf still.

The air in the cabin shifted, thick and tense, like the trees themselves had gone quiet outside. Zariah’s heart slammed. “What is it?”

Elijah didn’t answer right away. His nostrils flared, his jaw set tight. Then he moved—slow, deliberate, every line of his frame coiled like rope.

“Another wolf,” he said, voice low. “Too close.”

Zariah’s stomach dropped. She glanced toward the window, but saw only sunlight dragging through the pines. “Here? Now?”

Elijah’s eyes flashed silver, the wolf showing itself just enough to sharpen his stare. “They smell you.”

Her body jolted, heat flooding and fear chasing it. “What—what do you mean, they smell me?”

His gaze snapped back to her, burning. “Means they know what I put in you. Means they hungry for it.”

The words landed like fire in her belly. She swallowed hard, throat tight.

Elijah’s hand closed around hers before she could argue. “Come on.”

He pulled her toward the door, grip iron, steps heavy across the boards. Zariah stumbled once but didn’t resist, pulse too loud in her ears. The screen door creaked open, spilling them into the heat of late afternoon.

The air outside was heavier, the cicadas gone quiet. The grass swayed slow, restless under the sun.

Elijah stepped off the porch, bare feet sinking into the dirt, shoulders squared, head tipped slightly like he was listening to something deep in the ground. Zariah stayed just behind him, every nerve alive, her own senses straining to catch what he felt.

Then she heard it.

A twig cracked. Not near. Not far.

Her heart slammed. She whispered, “Where—?”

Elijah lifted one hand behind him, palm out—stay. His nostrils flared again, sharp and fast, dragging the air into his lungs. A low growl rippled in his chest, vibrating the space between them.

The sound made Zariah’s knees tremble.

Then, at the edge of the treeline, a shadow shifted. Broad-shouldered. Tall. Eyes catching the light in a way no human’s should.

Wolf.

The man stepped half into the clearing, shirt clinging to a chest slick with sweat, jaw sharp, nostrils flaring wide as his gaze fixed on Zariah. His lips curved—hungry, curious.

Elijah’s growl deepened. He moved forward slow, deliberate, every step a warning.

“She smells like me,” Elijah rasped, his voice a blade. “Don’t test it.”

The other wolf’s eyes flicked between them. His nostrils flared again, throat working like he could taste her on the air. For one hot second, he leaned forward, shoulders rolling like he might step closer.

Elijah bared his teeth. The growl that left him wasn’t words—it was primal, violent, rattling through the ground itself.

The stranger froze. His eyes flickered—gold, then dark again. Slowly, reluctantly, he dropped his gaze.

Without a word, he backed into the trees. His shadow melted into the pines until the woods swallowed him whole.

Silence returned, thick and heavy.

Elijah stood there a moment longer, chest heaving, nostrils flared. Then he turned back to Zariah, eyes still burning silver.

“You see?” he said, voice raw. “That’s what it means to be claimed. You walk the earth with my scent on you, wolves gon’ come. They gon’ circle. But they can’t touch. Not while I breathe.”

Zariah’s breath hitched, fear and heat twining sharp in her chest. Her voice came small. “And if they try?”

His mouth curved into something dark, dangerous. “Then I kill ‘em.”

The cicadas started again, filling the clearing with their restless song. But Zariah couldn’t shake the silence still ringing in her bones—or the way Elijah’s hand reached for her, pulling her back to the porch like she was the only anchor keeping the wolf from tearing through the trees.

The sun dipped low, dragging the woods into shades of orange and bruise-purple. Cicadas droned, softer now, a lull that made the clearing feel like it was holding its breath.

Zariah sat curled on the porch again, knees tucked under her chin. The air had cooled just enough to raise goosebumps across her arms, but her body buzzed too sharp for her to feel chilled. Her ears caught every rustle in the trees, every hum of wing in the grass. The bond was still shifting under her skin, knitting itself into her bones.

She pressed her forehead to her knees, whispering, “I don’t know if I can handle this.”

Elijah sat beside her, legs spread wide, elbows on his knees. He didn’t reach for her this time. He just tilted his head, nostrils flaring as if her words had scent.

“You scared,” he said quietly.

Her throat tightened. “Not of you.”

His gaze slid to her, steady, unreadable. “Then what?”

Zariah lifted her head, eyes catching the last smear of sun through the pines. “Of what I’m becoming. It’s not normal. My body—it’s sharper, faster, restless. And it’s only been one day. What’s it gonna be like in a week? A month? A year?”

Elijah’s jaw flexed. He leaned back against the rail, stretching long and loose, though the wolf still bristled under his skin.

“You ain’t losin’ yourself,” he said. “You linkin’ to me. Wolf law makin’ sure you never alone in it.”

Her lips parted. “Never alone sounds good until it feels like drowning.”

He turned his head, eyes catching hers in the dim. For a beat, he said nothing. Then he leaned closer, his voice dropping into gravel.

“Better to drown with me than dry out without.”

The words hit her belly hot, her chest tight. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

Elijah’s mouth curved, humorless. “I ain’t.”

That snagged her. She turned to face him fully, eyes narrowing. “So you’re not part of a pack?”

His grin sharpened, wolf glinting in the low light. “You think I’d have a pack out here? Neighbors, rules, another alpha tryin’ to tell me what to do with what’s mine?” He shook his head once, slow. “No. I’m a lone wolf.”

“Why?” she asked, curiosity and caution layered in her tone.

His gaze dropped to her throat, nostrils flaring like he needed the anchor of her scent. “Pack means order. Pack means hierarchy. Pack means fightin’ your own for scraps. I don’t bend my back for nobody. Lone wolf stays free.”

Zariah’s brows furrowed. “But doesn’t a wolf need others?”

His eyes flicked back up to hers, silver threading through the brown. “I got others now. I got you.”

The way he said it made her pulse stumble, made her thighs press tighter together.

Elijah leaned in, close enough that his beard brushed her cheek, his nose sliding against her hairline. He inhaled deep, groaning low, the sound vibrating into her skin.

“You smell like bond,” he rasped. “Like link sewed tight already. Don’t matter if I ain’t got a pack. You enough to anchor me.”

Her body trembled. “And if a pack comes for you?”

His mouth grazed her temple. “Then they come for me. Not for you. Wolf law say you untouchable, long as I breathe.”

Zariah closed her eyes, breath shaky. She wanted to believe him. She wanted the strength in his words to be shield enough. But the bond throbbed too new, too sharp, whispering of hunger still to come.

The sky deepened. Shadows lengthened. And as Elijah stayed bent close, breathing her in like she was the only air he needed, Zariah realized the night wasn’t done with them yet.

He inhaled again, slower this time, nose dragging along her temple, down the curve of her cheek. A low groan left him, rough and helpless.

Zariah huffed out a laugh, breathless but sharp. “You ever gonna stop sniffing me like I’m a damn bakery?”

His teeth flashed in the dim, sharp grin cutting through the gravity. “Not when you smell this sweet.”

She shook her head, though her pulse still hammered. “Keep it up and I’ll bite you again.”

Elijah stilled, eyes flashing silver. The grin sharpened into something feral.

“You promisein’ me somethin’, Zariah?”

Her lips curled, half a smirk, half a warning. “Don’t test me.”

He chuckled, low and dark, the sound vibrating against her skin. His thumb brushed under her jaw, tilting her face up so he could drink her in like he’d been drinking her scent.

“Bite me all you want,” he rasped. “Wolf like it rough.”

Her laugh stuck in her throat, tangled with heat. The humor didn’t erase the weight between them—it only made it more dangerous.

And when the porch finally sank into shadow, his nose pressed to her skin again, greedy as ever, she thought maybe she would bite him—just to see if he groaned the way she wanted him to.

The last of the light bled out of the sky. Crickets rose loud in the hush, cicadas falling quiet as night pressed heavier across the clearing.

Elijah hadn’t moved far from her—still bent close, still drinking her in, still nosing along her cheek like she was the only scent that mattered.

Zariah swatted at his chest, half laughing, half exasperated. “I mean it, Elijah. Keep sniffin’ me like that and I’ll bite you again.”

His grin cut wide in the dark, teeth catching silver from the moon. “Then I better give you somethin’ worth bitin’.”

Before she could answer, his arm hooked behind her knees. He lifted her clean off the porch step like she weighed nothing.

“Hey—” Her protest caught short as he shifted her against his chest, carrying her into the cabin with slow, steady strides. The door creaked shut behind them, the hum of night muted.

He set her down on the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. But instead of crowding her the way she expected, Elijah knelt at the edge. His big hands slid under her thighs, spreading her legs apart with an ease that stole her breath.

“Gonna taste what I been smellin’ all day,” he rasped, eyes flashing silver. “Ain’t waitin’ no more.”

Zariah’s chest heaved. “Elijah—”

“Shh.” His thumbs stroked slow circles against her inner thighs, coaxing them wider. He leaned in, nose pressing to the denim of her jeans, inhaling sharp. His groan was guttural, vibrating against her skin. “Sweet. So damn sweet.”

Heat pooled low in her belly. Her hands fisted in the blanket, breath shaky. “You sound—crazy.”

His grin was quick, feral. “Wolf-drunk. You did that to me.”

He popped the button of her jeans, dragged the zipper down slow. The sound was loud in the small room, louder still in her sharpened ears. He peeled the denim down her hips, tugged until her legs were bare, panties clinging damp between her thighs.

The scent hit him full. He groaned like it was breaking him apart, burying his face against her center and inhaling deep.

“Fuck.” His voice was wrecked, muffled against the thin cotton. “You don’t even know. This smell—could live on it, could die on it, don’t matter.”

Zariah whimpered, thighs twitching. “Elijah—”

He glanced up, eyes bright, beard rough against her skin. “Sit on me.”

Her brows knit, startled. “What?”

“Sit. On my face.” His grip tightened on her thighs, dragging her closer to the edge of the bed. “Let me drown in you. Don’t stop till your legs give out.”

Her breath faltered. “You’re insane.”

“Insane for you,” he corrected, voice rough, desperate. “C’mon, baby. Ride my mouth. Feed me what I been smellin’ since dawn.”

Zariah trembled, caught between embarrassment and the sharp pull in her belly. Her body answered before her mind did—hips lifting, letting him tug her the rest of the way forward until her heat hovered just above his mouth.

Elijah’s eyes rolled half shut, nostrils flaring one more time before he yanked her down against his face.

His tongue pressed flat, wide and hot against her through the cotton. Then he hooked the panties aside with his teeth and buried himself in her.

Zariah gasped, her hands flying to his hair, the world tilting as his mouth worked her open. His beard scraped her thighs, his tongue dragged thick and deep, and the growl that left his chest vibrated through her core.

“Fuck—Elijah—”

He didn’t answer, didn’t stop. His hands clamped hard on her ass, holding her in place, forcing her to ride his mouth whether she wanted to or not. Each inhale was sharp, greedy, like he was swallowing her whole.

Zariah’s thighs quaked. She tried to lift, to ease the intensity, but his grip only tightened. His tongue circled her clit slow, then fast, then back again, each shift wrecking her a little more.

“You—fuck—you’re not—” Her words broke into a cry as heat crashed low and hard, her body convulsing against his mouth.

Elijah groaned into her, tongue flicking sharper as she came. He drank it like he’d been starving, his growls vibrating against her clit until she was sobbing into his hair.

But he didn’t let up.

“Eli—stop—I can’t—”

His hands shoved her hips down harder, his mouth working her mercilessly. His voice was muffled against her heat, but the words were clear, guttural, breaking between growls:

“You gon’ cum again. And again. You gon’ soak me till you can’t walk.”

Her body obeyed before her mind could resist. The second orgasm ripped through her harder, leaving her legs trembling, nails clawing his shoulders. She cried out, hips jerking, but Elijah only groaned deeper, his tongue plunging, circling, sucking until she shattered a third time.

By the time he let her lift even an inch, her thighs were useless, slick running down his beard, her chest heaving like she’d run for miles.

Elijah looked up at her from between her thighs, mouth glistening, eyes burning silver. He licked his lips slow, savoring.

“Legs gone already?” he rasped. “Good. ‘Cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

Zariah collapsed back onto the mattress, chest heaving, thighs still trembling from the wreck of his mouth. Elijah rose up over her slow, dragging his body along hers, the weight of him pressing her deep into the sheets. His beard scratched her jaw as his lips found hers, the kiss wet, messy, tasting of everything she’d just given him.

Her moan slipped out helpless, her fingers tangled in his hair.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t far—just enough that she could see him. Silver threaded through the brown of his eyes, the wolf bright and restless, but the man was steady, holding it down. His dick was hard, slick against her belly, pulsing with every throb of blood in his body.

“You hear me, Zariah?” His voice was gravel and smoke. “Wolf don’t take a mate halfway. Wolf don’t fuck for nothin’. When I put myself inside you, I didn’t just claim your body. I claimed your soul.”

Her lips parted, breath ragged, eyes wide.

Then—slow, deliberate—he moved back just enough to strip. His shirt came first, peeled over his head in one long drag that showed the cut of muscle, the ink over his chest shifting with every breath. He tossed it aside carelessly, never breaking eye contact.

“Look at me,” he murmured. His hands went to his sweats, dragging the fabric down over narrow hips. His dick sprang free, thick and wet at the tip, glistening with the slick he’d smeared against her earlier. He stepped out of the sweats and left them on the floor, broad and bare in the moonlight.

Zariah’s gaze swept over him—every inch of muscle, the scars scattered across his ribs, the dark trail of hair leading down his stomach. Her mouth went dry, her body answering before her mind could catch up.

Elijah leaned down again, catching her wrists in one big hand, pressing them gently into the pillow above her head. His free hand slid down her stomach, palm heavy and hot, pressing low over her womb.

“You ain’t just my mate,” he rasped, forehead against hers. “You my forever. My wife in the bones. The mother of every child my seed puts in you. My other half.”

The words hit harder than any thrust, tears stinging her eyes as heat spread low in her belly.

“Elijah—” she whispered, her voice breaking.

He groaned deep as he lined himself up, the thick head of his dick dragging through her slick. Then he pushed inside, slow and merciless, stretching her inch by inch until his hips pressed flush to hers.

Zariah gasped, her back arching, his weight sealing her down to the mattress.

Elijah’s mouth caught hers again, broken, desperate. His words spilled hot against her lips as he ground deeper.

“You gon’ walk this world smellin’ like me,” he growled, voice raw. “You gon’ carry my line, carry my name. Every moon, every sunrise, every fuckin’ breath—you mine. My mate, my woman, my wife. Ain’t no power on this earth, no god in the sky, can take you from me now.”

Zariah whimpered, her body clutching around him, her chest pressed tight to his.

Elijah’s thrusts started slow, grinding deep, every word hitting as hard as the roll of his hips.

“Gon’ fill you till you swell with me. Gon’ mark you so deep, no other wolf’ll dare look your way. Gon’ make you the mother of my young, the keeper of my name, the only one who knows the man and the beast both.”

Her sob cracked against his shoulder, not from fear but from the unbearable weight of being wanted that completely.

His mouth slid to her neck, lips hot against her skin, voice dropping into a growl.

“You my bond,” he whispered, filthy and reverent all at once. “Not just tonight. Forever.”

Then his teeth sank into her shoulder—not cruel, not careless, but sealing. The wolf inside him roared approval, silver blazing in his eyes as his hips snapped faster, harder. His release hit in hot waves, spilling deep inside her, filling her until she felt branded, sealed, locked.

Elijah groaned loud against her throat, grinding every drop into her as if the bond itself depended on it.

And when the last tremor wracked through them both, he stayed buried, chest collapsing against hers, whispering hoarse into her ear:

“Mine in blood. Mine in bone. Mine in soul.”

Elijah didn’t pull out. He couldn’t.

His dick pulsed inside her, heavy and hot, still leaking slow into her body. His chest heaved against hers, sweat slicking them together, his beard rough against the curve of her neck where his teeth had marked her.

Zariah’s body shook beneath him, every nerve lit, but she didn’t push him away. Her thighs stayed open around his hips, trembling but clinging, her arms sliding weakly around his back.

For a long moment, the only sound was their breathing—ragged, uneven, catching on each other’s skin.

Elijah shifted his weight, careful, pressing his mouth against the bite he’d left on her shoulder. He licked there once, soothing the sting, then pressed a kiss deep, almost apologetic.

“You still with me?” His voice was raw, low.

Zariah swallowed, throat tight, words thin. “Still with you.”

He groaned into her skin, relief rough in the sound. His hand slid down her belly, palm pressing low, protective, feeling the place where his seed sat deep inside her.

“You holdin’ me,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Body knowin’ how to keep me in. Like it was born for it.”

Her chest stuttered, breath catching at the reverence in his tone. “Elijah…”

He lifted his head, silver eyes softer now, threaded with something vulnerable beneath the wolf’s hunger. His thumb brushed along her cheek, wiping the tear she hadn’t realized had slipped down.

“I ain’t lettin’ go,” he whispered. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. You gon’ sleep with me still inside you, and you gon’ wake up with me there too. ‘Cause wolf law don’t stop once the moon sets.”

Zariah trembled, not from fear but from the weight of belonging pressed into her so completely.

His lips found hers again, slow this time, tender. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath steadying.

“Sleep,” he told her. His hips shifted, just enough to nestle deeper. “I’ll keep watch.”

She gave a soft sound, almost a sigh, sinking into the heat of his chest.

And as her eyes closed, as the rhythm of her breathing steadied against him, Elijah stayed awake. His dick throbbed faintly, still hard inside her, but the wolf had gone quiet—content, sated, claiming what it knew was its.

He kept his hand low on her stomach, feeling the warmth of her body holding him in. Every inhale he took was her scent. Every exhale carried a vow he didn’t need to say again.

They slept bound like that, one body, one breath.

And when the moon shifted higher in the sky, Elijah finally let his eyes close—still inside her, still keeping her.

Zariah stirred in the half-dark, the cabin still wrapped in that hush before the sun fully showed itself. She blinked slow, her body already humming, skin damp with the heat of him pressed at her back. Elijah hadn’t moved all night—his arm was locked across her waist, his chest heavy against her shoulder blades, and most importantly, his dick was still inside her. Thick, hot, buried to the hilt, pulsing like it belonged there.

She breathed out slow, lips curving.

When she shifted, he groaned, low and rough, his hips pressing instinctively forward. The lazy stroke dragged his length along her swollen walls, and her breath caught in her throat.

“Girl…” His voice was gravel, sleep-drunk, dragging like smoke over her ear. “You tryin’ me.”

Instead of stilling, she pressed back harder, grinding her ass against his hips until the sound that tore out of him was more growl than groan.

“Elijah,” she murmured, mocking soft. “I thought you said wolf don’t wake soft?”

His hand slid down her belly, gripping her hip, holding her still even as his dick throbbed inside her. “I said that,” he admitted, voice shredded, “but I didn’t say you get to play with it.”

She smirked into the pillow and deliberately rolled her hips, throwing it back in one slow, filthy grind that made him hiss between his teeth.

“Fuck—Zariah.” His chest heaved against her back, his hips jerking despite himself. He shoved into her once, deep and heavy, the slick stretch echoing in the quiet room.

She gasped, but instead of pulling away, she pushed back harder, taking him deeper, her body clenching down tight. “You don’t get to be the only one with control.”

That broke something. Elijah cursed, low and brutal, and started moving—slow strokes that thickened into rougher thrusts, each one hitting deep enough to make her whimper. His breath tore out hot against her neck, his beard scraping as he bit at her shoulder.

“You gon’ make me nut right here,” he growled, hips snapping harder. “First thing in the morning, you tryna milk me out before I’m even awake? That what you want?”

Her nails clawed the sheet, her back arching as she threw it back to meet him, every slap of skin loud in the stillness. “Maybe,” she gasped, a wicked lilt in her voice. “Maybe I want to feel you lose it inside me before we even get outta bed.”

He groaned, guttural, his strokes turning sharp, hips grinding as if he meant to do exactly that. His dick swelled thick, every thrust a warning he was close, that the wolf was ready to spill.

And just when his rhythm started to stutter, when his hand clamped down on her hip to keep her still, Zariah twisted free. She pulled forward, his dick dragging out of her wet and swollen, leaving him empty.

Elijah cursed so loud the rafters shook. His hand shot out, grabbing at her thigh, but she rolled onto her back out of reach, her chest heaving, sweat slick on her collarbone.

“Zariah.” His voice was a growl, silver sparking in his eyes now, the wolf pressed hot against his skin. “You did not just—”

She smirked, breathless but steady, legs bent open just enough to tease him. “Guess you’ll just have to wait.”

His jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, and his dick twitched, angry-hard, leaking against his stomach. He braced his hand on the mattress beside her, looming over her with a look that promised retribution.

“You playin’ with fire, girl,” he said again, this time like a vow. “And wolf don’t forget.”

The kitchen smelled like woodsmoke and coffee. Zariah padded in first, Elijah’s shirt hanging loose on her body, bare legs gleaming in the low light. She set mugs on the counter, pretending she didn’t feel the weight of his stare burning through her back from where he leaned against the doorway.

She tried to play it casual, humming under her breath as she poured.

“You real proud of yourself, huh,” Elijah finally said, voice slow, dangerous.

She smirked into her cup, taking a sip. “What, for keeping you on your toes? Yeah. Maybe a little.”

He moved before she even heard his boots on the floor. One second she was sipping coffee, the next his chest was at her back, his hand flat against her belly, shoving her forward until her hips smacked the edge of the dining table. The mug clattered out of her hand, coffee splashing across the wood.

“Elijah—”

“You think you gon’ get away with that little stunt?” His mouth was at her ear, hot, rough, his breath shaking with the wolf straining under his skin. “Pullin’ off me when I was about to fill you?”

Her laugh was breathless, nervous but defiant. “Maybe I did.”

That was all he needed.

He bent her down flat over the table, her breasts pressing against the cool wood, her ass tilted high. His hand came down sharp across her cheek, the crack echoing in the cabin. She gasped, heat flooding her skin, and before she could catch her breath his other hand was yanking the shirt up over her hips, baring her dripping pussy to the air.

“Look at you,” he rasped, sliding two fingers through her slick folds. “Wet as fuck already. You love makin’ me chase you.”

Her whimper broke into a moan when his fingers pushed inside, rough, fast, his palm grinding against her clit. Her thighs shook, knees bending, but she braced against the table, biting back cries.

