the blacker the berry

It wasn’t supposed to happen, that night hadn’t meant to end the way it did and yet it constantly replayed in his head. He had already grown too attached before she even stepped foot in his house. He’d stay up waiting for her FaceTime calls, always checked his phone to see if she texted him, stalked her socials for any new pictures she’d posted.

Elias was down bad and he knew it, then that night happened and now he was borderline obsessed.

His thoughts were filled with nothing but her.

Daisy had a hold on him and she didn’t even know it.

-

Stack had made sure to double and even triple check with Daisy, to make sure she was absolutely positive that he could post the video of the two of them.

She told him yes every time.

So he sat at his desktop and edited it. He stared at the thumbnail, her pretty face smiling shyly at him and a part of him almost didn’t want to post it, he felt possessive.

A deep sigh escapes his lips as he prepared to post a snippet on Twitter but then he stops, watches the clip, eyes wide with lust and jealousy.

The mouse hovered over the delete button, heart racing in a way that meant that he cared about this way too much, which meant the way he felt about her was deeper than he thought.

Stack groaned out loud, like it physically pained him to do it. He needed the content seeing as he hadn’t posted in weeks and Daisy was practically giving him the easy way out. No need to schedule a meet up with another creator, no need for contracts, no need for managers to get involved. Nothing.

“I’m doing too much.” He mumbled to himself before finally posting it.

-

The days that followed after that had been hectic, the video had gone viral. It was the most views Stack had ever gotten. Comments flooded his Twitter account every second of the day.

“Damn this was intense.”

“We need more videos with her.”

“Are you guys dating?”

“Yeah this is your best video yet.”

“Have kept this video on repeat.”

People speculated about the two and yet they both ignored it. He read the comments, people saying that they looked like they were in love.

Something about that bothered him, whether it was because it was true or because it wasn’t. He didn’t know.

Stack had tried to stay off the internet after that. He couldn’t deal with the assumptions because in all honesty, he didn’t know what this meant for the both of them.

It wasn’t like he was scared to ask, he was more scared of what’ll happen afterwards. Whether good or bad, a part of him didn’t feel like he was ready for it.

-

Daisy tried to return back to her normal life but she felt restless. She couldn’t stop thinking about Elias even if she tried. He showed up in her dreams and in places she thought were only reserved for her alone.

She had only known love in the form of family, pets and friends. Her past lovers hadn’t ever been able to pull that out of her despite how badly she wanted it. Daisy wanted nothing more than to be in love and to feel it in a romantic sense and yet, it never happened.

Daisy didn’t want to admit she liked Elias or maybe she didn’t want to admit that she liked him more than she thought she did. Her body craved to be around him, it missed him even when he was near and it was driving her insane.

They spent more time together, even without meaning to. He’d show up at her house unannounced with food and wine.

She’d show up in his vlogs and whenever he went live.

-

“Y’all Daisy making me watch this lame ass anime called Saiki” Stack chopped onions on the wooden cutting board, camera capturing his broad shoulders and right behind him, Daisy sitting on his kitchen island. It was a random Saturday, Stack dragged her out of her house and forced her to keep him company while he meal prepped for the week.

“It’s not lame! And you like it, clearly. You always talking about it.” She playfully rolled her eyes.

Stack turned his head to look at her, “yeah so that I can have a reason to keep talking to you.”

Daisy lowered her head, face turning a light pink. “Shut up.” She mumbled and Stack couldn’t help but laugh.

-

“Daisy, I’m not wearing that shit.” He glared at her as she held up the sexy Santa costume in her hand.

“Why not? I think they’d like to see you in it, no?”

Stack rolled his eyes and sucked his teeth. “If you wanna see me half naked, you could just ask mama.”

Daisy sucked in a breath. “Stack shut up.” She turned away from him and the camera, face hot from embarrassment.

He smirked in triumph before grabbing the costume. “Matter fact, yeah. I’m putting this on. Come on.”

Daisy’s eyes widened in fear. “Okay. No. It was a joke.”

“Nah I’m not playing. Come on.”

“I’m going home.”

“No you’re not.” Stack laughed, grabbing her arm and dragging her to the cash register. The sales clerk tried her hardest to keep a poker face as she rang up the silly costume, meanwhile Daisy was on the verge of passing out.

“You’re not seriously wearing that, right?” Daisy huffed as they both left the store.

“I am. Ima save it for a special occasion. You gon walk in and just see me in this.”

“Oh hell no. I’m never coming over again.” Stack cackled as he watched her walk ahead towards the car.

-

“Chat she’s forcing me to buy her shit.” Stack complained to the camera as they walked around the mall.

“Um no. You broke my favorite mug so you owe me.” Daisy shrugged.

A slick smirk sat on the corner of Stack’s mouth. “You right. I owe you.”

“Exactly” Daisy commented. He watched her smile for a little too long before turning his head back to the camera.

“She a little too happy to be spending my money.”

Daisy giggled and rolled her eyes. “You offered. I just simply complied… now let’s go get my nails done.” She wiggled her fingers in front of his face before walking ahead.

Stack chuckled, amused and enamored with how much more confident she was around him and the camera. His continence constantly tempted with every slick comment she threw at him.

Back at his house, Stack had the camera propped up while he prepped to make dinner. His eyes skimmed the comments, everybody asking about Daisy and her fresh set.

“Daisy, come here mama. They wanna see what you got.” He called out to her. She popped up at his side with her cheeks tinted a light pink. Still not used to him calling her that randomly.

“Um okay.” She giggled shyly as Stack angled the camera towards her hands that showed her acrylic nails painted a soft pink with white polka dots.

“Show em ya toes.” He mumbled. His body too close to hers.

Daisy sat on the kitchen counter while Stack grabbed his camera and pointed them at her feet. “They match my nails.” She squealed.

Stack smiled before grabbing her foot. He placed a kiss on top of it before turning his head back to the camera. “They cute right?”

“Staaackkkk” Daisy whined, trying to remove her foot from his grip but he was too strong. He just laughed while her face burned in embarrassment.

“What? You gon act brand new like I don’t be kissing ya feet?”

The chat had erupted, everybody wondering when the two were finally going to admit that they were dating.

“Shut up.” Daisy mumbled and Stack shook his head.

-

By the start of the week the news was already announcing the huge snow storm that was set to hit Chicago starting Friday. Schools were already canceling classes and jobs were sending out memos to let everyone know they’ll be working remote.

Daisy had barely payed attention to the warnings that were constantly being sent to her phone. Her mom reminding her to get groceries, her best friend telling her to close her windows, her co workers all texting in the group chat about the amount of money they’ve spent on toiletries and other necessities.