“Thought you were in control?” Elijah mocked, pumping hard, curling his fingers deep. “That’s cute. Real fuckin’ cute.”

She twisted to look back at him, lips parted, eyes glassy. “You mad?”

His answer was the sound of his belt buckle snapping open, the clink of metal loud in the stillness. His jeans shoved down just enough. Then the head of his dick was there, thick, hot, pressing against her entrance.

“You gon’ learn,” he growled, pushing in with one brutal stroke that split her open, forcing a cry out of her throat. “Wolf don’t get denied.”

He set a punishing pace instantly, slamming her hips into the table, the wood groaning under the force. His hands clamped her waist like a vice, dragging her back onto his dick, every thrust harder, deeper, punishing.

Zariah clawed at the table, her cries muffled against her forearm. “Elijah—!”

“Say it,” he snarled, his hips crashing into her ass, the slap of skin obscene. “Say you ain’t in charge. Say who owns this pussy.”

“You,” she gasped, broken. “You—fuck—Elijah, it’s yours!”

“Damn right.” He bent over her, teeth scraping her shoulder, his beard rough against her skin. His thrusts turned even rougher, grinding her down into the wood. “You mine to ruin. Mine to fill. Deny me again and I’ll fuck you through the floor.”

Her body seized, another orgasm ripping through her, her walls clenching around him so tight he groaned ragged into her neck.

“Fuck—yeah,” he growled, grinding deep, his length twitching inside her, hot and swollen, threatening to spill. He held himself back by sheer force, every muscle trembling. “Not yet. You don’t get my nut till I say.”

He pulled out slow, his dick glistening, her cum dripping down her thighs. His hand caught her jaw, yanking her head back so her spine arched. His mouth claimed hers, rough and filthy, coffee still bitter on her tongue.

When he finally let her go, she collapsed over the table, hair wild, body shaking, the wood sticky with coffee and sweat.

Elijah stood behind her, chest heaving, eyes still silver-bright. His voice dropped, low and certain:

“You gon’ remember this every morning. Wolf law. Don’t play with me, Zariah. ‘Cause if you do, I’ll break you open till you beg me not to stop.”

The world blurred out in sweat and sound, his thrusts echoing in her bones, her voice torn raw against the wood. Then it faded, the edges softening, the room going quiet again except for the slow drum of Elijah’s heartbeat against her spine.

—

By the time the next scene took shape, they were in the living room, the cabin dim but warm. Zariah curled up on the couch in one of his shirts, damp hair tucked behind her ear, legs folded beneath her. Elijah sat at the other end, big frame sprawled, remote loose in his hand, some muted old Western flickering on the TV.

It was strange, how easy the air felt after the violence of earlier. Like the wolf had sunk back under his skin, leaving just him.

Zariah’s eyes tracked him as he half-watched the screen. “You ever think about the future?”

He side-eyed her, lips quirking. “That a trap question?”

She smirked. “I mean living arrangements. You and this little cabin. What happens if I don’t want to keep splitting time between here and my place in town?”

His look sharpened, then softened. “Then you live here.”

She raised a brow. “That simple?”

“Yeah.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, voice dropping. “I don’t want you in town anyway. Neighbors nosy as hell. I ain’t tryna have folks hearin’ me fuck you through the walls. Every time I make you scream? I don’t want nobody else listenin’.”

Her cheeks heated, but she refused to look away. “That’s your sales pitch? No neighbors to hear me?”

“That’s part of it,” he said with a wolfish grin. Then, quieter: “Other part is I want you here. In my bed. In my space. With me.”

She chewed her lip, thinking. “This place is too small.”

“I’ll make it bigger.” He said it like it was already done. “Add rooms. Tear down walls. I’ll build you what you want with my own hands if that’s the price.”

Something heavy pressed in her chest, but she pushed through it with a crooked smile. “You always talk like the wolf’s running your mouth for you.”

His head tilted, amused. “What you mean?”

“You keep saying ‘wolf don’t this, wolf don’t that,’ like it’s some separate thing. Like you’re not the wolf. Like it’s a whole other person living under your ribs.”

His grin curved wider. “Ain’t wrong.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait. You gave it a name or something? You got, like, a whole roommate situation happening in your chest?”

Elijah chuckled, deep and unbothered. “Wolf don’t need no name. It just is. Always there, always hungry. But yeah… it talk. It push. Sometimes I talk back. Sometimes I don’t.”

She stared at him, equal parts amused and unsettled. “So when you say ‘wolf don’t play house’ or ‘wolf don’t forgive,’ that’s not you?”

“That’s both of us,” he said, steady. “Wolf ain’t separate. Wolf is me, just stripped of manners. What you see when my eyes go silver, when my voice rough up—that’s the part that don’t pretend. You already met him.”

Zariah pulled the blanket higher, a shiver skipping her skin despite the warmth in the room. She shook her head with a laugh. “You’re telling me I’ve been fucking you and your wolf like it’s a two-for-one deal?”

Elijah’s gaze locked hers, heat sparking silver at the edges. “Ain’t no two-for-one. You fuck me, you get all of me. Man and wolf. Every breath, every drop, every nut. There ain’t no splitting it.”

Her pulse stumbled, caught in the gravity of his stare.

And yet her mouth curved into a wicked smile. “Mm. Guess I can live with that. Though if wolf ever starts talking in his own voice, I’m biting you again.”

His laugh was low and rough, vibrating through the cabin. “Girl, you crazy.”

“Crazy for letting a man talk about himself in third person.” She leaned back, smug. “Don’t think I won’t keep calling you out on it.”

Zariah tucked her legs under her, watching the TV light dance across Elijah’s face. He’d gone quiet again, content just to sit there, broad shoulders sprawled like he owned every inch of space around him.

She bit her lip, then said, “If I’m living here, I’m gonna need more than three dresses and a toothbrush.”

His eyes slid to hers. “Mm.”

“I mean it,” she pressed, shifting closer, her tone half-playful, half-serious. “We can’t just… pretend my whole life isn’t sitting back at my place. Clothes, books, my plants, all of it. I should go get them.”

Elijah’s jaw ticked once. He didn’t answer right away, and she recognized that silence—it was his wolf silence, the kind where he was measuring everything before he spoke.

“Zariah.” His voice came low, cautious, not sharp but weighted. “Folk in town… they talk.”

Her brows pulled together. “So? They’ve always talked. Half of them been whispering about you since before I could drive.”

“Exactly.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on hers. “They see you with me, they gon’ talk louder. They gon’ twist it. I don’t care for myself. But I don’t want that shit touchin’ you.”

She softened, her hand brushing his thigh. “You think I don’t know what people say? You think I ain’t grown up with the same kind of eyes on me? Black girl out here on the edge of town, bein’ watched like I don’t belong? I’m not scared of whispers.”

His gaze burned into hers, hot and uncertain. “Not whispers I’m worried about. Wolves can smell what I did to you. But humans—they see the change. They won’t understand why you look different. They gon’ make up their own stories.”

Her lips curved, faint and sure. “Let ‘em. You really think I give a damn what half this town thinks of me? They ain’t feedin’ me, they ain’t fuckin’ me, and they sure as hell ain’t keepin’ me warm at night.”

That pulled a slow, wolfish grin from him despite himself. His hand slid over hers, thumb rough against her knuckles. “You bold, girl. Always was. Guess I forgot.”

“You didn’t forget,” she teased softly. “You’ve been watching.”

His chuckle was low, admitting without admitting.

“Come on,” she said finally, patting his thigh and standing. “Let’s go before I change my mind. I want my stuff here. You want me here. That’s the deal.”

Elijah stayed seated a beat longer, eyes tracking her, the wolf restless behind them. Then he sighed, standing, towering, running a hand over his beard. “Fine. But we go together. Don’t like the thought of you walkin’ in there alone, smellin’ like me.”

She smirked, tugging her curls back into a puff with the elastic on her wrist. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“It is,” he said, dead serious. “’Cause once they catch it, they’ll know you ain’t free no more. And some folk don’t like bein’ reminded they can’t have what they want.”

Zariah froze at that, heart jumping. He didn’t soften it, didn’t try to reel it back. Just looked at her like the wolf was already bristling under his skin.

She stepped close, brushing her fingers against his chest. “Good. Let ‘em know. Saves me the trouble of saying it myself.”

Elijah’s eyes sparked silver at the edges. His hand caught the back of her neck, a rough pull that pressed his forehead to hers. His voice dropped into gravel.

“You dangerous when you talk like that.”

“Maybe I like being dangerous,” she whispered back.

He kissed her hard, quick, like he couldn’t not, then pulled back with a growl that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Get your shoes, girl. Let’s go get your shit.”

The drive into town was quiet, the old truck rattling down backroads thick with heat. Zariah cracked the window, the humid air rushing in, tangling in her curls. She could feel Elijah’s mood in the cab—silent but not empty. His hand stayed on the wheel, the other on his thigh, fingers tapping restless against the denim. He was watching everything, even when his eyes stayed on the road.

When they pulled up in front of her little place, Zariah exhaled, almost nervous. The siding was chipped, her porch plants were thirsty, the curtains a little crooked. It already felt smaller, like the walls had closed in since she’d last been here.

She unlocked the door, the hinges squealing, and stepped inside. The house smelled faintly of lavender cleaner and dust. Elijah followed, shoulders filling the doorway, his presence dwarfing the space.

“You can wait if you want,” she said, tossing her bag onto the couch. “I’ll grab clothes and—”

He gave her a look. Steady, wolf-silver flickering faint in his eyes. “I’m not waitin’ in the truck.”

She huffed but didn’t argue. Truth was, the heat of him at her back made her feel steadier than she wanted to admit.

She’d barely started pulling dresses from the closet when the sharp rap of knuckles hit the front door. Both of them froze. Elijah’s head lifted, nostrils flaring, every muscle taut.

“Relax,” Zariah whispered, stepping past him. “It’s probably—”

Mariah.

She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes wide and sharp all at once. “Girl. You been hidin’.”

Zariah blinked. “What—”

“Don’t even start.” Mariah stepped inside, gaze cutting straight past Zariah to the shadow behind her. Elijah stood there, silent, massive, the room too small for him. His eyes tracked Mariah like she was a threat, though he didn’t move.

Mariah’s brows shot up. “Oh my God. You’re with him?”

“Mariah,” Zariah said, heat climbing her neck.

“I heard,” Mariah pressed, lowering her voice like gossip couldn’t carry through walls. “Heard you were seen in town yesterday with Smoke. Folks already whisperin’. And you didn’t tell me?”

Zariah’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Mariah’s eyes narrowed, raking Zariah up and down. “And what is this? You look… different.”

Zariah shifted, tugging at the hem of her shirt. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you glowin’ or somethin’.” Mariah tilted her head. “Your skin look fuller. Softer. Like you been—” She cut a glance at Elijah, then back at Zariah, smirking. “—busy.”

Elijah’s jaw flexed. His nostrils flared once. He stepped forward just enough that his presence rolled over the room, hand sliding to Zariah’s hip in plain sight. Not squeezing, not rough—just there. Claim, silent and unmissable.

Mariah’s smirk faltered under the weight of it.

Zariah’s heart kicked hard. “Mariah, I—I was gonna tell you, I just—”

Her friend blinked, then blew out a breath and laughed nervously. “Okay, okay. Say less. I’ll let y’all… pack.” Her eyes flicked to Elijah one last time, wide and cautious now, before she slipped back out the door.

The silence she left behind was heavy. Zariah sagged against the couch, muttering, “Shit.”

Elijah’s nose pressed into her hair from behind, dragging in deep. His breath came slow, wolf-dark. “Don’t like her sniffin’ around you.”

“She wasn’t sniffing,” Zariah shot back, though her voice wavered.

“She noticed.” His tone was flat, sure. “Humans don’t got the nose, but they still see the change. They don’t know why, so they gon’ guess. They gon’ talk. And I don’t like the way she looked at you.”

Zariah turned in his hold, her eyes meeting his steady and unflinching. “She’s my friend. She wasn’t trying anything.”

His gaze burned hotter, silver flickering again before he blinked it back. “Wolf don’t trust easy.”

“Well,” she said, sliding her arms around his middle, pressing her face against his chest, “wolf’s just gonna have to learn who belongs in my life and who doesn’t.”

His hand cupped the back of her head, rough and possessive. His voice came low, barely more than breath: “Long as wolf knows you belong to me.”

Zariah smiled against his shirt, muttering into the cotton, “Yeah, yeah. You keep saying that.”

They stayed a little longer than they meant to. Zariah folded dresses into bags, slipped her perfume bottles into her tote, fussed over the plants in the window. Elijah followed her room to room like a shadow, carrying the heavier things, his presence too big for the little house.

He said nothing at first, only watching her with that simmering wolf-restlessness still burning under his skin. She tried to ignore it, humming as she tugged shoes into a duffel. But eventually, she couldn’t resist.

“You sulking?” she asked, glancing back at him.

His brow arched. “Wolf don’t sulk.”

“Mmh,” she teased, folding a sundress slow, making a show of smoothing the fabric. “Looks a lot like sulking to me.”

His eyes narrowed, the silver flashing there for just a beat. “Girl, you gon’ find yourself bent over this bed if you keep talkin’ slick.”

Her lips curved. “Promise?”

That pulled a groan out of him, ragged and low, but he didn’t move. Not yet.

By the time the bags were packed and stacked by the door, the tension in the air was thick. Elijah hauled them out to the truck, tossing them into the back like they weighed nothing. Zariah locked the door behind her, pausing a moment to look at the little place. It already felt more like memory than home.

The ride back started quiet, the truck grumbling down the backroad. Zariah sat with one leg folded under her, her sundress sliding up her thigh. She could feel his eyes flick there, again and again, though his jaw stayed tight, his hand firm on the wheel.

She decided to poke the wolf.

“You always this serious when you drive?” she asked, her hand drifting to his thigh. Just a light brush at first, then firmer, her nails grazing over denim.

His nostrils flared. “Zariah.”

“Mmh?” Her fingers crept higher, dangerously close to the hard line thickening under his jeans.

“Don’t.”

But her smile was wicked now, her hand bold. She dragged her palm slow across the bulge, feeling the twitch under her touch. “Don’t what? This?”

The truck swerved just slightly before he gritted his teeth and corrected. His breath came sharp, ragged. “Girl, I swear to God—”

“You’re so tense,” she said, leaning in, lips grazing his ear. “All wound up. Maybe I should help.”

That snapped the leash.

With a growl low in his chest, Elijah yanked the truck onto the shoulder, gravel crunching loud under the tires. He killed the engine in one motion and turned to her, eyes blazing silver now, the wolf right there under his skin.

“You wanna play?” he rasped, already shoving his seat back. “Fine. You gon’ play.”

His hands were on her before she could laugh, hauling her across his lap. Her dress bunched at her waist, panties yanked to the side, and his dick was out—thick, heavy, angry-hard. He didn’t waste time. He pressed her down over him, forcing her thighs wide until the blunt head slid against her slick heat.

“Ride,” he ordered, voice rough. “Right fuckin’ now.”

Her gasp was swallowed by his mouth, his tongue hot and filthy as he shoved her down. The stretch hit sharp, her body swallowing him inch by inch until he was buried deep.

“Fuck—Elijah—”

“Shut up and move.” His hand clamped her hip, grinding her down hard. “You teased me in my truck? Then you gon’ cum in my truck. Bounce on it, baby. Show me what all that slick mouth worth.”

Her hands braced on his chest, her body already rolling, bouncing, the sound of wet slaps filling the cab. He groaned, deep and brutal, his head falling back against the seat as her walls clutched him.

“Goddamn,” he panted, his other hand sliding up to her throat, squeezing just enough. “You feel that? That’s me splittin’ you open on a backroad. That’s wolf law, girl—you don’t tease without payin’ the fuckin’ price.”

Her cry broke, high and sharp, her pace quickening, her body milking him shamelessly. He groaned louder, his hips thrusting up into hers, the truck rocking with the force.

“Say it,” he snarled, his grip tightening at her waist. “Say this dick yours.”

“It’s—fuck—it’s mine!” she gasped, head falling back, sweat dripping down her chest.

His laugh was ragged, cruel. “Wrong. It’s yours to ride, but it’s mine to keep. Mine to breed you with. Mine to stuff you full every goddamn time you tease me.”

Her body convulsed, another orgasm ripping through her, wet soaking down over his lap, his jeans. He roared, slamming her down hard, grinding deep until her scream echoed in the cab.

He bit at her jaw, growling against her skin. “You gon’ drip wolf all over this seat. Every time you sit here, you gon’ remember what you did. You hear me?”

She whimpered, clinging to him, her body wrecked and shaking, his dick still thick inside her.

And Elijah just groaned, still holding her there, still pulsing deep, his voice filthy and certain:

“Ride me again. Don’t stop ‘til I nut in you. You wanted to play—now you fuckin’ finish it.”

The truck shook with every bounce of her hips. The windows fogged over, the air inside heavy with sweat, musk, the raw slap of skin on skin. Zariah’s dress was rucked up around her waist, her bra slipping down, her tits bouncing with each brutal grind. Elijah’s head was tipped back against the seat, jaw tight, beard damp with sweat, his silver-bright eyes locked on her like she was the only thing left alive.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hands bruising her hips, dragging her down harder, deeper. “You tryna break me, girl. Pussy squeezin’ me like you want my nut right now.”

Her laugh was breathless, wicked, as she rode him harder, her thighs quaking. “Maybe I do.”

That tore another groan out of him, long and guttural, his hips thrusting up to meet her, his control cracking. His dick swelled thick inside her, the sharp twitch giving him away.

“Zariah—fuck, I’m close—”

She didn’t slow. She fucked him harder, faster, her slick soaking his lap, her walls milking him mercilessly. His growl broke into a curse, his whole body tensing.

“Goddamn—you gon’ make me—”

He roared, hips snapping up one last time as his release ripped through him. Hot, thick, endless, pumping into her in heavy waves. She gasped, clenching down, riding him through it, his cum spilling deep, mixing with her own mess.

But before he could even breathe, before the last spurt had left him, she moved.

Zariah slid off his lap, his dick dragging out wet and swollen, still twitching. She dropped to her knees on the truck’s floor, the dim dawn light catching her sweat-slick face.

“Zariah—” he rasped, chest heaving, silver still burning his eyes.

She didn’t answer. She leaned in and wrapped her mouth around him.

His groan shattered, head slamming back against the seat. “Fuck!”

She sucked him deep, filthy, obscene, her tongue swirling over his slit, licking the mix of cum and slick, swallowing it like it was hers to take. Her lips dragged down his shaft, her tongue working under the vein, gathering every drop of mess, licking until his thighs shook.

“Zariah—girl, you—fuck—” His hand tangled in her hair, holding on, his body trembling. “You nasty—”

She moaned around him, the vibration shooting through his overstimulated length, making him buck helplessly. She sucked harder, licked slower, cleaned him until he glistened in the fogged cab.

When she finally pulled off, her lips were wet, her chin slick, her tongue darting to catch the last drop.

Then she climbed back up, straddling him again, and kissed him. Deep, messy, her mouth pushing his cum against his tongue.

He groaned into it, rough hands gripping her ass, grinding her back down onto his lap even though his dick was still twitching, half-hard, aching.

“You filthy fuckin’ girl,” he rasped when they broke apart, his forehead pressed to hers. “Wolf gon’ lose his damn mind with you.”

Her smile was ruined, breathless, smug. “Maybe that’s the point.”

His growl rumbled low, his mouth dragging across her jaw, his teeth catching her ear. “You keep pushin’ like this… I’ma fuck you ‘til you can’t walk back to that cabin. You hear me?”

Zariah’s answer was another slow grind of her hips, her slick soaking his lap all over again.

The truck cab smelled like them—sweat, cum, heat sealed into the fogged glass. Zariah leaned back against Elijah’s chest, catching her breath, her thighs still shaking. His hand was spread wide over her hip, holding her in place like he didn’t trust her not to slip away again.

For once, he wasn’t talking. Just breathing her in, nose pressed to the damp curls at the crown of her head.

Zariah smirked, voice still raw. “So. You mad I made a mess in your truck?”

Elijah’s laugh was low, guttural, still frayed at the edges. “Girl, you made a mess of me. Truck’ll wash. Ain’t sure I will.”

She grinned, smug, sliding her hand down to where he was still thick between her thighs, softening but heavy. She traced him with her fingers, featherlight. “Mm. You’ll live.”

He groaned, hips twitching under her. “Zariah.”

“What?” Her tone was pure tease, lips grazing his jaw. “You just said you’re mine to ride.”

His nostrils flared, his chest rising hard against her back. “Keep touchin’ me, and I’ma turn this cab into a bed and fuck you until the windows shatter.”

She laughed, shifting just enough to grind down on him again, knowing he was too spent to follow through—right now. “Guess I’ll save that for the way home.”

Elijah’s hand snapped up, grabbing her jaw, turning her face to him. His kiss was hard, fast, claiming, stealing the air right out of her lungs. When he pulled back, his eyes glinted silver, voice low and filthy.

“You dangerous, girl. You think you runnin’ me with that mouth. But wolf don’t forget. Next time you tease like that…” He leaned closer, biting her bottom lip. “Next time, you beg.”

Her thighs pressed tighter around him, another little shiver running through her, and she tried to play it off with a roll of her eyes. “We’ll see.”

But the way her body pulsed, the way her breath hitched when he licked a stripe up her throat—it told both of them she’d already lost that game.

The engine growled back to life when Elijah finally started the truck again. They drove in silence, her legs draped across his lap, his thumb stroking slow circles against the inside of her thigh like he was still staking claim, even in quiet.

The truck rattled back into the yard just as the sun started to bleed low behind the trees. Elijah killed the engine, the silence that followed loud in Zariah’s ears. Her legs were still trembling when she slid out, dress sticking damp to her thighs. Elijah hauled the bags from the back like they weighed nothing, carrying them into the cabin without a word.

Inside, the space felt different now. Fuller. Like her things already belonged among his. She set a small potted plant on the windowsill, brushed dust off the edge of the dresser, stacked her books on the low shelf. Elijah watched from the doorway, arms crossed, his eyes steady but softer than she’d expected after the feral wreck they’d made of each other in the truck.

“Feels like home already,” she said, glancing up at him.

He hummed, low and thoughtful, and stepped in close. “’Cause it is.”