All of it flew right past her head, as her mind was wrapped up on one thing only. Elias Moore.

That’s why when he showed up at her door, face serious in a way she’s never seen before, and told her to pack a bag and go with him, she did so absentmindedly.

Daisy wasn’t a stranger to Stack’s weird shenanigans, sometimes he’d hold her hostage and make her go with him on a five hour drive just for some donuts he was craving. Other times, he’d lie and say he was sick and needed her to take care of him just so she’d go over his house and stay the night. He’d wrap his arms around her tightly, even in his sleep. It was nights like that, that had Daisy wondering what exactly they were doing. This was past a friendship and yet the two hadn’t kissed or touched since that day.

Daisy sat in his passenger seat, confused but quiet. Stack noticed her energy but said nothing. He’d already made up his mind on how the evening was going to go and so with that, he drove in silence. Soft r&b played throughout his car speakers but the tension in the car couldn’t be soothed.

Stack remained equanimous the whole ride. They drove past the city, past his apartment and everything that looked like civilization. The sun cleared a path for them to follow, warming up the roads one last time before the storm eventually came through.

“You good?” It was the first words he’d say to her in the last two hours.

“Um yea.” She answered, her voice small and unconvincing. “Where are we going?”

Stack smirked slightly, stealing a quick look before focusing back on the road. “You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”

She nodded her head, choosing to drop the subject because she knew Stack wouldn’t cave if she persisted for answers.

By the time they arrived, Daisy had fell asleep and woke up to the sound of gravel under the wheels. They were in the middle of the woods, her eyes drifted to a huge cabin that sat next to a small guest house.

“Uh… Elias? What are we doing here?” She got out of the car slowly, watching as he made his way to the trunk to pull out their bags.

“I told you. It’s a surprise.” He had a small smile sitting on his lips as he walked to the guest house, motioning for her to follow.

The sun had already set and her stomach growled as they took a tour of the place.

“Hungry?” Stack asked her.

“Yeah. Anything to eat in here?”

They made their way to the kitchen. The fridge was already stocked with snacks and fruits.

“Grab something from here then head upstairs to your room to get ready. I’ll be making dinner in the cabin.”

Daisy’s eyes widened in confusion. “What are you talking about? Get ready for what?”

“You’ll see. I left you some clothes upstairs to change into. Meet me in the cabin when you’re done.” He leaned down, kissed her forehead and then walked outside, leaving her with even more questions than she already had.

The room was comfortable, soft white walls and fresh sheets. On the bed sat two large boxes that she immediately recognized.

“What the fuck?” She whispered to herself as she opened the first black box. There sat a silk, dark red, long sleeve dress. The front had a low cut, designed to show off your chest with a small Versace clip right in the middle.

She scoffed in disbelief.

Daisy had been obsessing over this dress for weeks. So much so that she kept trying to justify the ridiculous price. Stack had told her to just pull the trigger, buy herself something she truly wanted for once but Daisy kept going back and forth it until one day it was sold out.

She anxiously typed her email to join the waitlist for the restock, frustrated with herself for not getting it sooner. Eventually she let it go, decided it wasn’t meant to be.

But Stack seemed to know Daisy more than she knew herself and so while he still was trying to convince her to buy the dress, he had already went and purchased it.

Daisy grabbed her toiletries bag, the smile she held on her face refused to go away even while she freshened up. The butterflies in her stomach wouldn’t settle while she tried to convince herself that this was nothing more than another one of Stacks stupid videos or silly little prank.

But it definitely didn’t feel like that. This felt different.

She did her makeup to the sounds of D’Angelo, trying to calm her nerves that were practically eating her alive.

Daisy held the dress in her hands, shaking her head slightly at the audacity of that man before stepping into it, and then sliding on the heels that he also bought to match. Her hair was already done, soft curls surrounding her head, freshly dyed a honey blonde.

Her hands shook and her steps slightly faltered as she walked down the stairs. It had been close to two hours since she last heard anything from Stack and so with a deep breath, she stepped outside and quickly walked to the main cabin.

The snow had already started falling, creating a thick layer of white on the ground, but Daisy’s focus was far from that.

She opened the door and immediately was engulfed by the smell of food. The cabin was warm, filled with light green walls and mahogany wood.

On the floor were rose pedals that she followed to the living room. On the TV played reruns of pictures that the two of them had taken, one in particular being the morning they woke up after that night. Daisy smiled, her eyes roaming around the room that had multiple bouquets of her favorite flower. Lillies.

“Oh my God” she whispered, leaning down to smell them. “Elias!”

She called out to him, following the red path that led to the dining room. Stack stood by the table, small smile sitting on his lips. Two plates full of vodka pasta and a glass of red wine awaited her.

“You look… gorgeous.” His eyes trailed her from the top of her head down to the tip of her toes. “Wow.” He breathed out. “Um…I ain’t know what to make you. I bought a bunch of groceries and then panicked when it came down to figuring something out.” His eyes nervously darted between the food and her.

Daisy’s face was flushed, biting her lip to keep her smile from spreading. “You’re lucky you’re a good cook. I’ll let it slide.”

Stack shook his head with a slight chuckle. He walked over to her side and slid the chair back for her before returning back to his seat.

Daisy’s fingers slightly shook and her breathing kept skipping. She didn’t know what to say or do and so she sat in the silence, waiting for Stack to lead.

“I um— I wanted to take you to a fancy restaurant, properly wine and dine you but the snow storm ruined everything and to be honest… I just couldn’t wait another day.”

“Couldn’t wait another day for what?” Daisy’s eyebrows furrowed. She tried to look normal, play it off as if she was prepared for whatever was happening but Stack saw right through her.

“We should eat first. Don’t want the food to get cold.” He smiled like he was hiding secrets behind it. Daisy just simply nodded before picking up her fork and digging in.

They made small talk, about the weather, her job and his new camera that he just bought. She scolded him for buying the dress, he rolled his eyes and pretended like he actually took her threats seriously.

By the time the pasta was done and they were three cups of wine in, the air in the dining room suddenly became suffocating. The tension eased itself into their space, tightening at even the slightest change of breath from either of them. Stack stared at her with the weight of a thousand unsaid words and a shiver ran down her spine while she tried to maintain eye contact.

“Elias… w-what is this all about?” She chewed on her bottom lip, picking at the bit of skin she felt.

He cleared his throat and then stood up. Stack began grabbing the dirty dishes and placing them in the dishwasher, letting her question hang on for longer than she could handle. He poured them one more glass of wine though he already felt slightly light headed and a bit tipsy but his mind was clear. He knew what he was doing.

Stack walked over to Daisy’s side of the table and extended his hand. He felt her hands trembling as she placed it on top of his.

“Cold?”

“No” she mumbled, embarrassed at how nervous she was.

He rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. “You’re okay, you know that right? You’re safe with me. Always.”

Daisy nodded, not trusting her mouth to produce a correct sentence.

Stack took a sip of his drink before setting it down and grabbing her other hand. They were close enough to where she could see the way his eyebrow slightly twitched and he could see her pulse thumping from her neck.

“Elias.” She whispered, not being able to take the suspense.

“For the past few weeks I’ve been going fucking crazy tryna figure out a way to tell you how I feel. Shit. I even asked my brother what I should do and I rarely listen to that nigga.” He chuckled slightly. “I ain’t realize how scared I was to say how I feel about you, out loud, up until this moment right now.”

“I ain’t realize that me going crazy to plan this perfect moment with you was a sign of how nervous I was - am.”

Their eyes locked. Stack took a deep breath, steadying himself like his brother taught him too. He still held her hands, a bit tighter now.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush because I’ve never done that with you… Daisy I’m in love with you and I have been for a while.”

Daisy stood frozen in a state of disbelief.

“I can’t get you out my head no matter how much I try. Not that I’m even trying to anyways.” Stack pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. “It’s like an obsession that I have with you and I’m tired of running from it. Tired of acting like this ain’t something special. Like you don’t mean more to me than you already know… I want you. Wholeheartedly. I want it all. You hearing me Daisy?”

“Y—yes” She managed to whisper. “I— I’m in love with you too, Elias.”

-

The snow outside had gotten more aggressive. It packed on, building thick inches of white on the ground. The news officially sent out warnings for everybody to stay inside and to remain warm.

Daisy tightened her arms around Stacks neck, back arching off of the bed as beads of sweat rolled down the smooth of her skin.

“Say it. Let me hear you say it again.” Stack thrusted slowly into her tight walls, making sure he was balls deep before pulling out and doing it again.

Daisy’s legs shook as she whimpered into his ear. “I love you, Elias. I love you.”

He groaned in response, hips now moving a bit faster just so he could watch her tremble under him. His thumb drew circles around her clit, making her cream around his dick.

“Oh my—fuck.” She moaned, turning her head to the side and biting her lip. The pleasure was too much to handle.

“Nah. Don’t hide from me. Let me see you. Keep your eyes on me mama.” He grabbed her jaw, turning her head to face him. Her eyes were watery and wide, full of lust and adoration. “Mhmm just like. Good girl baby.”

His thrusts picked up speed while this thumb remained at a steady pace. “Look at how good you’re taking me.” Stack leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers before their lips met in a soft kiss that didn’t match the way he was fucking her. “So fucking perfect.”

“E—Elias. I’m gonna … cum. Fuck!” Daisy’s eyes rolled to the back of her head as she let out a scream. Her squirt drenched Stack but he kept going.

“I want another one. You gon give it to me? You gon make daddy proud?”

Daisy nodded, completely dazed and covered in goosebumps.

“Nah I wanna hear you. Let me hear that voice I love so much baby.” He leaned back but remained close enough to keep kissing her. Thumb still playing with her button while his hips continued moving. “Talk to me. Come on, you can do it.”

“Yesssssssss. Yesss daddy.” Daisy sobbed. Her body shook, already overstimulated but Stack was nowhere near done.

She came again before her body could even process what was going on. She twisted away from Stack but he held her in place, still giving her the same deep strokes that had her seeing stars.

Daisy cried, finger nails leaving fresh scratches on his back. “I can’t. I can’t Elias. I can’t.” She tried to run but Stack wouldn’t allow it.

“Yes you can. You not giving up on me right baby?” His dick still slid in and out of her stretched hole, his thumb still moving on her clit. “Show daddy how messy you can get.”

Daisy’s mouth hung open in a silent scream, clear liquid painting Stack until he was practically covered in it.

She panted under him, hands still gripping his back while her body tried to settle down. Stack placed kisses around her face and down the sweaty crevices of her neck. He made his way to her perked nipples, placing one his mouth while his hands soothed past the smooth of her skin.

“Elias.” Daisy whispered. “Baby.”

He hummed, looking up at her eyes that were already drooping from exhaustion. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Stack laid sideways, pulling her to his chest and bringing her leg to sit on top of his waist. She wrapped her arms around his neck, whimpering at the feel of his dick rubbing against her swollen folds.

Stack’s eyes remained connected to hers as he slowly slid inside of her abyss that was still so wet and warm.

They moaned into each other’s mouths, their eyes connected while he sensually thrusted into her. Stack held the back of her head, keeping her face close to his.

“You feel so fucking good.” He groaned, gripping her hair to keep him from falling over the edge.

Daisy’s eyes kept rolling back every time he was fully inside of her. His dick kissed her g spot with every move he made, making her legs twitch continuously. “Shiiiiiit” she sobbed, tears streaming down her reddened cheeks.

“What’s my name? Hm?” Stack grabbed her face, bringing them closer together.

“Daddyyyyyyy”

“Mhmm say it again. Louder.” His pace never changed and Daisy’s body shook with the need to cum again.

“Daddy, daddy fuck please!”

He leaned in and kissed her. “You’re mine Daisy, you listening to me? Ima make you cum till you can’t even do so much as look at another nigga.”

Her jaw dropped, breaths coming out in short gasps.

“So fucking perfect. I can’t get enough.” Stack groaned, moving faster as he felt the build up. “You stuck with me, you know that? I ain’t letting you go.”

“Yesssss, yess I know baby. Fuck! I—I love you. I’m all yours.”

Stack whimpered at the sound of her voice breaking. She couldn’t stop crying, body arched and shaking from being overstimulated.

“Cum in me please. I’m all yours. All yours please.” Daisy begged, as her body finally snapped.

“All mine. All fucking mine. Take all this nut baby. Good girl” Stack gripped her hips as he emptied himself inside of her. His face was buried in her neck, moaning her name over and over again.

Daisy came right after, her juices flowing out of her like a faucet. She cried out his name. Her hands grabbed onto his chest in hopes to bring herself back down to earth

They stayed glued together, Stack still inside of her and Daisy still twitching. He rubbed her back, enjoying the feel of her warm skin touching him.

He placed a barely there kiss to her shoulder. “I love you.” He whispered.

Daisy smiled, all 32 shining in the dark room. “I love you too.”