Evening came fast. The light thinned, silver bleeding into the corners, the pull of the full moon pressing down heavy. Zariah could feel it this time—not sharp, not unbearable, but insistent. Her body was restless, heat curling under her skin, her thighs pressed tight. She shifted on the couch, tugged at the hem of her dress, but nothing eased it.

Elijah knew before she said a word.

His head lifted, nose flaring, silver flaring bright in his eyes. He crossed the room slow, predatory, until he was braced over her, his hands on the back of the couch. He breathed in deep, dragging his nose down the curve of her throat, across her collarbone, burying his face there like he meant to drown.

“Jesus,” he groaned, the sound rough and reverent all at once. “You smell like heat. Like wolf done already marked you inside out.” His beard rasped her skin as he licked, slow and filthy, up the column of her throat. “Drives me fuckin’ crazy.”

Zariah gasped, her hands clutching his shoulders as he pressed her back into the cushions. “Elijah—”

He growled low, cutting her off, nosing under her dress, lifting the hem until his mouth was at her thighs. He inhaled again, deep, shuddering, the sound like it was dragging his control thinner with every breath.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, kissing the inside of her knee. “Smell sweeter every time. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Her laugh broke into a gasp when his mouth pressed higher. “You act like it’s a curse.”

He looked up at her then, eyes silver-bright, sweat damp on his temple. “Girl, it’s worship.”

And before she could answer, he dragged her down across the cushions, tugged her panties off with one rough pull, and shoved her thighs open. His mouth was on her instantly, tongue buried, nose pressed tight against her clit as he groaned into her like the smell alone could undo him.

Zariah cried out, arching against his face, her fingers clawing at the couch cushions. “Elijah—oh, God—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. He devoured her like he’d starve without it, tongue working, teeth scraping, his growls vibrating against her until her whole body shuddered. Every time she tried to push him back, he only held her tighter, palms pressing her thighs wide, forcing her down harder onto his mouth.

Her orgasm hit sharp, breaking her open, her scream caught in her throat. But Elijah didn’t let go. He groaned louder, sucking, licking, dragging his tongue through the mess of her release, drunk on it.

Zariah sobbed, her hips jerking, her body trembling with overstimulation. “Elijah—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” His voice was rough, muffled against her, his beard slick with her wet. “Give it to me. Give me every drop.”

She shattered again, thighs clamping around his head, nails digging into his scalp, her cries spilling into the thick night air. He moaned into it, sucking harder, until she collapsed boneless against the couch.

Only then did he finally lift his head, his mouth wet, his eyes glowing bright as the moon pressing through the window.

“This ain’t obsession,” he rasped, licking his lips slow. His voice shook, too deep, too raw. “It’s devotion. I’ll bury my face in you every night ‘til I die, Zariah. Ain’t no wolf, no man, no god gonna stop me.”

Her chest heaved, tears still clinging at the edges of her lashes, her body wrecked. And still, when his hands slid back up her thighs, she didn’t push him away.

Because now she understood—his hunger wasn’t just feral. It was faith.

The cabin groaned under the sound of them breathing. Zariah still sat slumped against the couch cushions, dress already peeled off her, bare skin glowing under the pull of the full moon spilling through the window. Elijah crouched low between her knees, his beard slick with her arousal, silver leaking into his eyes until the man and wolf blurred into one.

“Wolf’s done waitin’,” he rasped. His voice was layered, fractured—like two throats speaking at once. “Ain’t holdin’ back no more.”

He stood, stripping as he rose. His shirt came off in a single harsh yank, cotton sticking to sweat before peeling free. His chest heaved, broad and gleaming, muscles twitching with the effort of control. His boots thudded against the floor, one after the other. Then his sweats slid down, shoved off impatiently until he stood bare in front of her, dick heavy and flushed, precome sliding thick down the veined length.

Zariah’s breath snagged. But she stood too. Her fingers found her straps, slipping them down her shoulders, her eyes never leaving his. The yellow sundress clung damp against her, dragging low until it slid past her hips and pooled at her feet. She stood naked and waiting, hair wild, thighs slick, cunt glistening in the dim light.

Elijah’s nostrils flared. His growl was low, vibrating the air. “Goddamn. Look at you—standin’ like you was made for me to ruin.”

Her lips curled, defiant even with her knees weak. “Then ruin me.”

He was on her in one stride, grabbing her by the waist, spinning her, and slamming her back against the wall. 

The cabin shook with the impact, her bare back pressed flat against the rough wood, her nails scraping at it as Elijah held her pinned. His body crowded hers—hot, massive, all heat and hunger. His hand braced beside her head, palm digging into the wall, his chest slick against her breasts. The scent of him hit first: sweat, smoke, pine, and now something sharper, rawer, like iron and musk wound together until her lungs filled with him.

Her thighs quivered when the blunt head of his dick nudged between her folds, sliding through slick heat without pushing in. He groaned against her throat, the sound low and broken, like he was trying to leash something that didn’t want leashing.

“You wet as sin,” he growled, grinding against her clit, smearing himself through the mess of her arousal. “Wolf could scent this from miles out. Sweet little pussy already beggin’.”

She gasped, her hips canting forward, grinding back against him even as her hands clawed his shoulders. “Then stop teasing. Put it in.”

“You don’t tell wolf what to do,” he muttered, his voice ragged, his eyes flaring silver. “Wolf takes.”

And then he did. He hooked her thigh high with one arm, the other hand gripping her ass hard enough to bruise, and thrust into her in one long, brutal stroke.

Her cry cracked through the cabin, high and raw. Her cunt stretched around him, walls clenching so tight he had to snarl, his forehead slamming against the wall beside her head.

“Fuck—tight as a vise,” he groaned, his hips grinding, pushing in even deeper until she felt him kiss her cervix. “You lockin’ me in already, baby. Pussy know who owns it.”

Her head tipped back against the wall, braids sticking to the sweat at her temples. “Then prove it. Fuck me like you mean it.”

His laugh was sharp, filthy, ruined. “Girl, I been meanin’ it since the first time I caught your scent.”

He pulled out halfway, dragging his length against every swollen ridge inside her, then slammed back in, the sound wet and obscene. She screamed, nails digging bloody crescents into his shoulders. He set a rhythm—deep, punishing thrusts that jolted her up the wall with every snap of his hips.

Her moans spilled out uncontrollably, bouncing off the small room, and he swallowed some of them with his mouth, kissing her messy, his tongue forcing past her lips while his dick wrecked her from below. His beard scratched her chin raw, his teeth nipping until she gasped again.

The wall creaked under their weight. Sweat dripped down his chest onto her breasts, sliding between them, her nipples hard and aching as they dragged against the slick heat of his skin.

“You feel that?” he rasped against her mouth, fucking her harder, each thrust hitting the deepest part of her. “That’s me hittin’ the back of your pussy. Knockin’ on your womb like it already belong to me.”

Her laugh came ruined, broken into a moan. “Then break the fuckin’ door down.”

He did. His thrusts grew sharper, deeper, grinding her into the wall until her ass stung from the repeated slam. Every push bottomed out, his balls slapping against her ass, wet and loud in the quiet cabin.

“You mine,” he snarled, biting at her throat, leaving marks that bled heat into her skin. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she sobbed, her cunt fluttering tight, already climbing toward the edge. “Elijah—I’m yours—”

He fucked her harder, the rhythm brutal, relentless, his voice dropping into filth.

“Pussy squeezin’ me like it don’t ever wanna let go. You want this dick every moon, every night, don’t you? Want me stuffin’ you so full you walk crooked outta this cabin.”

“Yes—fuck, yes—” she cried, her legs trembling.

Her orgasm tore through her, sharp and blinding, her cunt spasming around him, milking his length. She screamed his name against the wall, her voice cracking into a sob.

Elijah groaned ragged, holding her hips tight, pounding her through it, chasing his own release. His head dropped to her shoulder, teeth dragging, eyes gone full silver.

“You think I’m lettin’ this pussy go?” he growled, voice doubled, wolf bleeding into man. “You think any other man gon’ smell you after this? No. You mine. You fuckin’ mine.”

Her whole body convulsed again, overstimulated, dripping, wrecked against the wall.

And still, he didn’t stop.

Her orgasm tore through her, cunt fluttering, clenching tight around him, soaking his dick until his thighs were slick. Elijah groaned ragged, hips grinding, his thrusts slowing just enough that she thought he was about to break, about to spill hot inside her.

She felt it—the thick swell of his dick, the twitch deep inside her, the sharp catch of his breath.

“Yes,” she gasped, clinging to him, her nails bloody in his shoulders. “Give it to me. Fill me up.”

But Elijah’s growl came sharp, feral. He yanked himself out with a wet, filthy drag, his dick slapping heavy against his stomach, dripping with her mess.

Zariah cried out at the sudden emptiness, legs trembling, her cunt still clenching around nothing. “Elijah—what the fuck—”

He pressed her back against the wall, one hand on her throat, his forehead nearly touching hers, his dick sliding wet against her belly. His voice was low, dangerous, vibrating through the bones of the cabin.

“You don’t get it that easy,” he rasped. His jaw was tight, veins bulging in his neck, his eyes silver and merciless. “Wolf don’t nut on the first round. Wolf makes his mate take every fuckin’ inch, every angle, until she beggin’ to keep it.”

Her lips parted, breathless, wrecked, but still defiant. “I am beggin’.”

He chuckled, dark, broken, biting her lower lip until she whimpered. “Not yet. Not the way I want it.”

He shoved her off the wall, turned her, and bent her over the couch in one motion. Her hands slapped the cushions, her tits pressed against the worn fabric, her ass arched high. She looked back over her shoulder, hair wild around her face, eyes still glassy from her orgasm.

Her voice came raw, teasing even through her panting. “Then show me how you want me to beg.”

Elijah’s grin was sharp, feral, sweat dripping down his beard. He grabbed the base of his dick, stroking once, slick dripping thick onto the couch cushion below.

“Oh, I’ll show you,” he said, his voice a growl. “Gonna have you screamin’ into these cushions, clawin’ like you tryin’ to save yourself. And you still gon’ say ‘more.’”

He lined himself up again, the head of his dick dragging wet through her folds, smearing her slick and his precome across her swollen clit. He paused just long enough to make her whimper, his grin widening at the sound.

“Beg for it,” he said, low and rough.

She held his stare, lips curling even as her thighs shook. “Please.”

“Not good enough.” He smacked her ass hard, the sound echoing, his palm leaving a red handprint. “Say it like you mean it.”

She gasped, her voice cracking on the edge of another moan. “Please, Elijah. Please fuck me. I need it.”

His groan broke loose, guttural, and he shoved inside her again, the wet slap filling the room as her scream muffled into the couch cushion.

Elijah slid back into her in one long, ruthless stroke, burying himself to the hilt, his hips pressing flush against the swell of her ass. Zariah’s scream muffled into the cushion, her nails clawing deep into the worn fabric. The couch squealed under the sudden weight of them both, wood groaning like it might snap.

“Fuck—” she sobbed, trying to breathe, her cunt stretched so full it felt unbearable.

Elijah grinned against the back of her neck, his beard scraping her skin as he leaned over her, pinning her flat with his chest. “That’s it, baby. Take me deep. All the way. You was built for this dick, and now you learnin’ it.”

He pulled back slow, dragging his dick through her wet, swollen walls, until only the head was still inside, then slammed forward again. The impact jolted her up the couch, her tits grinding into the cushions, her breath breaking into short, ragged gasps.

Her ass wobbled with every brutal thrust, the sound of his hips slapping her flesh loud, wet, obscene. Sweat dripped down from his chest onto her back, smearing into her skin as his body bent her lower. His hand pressed into the small of her back, forcing her to arch harder, opening her up even more for him.

“You hear that?” he groaned, fucking her faster, the squelch of their bodies loud in the room. “That’s your pussy singin’ for me. Cryin’ out every time I slam this dick in you.”

Her moan cracked, high and desperate. “Elijah—oh God—”

He snarled, grabbing her hair in one big fist, yanking her head back until her throat arched, her moans spilling into the air instead of the cushion. He bent close, his lips grazing her ear, his words filthy and reverent all at once.

“Don’t call for God now. Ain’t no god here but me, Zariah. Wolf’s your altar. My dick your prayer. You worship with every scream you give me.”

Her cunt clenched so hard around him that his groan ripped from his chest, sharp and guttural. He thrust faster, rougher, the couch actually sliding an inch across the floor with the force.

“You feel that?” he rasped, his voice doubling with wolf growl, hot in her ear. “That’s me ownin’ you, makin’ sure you never forget what it’s like to be split open by a wolf.”

She sobbed, her body trembling, her thighs slick with wet. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He let go of her hair to slap her ass again, harder this time, the crack loud. “You can and you will. Gonna milk this dick ‘til I’m drownin’ in it.”

Her orgasm clawed up fast, violent, her pussy spasming around him as she screamed, nails tearing into the fabric of the couch. Her body went tight, her legs shaking, the heat tearing through her like wildfire.

Elijah groaned, his pace stuttering for a heartbeat as her cunt squeezed the life out of him. He pulled almost all the way out, his dick dripping wet and shining in the dim light, before slamming back into her again, riding her through her climax without letting go.

Her scream broke into sobs, overstimulated, body writhing under him. “Elijah, please—”

He leaned down, his chest pressing her into the cushions, his lips brushing her ear. “Not yet. You don’t get my nut ‘til I say. You gonna take this dick through every room in this cabin before I give it to you.”

Her body convulsed around him, another orgasm ripping through her back-to-back, her cries shaking the cabin walls. Her wet poured down his thighs, soaking the couch beneath them.

Elijah groaned louder, eyes blazing silver, his voice shaking with restraint. “Fuck—you floodin’ me, baby. Pussy drownin’ me. Keep squeezin’ like that, I’ll fill you right here and now.”

But he didn’t. He pulled out again, his dick dripping, slick smeared down the curve of her ass and thighs. He dragged the fat head through her folds, teasing her clit until she whimpered and bucked back against him.

“You want it?” he taunted, smearing her wet all over her ass. “Say you want it.”

“I want it,” she cried, voice cracked and raw. “Please—fuck, I need it.”

His grin was feral, his beard damp with sweat. “Good. Then ride it.”

He yanked her off the couch, his dick bouncing heavy and wet, and threw himself down onto the rug. She landed straddling him, thighs spread, his cock pressed against her slit, sliding slick along her folds.

Zariah’s eyes burned down into his, her breath wrecked but her mouth curling into a grin. “Careful what you ask for, Elijah. You might not survive it.”

His growl rumbled up, sharp and hungry. “Then kill me with it.”

And she sank down, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt again, both of them groaning like the world had split in half.

Zariah sank down slow, her thighs trembling as inch after inch of Elijah’s thick length stretched her wide. Her head tipped back with a sharp moan, braids spilling down her back as her walls pulled him in greedy, sucking tight around him until her ass finally pressed to his hips.

Elijah’s head slammed back against the rug, his chest heaving, his hands flying to her waist. “Fuck—” he groaned, deep and guttural, his abs tightening under the slick sheen of sweat. “Every time I slide in you, it’s like dyin’ and comin’ back again. Pussy swallowin’ me whole.”

Zariah’s lips curved, though her breath broke ragged. She rocked forward slow, grinding her clit against the thick ridge of his pubic bone, her nails dragging across his chest. “I thought you said wolf takes.” Her voice was low, taunting, trembling with lust. “Looks to me like wolf’s layin’ flat, lettin’ me ride him.”

Elijah growled, eyes flashing silver, but his grip tightened on her hips as she started to move—rolling slow, making him feel every ripple of her slick walls clutching down on his dick.

“You tryna kill me, girl?” he rasped, sweat beading along his hairline as she circled her hips, squeezing him deeper, tighter. “You tryna ride the nut outta me ‘fore I’m ready?”

Her laugh came low, broken into a moan as she lifted up halfway, his dick dragging wet along every swollen nerve inside her, then slammed back down. “Maybe I am.”

The slap of their bodies cracked through the room, wet and filthy, and Elijah snarled, his fingers digging bruises into her hips.

“You keep bouncin’ like that—fuck—” His breath caught, his teeth snapping into the air, chest heaving. “Gon’ make me paint your womb right here on the goddamn floor.”

Her body jolted at his words, cunt tightening so hard he groaned. She ground down on him again, harder, breasts bouncing, her nipples dragging against his chest when she leaned low enough. “Then do it,” she whispered hot against his ear. “Show me how a wolf nuts inside his mate.”

Elijah’s roar broke out of him, shaking through the cabin walls, but still he held back, hips jerking up into her with a brutal snap, his thrusts meeting her every grind.

The rug burned her knees, sweat dripped from her hairline into her eyes, but she rode him harder, every stroke dragging obscene sounds from between her thighs. Her wet slicked down to his balls, pooling under them, the floor beneath them damp with it.

Elijah’s voice broke into ragged filth, sharp and desperate. “Fuckin’ drownin’ in you—sweetest goddamn pussy I ever had. You gon’ ride me ‘til my legs give out, huh? Till wolf can’t stand?”

Zariah moaned sharp, her walls clamping down around him again. “That’s the plan.”

Her pace broke into wild bounces, hard and relentless, her breasts bouncing against his chest with every slam. The sound of her ass meeting his hips filled the room, wet and raw. Her cries rose, sharp, uncontained, until she screamed his name, her nails dragging bloody lines across his pecs.

Her orgasm tore her apart, her cunt spasming in rapid pulses around him, soaking him even more, until Elijah’s groan cracked through the air. His hips bucked up hard, his dick twitching deep inside her, his chest rising sharp with the effort not to spill.

But he didn’t. He forced himself to stop, his hands gripping her hips so tight they’d bruise, holding her down on him, his voice ragged against her ear.

“Not yet,” he snarled, half growl, half plea. “Not givin’ it to you on the floor. Wolf’s holdin’ it back.”

She whimpered, shivering around him, her body still clenching and begging for it. Her forehead pressed against his shoulder, her breath hot and broken. “You’re evil.”

He chuckled rough, kissing the side of her throat, his beard scraping her skin raw. “Nah, baby. I’m disciplined.” He dragged his hips in a lazy circle, making her whine, overstimulated and trembling. “I told you. gon’ fuck you every room in this cabin before wolf gives you his seed.”

She groaned, trying to roll her hips again, but he pinned her tighter, his dick still throbbing inside her.

Then, with a grunt, he shoved her off his lap, his dick dripping wet between them, still hard and slick with her. He stood, dragging her up by the arm, his eyes silver-bright, his voice shaking.

“Kitchen next,” he said, dark and sharp. “Gonna fuck you on the table ‘til it breaks.”

Elijah hauled her with him, his grip hot and unyielding on her wrist, dragging her across the small cabin like he owned every step she took. His dick still glistened heavy, bobbing between his thighs as they moved, wet with her slick, pulsing with the need he refused to let go of.

Zariah stumbled to keep up, her body wrecked and trembling, but her lips curled into a grin even as her legs shook. “You really plannin’ to run me through every room in this place?”

His laugh was low, sharp, breath still ragged from holding himself back. “Every inch of this cabin gon’ smell like your pussy when I’m done. Every wall, every cushion, every damn surface. Anybody ever step in here, they’ll know—wolf already claimed this house.”

Her thighs pressed together at his words, a sharp shiver rolling through her, but before she could tease him back he shoved her into the kitchen.

The table was small, old wood scarred by years of use, but Elijah slammed her onto it like it had been built just to hold her body. Plates rattled in the sink nearby, and the legs of the table groaned under the force.

“Lay back,” he ordered, voice deeper now, splitting at the edges with that wolf rasp. “Spread for me.”

Her heart pounded, her breath shaky, but she obeyed, sliding onto her back, her thighs opening wide across the rough surface. The wood was cool against her skin, her ass barely fitting on the edge, and the air felt thick with the smell of sweat and sex.

Elijah stepped between her spread legs, his hands rough as they slid up her thighs, spreading her wider, exposing every wet inch of her to him. He stared down at her pussy, glistening, swollen, his dick jerking against his stomach at the sight.

“Look at this mess,” he muttered, dragging his thumb through her slick slit, smearing her wet up to her clit. “Drippin’ like you was made to be bent over this table. You know what wolf sees when he looks at this pussy?”

Zariah’s lips parted, a shaky laugh spilling out. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

Elijah leaned down, his beard scraping her inner thigh, his breath hot where she needed it most. “Wolf sees his nest. His future. A pussy meant to take his dick and hold it, meant to keep every drop of him inside.”

She gasped, her whole body arching when his thumb pressed harder at her clit. “Elijah—”

“Shh,” he growled, lining himself up, the thick head of his dick dragging through her folds until she whimpered. “You gon’ take me again. All the way. And this time I’m not stoppin’ ‘til the table breaks under us.”

And then he drove forward, one long, brutal thrust that shoved her body up the wood, the legs creaking under the force. Her scream cracked into the night, bouncing off the cabin walls, raw and desperate.

“Fuck!” she cried, her nails clawing for grip against the table’s edge.

Elijah groaned loud, his head dropping back, his hips grinding forward until he was buried to the hilt. “Goddamn—so fuckin’ deep in you. Can feel your womb clenchin’ like it’s tryin’ to keep me.”

He started moving, each stroke heavy and merciless, the sound of his hips slapping against her thighs sharp in the kitchen’s small space. The table rocked, the legs squeaking across the floor, every thrust threatening to split the wood.

Her cries filled the air, high and broken, her body arching off the table as his dick pounded her open.

“You mine,” he snarled, leaning over her, one hand gripping her throat as the other slammed her hip down to keep her pinned. “Say it while I split you open on this fuckin’ table. Say it.”

Her moan cracked into a sob, her cunt fluttering around him. “Yours, Elijah—fuck, I’m yours—”

He bent lower, his teeth scraping her jaw, his voice dropping filthy and reverent against her ear. “That’s right. Wolf’s mate, wolf’s wife, wolf’s forever fuckin’ hole. Nobody else ever gon’ touch this pussy.”

The table jolted under them again, rattling with every thrust, as her orgasm slammed through her, cunt milking his dick so hard his groan broke sharp and ragged.

Elijah’s hips stuttered, his body tight with restraint, but he bit down on his own lip, holding it back still, forcing himself not to give in. His thrusts stayed rough, relentless, dragging her through every wave until she was sobbing from overstimulation.

“You want my nut?” he rasped, his forehead pressed to hers, sweat dripping down onto her chest. “You want me spillin’ my seed in you right here?”