-

Tag list

Nasty College Erik

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Crazy Erik Series

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Office Bae Erik Series

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Rapper Erik Series

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Daddy Dom Erik and His Princess

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Sugar Daddy Erik Series

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Pornstar Erik Series

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Incubus Erik Series

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Couples Getaway/Breakaway Series

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flashback one

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flashback two

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headcannon

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Fae and Vampire Erik Series

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Species: Prototype Series:

one

Mirror Mirror Series:

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prequel

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Neighbors to Lovers Series:

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HBCU Confession Series:

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A Night Forgotten Series:

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Say My Name Series:

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Kinktober/Spooky SZN Fics:

Gamer Erik humiliates his girl (SpookySZN)

The Dancer In The Window (Halloween Smut Challenge)

Halloween Roleplay with Erik

Species: Prototype (Alien Erik)

Rise Of The Lycan (Lycan Erik)

Soulmate (Werewolf Erik Imprinting)

When The Wolfbane Blooms (Red Riding Hood Inspired)

Don't Look Under The Bed ONE

Don't Look Under The Bed TWO

Erik fucking his roomate PART ONE

Erik fucking his roomate PART TWO

The Reader is secretly in love with Erik

Erik having sex with his girl on her period

Reader telling Erik "I wanna have your baby please."

Erik fucking the Reader in the mirror and telling her, "Where you going? Take this dick!"

Erik secretly buying his girl stuff from her wishlist

The reader face-riding Erik and Erik holding the reader’s hips down and overstimulating her/ Erik telling the reader “lemme dig in that pussy one time”

Erik making eye contact with the reader while fingering her on his lap and the reader can’t take it

Erik being all soft and comforting to the reader while on a flight. She’s afraid of heights.

Erik begging plus size reader to sit that phat pussy on his face while he talks all nasty about her generous curves.

Reader avoiding Erik because he got rough with her after play fighting/having intense rough sex.

Reader attempting to break up with Erik.

Reader being intimate with Erik for the first time after being in an abusive relationship.

Reader playing hard to get with Erik.

Erik is the student and reader is the professor.

Erik giving his daughter the talk about her first period because her mom (reader) is away on a business trip

Erik’s groomsmen are panicking because his fiancé is at the door when the room is full of strippers

Reader working in retail dealing with a rude customer and Erik is a regular who steps in to put the customer in their place.

Readers long time crush, Erik Stevens, knocks on her door dressed as a pizza delivery stripper and he doesn’t realize he has the wrong address until it’s too late.

Thigh riding Erik.

Erik shaves the Reader.

Erik telling you how pretty that pussy is.

Erik helping the reader with morning sickness.

Erik getting the readers hair wet after she spent all day in the salon getting it done and she flips out on him.

Reader riding the fuck out of Erik’s dick. 

Erik and Reader having a one night stand that WASN’T supposed to happen.

Erik being the reader’s bully when they were kids but that changed when he sees her in later years.

Erik and reader having sex for the first time since their baby

Erik and reader broke down in the middle of nowhere

The reader finding out she is pregnant so she tries to leave but Erik finds out anyway.

Erik finding out that T’Challa or M’baku being the readers first.

Drive in movie date with Erik.

Erik walking in on the reader masturbating and she tries to cover herself with embarrassment

The reader is nervous to bring Erik to meet her family because she takes care of her mom and a sibling with special needs.

Y/N having her cochlear implants turned on and hearing Erik’s voice for the first time.

Erik is a sub and Reader is a dom PART ONE

Erik is a sub and Reader is a dom PART TWO

Erik dating a girl with an old soul.

Reader saying in the middle of an argument, “I mean, look at me! why would Erik Stevens want to be with me?!”

Fun/humor sex with Erik. 

Erik Jill Scott Imagine

The reader is a best selling author and her book is about all her past lovers (Erik is one of them)

The Reader is a virgin and Erik gives her oral turning her out/Erik dry humping The Reader playfully

Erik and Reader are best friends and Reader is the best freaky love PART ONE

Erik and Reader are best friends and Reader is the best freaky love PART TWO

Erik cuddling with Reader while she is on her period/having sex with Reader while she is on her period.

Reader is a high school art teacher and she is fucking Mr. Killmonger who is a history teacher.

Reader and Erik’s honeymoon.

M’Baku and Erik have the pleasure of sharing a woman

Reader and Erik take a bae-cation after Reader has her baby. She is having breast pains from breastfeeding so Erik suggests soothing her.

Erik nurturing reader after she found a lump in her breast.

Erik and his girl have a threesome with OC

The Reader and Erik’s friends are trying to set them both up on a blind date but the catch is…they’re already dating.

Erik and Reader have a 16 year old daughter who starts being disrespectful towards them PART ONE

Erik and Reader have a 16 year old daughter who starts being disrespectful towards them PART TWO

Erik and Reader haven't had sex in a while because of Reader's insecurities

Erik is into a lot of verbal talk during sex but his girl is too shy and embarrassed to do it so she moans instead.

Erik and Reader are in a Dom/Sub relationship where everyone knows, the Reader is being bratty and Erik punishes her in front of their friends but Reader has a Voyeurism kink and that was her plan.

Erik always rubbing the readers belly, because she loves it more than she does.

Erik asking plus size Reader out on a date for the first time.

Erik calls Reader while she's at work and he hears one of her male coworkers in the background.

Dominant Erik sees his ex gf at a pool party

Erik teaching his daughter to love her dark skin.

How would Erik react to his girl twerking in front of his face to annoy him ?

It's Erik's birthday and his girl suprises him

Assassin Erik and his girl London make up for lost time

Massage Therapist Erik

Supermarket run with the kids and a guy starts talking to you and making you laugh. Your husband, Erik, finds out about it.

Erik reminiscing on the time he had some good wet pussy from a plus size baddie. Based off of Cardi B saying how fat girls have the best pussy.

Erik walks in on his homeboys sister stepping out of the shower and she is embarrassed/ has a huge crush on him PART ONE

Erik walks in on his homeboys sister stepping out of the shower and she is embarrassed/ has a huge crush on him PART TWO

Erik convinces his girl he can make her cum multiple times ONE

Erik convinces his girl he can make her cum multiple times TWO

Erik has a foot fetish

Erik's girl gets drunk and starts flirting with other men. Erik has to teach her a lesson

Erik deep-throating his girl

OC is shy and a virgin and Erik makes her his sub

The Reader is nervous to tell Erik she is bi ONE

The Reader is nervous to tell Erik she is bi TWO

Erik and his polynesian/black bestie take things to another level

Erik watches his landlords child and afterwards wants to practice making a little bundle of joy himrself with Reader

Erik has a new girl who has a baby prior to dating him and they become one big happy family.

Erik is uncircumcised and it’s the Readers first time being with a man who is uncircumcised. Erik shows her what to do/ how to please him.

Erik gets turned out by a 5’2, big fine woman. 

“You can’t take it, huh?” Smoke grunted, voice all gravel and vicious behind your ear. “That’s what all this squirming about?” Your thighs were already shaking and he hadn’t even bottomed out yet. You were straddling him in the middle of the living room, knees spread wide on the rough denim of his jeans, pussy split and dripping down the thick head of his dick like it was leaking for mercy and forgiveness.

He was leaned back into the couch, thighs spread, arms thrown lazily over the backrest like he had all night to watch you try and fail—to take his dick.

The problem was…Elijah Moore had the kind of dick that made your pussy stupid. Fat. Girthy. Veiny. Heavy in your hand. The kind of thick that made your walls burn before you even sat all the way down. Your lips had to stretch wide just to suck the tip. And your pussy clenched at the idea of it. You could barely get halfway before your breath caught and your hips stalled from the pressure.

And he was loving that. “Aww,” he mocked, one hand coming up to grip your throat as you whined again, hips trembling mid-drop. “Poor baby crying. Can’t fit grown man dick in that tight hole, huh?” You sniffled, fat lips parted, tears threatening to spill.

He gave your cheek a slap—not hard, just enough to make you gasp. “Don’t you fuckin cry now girl. You was talkin all that sweet shit earlier. Had all that attitude, walkin around my house damn near naked, beggin for attention.” You tried to rock your hips again. Barely made it an inch before your pussy clamped down hard. It was too much—too deep. Too wide. You could feel every inch of him splitting you open.

Smoke grabbed your waist with both hands, digging his thick fingers into your soft sides.“You don’t get to tap out on me,” he growled, eyes low. “Not when you got this sloppy ass drippin all over my jeans.” He forced your hips down a little more—slow, delicate, just enough for another inch to sink inside.

You cried out, head falling against his shoulder. “Elijah—” “What?” he barked. “Say it. Say you can’t take this dick.” “I can’t,” you whimpered. “I c-can’t take it, it’s too—” “Too fuckin what?” he hissed, grabbing your face in one hand and squeezing your cheeks. “Too big? Too thick for your greedy ass pussy? Then why’s she suckin me in like she missed me?”

He slapped your ass hard, once, then again—and bounced you on his lap without mercy. You screamed, legs flailing as he bottomed you out in one cruel motion. “Oh my God—” “That’s it,” he grunted, holding you there while your pussy pulsed and struggled around the stretch. “Take all of it. Cry on it. Sit that heavy fuckin ass down and milk my dick like the bratty bitch you is.”

You could barely breathe. Could barely think. His dick was everywhere—pressing against your gummy walls, knocking the air out of your lungs, rubbing so deep it felt like it was in your guts—hell he was in your guts.

Smoke grabbed your throat again and spat in your mouth. “Swallow it.” You did. Gasping. Shaking. He pulled your shirt up—just enough to expose your titties—and shoved one into his mouth, biting the soft flesh just hard enough to make you jolt. “Look at you,” he muttered against your skin. “Full of attitude, always runnin your smart ass mouth. But sit on some real dick and now you cryin. Fallin apart like a spoiled brat.”

You nodded, fucked-out and drooling, fat tears finally spilling down your face. “Say thank you.”“Th-Thank you, Elijah.” He slapped your swollen clit once. Then again. “Louder.” “Thank you, Elijah!” And he just laughed, licking his thumb and rubbing circles around your puffy clit while your body bucked like it couldn’t take anymore. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered. “Now ride it til I say you done.”

“You can’t take it, huh?” Smoke grunted, voice all gravel and vicious behind your ear. “That’s what all this squirming about?” Your thighs were already shaking and he hadn’t even bottomed out yet. You were straddling him in the middle of the living room, knees spread wide on the rough denim of his jeans, pussy split and dripping down the thick head of his dick like it was leaking for mercy and forgiveness.

He was leaned back into the couch, thighs spread, arms thrown lazily over the backrest like he had all night to watch you try and fail—to take his dick.

The problem was…Elijah Moore had the kind of dick that made your pussy stupid. Fat. Girthy. Veiny. Heavy in your hand. The kind of thick that made your walls burn before you even sat all the way down. Your lips had to stretch wide just to suck the tip. And your pussy clenched at the idea of it. You could barely get halfway before your breath caught and your hips stalled from the pressure.

And he was loving that. “Aww,” he mocked, one hand coming up to grip your throat as you whined again, hips trembling mid-drop. “Poor baby crying. Can’t fit grown man dick in that tight hole, huh?” You sniffled, fat lips parted, tears threatening to spill.

He gave your cheek a slap—not hard, just enough to make you gasp. “Don’t you fuckin cry now girl. You was talkin all that sweet shit earlier. Had all that attitude, walkin around my house damn near naked, beggin for attention.” You tried to rock your hips again. Barely made it an inch before your pussy clamped down hard. It was too much—too deep. Too wide. You could feel every inch of him splitting you open.

Smoke grabbed your waist with both hands, digging his thick fingers into your soft sides.“You don’t get to tap out on me,” he growled, eyes low. “Not when you got this sloppy ass drippin all over my jeans.” He forced your hips down a little more—slow, delicate, just enough for another inch to sink inside.

You cried out, head falling against his shoulder. “Elijah—” “What?” he barked. “Say it. Say you can’t take this dick.” “I can’t,” you whimpered. “I c-can’t take it, it’s too—” “Too fuckin what?” he hissed, grabbing your face in one hand and squeezing your cheeks. “Too big? Too thick for your greedy ass pussy? Then why’s she suckin me in like she missed me?”

He slapped your ass hard, once, then again—and bounced you on his lap without mercy. You screamed, legs flailing as he bottomed you out in one cruel motion. “Oh my God—” “That’s it,” he grunted, holding you there while your pussy pulsed and struggled around the stretch. “Take all of it. Cry on it. Sit that heavy fuckin ass down and milk my dick like the bratty bitch you is.”

You could barely breathe. Could barely think. His dick was everywhere—pressing against your gummy walls, knocking the air out of your lungs, rubbing so deep it felt like it was in your guts—hell he was in your guts.

Smoke grabbed your throat again and spat in your mouth. “Swallow it.” You did. Gasping. Shaking. He pulled your shirt up—just enough to expose your titties—and shoved one into his mouth, biting the soft flesh just hard enough to make you jolt. “Look at you,” he muttered against your skin. “Full of attitude, always runnin your smart ass mouth. But sit on some real dick and now you cryin. Fallin apart like a spoiled brat.”