“Yes!” she screamed, nails tearing the table’s edge. “Please, I want it—I need it—”

He grinned sharp, feral, pulling out suddenly with a wet slap, his dick twitching, glistening with her slick. He slapped it against her swollen clit, making her buck and cry out.

“Not yet,” he growled. “Wolf’s savin’ it for the moon.”

And then he dragged her off the table, her legs trembling, her body soaked and ruined, carrying her toward the door.

“Outside next,” he muttered, silver blazing in his eyes. “Time for the whole fuckin’ forest to hear who you belong to.”

The porch boards creaked under their weight as Elijah came up on her, the moon laying silver fire across his shoulders, his chest, the thick, aching length of his dick hanging wet between them. Zariah leaned against the post, her body bare, glowing in the night—breasts high and full, thighs slick with everything he’d already wrung from her. The air was velvet-thick, but she made it thicker just standing there, daring him with that grin.

“You really gon’ stand there,” she breathed, voice low, teasing but sharp, “dick hard, eyes gone silver, smellin’ me drip down my legs—and still pretend you holdin’ back?”

Elijah’s growl rumbled deep, his nostrils flaring as he drank in her scent, the humid night air almost choking with it. He braced his hand on the post just above her head, boxing her in. His other hand hovered over her thigh, not yet touching, trembling with restraint.

Zariah tilted her chin, her lips curling slow. “Wolf’s indecisive as hell. All that sniffin’, all that starin’—but when it’s time to finish, you stop. Thought wolves were supposed to take what they want.”

The sound that left him was half laugh, half snarl. He leaned down, beard scraping her jaw, his tongue dragging hot up the long line of her throat. She gasped, her head tipping back as he licked again, slower, tasting her skin, groaning low in his chest.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her pulse, breath hot, tongue flicking where it beat fastest. “Sweetest goddamn spot. Wolf could stay here all night, lickin’ you ‘til you beg.”

Her hand fisted in his beard, yanking his face up, eyes burning through his silver glow. “Then quit talkin’ about it.”

He crashed his mouth to hers, wet and messy, his tongue forcing past her lips. She moaned into him, her body arching forward. Without thinking, she hooked one leg around his waist, pulling him flush against her. His dick slid hot and heavy along her slit, the wet smear of her arousal slicking him from base to tip.

She ground down, sharp and deliberate, her pussy dragging along his length until he groaned into her mouth, a sound that vibrated through both of them.

“Goddamn, girl,” he rasped, breaking the kiss just enough to pant against her lips, his tongue still darting to lick the corner of her mouth. “Ridin’ my dick without me even inside you.”

Her grin was wrecked but defiant, her hips rolling harder against him, her clit catching the blunt head of his length. “Maybe I like makin’ wolf beg.”

His silver eyes flashed, his hands clamping down—one gripping her ass, the other sliding up her spine to the back of her neck. His mouth dropped back to her throat, licking, sucking, biting just enough to make her whimper.

“Wolf don’t beg,” he said against her skin, his voice split, doubled, the growl tearing through. “Wolf takes.”

He ground his hips forward, his dick sliding slick through her folds, catching at her entrance but not pushing in. She shivered, grinding back, her breath breaking into gasps.

“Then take,” she whispered, daring him, her leg tightening around his waist.

Elijah’s growl tore out of him, his silver eyes blazing. He lifted her with ease, pressing her tighter against the post, his dick nudging hard at her pussy, the moonlight catching them both in its hungry glow.

Zariah tightened her leg around his waist, her hips rolling steady, slicking herself down the length of his dick. Every drag of her pussy over him made her gasp, the thick ridge of his shaft catching her clit just right, making sparks flash hot up her spine.

Elijah’s hands gripped her ass, spreading her wider, guiding her against him with ragged groans. His beard brushed her throat as he licked her again, tongue greedy on her pulse, sucking her skin like he wanted to drink her down.

“Goddamn—” he panted, eyes flicking up silver-bright as he watched her grind. “Soakin’ my dick just from rubbin’ on it. Pussy squeezin’ like I’m already inside. You tryna kill me, baby?”

Her laugh broke into a moan, her nails clawing down his shoulders. “Not kill. Make you watch.”

She bore down harder, rocking faster, her clit dragging wet and swollen across his length. Each stroke grew messier, her thighs shaking, her breath catching sharp as heat knotted low in her belly. Elijah’s growl deepened, but he held her steady, his eyes locked on her face, his jaw clenched like he was savoring every second of her working herself on him.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice doubled, vibrating against her throat. “Show wolf how you come. Mark me with it. Paint me up, baby.”

Her whole body snapped tight, her cry sharp as the orgasm ripped through her. Her pussy fluttered, her clit throbbing against him, and then it broke—wetness spilling hot down his length, squirting across his abs, slicking both their stomachs and dripping down his thighs.

Elijah snarled, dropping to his knees in front of her so fast her leg slipped from his waist. He grabbed her thighs, spread them wide, and buried his mouth against her pussy, licking her mess straight from the source.

“Fuckin’ mine,” he groaned into her, his beard soaked, his tongue lapping rough and hungry up every drop that spilled from her. He licked the insides of her thighs, her swollen lips, her clit, growling between every swipe. “Taste so goddamn sweet—wolf gon’ drown himself in you.”

Zariah cried out, her hips jerking, her hands fisting in his hair as he sucked and licked her through the aftershocks, swallowing her down like he needed it to breathe.

When she sagged against the post, trembling and whimpering, Elijah pulled back, his beard shining with her wet, his mouth slick and glistening. He licked his bottom lip, eyes burning silver, then grinned sharp.

“Not leavin’ a drop out here,” he said, voice guttural, reverent and filthy at once. “Every bit of you belongs to me.”

Before she could catch her breath, he stood, scooping her into his arms. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, his dick grinding against her soaked folds as he carried her down the porch steps. The night opened wide around them, the moon fat and merciless above.

The grass was cool, wet against her back when he lowered her into it, the scent of pine and earth rising up to mix with the thick musk of sex that clung to them both. He hovered above her, silver-eyed, chest heaving, his dick glistening with her mess.

“Wolf’s done waitin’,” he rasped, his voice rougher now, split at the edges. “Gonna fuck you into this dirt ‘til the whole forest knows you’re mine.”

The grass bent soft under her bare skin, dew cool against her back. Above them, the moon sat swollen and watchful, silver light spilling across Elijah’s shoulders, painting him feral. His dick stood heavy and wet, veins ridged, glistening with both their mess.

Zariah propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes tracking the thick length, her lips parting slow. She dragged her bottom lip between her teeth, gaze flicking up to him.

“Lay back,” she whispered, her voice still cracked, still bold.

Elijah’s grin was sharp, his eyes silver fire. He dropped onto the grass, flat on his back, propped on his elbows, his chest rising hard. His dick bobbed thick against his stomach, twitching as her hand wrapped around it.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, his head tipping back as she stroked him slow, her thumb smearing his leaking precome down his length. “You tryna ruin wolf tonight.”

Her laugh was low, ruined, her lips brushing the swollen tip before she licked him, slow and teasing, tasting both his salt and her sweetness still smeared there. “Thought wolf wanted me to mark him.”

Then she swallowed him down.

Elijah’s roar split the night, his hands flying to her hair, not forcing, just gripping, his body jerking as her mouth slid wet over his dick. Her tongue worked the thick vein underneath, her throat clutching around the fat head every time she took him deeper.

“Fuck—Zariah—” he gasped, silver eyes wide on her, chest heaving as sweat rolled down his temple. “Mouth feel like heaven. Wolf could nut right here in your throat.”

She pulled back slow, spit and slick glistening on her chin, her hand stroking him while she looked up at him through her lashes. “Not yet,” she taunted, her lips wrapping around him again before sucking him so hard his thighs trembled.

His groans echoed through the trees, sharp and guttural, his hips thrusting shallow into her mouth before he yanked himself back, breathing ragged. “Stop. Stop, baby. If you keep that up, wolf’s spillin’ too early.”

Her grin was filthy, wet streaking her face. “Then fuck me before you lose it.”

She straddled him before he could argue, turning her back to his chest, her ass brushing his abs. She lined him up and sank down slow, inch by thick inch, until his dick was buried deep inside her again.

Elijah’s roar shook the clearing, his hands clamping on her hips, silver eyes locked on the way her pussy swallowed him whole. “Shit—pussy eatin’ me alive. Look at you, sittin’ so pretty on my dick.”

Zariah moaned loud, her hands pressing into his thighs for leverage as she started to ride him, bouncing hard, her ass smacking his hips with each slam. His dick dragged along every clenching ridge inside her, her clit grinding against him with every drop.

“Fuck—” she gasped, her voice cracking. “Stretchin’ me so good—”

Elijah’s groans turned feral, his abs tightening as he fucked up into her, meeting her bounces with brutal thrusts. His hands guided her hips, forcing her down harder, until the wet slap of their bodies filled the night.

“You gon’ squirt all over me again,” he snarled, his thumb dragging across her clit. “Markin’ me while you ride. Whole fuckin’ forest smellin’ us.”

Her cry broke sharp as her orgasm hit, squirting down his dick, soaking his thighs. She collapsed back against his chest, shaking, while he fucked up into her still, chasing his own release.

But he didn’t let it go there. He rolled them with a grunt, pinning her under him in the grass, his body looming silver-lit and wild. His dick slammed back inside her in one brutal thrust, and she screamed, her nails clawing into his back.

Missionary, but not gentle. His thrusts were hard, merciless, shaking her body against the dirt. His mouth claimed her throat again, licking, sucking, biting, his beard rough against her skin.

Her cries spilled raw into the night. “Elijah—please—”

His thrusts slowed, deeper, grinding, the weight of him pressing her into the earth until she swore she could feel roots tangling up from the dirt to hold her down. His silver eyes burned, his breath ragged against her throat, tongue still dragging up her skin like he couldn’t stop tasting her.

He grabbed her face in his big hand, forcing her to look up into the blaze of his eyes. His voice split—man and wolf, low and doubled, vibrating through her bones.

“Listen, Zariah. Hear wolf’s vow, ‘cause once it’s spoken, it ain’t never broken.”

He thrust again, sharp, pulling a scream from her throat before his words poured down heavy.

“You ain’t just mine for this night, or the next moon. You are the marrow in my bones, the blood in my chest. Your body is my altar, your scent my prayer, your womb my future. Every drop I spill in you roots us deeper, ties us tighter. There will be no grave that splits us, no god that claims us. From the first howl ‘til the last silence of this world, you are wolf’s mate, wolf’s wife, wolf’s forever. My hunger, my home.”

His hips slammed deep, grinding her open, his teeth biting at her throat as he groaned brokenly, “Say it back. Bind it.”

Her scream cracked into sobs, her nails dragging bloody crescents across his back as her cunt clamped down around his dick like it was made to keep him. Tears streaked her temples, her voice raw, reverent, shaking.

“I’m yours. I’m your marrow, your blood, your home—yours, Elijah, yours, wolf, yours forever!”

That vow, spoken into the night, broke them both open. Elijah roared, the sound shattering the forest stillness, his release spilling hot and endless inside her. She came with him, cunt milking him tight, her cry rising high, carried into the trees like it belonged to the moon itself.

The air thickened with their scent—sex, sweat, wolf musk, salt tears. Her body clenched, sealing his seed inside, holding it as if her body itself had sworn the vow too.

He collapsed against her, chest heaving, mouth still licking the salt of her skin, whispering ragged between kisses at her throat. “Mine. My mate. My forever.”

The grass cradled them, the moon blazing above, and somewhere distant, wolves howled—not in challenge, but in witness.

The grass was damp under her back, moonlight spilling over their tangled bodies. Elijah lay heavy on her, still buried deep, their breath ragged and uneven. Neither moved. Not yet.

When he finally shifted to ease out, something caught. He frowned, bracing himself over her, silver still threading his eyes as he pulled back slow.

There should have been spill—his cum leaking thick between her thighs, streaking her skin the way it always did. But nothing came. She clenched around him, her body pulling him in deeper, sealing everything he’d given.

Elijah froze. His chest rose hard, his voice cracking low. “Jesus. Baby—” His hand slid down, reverent, pressing over her belly like he could feel it from the outside. His gaze snapped to hers, wild, disbelieving, undone. “You kept me. Wolf-deep. Every drop.”

Zariah blinked, dazed, then felt it—her body holding him, locking him in as if she’d been built for this moment all along. Her lips curved slow, teasing even through the tremble. “Guess I was made for you.”

His groan was wrecked, primal, his forehead dropping to hers. “Fuck. Wolf ain’t never lettin’ you go now. Body knows it. Heart knows it. Soul knows it.”

Her hand cupped his jaw, her thumb grazing the sweat-damp line of his beard. And then, with a flash of mischief cutting through the haze, she leaned in and sank her teeth into his shoulder—not gentle, not cruel, just enough to sting.

Elijah jolted, his breath tearing out in a sharp laugh that cracked into a growl. “Goddamn—” His hand clamped on her hip, possessive, but his eyes shone molten. “You gon’ keep doin’ that, baby, wolf’s gon’ start beggin’ you to mark him.”

Her smile was wicked against his skin, her tongue flicking over the bite. “Maybe I already am.”

He shuddered, the sound breaking deep in his chest—half groan, half laugh, all hunger. “Shit. You bite wolf, he’s yours just as much as you mine.”

For a beat, they lay there tangled in sweat and moonlight, her bite bright on his skin, his seed held tight inside her, no loss, no spilling. A closed circle. A bond sealed.

When he finally moved, it wasn’t to leave her—it was to gather her up, lifting her against his chest like she weighed nothing, carrying her back inside. He laid her on the bed, then stretched beside her, one big hand spreading over her belly, protective and reverent, as if that single act had changed everything.

“Wolf’s home,” he whispered into her hair, his voice rough, breaking. “Inside you. Always.”

Zariah smiled against his chest, her teeth still tingling from where she’d bitten him. She closed her eyes to the sound of his breathing, steady and low, and the deeper sound beneath it—the wolf purring, pleased, satisfied, claimed as much as it had claimed her.

There was a hum on Ninth Street that didn’t exist anywhere else in Little Rock.

Not in the white part of town with its strict corners and clean churches. Not along the cotton fields where sharecroppers bent their backs and begged the sun for mercy. But right here, between Gaines and Broadway, down near the old train tracks and past the Dreamland Ballroom. Black life pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath the city.

In 1929, Ninth Street was everything.

It was jazz sliding off trumpet bells, bootleg whiskey sweet as sin behind the curtain, girls in sequin dresses with rouge on their knees, and young men in sharkskin suits gambling rent money on backroom dice. It was barbershops and beauty parlors, Sunday suits and Saturday lust. It was survival. Black, brilliant, and dangerous.

This street had raised its own people.

It gave birth to musicians, conjure women, gamblers, preachers, and madams. And when the city turned its back on them, they turned to each other and built banks, clubs, undertakers, and juke joints from sawdust and spite.

But where there is rhythm, there is shadow.

And in that shadow lived a man named Elias “Stack” Moore.

Down a narrow alley off 9th, just past an old tailor’s sign faded into the brick, was a heavy red door with no name.

Folks called it The Blackline.

Not just because of how close it sat to the edge of everything respectable, but because crossing that threshold meant you were stepping into the soft belly of Black pleasure and vice. Nothing past that door was legal. Everything inside it was intoxicating.

To get in, you had to know the knock:

Three slow. Two fast.

Or the password:

“I got the blues but I ain’t broke yet.”

The inside glowed with low amber lamps and the heat of too many bodies. The walls were velvet red. The air was thick with jasmine oil, cigar smoke, and sweat. A gramophone crackled from the corner, slow jazz bleeding through the room like maple over a hot skillet.

Curtains hung heavy around each alcove, some whispering, some moaning, always shifting like silk being pulled from the skin. The floor creaked under heels, under knees, under lives slipping quietly into pleasure and forgetting.

The women here weren’t just working. they were art personified.

Dark-skinned goddesses with gold hoops and garters. Plump cuties with high cheekbones and wide backsides. Light-eyed country girls with long legs and sad stories. New flappers with pressed curls and voices like gin. All of them owned by no one: except Stack.

Stack ran The Blackline like a man who knew the cost of control.

He wasn’t loud like most pimps. He didn’t need to be. He watched everything, leaning in the corner with a cigarette between his fingers, or a drink in his hand, velvet coat open, fedora low and dapper over his brow. His eyes were sharp, mouth always curved in that half-smirk that meant he either wanted to fuck you or gut you, and sometimes it was both.

His girls respected him. Feared him. Some loved him, though they wouldn’t say it out loud. He didn’t beat his women. But he didn’t let them leave easy either. He fed them, clothed them, protected them from the white cops and the worse men who came knocking. And in return, they gave him their best—on the floor, in the backrooms, on their knees.

Stack wasn’t just a pimp. He was a businessman. A gambler. A bootlegger.

And he wasn’t alone.

They were born in heat and hunger, two Mississippi boys who came out the womb fists clenched, mirror images with mirrored scars.

Elias was the mouth, the mind.

Elijah “Smoke” Moore was the fire.

Stack ran the brothel, the books, and the girls. Smoke handled the bootlegging, the deals, and the dirty work. He was the enforcer, the bullet in the chamber, the one you didn’t see coming until your knees gave out.

Together, they built an empire on sin and silence.

People knew the Moore twins didn’t play. You crossed them, you didn’t just get beat—you vanished.

And yet…

Smoke had a way with women. A slow kind of seduction. A man who touched soft but fucked hard. Girls wanted him even when they didn’t know why.

Stack didn’t mind.

As long as the business kept running, the girls kept earning, and the city kept looking the other way, The Blackline stayed lit, and the Moore brothers stayed untouchable.

She didn’t belong here.

Not yet.

Not with her thrift-store shoes worn at the heel, her patched satin dress clinging too loose to her hips, or the scent of salt marsh and memory still clinging to her skin. Not with her innocence intact and her voice too soft to ask for anything out loud.

But Violet was desperate. And desperation was the only currency that mattered on Ninth Street after midnight.

The alley was narrow and damp, lit only by a flickering gas lamp and the far-off glow of the Dreamland Ballroom. Jazz bled through the brick walls like vapor, and somewhere in the distance, a woman laughed too loud.

The red door loomed before her.

She’d been told what to say by the older girl who’d found her crying behind the beauty shop two days earlier, the one with the silver eye and a split lip she wore like jewelry.

Three slow. Two fast.

“I got the blues but I ain’t broke yet.”

The peephole opened.

Two shadowed eyes looked her over, lingered on the bare knees below her hemline.

“You don’t look like you know what you doing,” the voice said.

“I can learn,” she replied, trying to keep her chin lifted.

The door creaked open.

And Violet stepped inside.

Heat wrapped around her like breath. The air was thick with perfume, pipe smoke, and the smell of sex so fresh it clung to the walls. Light came from low amber lamps, each corner flickering like a secret. Everything was red—the carpet, the drapes, the wallpaper—blood velvet and mahogany shadows. She could hear moans behind curtains. Laughter behind beads. Cards flipping. Shoes tapping. Skin slapping.

A woman walked past in nothing but a beaded bra and stockings, hips moving like a song no man could resist. A man in suspenders had his hand buried beneath the hem of another girl’s skirt, and no one batted an eye. The air tasted like cinnamon and heat. She felt it instantly—between her thighs, in her belly, behind her ribs.

She didn’t belong here. Not yet.

But something inside her, something deeper than fear, wanted to.

He saw her from across the room.

Stack leaned in his usual spot—against the far wall, velvet coat draped open, dark liquor in his hand. The room swam in bodies and fog, but his eyes landed on her like they’d been waiting for her arrival.

Young. Thin. Pretty in a way that wasn’t polished but raw. Something untouched. Her eyes were wide, posture tight, hands gripping the strap of a borrowed purse like it held a weapon.

He knew the look.

Fresh meat.

He stepped forward, smooth and slow, like the room parted just to let him walk.

“You lost, baby girl?” he asked, voice deep, syrupy.

Violet turned toward him, startled by the height of him, the sharpness of his jaw, the way his mouth didn’t smile even when his tone pretended to.

“No sir,” she whispered, “I’m lookin’ for work.”

He let his eyes drag down her body, slow.

“You ain’t been touched, have you?”

Her breath caught.

“No,” she said softly, “But I’m willin’. I just need a place to stay.”

Stack stepped closer, leaned in near her ear.

“‘Round here, baby…we don’t take what ain’t offered. But if you wanna give it, there’s a place for you upstairs.”

She swallowed hard.

He smelled like rum, spice, and danger. She felt like a match held to oil.

He straightened up and looked her over one more time.

“Name’s Stack. You remember that.”

Then he turned, nodded to one of the girls near the bar.

“Get her cleaned up. She sleep in the green room tonight. I’ll decide what to do with her come mornin’.”

And just like that, Violet was pulled into the velvet bloodstream of The Blackline.

Not as a worker. Not yet.

But as a girl the house would keep its eyes on.

The green room was small, no bigger than a boxcar berth, with peeling wallpaper and a single oil lamp that painted the cracked mirror gold. Violet sat on the edge of the old porcelain tub, steam rising in curls around her face. The bathwater was warm, not hot, the kind that clung to your skin like a whisper. Rose petals floated on the surface—leftover from another girl’s soak, but she didn’t mind.

It had been a long time since she’d felt anything soft.

She undressed slow, like it meant something. Like the silk slip she unfastened wasn’t secondhand. Like the stockings she peeled from her legs weren’t fraying at the toes. She laid them gently on the wooden chair. Her body looked thin under the lamplight. Not fragile—coiled, like something waiting to bloom.

Violet stepped into the water.

It wrapped around her like hands from the other side.

She exhaled, lowered herself in, and let her head fall back against the porcelain. Her eyes fluttered shut.

She thought of her grandmother.

Old Miss Luella. Thick hands, voice like saltwater and thunder, skin dark and smooth like polished shell. The woman who raised her on boiled root tea, haint blue, and Gullah prayers whispered to the wind.

“Your body is a gate, child. Not a gift. Not for free. And not to be feared.”

The memory of her voice wrapped around Violet now like arms.

She’d come here because she had nowhere else to go. But something inside her knew this was more than survival.

This was crossing a threshold.

She reached into her bag and pulled out her most precious thing.

a piece of lavender ribbon, worn and soft.

Her mother used to tie it around her wrist when she was scared.

Her grandmother would wrap it around her ankle and say, “No man can touch what’s guarded by memory.”

Now, Violet tied it around her throat.

Not tight. Just snug enough to feel.

It wasn’t just protection anymore.

It was a signal.

That she was hers first.

And whoever touched her after this…would have to be worthy.

She dried slow, humming a tune only her family would recognize. Her curls damp, cheeks feeling like brown velvet gone warm, the warmth of her body from the bath and the shade of her skin like café au lait. She stood in the cracked mirror, naked but not ashamed. There was still fear. But there was something else now too.

A quiet hunger.

Not just to survive…

But to become.

The room was warm with lamplight and perfume.

Not strong, just faint hints of amber, pressed powder, and lilac, the kind that clung to bedsheets long after a girl had gone. The velvet chaise against the wall sagged with familiar use, and lying across it, a cigarette in one hand and one heel kicked off, was Cordelia.

Cordelia Toussaint.

The girls just called her Delie. The men called her whatever she whispered in their ear.

She was thirty miles of legs and don’t-give-a-damn, eyes lined in coal, lips always painted in something dark like plum or wine. Her robe was silk and nearly see-through, the color of crushed garnet. One thigh peeked from the slit, golden and gleaming.

She didn’t flinch when Violet walked in.

Just raised one arched brow and looked her over.

“Mmm,” Cordelia hummed, “Ain’t you a delicate little thing.”

Violet froze in the doorway, arms wrapped tight across her front, “Sorry—I didn’t know anyone was—”

“I ain’t just ‘anyone,’ sugar. I’m the Queen of this floor,” Cordelia smiled slow, cigarette curling smoke toward the ceiling, “And this here,” she gestured to the piles of lace, satin, and beaded silk draped over the bed, “is your coronation.”

Violet stepped farther in, bare feet soft on the worn rug. The heat of the oil lamps made her skin glow, still damp from her bath. Her curls had puffed around her face, and her ribbon—lavender—was still tied around her neck.

Stack had sent up a box of clothes earlier. Beautiful ones. Too beautiful. Like someone else’s dreams.

“Stack got taste,” Cordelia said, eyeing the garments, “Or maybe he just sees somethin’ in you he don’t wanna say out loud.”

Violet looked down, fingers trailing over a lavender chemise trimmed in black lace, “I’ve never worn anything like this.”

“Well, try it on then. Ain’t nobody gonna bite. ‘Cept maybe me,” She grinned around her cigarette.

Violet turned her back, cheeks burning.

She slipped out of her plain cotton shift and stepped into a deep emerald set. It was a camisole that hugged her waist and barely reached the curve of her hips, paired with tap shorts that rode high.

When she turned around, Cordelia sat up, real slow.

“Well, well, well…” she purred, “Ain’t you a quiet little storm.”

Violet shifted, unsure, “It fits weird. I’m too skinny for it.”

Cordelia scoffed, “Skinny? No, baby. You just got all your weight where it counts.”

Her eyes dragged down Violet’s frame, deliberate.

“Those hips could rock a man stupid. And that little ass? That’s trouble. Small up top, soft down low. You built like a promise.”

Violet’s arms crossed her chest, trying not to blush harder, “You’re just sayin’ that.”

“No, honey. I only say what’s true.”

Cordelia stood then, barefoot, and came close. Close enough that Violet could smell the jasmine and smoke on her skin. She ran one fingertip over the satin strap at Violet’s shoulder.

“You ever had a woman look at you like this before?”

Violet swallowed, “No.”

“Well, Miss Vi, you better get used to it,” Cordelia stepped back and smiled, “‘Cause by the time Stack puts you on the floor, they all gon’ be lookin’.”

Violet sat on the edge of the bed now, legs crossed at the ankles, fingers tracing the hem of the tap shorts.

Cordelia had returned to the chaise, reclined with one arm draped behind her head, her cigarette replaced with a glass of dark wine that shimmered like rubies in the lamplight.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The room was thick with perfume and tension—not heavy, just tender, like when rain wants to fall but isn’t ready yet.

Then, softly, Violet asked, “Does it hurt?”

Cordelia didn’t turn her head. Just sipped her wine and let the question settle.

“When it’s your first?” she said finally.

Violet nodded.

Cordelia breathed slow through her nose.

“Sometimes. Depends on the man. Depends on how much you want it…or how much you pretend you do.”

Violet looked down, “And what about after that?” she asked, “After the first time?”

Cordelia set the glass down on the floor and finally turned toward her, one knee drawn up beneath her robe.

“After that?” she said, “You learn your own rhythm. What you can take. What you like. Where to let them touch. Where to keep to yourself,” She studied Violet for a long moment. Then added, “It don’t always feel like much. But sometimes…”

She trailed off.

“…Sometimes?” Violet whispered.

Cordelia smiled slowly.

“Sometimes, with the right one…it feels like your soul’s gettin’ kissed from the inside out.”

Violet’s breath caught. Her thighs pressed together instinctively.

Cordelia’s smile deepened, “Mmhm. You felt that, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Violet said, “I just—when I think about someone touchin’ me like that…I get warm. But I also feel scared. Like my body wants it, but the rest of me ain’t caught up yet.”

Cordelia nodded, “That’s natural. Your body been ready. It’s your heart that takes her time.”

She reached over and plucked a satin robe from the side of the bed. Rose-colored, soft, worn. She walked it over and draped it gently around Violet’s shoulders.

“You don’t gotta give nothin’ you ain’t ready to give,” she said softly, “Not to Stack. Not to Smoke. Not to nobody.”

Violet looked up at her, “Have you ever loved someone who paid you?”

Cordelia paused, just for a breath. Then said, “No. But I’ve loved how they made me feel. For a little while. That counts for somethin’, too.”

Violet pulled the robe tighter around her chest. “I don’t want to be just…a body.”

Cordelia tucked a curl behind her ear, “Then don’t be.”

She leaned in, kissed Violet’s cheek—soft, warm, and brief.

“Let ‘em touch your skin, sugar. But keep your name in your own mouth. Keep your soul in your back pocket.”

Violet had been at The Blackline for a week.

Long enough to learn which girls brought in the most coin. Long enough to know who Stack trusted with the money box. Long enough to stop flinching when the back curtain swayed with moans, and long enough to learn how to smile without meaning it.

She hadn’t let any man touch her yet.

But she knew how to lean soft against their side, how to let her fingers trail across a lap, how to pretend she’d whisper something filthy but only ask if they liked their drink cold.

Stack didn’t pressure her. Not yet.

“You sell the idea right now,” he’d said, voice low, one gold tooth catching the lamplight, “Let them chase what they can’t have. That body gon’ pay double when the time comes.”

So she played host.

She laughed when needed. Danced when asked. Gave lap dances in silk and lavender and let men groan beneath her without ever opening her legs. She was a ghost in perfume, a promise wrapped in ribbon.

And when her shift was done, she’d sit in the corner room behind a sheer drape, knees drawn to her chest, watching.

Watching the other girls work.

Watching bodies move like shadow puppets behind beaded curtains, the sound of wet mouths and thick groans muffled by the low hum of jazz.

Sometimes, she’d close her eyes and imagine someone touching her like that. Not the men who came in drunk and lonely.

Someone else.

Someone who hadn’t even looked her way yet.

He came and went through the hallway like a breeze before the storm.

He didn’t linger. Didn’t smile. Didn’t talk unless he had to. Just passed through with his coat open, sleeves rolled, his news cap pulled low over a face that made women stare without meaning to.

He hadn’t looked at her. Not once.

But Violet noticed everything about him.

The way he lit his cigarette with one hand. The way his loafers hit the floor slow but certain. The way his voice rumbled when he spoke to Stack—not raised, not rushed, but enough to make the other girls shut up just to listen.

He wasn’t dressed like Stack, who wore velvet and gold and lace cuffs when he felt like it.

Smoke was simpler. Cleaner. But not softer.

Dark shirts. Dark trousers. Black suspenders. He didn’t wear flash. He didn’t need to. He wore command.

And something about that…Something about how his silence filled a room more than any shout…

It did something to her.

It made her thighs press together beneath her dress.

It made her breath catch when he passed.

And it made her wonder, what would his hands feel like?

Not the hands of the laughing men who grabbed without asking.

But his?

Would they be rough? Careful? Would he say her name like it was a secret or a sentence?

Violet didn’t even know if he’d noticed her.

But her body already had.

On the third night she saw him, some drunk fool tried to grab at one of the newer girls—Peaches. The kind of man who forgot this place had rules. Smoke didn’t say a word.

He rose from his chair like a dark wind, flicked his cigarette to the floor, and grabbed the man by the collar. The struggle wasn’t loud. There were no threats, no curses. Just the wet sound of knuckles hitting bone, the quick thud of someone’s pride dropping to the floor. Then silence again, broken only by the ragged wheeze of the man as Smoke leaned in, murmuring something only he could hear.

He dusted his coat, lit another cigarette, and sat back down.

Violet hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing until Cordelia touched her hand beneath the table and whispered, “That’s how Smoke handles disrespect. Quiet and clean.”

They all tried him. The girls.

Some sat on his lap, giggling and twirling curls like schoolgirls. Others pressed their breasts to his arm, offering their best pout. Cordelia once wrapped her legs around him just to tease, but even she couldn’t break through that armor. Smoke didn’t flinch, didn’t soften. He simply watched. Took long drags of his cigar and let the world orbit him.

The only time he smiled was when Stack made some offhand joke, or when the saxophone player hit a particularly sweet note. But never at the girls. Not the way they wanted.

Violet found herself waiting for him. Listening for the weight of his boots on the floorboards. She never approached. Just peeked around corners. Hid behind curtains. Her heart fluttered every time his gaze swept across the room.

Once—just once—his eyes landed on her. Those sharp, heavy-lidded eyes. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

And Violet turned away so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet.

The night had finally slipped quiet, the gramophone long gone silent, the perfume of cigar smoke and gin clinging to the velvet drapes like ghosts.

Backstage, in the dressing parlor with cracked mirrors and soft lamplight, Cordelia peeled off her silk stockings slow, leg stretched out long, her golden skin catching the amber glow like honey poured over polished mahogany. She had high cheekbones dusted in old rouge, eyes lined sharp as razors, and a gold mole painted just above her full mouth. Her hair was set in glossy Marcel waves, pinned back with a diamond barrette she claimed once belonged to Josephine Baker herself.

She sat in front of the mirror like she was on stage again, one leg crossed over the other, smoking a thin clove cigarette in a long ivory holder.

Peaches was across from her, lounging in a pink floral robe that hugged her plush figure. She was soft in all the places men dreamed about—belly round, hips thick like southern bread dough, and breasts that spilled out no matter what she wore. Her sandy brown coils framed her moon-round face like a lioness, fake flowers tucked behind her ears—yellow hibiscus and a few wilted daisies from the night before. She smelled like coconut oil and rum, sweet and warm.

Violet sat quiet near the wall, still in her slip, legs curled beneath her. She wore a pale-blue robe Cordelia had passed down to her. It was satin and fraying at the sleeves, but still soft against her shy skin. She didn’t speak, not yet. Just listened.

Cordelia let out a long sigh and flicked ash into an old crystal ashtray.

“Mmm. That old man in Room 2 tried to suck on my toes again,” she muttered, “Swore up and down I was an angel sent to forgive him. I told him, baby, I ain’t the Virgin Mary, I’m just Cordelia with rent due.”

Peaches cackled, her laughter rich and sweet like a gospel solo.

“At least he’s clean. That man with the gold teeth wanted me to act like his damn mama,” Peaches said, fanning herself, “Callin’ me ‘mama’ while I was ridin’ him. I almost said ‘boy, go to bed’ just to mess with him.”

Cordelia leaned back, puffing on her cigarette, “These men want every kinda woman. Soft ones, mean ones, silent ones. But you know what they really care about?”

“Pussy hair,” Peaches said, deadpan, grinning.

Violet’s eyes widened slightly.

“Exactly,” Cordelia purred, “I swear, half these fellas more opinionated than a church mother. One want it waxed bald like a lil’ girl. Another want it wild like a thicket. One man asked me to braid it.”

Peaches hollered, “Stack like it full, but trimmed. Just enough for his nose to get lost but not choked.”

Cordelia raised her brows at Violet through the mirror, “You shy, baby, but you got somethin’ under there. What you got goin’ on? Don’t be modest. We all women here.”

Peaches wiggled her brows, “Show us, baby girl.”

Violet hesitated. Her cheeks burned, but something in the way they watched her wasn’t cruel, it was curious, sisterly. So slowly, carefully, she opened her robe just enough to reveal the soft down between her thighs. A natural, delicate triangle—neatly trimmed, but untouched by razor.

“Well damn,” Cordelia murmured with an approving nod. “That’s a pretty little thing.”

Peaches smiled warmly, “You keep it just like that, baby. Let the right man teach you how he likes it.”

Violet closed her robe again, heart thudding.

“I’m surprised Stack ain’t done your initiation,” Cordelia said next, shifting tones.

Violet blinked, “My what?”

Cordelia smirked, “The initiation, sugar. When Stack gets a taste. He don’t always fuck you, sometimes he just eats. But he gotta make sure you gonna sell. That your body gonna bring money in.”

Peaches nodded solemnly, “He say he can tell from just the first taste. If you gon’ be a money-maker or a waste of time.”

“All the girls been through it,” Cordelia added, “We love Stack, even when we hate him. He run things tight. If you need food, he got it. If a man put hands on you, he handle it. If you act up, he cut you off. But he protect his girls.”

A hush fell after that. Cordelia reached for her perfume, dabbing it behind her ears. Peaches picked petals out her hair.

Violet sat quiet again. Not with fear—just thought.

She wondered if Smoke had ever done an initiation.

But the idea seemed…strange. He didn’t look at them like Stack did. He didn’t play. Didn’t sample. He sat in the shadows like a king who’d already had every fruit in the orchard.

Still, she wondered.

if he did it…how would it feel?

Would he ask?

Would he taste slow?

Would he whisper her name?

The brothel was still humming low that night—music crawling through the floorboards like midnight pour, the scent of clove and spilled gin heavy in the air. Violet was in the hallway near the parlor, pretending to check a tear in her stocking. But really, she was watching.

Cordelia walked by in her silk robe, hips swaying like she owned gravity itself. She passed Violet without a glance but tossed, “Don’t stare too long, baby. You’ll get ideas,” over her shoulder with a sly smirk.

Violet followed behind, quiet as always.

Stack was in the main parlor, sunk into his velvet armchair like a man born to it. His legs were spread, gold rings glittering on thick fingers. A black button-down hugged his chest, the top few undone just enough to show the glint of a gold chain and the curve of a rose tattoo blooming over his collarbone. A toothpick rolled lazy between his lips, and his fedora was tilted just enough to cast a shadow across his sharp eyes.

He was flanked by two women—Black beauties dressed in mink-trimmed lingerie. One with midnight skin and copper-gold eyes, the other with a cinnamon glow and long, oil-slick braids. Girls from back in New Orleans. The kind who moved too quietly, whose laughter echoed wrong if you listened too long. Their glamour was turned up high tonight—cheeks glowing, lips stained bloodred, eyes like honeyed storm clouds.

They leaned into Stack like cats in heat, one on each arm, hands tracing his chest while he accepted the girls’ cut of the night’s earnings—crisp bills folded neat in silk pouches. He didn’t look rushed. He didn’t ever look rushed.

Cordelia stepped forward, elegant as a sermon, and slid her own pouch into his open palm, “For you, baby,” she purred.

Stack gave her that grin, slow, wicked, full of teeth and secrets, “That’s my girl.”

Cordelia stayed close, ran her hand up his thigh, “I got a question though,” she said lightly, tone flirtatious but eyes sharp, “That lil’ new one…Violet. Why ain’t you done her initiation yet?”

The question landed like a dropped match.

The girls giggled, expectant.

Violet froze in the hallway, half in shadow.

Stack chuckled low, licked his lips slow. Then he leaned back and finally looked up—right toward Violet. Right through the wall, through the shadows, like he felt her watching.

“’Cause she ain’t ready,” he said. Voice calm. Final, “She still soft. Still dreamin’. I bite her now, she won’t come back from it.”

The room went still for a moment.

One of the girls murmured, “Ain’t never heard you hold back before.”

Stack smirks, “I don’t break toys I like.”

Cordelia tilted her head, “You like her?”

He didn’t answer that part. Just sat there, eyes still locked in Violet’s direction.

The one of the girls leaned down, whispering something in his ear. He grinned wider, eyes glinting gold.

Cordelia laughed, kissed him on the cheek, and walked off, hips rolling like waves.

Violet slipped back down the hall, heart pounding, not sure what she felt.

She wasn’t afraid.

But something in her ached.

She didn’t know whether it was longing for Stack…or disappointment that it wasn’t Smoke who’d said those words.

The days passed, and Violet became a ghost of temptation.

She hadn’t laid with a single man yet—not really. Not how they wanted. Not how Stack trained the girls to break a John in, slow and sweet. Violet would let them look, let them taste her perfume and the way she moved when she walked—but that was all.

She’d lean in close enough for breath to catch in their throat, then pull away with a soft apology and a smile that made them want to beg.

They were starving for her.

Some started offering more; double, triple. One even brought roses. Another sent sweets and a gold bracelet. Stack let it happen. Watched from the upstairs rail with his cigar in hand, head tilted just enough to track every whisper, every reach, every ache in the eyes of the men who wanted to ruin her.

Cordelia called it “the long game.”

“You reel ‘em in slow, baby,” she told Violet one afternoon in the vanity room, lips lined red, a lace shawl loose over her shoulders, “Make ’em chase what they already think they own.”

She leaned in, breath warm against Violet’s ear, “You let ‘em think you’re green. Shy. Then one night, you open that door just a little…and they lose they whole mind.”

Peaches nodded from across the room, filing her nails, “Ain’t nothin’ like the first time a quiet girl turns bold. That pussy hit different when it’s got mystery on it.”

Violet listened. Blushed. But she held her posture a little taller now. Her silence wasn’t fear, it was control. And she was learning.

Upstairs, Stack knew.

He saw it in the way she moved through the hallway now, hips learning how to sway without effort. He saw it when she made the mistake of biting her lip in front of a customer and didn’t notice the way his hand twitched. She was blooming. Not all at once. But the petals were opening. And Stack…was patient.

He didn’t rush the flowers he wanted to own.

That night, Smoke returned.

The front door swung open in the low light. He came in like he always did—silent. Slow. Solid. Black suspenders over a white shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms and the cut of his veins. Cigarette already lit. No words. No greeting.

Just presence.

Violet was sitting behind a sheer gold drape near the hallway curtain, her usual hiding place. A secret pocket of velvet and hush where she could pretend to be invisible and watch the world breathe.

She held still, barely blinking, eyes tracing the shape of his jaw in the smoke.

And she wasn’t the only one watching.

Two of the girls were near the bar, sipping gin and whispering low.

“Mmm mmm mmm…that man walk in here like sin in a suit,” one said, fanning herself, “I’d let him ruin my whole damn life.”

“He don’t even talk much,” the other whispered back, “But I love me a grown, confident-ass man. One that don’t gotta raise his voice to make the whole room shift.”

“You see how he move?” the first continued, “Like he ain’t gotta explain nothin’. Just action. He said forget all that talk, I’m bout that action.”

They giggled, voices thick with desire and bravado, but there was hunger underneath it. Real hunger. The kind even the boldest girls didn’t say too loud.

Smoke didn’t even glance their way. He walked straight to the far wall, leaned back, lit a fresh cigarette, and scanned the room with eyes that held weight. You didn’t look into them—you fell into them.

And then…he paused.

His eyes drifted. Toward the sheer drape. Toward her.

Violet held her breath.

Did he see her?

She didn’t know. But she knew one thing…

The ache inside her, the low simmer that burned beneath her belly, had a name.

And it wasn’t Stack.

It was him.

Smoke.

The brothel quieted in the small hours, when most of the girls had either gone to bed or were curled in the laps of men too drunk to finish what they started.

Violet slipped away to the back bathroom, the one with the deep porcelain tub and the cracked pink tiles, where steam clung to the mirror like breath. She twisted the knobs, hot water rushing out, cloudy with the salts and lavender oil Cordelia always kept in a little jar by the sink.

She stripped slow.

Her pale blue slip slid down her curves, skin dewy in the dim yellow light. Her breasts rose and fell with soft, shallow breaths. Her thighs were warm with sweat from the long night. Her curls stuck to her neck. She eased herself into the bath, the heat licking at her skin, pulling a sigh from her lips.

She sank deep with her knees drawn up, arms resting along the edges, eyes drifting shut.

And then the ache started again.

Smoke.

Not Stack. Not one of the slick-mouthed Johns who tried to coax her open with sweet words and sugar lies. But him—silent, watchful, heavy with power and mystery. The way he filled a room without ever trying. The cut of his jaw, the roll of his sleeves. The way he looked like he’d never say your name out loud—but growl it into your skin.

Her hand drifted down.

Fingers slipping between her thighs, slow at first. She breathed his name so softly it never left her lips. Her toes curled. Her hips arched slightly. She imagined his hand instead of hers. His fingers. His breath hot against her ear, not asking permission, just knowing what she needed.

The water lapped softly. Her moans were barely whispers, but they filled the little room all the same.

She was just on the edge, lost in that imagined weight of Smoke pressing her down, when—

Knock-knock. Click.

The door creaked open.

“Mmm.” Cordelia’s voice floated in, amused, “Now what we got goin’ on in here, sugar?”

Violet jerked up, water sloshing over the edge. She scrambled to sink lower into the bath, cheeks blazing red.

“I—I thought I locked—”

Cordelia leaned against the doorframe, fully dressed in a black silk robe trimmed with marabou feathers, cigarette holder dangling from her painted fingers.

“You didn’t,” she purred, eyes twinkling, “And even if you had, I got keys to everything in this house. Don’t look so scared. I ain’t mad. Girl’s entitled to her lil’ bath time fantasy.”

Violet covered her chest with her arms, mortified. Cordelia stepped inside, clicking the door shut behind her. She didn’t come to shame. She came like a storm that knew the rain was needed.

“Let me guess…” Her eyes narrowed, voice playful, “You wasn’t thinkin’ ’bout Smoke, was you?”

Violet didn’t answer.

Cordelia smirked and slid down to sit on the edge of the tub, letting her hand stir the water lazily.

“No shame in it, baby. That man walk in like judgment day, and every girl in this house got a little tremble in her thighs when he lights a cigarette.”

Violet looked down, face flushed, lips still parted from what almost was.