You nodded, fucked-out and drooling, fat tears finally spilling down your face. “Say thank you.”“Th-Thank you, Elijah.” He slapped your swollen clit once. Then again. “Louder.” “Thank you, Elijah!” And he just laughed, licking his thumb and rubbing circles around your puffy clit while your body bucked like it couldn’t take anymore. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered. “Now ride it til I say you done.”

Their first Valentine’s Day as husband and wife arrives without fanfare.

Not first together.

Not first in love.

First as Moores.

No dramatic plans. No elaborate surprises.

Just a party downtown. Live music. Friends. Something to mark the day without making it performative.

Annie stands at the bedroom mirror fastening her earrings when she feels his eyes on her.

She doesn’t turn right away.

She knows that look.

Smoke stands in the doorway adjusting his cufflink, jacket already on, tie straight. His wedding band catches the lamplight when he flexes his hand unconsciously.

He’s not staring because she’s dressed up.

He’s staring because she’s his wife.

The word still does something to him.

She finally meets his eyes in the mirror. “You gonna say it or just stand there lookin’?”

His mouth twitches faintly.

He steps forward instead of answering.

Her dress strap has twisted slightly. He fixes it without a word. Smooths his palm along her shoulder, thumb brushing just beneath her collarbone.

The touch lingers a second longer than necessary.

“You good?” she asks softly.

He nods once.

“Yeah, you?”

She smiles. “Always.”

It isn’t a dramatic exchange.

There are no grand speeches.

Just steadiness.

They’ve survived enough that quiet feels earned.

He reaches for her hand when they leave the bedroom. Not possessive. Just instinct.

When they step into the night air, his hand settles low against her back.

Ring visible.

Claim clear.

They arrive late.

Not dramatically late. Just enough that the room is already warm with bodies and brass and low laughter when they step inside.

The Valentine’s party is held in an old brick jazz hall—amber lighting dripping from sconces, a live band tucked into the corner, trumpet crying soft and slow. Couples sway close. Glasses clink. Perfume and bourbon mix thick in the air.

Smoke pauses just inside the doorway.

Habit.

His hand rests low on Annie’s back, secure and protective. His gaze moves—doors, windows, exits, faces. The rhythm is automatic. His shoulders set into that quiet alertness that never quite leaves him in public.

Annie feels it.

She always does.

She doesn’t comment. Doesn’t tease. Just smooths her palm over his chest once, grounding.

“I’m gonna get us a drink,” she murmurs.

He nods but doesn’t release her fully. Walks her to the bar. Positions himself so she’s inside his frame, his body between her and the crowd.

She watches him from the corner of her eye.

The way he’s here but never fully here. The way even joy sits beside awareness.

The band changes songs. Slower now. Something thick and velvet.

Annie turns toward him instead of the bartender.

“Dance with me.”

His brow lifts slightly. “You just got here.”

“Exactly.”

There’s a challenge in her tone. A softness too.

He studies her for a second. Then sets the glasses aside untouched.

He leads her toward the center of the floor.

Not flashy or showy. Just quiet.

His hands settle at her waist. Hers curl around his neck.

They sway.

At first, his eyes stay open. Over her shoulder. Scanning. Measuring.

She rises onto her toes just slightly.

And then—

She presses her nose softly against his cheek.

Not dramatic. Not playful.

Just there.

A brush. A slow inhale.

Her lips hover near his ear. She doesn’t really whisper words. Just breath. Warm. Close.

His body reacts before his mind does.

The tension eases from his shoulders.

His thumb presses deeper into her hip.

And then—

His eyes close.

Not for a blink.

Not in distraction.

Closed.

Fully.

His exhale is slow. Deep.

And then that smile.

Small. Unchecked. Private.

Annie stills.

Because this man does not close his eyes in public.

She studies him like she’s memorizing something sacred.

“You tired?” she murmurs.

His head shakes faintly against hers. “Nah.”

His eyes stay closed.

“You safe?” she asks softer.

That’s what does it.

His smile widens just a fraction.

“You got me.”

Three words. Low. Certain.

Her heart does something reckless in her chest.

He opens his eyes eventually, but they’re different now. Less sharp. Less guarded. Like something has settled inside him.

They keep dancing.

His forehead rests against hers now. The crowd disappears. The music turns thick and intimate.

Her fingers trace slowly along the back of his neck. She feels the pulse there. Strong. Even.

“You closed your eyes,” she says again, quieter this time.

He hums. “Mhm.”

“You don’t do that.”

His hands tighten on her waist.

“Don’t need to,” he replies.

He paused then—

“Unless I’m with you.”

The words land between them heavy and warm.

The air shifts.

Not loud.

Not fast.

But it deepens.

Her fingers slide lower, along his collar, down the front of his shirt. Slow. Curious.

He inhales sharply this time.

“Annie.”

“What?”

That innocent tone almost makes him laugh.

She presses her nose against his cheek again.

He closes his eyes again.

And this time his grip isn’t just protective.

It’s possessive.

The song ends but they don’t separate immediately.

People brush around them. Someone whistles teasingly.

Smoke doesn’t care.

He leans down so his mouth is right at her ear.

“You playin’ a dangerous game.”

Her smile curves slow. “You started it.”

He studies her.

Then takes her hand.

Not toward the exit.

Toward the hallway off the side of the hall.

It’s dimmer there. Quieter. Laughter from the party muffled behind brick and velvet curtains. A stretch of shadow near the coat racks and old framed photographs.

He backs her gently against the wall.

Not rough.

Not rushed.

Intentional.

“You know I don’t close my eyes around nobody,” he says, voice low.

Her hands rest on his chest.

“I know.”

His thumb drags slowly along her jaw. He looks at her like he’s deciding something.

Then she does it again.

That soft nose brush.

That quiet breath against his cheek.

And his eyes close.

Right there.

In the dark.

Her hands slide to his waist.

His mouth finds hers.

Slow.

Measured.

But deeper than the dance floor version.

The kiss isn’t frantic. It’s weighted. Like he’s letting himself lean fully into it. His hands move from her waist to her hips, pulling her closer until there’s no space left.

Her back arches slightly into him.

He exhales against her mouth.

“You tryna make me forget where we at,” he murmurs.

“Maybe.”

His forehead drops to hers.

For a moment, they just breathe together. The hum of the party distant now. The warmth between them close and undeniable.

His hands roam lower—but stop. Controlled. Firm.

He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth instead. Then her cheek. Then right beneath her ear.

Her breath catches.

“Smoke…”

He pauses immediately.

Checks her face.

Always checks her face.

She smiles. Soft. Certain.

“I like when you feel safe.”

That undoes him more than anything.

His eyes close again.