“You ever wonder what he’d do if you let him have you?” Cordelia asked, voice dropping, “Not rough like these other fools. Nah. A man like Smoke…he take his time. He don’t fuck. He consumes.”

Violet whimpered under her breath, thighs pressing together beneath the water.

Cordelia chuckled softly, “See? I knew it. You hooked and he ain’t even touched you yet,” She stood, smoothing her robe, “Just don’t drown yourself in here, alright? Save a little of that sweetness for when the time come. And baby…”

She paused at the door.

“When a man like that finally notices you? There ain’t no goin’ back.”

Then she was gone, leaving the room scented with her perfume and laughter.

And Violet?

She leaned back in the tub again.

But her hand moved slower this time.

And in her mind, she heard Smoke whisper her name.

After her bath, the house had gone hush. Only the soft lilt of old jazz drifted up from below—scratchy and faraway, like a memory playing through a wall. Most of the girls had gone to their rooms or curled up with company. Violet had begged off early. Said she had a headache. Nobody questioned her.

She wasn’t sick.

She was starving—but not for food.

The dressing room was dim, lit only by a row of half-burned candles flickering in their dusty glass jars. Smoke from earlier perfumes still clung to the air—rose, patchouli, hair tonic, clove cigarettes. The mirrors were fogged from the night’s heat and steam, the room heavy with the perfume of want.

Violet stood barefoot on the cold tile floor, wrapped in a short silk robe. Her curls were damp, falling in soft tendrils around her face, and her cheeks still flushed from her bath. Her skin glowed in the candlelight—bronze, delicate, young.

She stepped closer to the mirror.

The fogged glass showed only a whisper of herself at first, like a spirit trying to take form.

She wiped it clean with her palm.

Then stood still.

She studied her reflection. The cut of her collarbone. The shape of her mouth. The softness of her eyes, the way her lips always seemed half-parted like a question left unanswered.

“He don’t want soft,” she whispered to herself, “He want…sultry…woman.”

So she tried.

She dropped one shoulder of the robe. Let it slide down slow.

She ran her fingers through her curls and pushed them back, exposing her neck. Then she tilted her chin up just a little, parted her lips.

“You like this, don’t you?” she murmured, voice breathy, “I bet you wonder what I taste like…”

She paused. Cringed.

It didn’t sound right.

It sounded like someone else. Cordelia maybe. Or one of the other girls who knew how to speak a man into madness. Not her. Not sweet little Violet from the coast with Gullah blood and old folk songs still hiding in her bones.

She tried again.

Swayed her hips slow. Dragged her finger down her chest. Let the robe part just a little between her thighs.

“You want me, don’t you?” she whispered.

The words stuck in her throat.

Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes dropped.

It felt fake.

Like she was wearing someone else’s skin, trying to fit into a mold that wasn’t made for her. Pretty? Sure. She’d been told that. Men looked. Girls cooed. But she didn’t have Cordelia’s poise, Peaches’ sass, or the polished glamour of the girls from Stack’s past. She didn’t know how to weaponize her beauty yet.

And Smoke?

Smoke would eat a woman alive if she stepped to him wrong.

Violet sank onto the vanity stool, staring at her bare thighs, her robe still half-open.

She whispered, “You don’t see me, do you…”

She wanted to cry. Not from sadness. From that terrible tightness in the chest when your want grows too loud, and your confidence grows too quiet.

She reached for a lipstick tube and twisted it open. It was a deep wine red, something Cordelia once left on the table.

She painted her lips slow.

Then leaned in and kissed the mirror.

A print bloomed on the glass.

“If I was bold…you’d touch me, wouldn’t you?” she whispered again, softer now, “You’d press me to the wall. You’d tell me I was yours without sayin’ a word…”

Silence answered her.

And still, she sat there, robe slipping from one shoulder, red lips parted, candlelight dancing across her skin.

Just a girl aching to be noticed.

She didn’t even remember falling asleep that night. One minute, she was staring at her own reflection, robe half open, mouth painted, thighs pressed together. The next, the mirror seemed to ripple, soften, breathe.

And suddenly, he was there.

Smoke.

Leaning in the doorway behind her, half in shadow, cigarette in hand.

But this wasn’t the real Smoke. This was dream-Smoky, smoky Smoke—heavier, slower, hungry.

He stepped into the room with that same impossible quiet, like the floor moved for him, not the other way around. The door didn’t creak. The candles didn’t flicker. He just was.

His eyes moved over her…over her parted robe, over her soft thighs, over the kiss mark on the mirror like it was a challenge.

Violet tried to cover herself, but in the dream, her arms wouldn’t move. She could only look back, breath catching, skin prickling with heat and shame.

“I was just—”

Smoke didn’t speak.

He crossed the room in three long strides and stopped behind her. She could see him in the mirror now. Towering. Watching. His gaze dragged down her body like a match tip over dry bark. And then, he bent low, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear.

“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured, voice like liquid dusk on hot skin.

His hands slid down her shoulders, calloused palms dragging over her arms, her waist. He didn’t grab. He claimed. His touch said…this has always been mine.

No one else’s

You hear me?

You’re mine, my pretty Violet…

She whimpered. Softly. Slightly strangled. Like an echo. Like she’d been longing for him to say those words and it’s only been such a short amount of time.

He dipped his head further, pressed his lips to her neck feather-like, breathing her in like she was a fragrance. The robe fell from her shoulders. Slowly. Her nipples hardened in the air.

“I see everything, Violet,” he said, “Every little ache. Every quiet moan you try to hide from the night…”

He turned her gently in the dream, and she rose without resistance. She was bare before him, trembling, but not afraid. Ready. Puddy beneath his calloused hands. Ready and willing to be told what to do.

“You ain’t gotta perform for me,” he whispered.

Then he sank to his knees. His eyes never leaving hers. Not once. His mouth was at her belly, then lower, his breath hot against the soft thatch between her thighs. He pressed a kiss there—slow, worshipful.”

“I want this,” he said.

And she believed him.

Violet gasped—and woke with a jolt.

The candles were low. The room was quiet. Her thighs were wet with sweat, her robe askew. No one was there. No door creaked. No match was struck.

But her heart was racing like he’d just left.

And for a long, long moment, Violet sat in the hush, fingertips brushing her lips.

A thought bloomed in her chest like a secret.

Despite what Violet thinks Smoke wants—sharp, sultry, polished women like Cordelia…

She’s wrong.

He’ll want her exactly as she is.

Soft. Quiet. Ache and all.

Clarksdale heat wasn’t just heat.

It was a whole attitude.

It settled low and slow like gossip, pressed its thick weight against the back of your neck, and made your thighs slick before you even reached the porch.

Annie Carter blew out a breath as she eased her cherry-red pickup into park, the tires crunching over gravel outside the shotgun house. Smoke’s house. Same one he grew up in. One of them long, skinny homes built for one body to walk through at a time. Pale blue paint faded in patches, porch slats warped from age, but still holding on like the Delta women who raised the neighborhood.

She killed the engine and sat back for a second, letting the A/C blow once more over her skin before she faced the day proper. She reached across the seat, pulled her shades from the dashboard—matte black frames with a soft cat-eye tilt—and slid them on. The world turned a little darker, a little sexier, and she liked it that way.

Today’s fit? Showed out without trying.

A cropped black tank clung to her breasts like it owed them something, the scoop neck dipped low enough to draw stares, and one thick strap of her black sports bra peeked from underneath. Her denim shorts were frayed at the hem, hugging her thick hips and ass like a second skin. Belt loops tugged beneath the weight of her utility belt, jingling with wrenches, pliers, a box cutter, and a roll of black electrical tape. Her thighs gleamed from cocoa oil and sun, and her skin? Rich dark brown. Deep as molasses.

She wore brown cowgirl boots, dusty from work but still fly. The left boot had a scuff on the toe—she liked it that way. A cut-off red plaid flannel was tied around her waist. And her hair? Long, thick locs with copper tips, swept to the right—left side shaved down in a fresh, faded cut with designs. Her earrings were big gold hoops, and her nose ring caught the sun when she tilted her head. Annie slid from the truck and popped open the toolbox in the bed. She grabbed what she needed for the job: a screwdriver, flashlight, drill gun, and a spare pull-chain switch for the fan. Even though she already knew good and damn well…

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that damn fan.”

She muttered it low, under her breath, voice honey-sweet but laced with bite. Smoke had texted her early this morning like he always did when he was bored, horny, or just wanted to see her ass bent over something.

Fan makin’ noise. Might be loose up top. Come see bout it?

Yeah. Okay.

She clicked the back of the toolbox shut with her boot and made her way up the porch steps. The house was quiet, but the front door sat open, screen door closed behind it. The kind of invitation that wasn’t loud, just…understood. Humidity clung to her skin, glistened on her collarbones, slipped into the space between her breasts. The wood creaked beneath her steps, and she adjusted the strap of her belt, tugging it tighter around her waist as she pushed the screen door open with one hand.

“Smoke?” she called, her voice velvet and steel, like she was already annoyed but halfway smiling,

“You call me out here, and you ain’t even gon’ answer the door?”

No reply. But she wasn’t surprised. He was probably inside—shirtless, high, and grinning. Her boots thudded against the old floorboards as she stepped inside. The house smelled like pine cleaner, weed smoke, and the faintest ghost of his cologne. Something with amber and tobacco, warm and heady. Her sunglasses slid lower on her nose, and she looked over them, eyes cutting slow through the dim hallway.

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, walking deeper in,

“You better be up in here somewhere, ‘cause if I drove all the way across town and risked my good tank top to fix a fan that don’t need fixin’—”

She paused when she reached the living room. The ceiling fan above was spinning slow and steady, not a single rattle in its rhythm.

“Mm. Thought so.”

But she didn’t leave.

She didn’t want to.

And maybe that was the real problem.

Annie planted a hand on her hip, smirk tugging the corner of her mouth. She bent low to unzip her bag, pulling out the flashlight even though she didn’t need it. She could feel him watching. Somewhere in this house. She could feel the weight of his stare, same way you feel thunder before it cracks.

Let him look.

She made sure to keep her back arched and her ass high while she reached down.

“You better come out before I start takin’ things apart for real,” she called, sing-song and teasing,

“Next time, I’m sendin’ you an invoice just for lookin’.”

The floor creaked behind her.

But Annie didn’t turn around yet.

She just smiled slow, still bent over, lips glossy, voice syrupy:

“There he go.”

Smoke stood just past the kitchen threshold, half-hidden by shadow, arms folded across his chest. A slow grin cut across his face, wide and easy, that dimple deep in his cheek like trouble.

He wasn’t in no hurry. Never was.

She always came in fussin’, voice sweet like warm honey poured over something fried. And every time, he let her. Let her stomp in with them big thighs and that attitude, lips slick with gloss, ass movin’ like it knew it was bein’ watched.

Damn, woman shaped like a song…a slow one…the kind you light a blunt to…

He licked his bottom lip without thinking, eyes moving down the slope of her back to where her denim shorts hugged her like they had a secret. That utility belt sat just right, cutting her waist like she was built in a workshop, carved for curves. She was bent over, fussin’ again. Said she was gon’ send him an invoice.

He didn’t mind. He’d pay it.

Cash. Dick. Whichever she preferred.

“You gon’ keep bendin’ over like that, Annie? Smoke asked, voice low and gruff, lazily with southern heat and the remnants of the blunt he’d smoked earlier, “or you fixin’ to start some shit you ain’t ready to finish?”

Annie didn’t jump. She didn’t flinch.

She just smiled without turning around, her voice light and taunting, “Boy, I will unplug every fan in this house and leave you in here to sweat.”

Smoke chuckled under his breath, stepping into the room. His Nike slides dragged soft against the floor. He was dressed simple—gray sweatpants slung low, no shirt, just skin. Bronze, smooth, tatted down his right arm and over his chest. A thin gold chain hung against his collarbone, catching light from the window. His durag was tied neat, waves underneath laid tight enough to make a preacher backslide.

“Fan ain’t broke,” he said, dragging a finger along the edge of her utility belt,

“I just like when you show up with all this on.”

She finally straightened, slow and smooth, and turned to face him. Shades still on. Lips pursed. She tilted her head, letting those auburn-tipped locs fall to one side, her shaved undercut glinting sharp in the sun.

“Then say that,” she told him, folding her arms beneath her chest, making her cleavage rise just enough to distract him,

“You grown, ain’t you? Or you forget how to talk since the last time I fixed your sink?”

“Nah,” he said, eyes dragging down her chest like a slow drag of his blunt, “Just rather watch you work than run my mouth.”

She smirked. Then pulled her shades down just a touch —enough to let him see those eyes. Brown and rich and always glintin’ with fire. She took a step closer, slow, bold.

“Next time you call me,” she said, voice low, “you better have somethin’ real broke.”

“What if it’s me that’s broke?”

“Then you better hope I know how to fix you.”

She bumped her hip against him as she passed, soft and heavy, and Smoke didn’t stop the low growl that rumbled in his chest. Didn’t stop the way his eyes slid down the back of her legs, how those boots hugged her calves just right. Annie walked toward the hallway, looking over her shoulder once before disappearing into the next room.

“Come on then,” she called,

“Let’s go look at this imaginary fan of yours.”

Smoke ran a hand down his face, still grinning.

She was gone be the death of him.

And he was gone die happy.

Smoke took his time walking behind her.

Annie always walked like she had a rhythm in her hips—like music followed her even in silence.

Every step of hers made his dick twitch.

That utility belt swayed low on her waist, and the hem of those frayed denim shorts crept just under the curve of her ass, threatening to reveal more than they should. Not that he hadn’t imagined what was under there. Not that he hadn’t dreamed about it. He adjusted himself real casual as he followed her down the hallway.

“Ceilin’ fan’s in the back room,” he mumbled, eyes locked on her ass,

“Started clickin’ last night. Thought somethin’ came loose.”

Lie.

He’d been laying there high as hell, thinking about her mouth. Her thighs. The way her bra always peeked out under them tight tank tops like it was tryin’ to confess to him how bad it wanted to break free. Holding them heavy thangs up. So he’d reached for his phone. Texted her. Because he knew if he waited two, maybe three days, she’d show up in something like this. Annie opened the door to the back room—one of the additions Stack helped him build onto the shotgun when their grandma passed. The ceilings were high, the paint still fresh, the windows wide and letting in sunlight. The fan overhead spun slow and clean, just like the one up front.

No sound. No clicking. Not a damn thing wrong. Annie stopped dead in the doorway and tilted her head back. Then looked at him.

“You serious right now?”

“What?”

“That fan ain’t makin’ a sound.”

“It was. Last night.”

“Mmm. Must’ve been yo imagination.”

He leaned on the doorframe and shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek to hide his grin. She stood in the center of the room now, hands on her hips, lips glossy and full, locs tumbling over one shoulder. She looked good in the light. All that dark skin shining like polished stone, boots planted, thighs thick.

“You done?” she asked, raising one brow.

“Mm-mm,” he said, “I think you should still check it.”

“Why?”

“Cause I like watchin’ you work.”

Annie shook her head, but he caught the smile she tried to hide. She stepped over to the window, pulled the chain, and the fan slowed. Then she set her tools down on the little step ladder he’d dragged in before she arrived.

“You gone keep starin’ or gon’ help?”

“I’ll hold the ladder.”

“Boy, I don’t need no ladder to check a fan.”

She stepped up onto her toes instead, arms lifted, pulling her tank top a little higher, revealing more of that fluffy belly, and how those shorts hugged her waist making it all plush and soft beneath. Smoke came up behind her like a shadow—slow and deliberate—close enough to smell the oil on her skin, like shea and citrus.

“You smell good,” he said low behind her.

She didn’t answer. Just kept working.

His hand brushed her waist when she shifted. Light. Barely a touch. But enough to stir something in both of them.

“You do that on purpose?” she asked, not looking back.

“Do what?”

“Stand all up on me like that.”

“It’s my house.”

“Then why you standin’ like it’s yours and mine?”

Smoke smiled slow. Deep.

“You want it to be?”

Annie paused—still reaching up—and laughed under her breath. It was that deep, full laugh of hers. The kind that rumbled low, made him want to chase the sound with his mouth.

“Boy, hush.”

“I ain’t said nothin’ wild…yet.”

He reached up, flicked the pull chain just to watch the fan start again.

Still no clicking. Still no problem.

But Annie was still there, arms lifted, stomach exposed, and that belt around her hips still making his hands itch.

“Y’know what?” she said, lowering her arms and stepping off her toes,

“Since you called me out here for nothin’, I’m bout to clean you out. Replace every fixture in this room. Charge you for labor. Double.”

“Do it,” Smoke said, “Long as you stay awhile.”

She rolled her eyes. But she was still smilin’.

She should’ve known better. Should’ve known the second he texted her about that “clickin’ fan.” Smoke didn’t call her when things were broken. He called her when he was bored, horny, or feelin’ dangerous.

And today? He looked like all three.

Annie sighed as she knelt beside the wall socket under the window. Her toolbelt shifted, and she adjusted it without thinking—tightened the strap and reached into one of the side pockets for her wire tester. Her tank top clung to her back, sticky with heat and the pressure of being watched.

Because he was still there.

Leaning against the far wall. Shirtless. Sweatpants hanging too low. Dimple out. Arms crossed like he didn’t have a care in the world—just takin’ in the view like she was entertainment.

“You just gone stand there?” she muttered without looking up.

“I like the angle,” he replied smooth.

Annie smirked despite herself.

“Keep lookin’ and I’ma send you an invoice for harassment.”

“How much?”

“Depends. You want the full package?”

He chuckled, low and lazy. That sound always made her stomach flip. Always had.

She caught herself slipping.

Again.

Like the first time.

That summer she replaced his water heater—two years ago now. She’d had on navy overalls with the sides unsnapped ‘cause it was hot as hell. No bra. He came to the door fresh out the shower, towel low, lips wet, steam followin’ behind him.

And he just stood there.

Looked her up and down with that hooded stare, them lips parted, durag barely tied.

“You gone come in? Or you need a minute?” he’d asked.

She’d taken the job. Fixed the damn heater. But she remembered how close he stood when he handed her the cash. The way his fingers brushed her palm. How he lingered. She remembered the way he looked at her—like he already knew what was under them overalls.

And ever since? It’d been like this.

Calls. Jobs. Tension. That slow, dirty game.

Back in the room, Annie pulled the plate off the socket and leaned forward on her hands, squinting as she tested the wires inside. Her cleavage shifted, pressed tight in her tank, sweat curling along the top of her breasts.

She felt him move behind her. Didn’t need to see it—she felt it. The way the air changed when he got close. The way the floor creaked under his weight. The way her body got stupid warm just from the scent of him.

“That fan still soundin’ quiet,” she said, voice a little breathier than she meant.

“Mmhmm,” he murmured close. Too close. “But you don’t.”

Her head tilted at that. A slow grin spread across her face.

“You flirtin’ with me while I got my hands in a live socket?”

“Little danger keep things interestin’.”

He stepped beside her now, crouching. His knees wide. One arm rested on his thigh, and the other reached out slow—callused fingers brushing the hem of her shorts where it met skin.

“You real bold,” she whispered, still looking at the wall.

“You wearin’ these shorts and think I’m bold?” he said, voice low and slow like syrup over grits.

He didn’t touch her again. Just let the ghost of his fingers rest there. Let it hang in the air.

“Ain’t like you don’t know what you do to me,” he added.

“And what is it I do?”

“Make me wanna break somethin’ in every room so you gotta keep comin’ back.”

Her breath hitched, but she played it cool. Closed the socket, rose to her feet, and turned toward him.

“Well,” she said, smirking, “next time you better fake somethin’ better than a fan.”

“What if I fake a leak in the shower?”

“Then I’ma charge you triple. And I ain’t bringin’ no towel.”

He grinned.

That damn dimple.

Annie had just packed up her drill gun and was re-clipping her toolbelt when she heard tires roll over the gravel outside. She glanced toward the front window, sunlight streaking across the hardwood floor as a familiar black Chevy Tahoe pulled into the yard. The engine cut. A door opened. Then another.

Lord have mercy. Here come Stack and trouble.

Sure enough, seconds later the front door swung open wide like it owned the place. Elias “Stack” Moore stepped through, gold canines glinting when he grinned, wearing a crisp white tee and cargo shorts. He carried a brown paper sack that smelled like fried okra, ribs, and somebody’s grandma’s hot sauce. Behind him floated his baby mama, Shanté — slim-thick, fine, and always dressed like the world was her runway. Today, it was short white biker shorts, matching crop top, bamboo earrings, and platinum curls kissed by the sun. She balanced their baby boy on one hip like it was nothing, hips swaying, eyes shaded behind rhinestone-laced sunglasses.

“Ayeeee, look who it is,” Stack grinned, spotting Annie, “Ain’t seen you in a minute, Miss Handy Girl.”

Annie smirked.

“Been busy fixin’ other folks’ lies.”

“Damn,” Stack laughed, setting the food on the table, “She still sharp, boy.”

He looked at Smoke, who just leaned on the counter and watched quiet, always watchin’.

“What’s up, Annie?” Shanté called, stepping inside behind Stack, “You still out here fixin’ folks houses and snatchin’ their attention?”

“Only if they call me,” Annie said, smiling as she wiped her hands with a towel, “Ain’t never been one to chase.”

“Mmhmm,” Shanté chuckled, bouncing the baby gently, “You always been bout your paper.”

Annie crossed the room, unclipping her tool belt with one hand. She felt Smoke watching her—still shirtless, sweatpants riding low, lips full and wet from biting them. The heat in his eyes trailed her like smoke from a lit fuse.

She looked at him now, one brow raised.

“So what we sayin’, Smoke? You got me out here in this heat for a fan that don’t make no damn noise. You payin’ or what?”

Smoke didn’t move for a beat.

Then he pulled one arm back, reached into the side drawer of the kitchen counter, and came out with a thick rubber-banded stack of cash. Hundred-dollar bills. Worn and warm. He peeled a portion off with slow fingers, counting without breaking eye contact, and held it out to her.

“That more than covers what you did,” she said, lips twitching.

“I know,” he said, dragging his eyes down her body, voice smooth and dangerous, “But you worth more.”

He licked his bottom lip like he was tasting her name, eyes still low and filthy, locked to the dip of her waist where her shirt lifted when she reached for the money.

Annie took it, folded it, slid it into her back pocket.

“Mmhmm,” she muttered, turning to leave, “You keep flirtin’ with me like that, I’ma start taxin’ per look.”

“What if I like the cost?”

She just rolled her eyes and walked toward the door, hips swayin’ like temptation in cowgirl boots. The weight of his stare followed her all the way to the porch. She knew it. She wanted it to.

“Bye y’all,” she called behind her, waving toward Shanté and Stack.

“Don’t be a stranger, sis!” Shanté called back.

“Yeah,” Stack added, mouth full already. “Bring yo fine ass back with a wrench or somethin’.”

Smoke didn’t say goodbye.

But as the door closed behind her, Annie swore she heard him exhale sharp through his nose.

Like he was losing something he ain’t had yet.

And like he already planned on breakin’ somethin’ else just to get her back.

The ride back from Smoke’s place was a slow crawl through the sticky mouth of a Mississippi evening. Sun low, air buzzing, country roads thick with cicadas and heat. Annie drove with the windows down, one elbow hung out the side of her cherry-red pickup, locs tied up in a bun now, sweat drying on her collarbones.

She didn’t have no music playing. Just her thoughts. And every one of them? Looked like him. That thick stack of money. That look he gave her. The way his lips barely moved when he said she was worth more.

Damn him.

And damn her too for still feeling the way her stomach flipped when he said it.

“You keep flirtin’ with me like that, I’ma start taxin’ per look.”

“What if I like the cost?”

Mmm. That man was a problem.

She pulled into the gravel patch beside her duplex and turned the engine off with a sigh. The air had gone still again—Delta quiet, like the land was waitin’ on something. Annie hopped down from the truck, slammed the door shut with her hip, and made her way around to the back. Her thighs ached from the heat and the day’s work, but she still moved like she owned the ground beneath her. She popped the tailgate, grabbing her toolbox and slinging her canvas supply bag over one shoulder. The belt she’d stripped off earlier hung from the handle, heavy with socket wrenches, wire cutters, a tape measure, and that screwdriver with the cracked grip she refused to replace.

The sun dipped as she unlocked her back door and stepped inside. Her place smelled like lemongrass and wood polish. Ceiling fan humming low, little box AC chuggin’ along in the living room window. A half-finished painting leaned against one wall—Annie had picked up watercolors during quarantine and never let it go. The canvas was bold and messy. Just like her. She dropped her tools near the kitchen table and kicked off her boots, padding barefoot toward the bathroom. Shower first. Weed later.

Twenty minutes later, she was posted on her couch, damp locs wrapped in a T-shirt towel, skin dewy and soft. Her robe was loose—short, faded cotton, tied just enough to hold on. One thick thigh peeked through the slit, bouncing slow to a rhythm only she could hear.

She reached for her rolling tray on the coffee table. Pulled open the drawer beneath.

Then paused.

“Damn.”

Only a crumpled empty baggie left. No pre-roll. No loose shake. Nothing.

“Goddamn Smoke,” she muttered.

He’d given her a sample last week of that good shit—a mellow indica blend he called “Porch Breeze.” Real sticky. Smelled like honeysuckle and diesel. Hit like a weighted blanket. She liked how it slowed the world down without makin’ her too sleepy. Just enough to drift.

And now she was out. She looked at the clock.

9:13pm.

She stared at the empty tray a moment longer, then reached for her phone.

ring…ring…

“Yeah.”

His voice came in low and thick.

Like molasses on warm bread.

“What you doin’?” she asked, drawing her robe tighter.

“Not a damn thing,” he said. She could hear music faint in the background, “Why? You miss me already?”

“Mm. I’m down to nothin’. Thought you could help.”

“Help how?”

“Don’t be cute. I’m talkin’ bout that ‘Porch Breeze’.”

“Ohhh,” he drawled, “Say that then. You tryna smoke tonight?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

There was a pause. She could hear him lick his lips. Could damn near see it.

“I got some rolled already. You could come through.”

“Mm. Thought you said you was gon’ let me rest after today.”

“Ain’t say all that.”

“You ain’t never say much.”

“Don’t need to. You be hearin’ me loud anyway.”

Her mouth twitched. She leaned back on the couch, legs stretched wide now. Her free hand slid absentmindedly along the edge of her thigh. Slow.

“I ain’t tryna drive across town tonight.”

“I could pull up.”

“Nah…I’ll get it tomorrow. When I come to fix that ‘leaky shower’.”

He chuckled low on the other end.

“That what you comin’ for?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Mmhmm.”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just know…if you show up in them same shorts from today, I might forget what was broke.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll remind you.”

Another pause. This one thicker than the last.

“Bring that robe with you,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

“Annie?”

“Night, Smoke.”

“Night.”

She hung up, slow.

And smiled.

Because they both knew good and damn well…

That shower wasn’t broke.

And neither one of them wanted it fixed.

The mimosas had been bottomless, and the laughter even deeper. Brunch ran long like it always did when she got together with Shanté and their cousin girls from Clarksdale and Helena. They met up at a new spot on Issaquena, one of them Black-owned joints that did lemon pepper catfish and peach cobbler waffles with cinnamon butter. Soul on a plate. Annie had rolled up late, but when she stepped out her truck?

Every head on that patio turned.

She was thick, soft, strong, and serving body like God had been showing off when he made her. She wore a denim romper—strapless, snug, hugging every curve from her plump hips to her soft belly, with a sweetheart neckline that framed her big, high-sitting breasts like they were offering praise. Her skin glowed, deep and oiled, kissed by the sun and spiced by a shot of rum still humming in her bloodstream. Her Fulani-style twists were fresh, scalp clean, gold cuffs decorating the plaits that framed her face. The rest flowed down over her shoulder, undercut clean and crisp on the left side. Her ears were stacked with hoops and studs—top to bottom—silver, brass, bone, and cowrie shells catching the light. Her nose ring gleamed beneath her shades. A tattoo above her left breast—a veve symbol inked just below her collarbone—peeked over the rim of her romper. Protection. A thigh tattoo curled just below her hemline: a crowned snake coiled around a crescent moon. Power.

And on her bare foot, the left one, inked along the arch:

what you touch remembers.

A conjure phrase her great-aunt used to say.

Annie had slipped on platform wedges to show off her legs. Painted her toenails gold. When she walked, her body moved like temptation had a schedule to keep.

Now the sun was dipping again.

Annie pulled up to Smoke’s place late—later than she’d meant—but still buzzed off peach syrup and good company. She parked the truck, climbed out barefoot, and opened the passenger door to reach for her cowgirl boots, slipping out of her wedges and tugging them on slow. The leather hugged her calves like they missed her. She adjusted her romper where it rode high, then grabbed her toolbelt and water bottle. The front door opened before she made it halfway up the porch.

And there he was.

Smoke, standing in the doorway, brushing his waves with a slow hand. No shirt. Just gray sweatshorts and that gold chain laying flat against his chest. His durag was untied, waves glistening like dark velvet, fresh from the brush. He looked smooth, thick, fine enough to ruin brunch.

But that look in his eyes? That wasn’t soft.

That was tight-jawed, low-eyelid, barely-holding-it-together Smoke.

“What took you so long?” he asked, voice gruff, brushing slower now.

Annie hit the porch with a boot thud and smirked up at him.

“Girls’ day.”

“Mmm.” His eyes dragged over her body like smoke curling from a flame, “Where you go dressed like that?”

“Ain’t none of your business,” she said, brushing past him with her toolbox, “You want this shower fixed or not?”

Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t answer right away. Just closed the door behind her slow, letting his eyes do all the talking. Her romper tugged tighter when she bent to set her tools down, and that thigh tattoo showed itself again.

“I don’t like when you play like that,” he murmured from behind her.

“Play how?” she tossed back, straightening and turning with a raised brow.

“Dressin’ like a dream and showin’ up late. Walkin’ in here like I ain’t been thinkin’ bout you all damn day.”

Annie rolled her eyes.

“I told you I was comin’.”

“You ain’t say you was gon’ show up drippin’ like seduction in denim.”

She laughed, deep and low, grabbing her water bottle and taking a long sip. Then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and let her eyes drop slow to his abs. She wasn’t blind. And that wasn’t cotton candy in her chest—that was heat.

“You always this emotional over plumbing?” she teased.

“Only when the plumber look like you.”

Annie turned away, heat crawling up her spine, thighs pressing instinctively. But she wasn’t gonna give him the satisfaction. Not yet.

“Well,” she muttered, heading toward the bathroom, “might wanna roll up that weed you owe me.”

“It’s already lit.”

“Good,” she called over her shoulder, “I’ma need it when I’m done dealin’ with you.”

Smoke chuckled behind her.

But it wasn’t funny.

Not really.

Because if she stayed too long, if that porch breeze hit just right, if he kept lookin’ at her like that…

She wasn’t gonna be fixin’ no damn shower.

The screen door creaked behind her as Annie stepped out onto the porch, the heat dipping low now, sun bleeding into dusk like spilled tea. The air still held that weighty Delta hum, cicadas buzzing, the smell of cut grass and fried something two blocks down. Smoke was already out there, slouched low in the porch chair.

No shirt. That gold chain resting like sin on his collarbone. And that blunt? Rolled thick and slow-burning, cradled between two fingers like it was born for him. He nodded toward the other chair. Didn’t say a word. Just lifted the blunt to his lips and pulled. Annie sat down. Crossed one thick thigh over the other. Watched. Watched the way he inhaled—deep and lazy, like he was sipping from the tit of the earth. Watched how his cheeks hollowed, lips pressing around the paper like a kiss too deep for decency. And then—he exhaled through his nose, slow and steady.

Goddamn.

She didn’t mean to stare. But that nose? That angle?

The way it flared just a little. The slope of it.

She wanted to ride it.

Slow. Rocking.

Right there on the porch in the Mississippi twilight.

You nasty, she thought to herself.

But ain’t like he don’t know.

He passed her the blunt without looking at her, just holding it out low by her thigh. She took it, fingers brushing his.

“Ain’t say thank you yet,” she murmured, lips already parting to pull.

“Ain’t need to,” he said, “You moaned soon as I lit it.”

Annie choked on the smoke and laughed, thick and sharp.

“Boy, shut up.”

“Mmhmm,” he said, smirking, watching her now, “How brunch taste?”

“Sweet. Like syrup.”

“This what you wear there?” he asked, even though he already knew. Eyes trailing down her legs to that dangerous thigh tattoo again.

“You mad you ain’t get to see it first?”

“I saw enough.”

“You want more?”

The air shifted.

The blunt hovered between them now, a slow-burning thing held hostage in her fingers.

Smoke’s eyes didn’t flinch, “You askin’ if I want it…or you?”

She grinned. Bit her lip.

Took a long pull. Blew it in his direction.

“You actin’ like it’s a difference.”

Smoke leaned forward, elbows on his knees, that dimple deepening like trouble brewing in the belly of a storm. He stared at her like he was plotting something.

“You talk a lot,” he said, voice low, “But I bet you don’t move like you sound.”

“Oh?”

“I bet you loud till it’s time to back it up.”

“And I bet you walk like your dick big, but fuck like you shy.”

That made him chuckle—deep, raspy, evil-sweet. He licked his lips. Sat back. Took the blunt from her fingers real slow.

“You sure you ready for what come with this?” he asked.

“That what you ask all the girls?”

“I ain’t asked nobody but you.”

“You want some of this?” she asked now, voice honeyed and head tilted,

“What you gon’ do if I say yeah?”

They stared at each other.

Smoke hit the blunt again.

French inhaled it, nostrils flaring, smoke rising like temptation itself. Annie’s thighs clenched. Her breath caught. She hated herself a little.

But not enough to stop.

“You better be careful,” she warned.

“Why?”

“You might fuck around and fall in love.”

“Or you might fuck around and get folded.”

That did it.

Annie stood up.

Slow.

Boots thudding against old wood. Hips swaying. She plucked the blunt from his mouth without asking, took one last hit, and dropped it in the ashtray beside him.

“Leave the porch light on,” she said, turning toward the door, “I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come inside.”

Smoke leaned back, legs spread wide, watching her the whole way.

“Ain’t gon’ be safe for nobody when I do.”

The door clicked shut behind her like a promise. Annie stepped in first—thick hips rolling under that tight denim romper, boots clapping low against the dark wood floor, her whole body buzzing with smoke, with want, with the aftertaste of laughter still on her tongue. Twista’s voice pulsed low through the room, humming like sex:

“Yo' phatty's so accurate when I'm smackin' it

It's makin me say "What I gotta do to get with that?"

The bass hit the soles of her feet.

His room was heat.

Low amber lighting spread soft shadows across the charcoal walls. That crushed velvet comforter—deep blue, sinful—looked like it had seen stories. A candle burned slow on the dresser, thick sandalwood smoke curling through the air. Weed still hung heavy too, laced into the curtain edges and seeping from the open ashtray like a second soul.

And his scent?

Creed, sweat, something leathered and deep that she’d recognize anywhere now. It didn’t just smell like him—it was him.

She didn’t turn around. Not yet.

Just stared at that king-sized bed with all four legs standing strong like she asked.

“Ain’t nothin’ under that frame buckled yet?” she said over her shoulder, voice low and thick. “Or you just waitin’ on me to break it in?”

Smoke didn’t answer with words.

Footsteps light, body heavier—he crossed the room like he wasn’t walking, like he was claiming something. Annie finally turned when she felt him behind her. They locked eyes—his lids low, lips parted, chest rising with the weight of his breath. The heat between them wasn’t casual anymore. It was alive. He stepped up. Slow. One hand slid around her throat—not tight, just resting. Claiming. His thumb dragged along the pulse in her neck, the other fingers curling softly under her jaw. Then he leaned in, talking just against her lips, the words barely more than breath.

“You still talkin’, but your pussy been quiet all night. What’s she got to say now?”

Annie’s knees damn near gave out.

She smirked, heart thudding, “She sayin’ she hungry. And impatient.”

He pressed into her then—his whole body heat and weight, heavy against her belly. She could feel it. Him. Hard. Thick. Big enough to make her think twice.

But she didn’t back up.

Didn’t even blink.

“You gon’ feed her?” she whispered, “Or just stand there lettin’ that dick throb on me all night?”

Smoke’s lips brushed hers, and he smiled—dark and mean.

“I’ma feed her.”

They undressed each other like it was a ritual.

Smoke pulled the zipper of her romper down slow—hands rough but careful. That denim peeled off like second skin, catching on her hips, falling to the floor heavy. Her shoes were next—he knelt for those. One at a time. Hands on her calves, then her thighs. His fingers brushed the inside, knuckles grazing wet heat beneath.

She was bare underneath.

“Goddamn…” he muttered, voice caught in the back of his throat, “You came over here with no drawers on?”

Annie laughed, soft and slick, “I don’t like fabric gettin’ in my way.”

Smoke stood there—bare-chested, broad and sculpted from real work. Gym. Life. His chest was wide, dusted in hair. A gold chain rested in the dip of his collarbones. His stomach? Firm but soft in the right places. Thick arms. Veins crawling along his forearms like rope. Tattoos kissed his shoulders and trailed down his ribs—dark, faded, lived-in. A scar near his waist that looked like it had a story he never told.

Then she dropped his sweatshorts. He stepped out of them, and the bulge in his briefs made her pause. A second of silence stretched before she tugged those down too.

And then—

“Oh,” Annie breathed, eyes dragging down slow.

That dick was thick. Heavy. Long. Brown with a deep, flushed head. It hung proud, curved just enough to stroke something devastating. Veins along the sides. The kind of dick that didn’t just fuck you—it shifted your spirit.

He caught her staring.

“What?” he whispered, stepping closer. “Scared now?”

“Nah,” she said, licking her lips, “Just tryin’ to decide if I need both hands or my whole mouth first.”

Smoke’s eyes dropped.

She was standing there in nothing but jewelry—nose ring catching the light, earrings glinting, tattoo above her breast shining faint in the glow. Her thighs thick, a tattoo inked into one side. Her foot tattoo curled along the arch like something sacred. Her pussy glistened in the candlelight—lips full and flushed, already wet. Tits high and heavy, nipples dark and tight.

He took his time looking.

“Damn,” he said finally, “You been hidin’ all this?”

“Mm,” she teased, biting her lip, “You finally brought that dick out. You gon’ use it or waste time?”

He stepped even closer—chest to chest, cock brushing her belly.

“I’ma lay you down,” he said, voice low, thick with hunger, “and fuck you slow. Make you feel every damn inch. But not ‘til I taste what I been dreamin’ about.”

“And what’s that?”

He dropped his hand down between them, middle finger stroking her slit slow. Wet noises filled the space like music.

“This sweet,” he whispered, “This drippin’, fat, pretty pussy you try so hard to act like ain’t beggin’ for me.”

She gasped, breath stuttering, but she didn’t step back. Didn’t stop him.

Instead, she grinned.

“You talk a lotta shit, Smoke.”

He dipped his finger inside, slow and deep.

“And I back all that shit up, fuck you sayin’?”

Smoke didn’t waste time.

He dropped to his knees like it was ritual.

Like her pussy was church and he’d come to pray with his mouth.

“Put that leg up,” he said, voice already rough from hunger, “Let me see all that.”

Annie propped one foot up on the edge of the bed, spreading her thick thighs wide. She stood strong, barefoot now, jewelry glinting in the dim light, chest heaving. And that heat between her legs? Wet. Full. Ready. Smoke leaned in slow, eyes locked on hers like he was about to ruin something on purpose.

Then his face disappeared between her thighs.

Tongue out. Mouth open. Hands gripping the backs of her thighs like he owned ‘em. He dragged his tongue up the full length of her slit, slow, from the fat base of her lips to the swollen pearl at the top. Then back down. Then in.

And when he sucked?

Goddamn.

He moaned into her pussy like it was feeding him.

Annie gasped, her head falling back, hand flying into the back of his head—fingers gripping those soft, tight waves, “Mmm—fuuuck, Elijah…”

He was nasty with it.

Sucking. Slurping. Lips parting wide to wrap around her pussy like he was trying to swallow it whole. His nose bumped against her clit, then he’d drag his tongue back up to fuck her with it. Back and forth. Lick and slurp. No rhythm, just hunger.

And her pussy?

She was fat, swollen, lips dark and glossy—wet before he even touched her, but now? Creamy. Glazed. Dripping. The folds thick and plush, clit peeking out and pulsing, every part of her glistening with spit and slick and the heat rolling off her skin. When he pulled back just for a breath, strings of her arousal clung to his lips and chin—his beard slicked down with it.

“Damn,” he growled between licks, eyes glazed over, “This pussy couldn’t wait to sit on my tongue.”

Then he dove back in.

Annie moaned sharp, knees starting to buckle. “Shit—wait, hold on—”

Her leg gave out, but Smoke caught her, easing her down onto the edge of the bed. She spread wide without thinking—pussy open and leaking, legs draped over his shoulders now. He didn’t miss a beat. Dipped his face back in like he was starving.

“Yes, baby,” she gasped, stroking his head, her voice shaking, “That’s it. Eat this fuckin’ pussy.”

Her hips rolled. Grinding. Fucking his mouth.

“Don’t ever know how to shut up,” she groaned, hand in his waves, tugging, “But now look at you. All quiet with a mouth full of this cat.”

Smoke moaned like she was right. Didn’t argue.

He just ate.

Long strokes of tongue down her slit. Sucks to her clit that had her jumping. Kisses to her inner lips like he loved the taste. Her juices coated his chin, dripping down onto his chest. His tongue curled inside her, twisted, pulled back out, and licked up the mess.

His voice came through muffled, “Taste like you been waiting on this. Pussy so sweet I wanna bottle it.”

Annie shook, legs twitching, “You tryna make me cum quick,” she warned, breath ragged, big titties bouncing with every tremble.

Smoke just held her thighs tighter. Didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t give a fuck. He buried his face deeper—tongue fast now, lips sealed around her clit like he was about to drink her soul.

Annie cried out, hips rising, “Elijah—!”

Still no mercy. He just moaned louder. Sucked harder. And then she came. A cry ripped from Annie’s throat—deep, raw, filthy. Her thighs clamped around Smoke’s head, body jerking as the orgasm slammed through her like a wave breaking hot against the shore.

“Shiiit—fuck—*Elijah—!”

He didn’t let up. Just kept his tongue pressed firm to her clit, licking through it, into it, like he needed to feel every tremor from the inside out. Her pussy pulsed, twitching around nothing, creamy and full. Then—

A small burst.

Wet warmth splashed against his chin. She squirted—not a flood, but enough to slick his lips, enough to make her gasp and shake and slap a hand over her mouth as her hips bucked again. Smoke moaned into it like it was gold. When she finally caught her breath, her eyes opened slow. She looked down at him. Face glossy. Beard soaked. Lips glistening. Chest rising fast like he came from it too. He looked up at her like he was drunk off her. Annie’s eyes burned—dark, wide, greedy.

“Get on your fuckin’ back,” she whispered, voice thick as syrup, “so I can drag this pussy across your nose like a fuckin’ snail.”

Smoke grinned. Still breathless. Still high. He licked his lips, tasting her again. Then he chuckled, low and slow, that devilish smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“You wanna fuck my face?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, chain swinging as he walked to the bed. He laid back in the center—legs spread, arms relaxed at his sides, dick standing tall.

Thick. Veined. Dark and flushed with pre-cum already beading at the tip, gleaming in the candlelight. His balls hung heavy, tight to the base. That dick twitched when she looked at it. Angry. Alive. Annie climbed up the bed like she was stalking prey. And then she turned around. Thick thighs straddling his face, reverse. Her ass high, pussy open, and glistening.

“Feed me again,” he said, voice muffled against her skin, “C’mon, baby.”

Annie lowered slow and dragged her pussy across his face.

Just like she said.

Long, slow grind across his nose, her clit bumping the ridge, her lips parting wide against his mouth. He kissed her pussy with wet, open-mouthed heat—tongue flicking, flat strokes, then curling up inside her like he was trying to taste her soul. She rode his face like she meant it. Ass bouncing in his face, pussy spreading wide with every rock of her hips. From her angle, she could see him—that dick standing straight up, leaking. His abs flexed. His fists clenched. He groaned into her like he was trying not to nut from it.

“Mmm,” she moaned, grinding down harder, “You love this nasty shit, don’t you?”

He nodded under her, tongue stiffening.

“You gon’ let me ride your fuckin’ face ‘til I melt on it,” she panted, reaching down to stroke his waves, “Make you drown in this pussy.”

And he took it.