And this time, he doesn’t smile for the crowd.

He smiles because she sees him.

He kisses her slower. Deeper. A promise in it.

Then he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against hers.

“We goin’ back out there,” he says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“But you stay close.”

“I always do.”

He adjusts her dress slightly. Smooths his hands down her sides. Grounds himself.

But neither of them moves toward the light yet.

Annie’s fingers find his belt first. The metal buckle clinks softly in the shadowed stretch of hallway—coat racks heavy with forgotten jackets, old black-and-white photos of horn players and singers staring down like silent witnesses. She works the leather free with quick, sure tugs, pops the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down fully.

Her hand slips inside.

He’s already hardening, growing thicker in her palm. She wraps her fingers around him, strokes once—slow, deliberate—then again, firmer, feeling him twitch against her touch.

Smoke’s breath hisses out. He shoves his jeans lower with a quick jerk of his hips, giving her full access, giving himself room to move. His head tips back as low sound rumbles in his chest, half groan, half curse.

“Fuck, baby…”

She keeps the rhythm steady, thumb circling the head, spreading the slickness already beading there. His hips jerk forward into her grip once, twice—instinct—before he catches himself and stills.

His mouth crashes back to hers. Hungrier now. Teeth graze her bottom lip.

He reaches between them, bunches the fabric of her dress up in one fist until it’s high around her thighs. His other hand hooks into the side of her panties, yanks them roughly to the side. The elastic bites into her skin for a second before giving.

Cool air hits her, then his fingers—two of them sliding along her folds, finding her wet and ready. He circles her clit once, presses, rubs in tight strokes that make her knees buckle.

She moans into his mouth.

He swallows it.

“Quiet,” he breathes against her lips, but there’s no real command in it—only heat, only want.

He lines himself up, notches the head against her entrance. Pauses. Looks at her.

She nods—small, urgent— already lifting one leg to hook around his waist.  

His arm bands under her thigh, takes her weight in one smooth pull, pining her higher against the wall.

He pushes in slow at first. One long, controlled slide until he’s buried to the hilt. They both freeze for a beat, breathing hard through it. Her walls flutter around him; he throbs inside her.

Then he starts to move.

At first it’s measured—deep rolls of his hips that drag him out almost all the way before sinking back in. She clings to his shoulders, nails digging through his shirt.

The second stroke is harder. The third deeper.

By the fourth he’s fucking her with real force—snapping forward, pelvis grinding against hers on every thrust. The old wooden floor creaks under their weight. Her back scrapes lightly against the wall.

She tries to stay quiet, but a sharp whimper escapes anyway.

His hand flies up—covers her mouth. Not gentle. Palm firm over her lips, fingers splayed across her cheek.

Her eyes widen, then hood.

She moans into his skin instead, the sound muffled and wet.

He leans in closer, forearm braced beside her head, caging her. The new angle lets him hit deeper—harder. Each thrust punches the air out of her lungs.

Her legs wrap higher around his waist; he hooks one arm under her thigh, holds her open, keeps her pinned exactly where he wants her.

The risk hums between them—the muffled bass from the main room, footsteps passing somewhere down the hall, voices laughing just out of sight. Anyone could turn the corner. Anyone could see.

It only makes him go harder.

Her thighs start to shake.

He feels it—the way she tightens, the way her breath stutters against his palm.

He eases his arm from under her thigh—her legs stay locked tight around him—and lets that hand slide up her body instead. Fingers curl around the front of her throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. Possessive.

“Fuck—you feel that?” he rasps, voice wrecked. “How tight you get when I do that?”

She can’t answer. Only nods frantically against his hand, eyes glassy, pleading.

He keeps the grip unyielding, keeps driving into her—relentless now, skin slapping skin, the wet sound of their bodies obscene in the quiet hallway.

Her nails rake down his back. Her thighs start to shake.

He feels it—the way she tightens, the way her breath stutters against his palm.

“Come,” he murmurs, mouth at her ear. “Come for me. Right here.”

One more deep grind against her clit and she breaks—body locking, pulsing around him in hard, rhythmic waves. Her muffled cry vibrates against his hand.

He follows seconds later—hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go. He comes with a choked groan against her neck, spilling inside her, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

They stay like that for long seconds—panting, tangled, his hand still loosely around her throat, the other braced on the wall.

Slowly he eases his palm off her mouth. Kisses the corner of it. Soft now.

She smiles against his lips—dazed, glowing.

He pulls out carefully, fixes her panties back into place with gentle fingers, smooths her dress down over her hips.

Then he pulls his pants up, tucking himself away, zips up, buckles the belt.

He adjusts her one more time—like he’s putting her back together.

Like she’s precious—because she is.

“We goin’ back out there,” he says again, quieter this time. Voice still rough.

“Yeah.”

“But you stay close.”

“I always do.”

He takes her hand.

Threads their fingers.

And only then do they step out of the shadows—toward the light, toward the music, still carrying the heat of each other under their skin.

When they walk back into the party, his hand is still low on her back.

But this time—

When she brushes her nose against his cheek again on the dance floor—

His eyes close without hesitation.

And he grins like a fool.

Guard down.

Because she’s there.

And that’s enough.

Tag List:

Not just the way her body felt stretched and sore or even the dull ache in her belly or the thick drip of wetness cooling between her thighs—but the quiet. The stillness. The kind that only settles after everything’s been taken from a room. Her chest rose, then fell, slow. It hurt to breathe deep. Hurt good.

She was still on her stomach. One leg bent, the other stretched down toward the foot of the bed, her toes sliding against the sheets that were twisted, damp, and stuck to the sweat along her thigh. Her arms lay limply beside her, fingers twitching with aftershocks she hadn’t invited. Her mouth stayed parted. Her lip was stinging. Bitten. She didn’t remember when.

The air smelled like him.

Like skin and effort. Like something thick and alive that still lingered around her. The room was warmer than it should’ve been. Her back felt too hot, like it had soaked up everything he pressed into it. But she didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to cool down. 

Her eyes fluttered open, then closed again. The light in the room was dim—only a sliver of streetlamp bled in through the edge of the curtain. Enough to trace the shape of the room, the soft edges of shadows on the wall. She could make out her dresser. The corner of her TV. A pile of clothes that hadn’t been there before.

And him.

She felt him before she saw him. Still in the room. Still close.

The weight of his eyes landed first. The sharpness of his breath next. He was standing behind her somewhere. Watching. Maybe deciding something. Maybe feeling nothing at all. She didn’t know and she didn’t bother to look. She kept her cheek pressed to the pillow, lashes low, letting him see her like this. Raw. Used. Quiet.