Every filthy grind. Every sweet drag. Every drop. And his dick? It just kept twitching, standing proud, veins pulsing like it wanted to be next. Annie’s body was lava now—sweat slipping between her breasts, her thighs slick with his spit and her cream, her back hot beneath the weight of the room’s heat and his mouth. Still riding his face, she shuddered, thighs trembling around Smoke’s head, her pussy pulsing like it had its own heart. Then she leaned forward—slow, deliberate—her back arching into a deep, dirty curve. Her ass lifted high, thighs spread wide, her pussy on full display. She stayed there, breathless, spread, leaking, waiting.

“Go on then,” she said, twisting to look back at him, “You gon’ stare at it or feed again?”

Smoke didn’t speak.

Didn’t even smirk.

He rose—sat up behind her—and wrapped both hands around her hips. Big, strong hands. The kind that could hold her still if she tried to run. Then he leaned in and spread her open—slow, like unveiling a meal.

He devoured her.

Tongue flat and heavy, licking up the entire mess she’d made. Long, deep strokes from the bottom of her folds to the top, nose buried in her, beard soaking. Then he sucked her clit into his mouth like he was pulling flavor from bone. Slurping. Moaning. Grunting.

“Shit, Elijah!” Annie gasped, arms buckling. Her head dropped, locs falling around her face.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Didn’t give a single fuck about her legs shaking, or the way her hips jumped every time his tongue slipped between her lips and into her hole.

“Damn, you eatin’ like you starved,” she moaned, voice breaking into a little laugh, too wrecked to keep her shit together.

Smoke grunted in response, deep and filthy, his hands spreading her cheeks wider.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she panted, rocking back into his face, “Tear this fuckin’ pussy up. Suck it like it’s yours.”

He did.

He meant it.

And her pussy? It was soaked. Fat lips parted wide. Creamy, wet, twitching under every lash of his tongue. Her clit was swollen, standing up for attention. That wet sheen coated every inch of her folds, dripping down to her thighs. Her whole center was a mess of sound and slick and scent—sweet, hot, addictive. And when she reached down? When she grabbed that dick? Smoke groaned straight into her pussy. He was hard—heavy. Her fingers wrapped around the base, and she felt him jump in her palm. Veins thick. Pre-cum leaking. She stroked him slow, twisting her wrist on every upstroke.

“You just back there eatin’ and leakin’, huh?” she teased, her voice dark with filth, “Pussy got you moanin’ like a lil bitch.”

SMACK. His hand came down on her ass, loud and sharp.

Annie jerked, gasping.

“Ohh, so you like that?” she breathed, stroking him again.

SMACK. Another slap, this one followed by a firm squeeze.

Smoke licked deeper, tongue flattening against her clit, then curling in slow circles while he moaned like she was feeding him pieces of heaven.

“Fuck,” she whispered, eyes rolling, stroking him harder now, “That dick feel like a fuckin’ weapon. You gon’ use it or keep makin’ love to this pussy with your tongue?”

Smoke pulled back, just enough to answer, “I’m gon’ do both.”

Smoke’s mouth never left her. His head moved like it had its own rhythm—mouth opening, lips sealing, tongue flicking, drawing her in again and again. Each pull sent a shudder up Annie’s spine. He was alternating—long, slow drags of his tongue, then sudden, hungry sucks that made her hips jolt. She gripped the headboard and tried to breathe. Couldn’t. Her voice cracked every time she tried to talk.

“Eat it…eat it…eat it…fuuuckkkkkk….” she whispered, almost a chant now.

Her body trembled. Not just her thighs, but deep inside where every nerve felt lit. Her skin tingled under his hands. The bass from the speaker seemed to vibrate through the bed and into her. Sweat slid down her back. Her heartbeat was everywhere—in her ears, between her legs, in the tips of her fingers. He moaned against her, the vibration shooting up into her stomach. He wasn’t just licking her—he was drawing sounds out of her she didn’t know she could make. The room blurred around the edges. She could feel herself swelling, climbing, right at that point where she knew she was about to spill again. Her legs tried to close but his hands held her open. Her head dropped, locs falling into her face. She bit her lip.

“Oh my God—” her voice cracked into a sob of pleasure, “—how you doin’ this…”

Every suck tugged at something deep inside. Every slow lick made her belly roll with tension. She wasn’t just wet; she felt molten. Her mind flickered between floating and falling, between wanting to hold on and wanting to let go. She clutched his head, fingers in his hair, not pushing him away but holding him there, hips rolling without permission. Another wave crested. The pressure built, sharp and sweet and dizzying.

“I’m—oh God, I’m about to—”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t ease up. He kept that rhythm—lick, suck, pull—like he was trying to drink her down to the last drop.

Smoke’s mouth was relentless—wet, greedy, worshipful. He sucked her clit into the heat of his mouth like it was something he could survive on. Tugged on it with a hunger that had her gasping, her eyes rolling, her body lurching forward like she might crawl into him just to make it stop—or never stop.

“Eat it,” she moaned, the words rasping out of her like air pushed through cracked glass. “Eat it…eat it—”

Her voice broke again.

God, she was soaked.

Her pussy clenched, needy, fluttering. She could feel how sloppy it was on his tongue—how he licked through the folds and then sucked one in like he was trying to memorize the taste. He kept alternating, like he knew exactly what would keep her climbing. Not too hard, not too soft. Just the kind of sucking that curled heat up her spine and made her want to scream. He grunted into her, his fingers digging into the flesh of her ass like he couldn’t hold her close enough. Like he needed her to smother him. His nose slid against her, and the warmth of his breath on her folds only made everything wetter, messier, more raw. Annie’s hands gripped his curls tight, yanking and tugging as her hips rolled without control. She couldn’t help it. Her legs were shaking now. She was cussing—quiet at first, then louder.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck, Smoke…”

The sounds coming from her were guttural. Her belly trembled, coiled tight. Every lick, every suck, every slurp pulled her deeper into the place she only got to with him. Her skin was burning. Her chest rising so fast she couldn’t catch her breath. Her nipples scraped the air, so hard they hurt. Her toes curled in the sheets. Her whole body went taut. She could feel it coming, the way thunder rolls before lightning hits. That sweet ache behind her clit. Her pussy slick and contracting, as if it were pleading for something more. Her whole body was screaming toward release, and yet he wasn’t rushing it. He was savoring her. Letting her teeter on the edge.

“Don’t stop,” she begged, “Don’t you fucking stop.”

But he didn’t even flinch.

He just buried his face deeper. Groaned into her. Sent the vibrations of it through her.

And that was it.

Her whole body seized—hips jolting forward, a sharp cry breaking from her lips. Her mouth opened in a silent O before the sound came. A long, ragged moan that tore straight from her belly. Her eyes rolled back. Her thighs squeezed, almost suffocating him—but he didn’t care. He wanted to drown in her. Annie came hard—messy, shaking, her pussy pulsing around nothing, wishing it was around him. And still, Smoke licked her through it. Gentle now. Soothing. Like a man proud of what he’d done. Her breath hitched as she collapsed forward. Hands trembling. Legs gone. Body wrecked.

And his mouth was still on her.

Still loving.

Still licking.

Like he wasn’t finished.

Smoke licked her clean one last time, like the last bite of something sweet he hadn’t had in years, then slid from beneath her with a grunt and a smack of his lips. Annie stayed where she was, dazed—body slumped forward, arms shaking, skin slick with heat and climax. Her eyes fluttered as she felt the mattress shift. Heard his chain jingle low across his chest. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air—salt, sweat, her honey on his mouth.

Then came his voice. That voice.

Rough. Drawling. Deep.

“Look at you,” he spoke, chest rising and falling, “Can’t even sit up straight. Pussy done melted all the strength out your bones.”

She blinked slow, trying to catch her breath. But he was already crouched in front of her again—tall, brown, drenched in heat. The sight of him made her moan low, involuntarily.

He chuckled, “Don’t get quiet now.”

His dick was hard. Fat, veined, dark and dripping with his own need. He stroked it once, the head swelling with anticipation.

“You gone sit there all pretty with my cum face between your cheeks…or you gone get up and suck this daddy dick?”

Annie’s eyes flicked up, she turned and there it was.

That grin. That chain. That weight in his gaze.

And her answer?

A breathless smirk. No hesitation.

She moved like she was starved for it—mouth open, lips shining from her own wetness. Smoke stood tall, watching her every move, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. His hand slid into her locs, fingers weaving through them slow, possessive, before gripping the back of her head with a low groan.

“That’s it,” he muttered, voice breaking into gravel, “C’mere. Open that filthy mouth for me.”

And she did.

She opened wide, tongue flat, eyes up—and he fed it to her. That big, juicy, fat, dick. Heavy on her tongue. The head pushed deep, then deeper, sliding over the back of her throat.

Glk—glk—glk.

Her lips stretched wide around the shaft, drool leaking from the corners almost instantly. He pulled back and thrust again, gentle at first…then mean. Like he needed to hear it choke her.

“Suck that dick,” he growled, eyes dropping to the mess on her mouth, “Yeah, that’s right. Nasty fuckin’ girl.”

Her hands clutched his thighs for balance as he started to fuck her face slow. His hips rolling. His stomach tightening.

He looked wrecked.

Sweat gleaming on his chest, chain swinging with every grind of his hips. Jaw clenched. That beautiful, angry expression like he was holding back the beast in him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, tipping his head back, “Look at you takin’ it like a good lil slut…”

His hand tightened in her locs as he started rocking into her harder. Sloppier. Her cheeks hollowed around him, throat flexing, moans vibrating around his dick. Spit was everywhere. Glossing her lips, dripping down his shaft, making a slurping sound that filled the room. Her eyes were glossy. Nose running. She looked ruined. And Smoke? He loved it. He stared down at her like he could’ve kept her there forever.

“Goddamn, Annie,” he breathed, lips curling in lust, “You love this dick in your mouth, don’t you?”

She moaned her answer around him. Eyes rolling up. Fingers digging into the backs of his thighs.

He hissed through his teeth.

Then whispered, “Fuckin’ beautiful…”

Annie let his dick slide from her lips with a filthy pop, strings of spit still connecting them. She looked up at him with glazed eyes and a nasty smirk, then dragged the back of her hand across her mouth.

“Mm,” she moaned, tongue tracing her bottom lip, “This dick so fuckin’ pretty. So big, baby. You wanna see me ruin it?”

Smoke grunted, chest rising fast.

“Do it,” he growled, voice cracking, “Fuckin’ do it.”

She wrapped both hands around the base—tight. Fingers twisting in opposite directions. She pumped slow, then fast, then spit into the mess and swallowed him down deep again. Her lips worked with skill and filth, mouth hot and soaked, hands still stroking what her throat couldn’t take. She moaned around him on purpose. Loud. Vibrating his whole dick.

“Shiiit—” Smoke’s hips jerked. His head fell back, and he damn near choked on his own breath, “Fuccckkk—”

His abs flexed. That chain slid between his pecs, damp with sweat. His eyes fluttered, then snapped back down to her with hunger.

Annie didn’t stop.

She kept the rhythm nasty. One hand twisting, the other stroking his wet, heavy sack. Her mouth popped off with a gasp just to say, “You want me to milk it, daddy? You want me to make that nut crawl up your spine?”

Smoke growled, “Fuckin’ hell…”

He looked destroyed—brows tight, jaw clenched, lips wet from licking them raw. His voice was low, cracked, almost desperate.

“Shit…shit. Gimme that fuckin’ mouth.”

She gave it. Hard. Fast. No mercy. He could barely take it. His thighs were twitching, his stomach jumping. One more second and he would’ve exploded down her throat.

But then—

He snatched himself from her lips.

She gasped.

And before she could even ask, he had her by the arm, dragging her up like she weighed nothing. His other hand grabbed her neck—gentle but firm—turning her around. He bent her forward at the edge of the bed.

“Face down,” he hissed, “Ass up. Don’t move.”

Her elbows hit the sheets. Her back arched. Her ass perched pretty and wet and soaked from earlier. And before she could moan his name—

SLAP.

Smoke thrust into her. Deep. Heavy. Possessive.

Her scream cracked.

“Oh fuuuuckk—”

His hands gripped her shoulders like reins, dragging her back onto him, each stroke knocking the breath from her lungs.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound of skin meeting skin was loud and wet. Her body jerked with every thrust.

“You hear that?” he grunted, “That’s my dick tearin’ this pussy up.”

“Yesss,” she cried out, face buried in the bed, “Tear it up, daddy. Take this fuckin’ pussy. It’s yours—yours.”

Smoke lost it.

“Stay yo ass still.” His voice was all grit and filth, “Takin’ this fuckin’ pussy. Done held off long enough this shit mine.”

His hand came down hard on her ass. The jiggle made him groan. He spread her open, stared at the way she gripped him.

“You feel that? That grip?” His voice dropped to a snarl, “Pussy holdin’ on like it don’t want me to stop bussin’ her wide open.”

Annie clawed the sheets, sobbing through pleasure.

“Who pussy? Say it,” Smoke whacked her on the ass with a wide relentless attack, “Say. It.”

“It’s yours,” she whimpered, “Fuck— Daddy, this pussy yours. Been yours.”

Smoke leaned in, chest pressed to her back. His breath was hot on her neck.

“Say it louder,” he growled, “Say it while I’m in it.”

“This pussy yours, Smoke! Yours—fuck—yours!”

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The bed was creaking.

Her thighs were shaking.

He was deep. So deep.

Digging into her like he was trying to fuck the truth out of her. Smoke was buried to the hilt, hands locked tight on Annie’s waist like he dared her to run.

But she wasn’t going nowhere.

She was right there for it—back arched, face in the sheets, ass bouncing back to meet every brutal stroke.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Her voice came out ragged, high and breathless.

“Shit—! You so fuckin’ big, Smoke. Damn. You know you big, don’t you?”

Smoke snarled behind her, that deep grunt rising from his chest like a beast, “Yeah? That right?”

He grabbed a fistful of her locs and yanked her head back gently, making her arch deeper, feel every inch of him.

“That dick hittin’ all up in there, huh?” he growled.

She moaned, helpless, “Yes—fuck, yes. I can feel it in my stomach…”

That made his strokes rougher. Deeper. Slower.

He watched the way she creamed around him—white and wet, coating his length every time he pulled back. That wet sound got louder, sloppier. Her body kept twitching. Kept clenching. Kept dripping.

Splish, clap, slap.

He grunted again—low and ragged.

Voice thick like syrup and full of need.

“I been waitin’ on this pussy,” he hissed, “Fuck. You hear me?”

She whimpered.

“I been waitin’,” he growled again, fucking her harder now. Each thrust like punctuation, “To feel this tight little pussy…wrapped around me…like that.”

Annie sobbed. It was too much. Too good.

Her hand reached back blindly, palm finding his thigh. She tried to steady herself, but her body just kept jolting, clapping under him, her cheeks bouncing from every heavy stroke.

“Been thinkin’ about it,” Smoke kept going. His voice was right in her ear now. Hot. Possessive. Mean, “What it feel like…how warm you’d be. How messy. How fuckin’ good this shit must be when you cum on it.”

He reached around and slapped her pussy, fingers slick with her cream. Annie yelped—body shivering.

“You hear this shit?” he barked.

Smack. Slap. Smack.

“That’s you. Creamin’ on daddy’s dick. Bein’ bad.”

Annie cried out, “I can’t stop! You fuckin’ me too good—!”

He laughed once. Low. Dangerous. Then slammed into her deep.

“You better not stop. You better keep fuckin’ cummin’ on this dick.”

And she did.

Her moans turned to pleading—half sob, half surrender.

“Please—oh my God—Smoke, I’m—”

“Let that shit go,” he growled, “Let that pussy go. Give it here. C’mere.”

He started fucking her harder—long strokes, fast slaps, both hands locked on her waist now. No escape. No mercy. Just deep, devastating dick pounding her open until she screamed again.

Came hard. AGAIN.

Annie collapsed forward, body trembling, face flushed and lips parted. Her thighs were soaked. Her pussy twitched with aftershocks, still fluttering from the brutal climax he’d just ripped from her. Smoke pulled out slow, dick gleaming—slick with her cream—and the moment he did, Annie dropped to her knees like her bones were gone. She turned, dazed and dripping, eyes locked on his dick like it was something holy. And with no hesitation—none—she took him back into her mouth.

Slurp.

Smoke’s whole body jerked.

“Goddamn,” he hissed through his teeth. “Look atchu…”

She sucked him clean. Slow. Worshipful. Tongue circling the tip, lips sliding over every inch. She moaned around him, tasting herself on his dick, licking up every drop like it was dessert. Both hands wrapped around his thighs. Her head bobbed with sweet rhythm, eyes fluttering as she let him fill her mouth again and again.

“Shit,” he muttered, hand sliding to the back of her head. His abs clenched. His chain swung slow, “That’s it. Get all that mess up. Clean that dick, girl.”

She pulled off with a pop, spit slicking her chin, breath hot.

“Still so hard,” she smirked, voice hoarse.

Smoke looked down at her—sweaty, swollen-lipped, glowing—and something snapped in him.

He reached down, hooked his arms beneath her thighs, and stood.

Just like that.

Lifted her off the floor like she was light as breath, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her arms gripping his shoulders.

“Oh—shit,” she gasped, clinging to him, “Wait—Smoke—fuck!”

But he wasn’t waiting.

He lined himself up, grunted once, and slammed back in.

SLAP.

Her head flew back. Toes curled in the air. Her whole body bounced with the force of it.

“OHHHHH!” she wailed, “Fuck— Smoke—oh my god—”

He held her with one arm under her ass, the other hand gripping her nape. He was fucking her standing up, balls-deep, using pure strength to lift and drop her onto his cock like he was built for this.

Her back hit the wall.

He used it for leverage.

“You feel that?” he growled into her ear, “That’s me fuckin’ the life outta you.”

“I can’t—!” she whimpered, voice breaking.

“Yes you can. Take that shit.”

He grunted with each thrust—deep, punishing strokes. Her pussy was soaked, pulsing, raw with pleasure. She was gasping now, toes curling, legs shaking around his waist.

“Look at me,” he ordered, face slick with sweat.

She tried.

His brow was furrowed, jaw clenched, teeth gritted. That chain pressed against her chest as he slammed into her over and over. He was sweating, groaning, fucking her with power. Purpose.

“You mine right now,” he breathed against her mouth. “This pussy—mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” she choked, “It’s yours.”

“Say it again.”

“This pussy yours, daddy—”

He kissed her hard. Messy. Tongue in her mouth. One final thrust deep—and he held it there.

Grunting. Growling. Cumming.

Hard.

His body jerked with it, muscles tensing, dick pulsing deep inside her while she sobbed his name.

It had been a couple weeks since Smoke first fucked the religion out of her. Since he’d lifted her off the floor like she weighed nothing and buried his dick so deep she swore she felt it behind her ribs. And Annie couldn’t lie—she hadn’t been right since. Not in her spirit. Not in her body. Not when she passed him on the street and her knees twinged from muscle memory. Not when she touched herself at night and still couldn’t come the way he made her. Not when she saw her reflection and had to admit—he put a glow on her. She didn’t chase him. Didn’t text or call. But she stayed ready. So when that phone rang and it was Smoke’s low voice on the other end saying:

“Yo. Got a faucet actin’ up. Might need your hands on it.”

…she already knew what it was.

She showed up twenty minutes later in overalls with nothing on underneath but a tank top and skin. Toolbelt slung on her hip. Locs pulled back in a loose wrap.

“Where’s the leak?” she asked, walking in like she didn’t feel the heat of his eyes all over her ass.

Smoke didn’t answer right away. Just stood there in a plain white tee, sweatpants low on his hips, chain glinting.

He pointed toward the bathroom sink.

“Might be the pipe under there. Water pressure actin’ funny.”

Annie crouched down, ignoring the ache building low in her belly. Bent over at the waist, working that wrench, trying to stay focused—but she knew what she looked like from behind. She knew how them overalls hugged. She could feel his stare.

Then came his voice.

“Why you wear that with nothin’ on under it?”

She paused, “It’s hot.”

He stepped closer. She could feel the air shift.

“You tryin’ to make me fuck you while you fix shit?”

She smirked, “I ain’t tryin’.”

Smoke grabbed her by the back of the overalls and yanked her up, the sound of the strap snapping free echoing off tile.

“You know what the fuck you do to me?”

She gasped as he turned her around and backed her into the sink. One strap fell off her shoulder. The other followed. Then his hand was down her front—fingers finding bare, soaked heat.

“Ain’t no fuckin’ drawers,” he muttered with a shake of his head, sliding two fingers between her folds, “You really showed up like this. Ready for this dick.”

“Wanted to see if the pipes needed fixin’,” she whispered with a grin.

He pulled those fingers out and shoved them into her mouth.

“Clean ‘em.”

She did. Moaning around them. Tongue swiping slow, eyes heavy.

Then?

Smoke dropped to his knees.

Pulled one side of the overalls down so her leg was free. Pushed her back against the counter. And started eating her pussy like a man who paid for the appointment in advance. And Annie? She never got around to fixing that faucet. It had happened more than once by now. He’d call. She’d come. No sweet talk. No flirty banter. Just some excuse—leaky sink, crooked shelf, loose doorknob.

She knew what it was.

So when Smoke called again on a slow Thursday evening, voice low and casual like always—

“Think the shower door off track. You still got that level?”

—Annie didn’t ask questions.

She pulled on some loose linen pants, no panties, just a ribbed tank with no bra, and stuffed a screwdriver in her bag for show. Hair tied up. Skin still warm from the shower. When she got there, Smoke barely looked at her. Just pointed toward the bathroom with a nod and went back to whatever he was doing.

She headed in.

Checked the glass door. It was fine.

She crouched anyway—pretending to adjust the lower track. Hips back. Legs spread for balance. One hand bracing against the tub as she worked the frame with her other. That’s when she heard him behind her. Didn’t feel him—heard him. The heavy footfalls. The breath in his nose. The pull of his sweatpants being dragged down. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak. Just stayed bent, waiting—because she already knew what came next. Smoke grabbed her hips with both hands. Gripped them like he owned ‘em. Like she was built to be held that way. Pulled those pants down slow. And without a word—

He slid in. Raw. Heavy. Deep.

“Mmmph—fuck!” she gasped, her hand slapping the wall.

Still, he didn’t say a thing. Just breathed. Just pushed deeper. Her pussy gripped him tight, wet as sin.

He leaned down, lips at her neck.

Voice a growl.