Her thighs were slick. She felt the slow drag of it—his cum sliding out, warm at first, then cooler as it slipped down the curve beneath her. Her body fluttered once. Then again. Her pussy still pulsing around the emptiness he left behind.

She didn’t clench or squeeze it back in. She let it leak. Let it stain the sheets. Let it remind her that he’d been there.

And then he moved.

The shift of his weight on the floor was soft. A faint rustle of cotton as he pulled on his sweats. Not his voice. Just the drag of fabric and muscle, the click of his jaw when he clenched it, the silence he wore like armor. She didn’t lift her head. She could picture him.

Shoulder-length locs falling against his cheekbones. Shoulders wide, back cut deep with muscle and those raised scars she used to wonder about until he told her each one is for a kill. Brown skin slick with sweat. Caramel-colored under the dimness. His chest rising slower now. Still heavy. Still full of her.

Her eyes opened enough to watch his shadow drift to the edge of the door.

He paused.

And in that pause, she felt everything crawl up her throat. Not words. Not regret. Something else. Something sharp and quiet and slow to show its face. She didn’t say his name, ask him to stay. She didn’t know if he would’ve anyway. Didn’t know what she would’ve done if he had.

She just breathed.

The door didn’t shut all the way. Just enough. Enough to tell her he was gone, but not far. And for a moment, the quiet wrapped itself around her again.

Then she heard it. The water. Soft at first, then stronger. A burst of sound from the bathroom down the hall. The shower coming on.

That was it.

She blinked again. Let her body sink deeper into the mattress. One of her fingers curled, brushing lightly between her thighs, not to touch herself or start anything again—just to feel. Just to check. He was still there. Inside her. Fading with every minute, but still there. Her hips shifted. A small arch. More of him slipped out. She flinched. Not from pain. From the reminder.

She could feel the way her skin ached in the places he held her. Her wrists. The back of her neck. The dip of her waist. Her stomach felt sore where his abs had pressed down into her. Her chest burned, nipples oversensitive, grazed raw against the sheets. She remembered how he gripped her thighs, how he used his strength like it wasn’t up for debate. She still hadn’t touched her own face. And she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to know if she looked as ruined as she felt. Or worse—if she didn’t.

Minutes passed. She didn’t move. Eventually, her eyes fell closed again, and she let herself melt into what was left. She let the mess cool between her thighs. Let the sound of the water pull her toward sleep. She didn’t know what it meant. What he meant. If he even thought about her at all once he walked out. If he felt her the same way she still felt him.

But she knew this…

He didn’t kiss her goodnight. He didn’t clean her up. He didn’t stay. He gave her everything she asked for. And left her to sit in it.

The last thing she heard before sleep took her was the water running. And she hated how much she wished it would stop.

The Hallway

 Light cut through the dark like a line he’s not supposed to cross. Door shuts behind him. Quiet. His jaw’s tight. Hands flexing like they wanna grab something, hurt something, hold her again.

He can still smell her on his skin.

That slick, fucked-out scent sitting right in the crease of his fingers, across his pelvis, under his nose like she marked him without even trying. Her voice stuck in his head too. That pretty little whine, how she begged without words, just open thighs and glazed eyes. He didn’t even look back. Can’t. Won’t. Fucking refused. Not ‘cause he don’t want to. Damn he wanted to so damn bad. It’s because if he does, he might go back in there and do some shit he really ain’t supposed to. Like hold her. Like kiss her slow. Like say some dumb shit that sounds too close to feelings.

That girl got no business tasting that good. Feeling that warm and tight. Looking that pretty when she cry out for him, hands grabbing for his wrist like he the only thing keeping her from floating away.

He walked out that room, but he left every part of his mind still tangled up in her. He told himself it was just a one-time thing. Said that when he pulled her close the first time. Said it again when he slid his fingers between her thighs in the hallway, just to see if she was still thinking about it too. Said it again when he whispered all that nasty shit in her ear and she ain’t flinch once.

But he knows better.

And that’s the fucking problem.

She got his ass shook and she don’t even know it. She out here teasing, talkin’ slick, laying there with her pussy wide open for him, taking all that big dick like it’s her goddamn birthright. She don’t even know how deep she got him. That’s the part that fucks with him. That’s the part that scares him straight.

She think she just being grown. Just being bad. Think she got it handled. But Sanaa done walked her fine lil’ ass into the crosshairs of a man who been trying to stay on the straight and narrow. Who already got too much blood on his hands. Who ain’t got no room for softness. No space for distractions. Not like this. And now? Now he can’t stop seeing her laid out in that bed, legs twitching, lips wet, skin glowing like she was made just to be ruined by him and him only. 

He don’t do feelings. Not no more. Not since Oakland. Not since everything. That night he lost it all.  But she got him feelin’ again, and he hates it. Not exactly love. But something worse. Something messier. Something hungry. She got him wantin’. And wanting ain’t safe. Not for her. Not for him. Because wanting can turn into something more and that more can become—

He gotta stay away from her before he fuck around and start needin’ her. Before he forgets why he ain’t supposed to. Before he slips and starts thinking she might be the only thing that ever made him feel like he could stay.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, but he don’t feel no peace. Just sweat. Stickiness. Her scent still crawling on his skin like it belonged there. He pulls his joggers down slow. And there it is.

His dick still covered in her.

Still wet with that messy mix—thick, sticky, creamy—all hers, all over him. It glistens in the low bathroom light like he ain’t just wrecked her minutes ago. His trimmed hair’s matted with her slick. Her squirt dried light against the grooves of his abs. Her taste clings to the corners of his mouth, his upper lip. His fingers are sticky. Smellin’ like she sat on his hand and rode it.

He don’t even stroke it. Just stands there, breathing hard. Jaw locked.

She’s everywhere.

He steps into the shower. Water hits his back hot, and he hisses through his teeth. The sting makes him lean his head forward, press one hand against the tile.

His muscles ache.

His biceps tight as hell from how he held her legs up. Lower back burning from how long he stood hunched over her. He can feel where she clawed his shoulders, dug her nails in deep when he started fucking her slow just to punish her. Scratches still raised. Every rinse down his chest just brings more of her back.

That scent. That slick.

He wipes across his mouth and it’s like her pussy still sittin’ there, throbbing on his tongue. Water don’t clean that memory.

His eyes shut. And behind them, he sees it all in flashes.

Her back arched so deep it looked unreal. That lil lip bite she do when she know he ‘bout to fuck the air out her lungs. Her mouth on him, her hand gripped at the base, the sound of her slurping, the spit dripping down. Her eyes locked on his while he held her phone and filmed it like she proud of it.

He growls low. Curses to himself. She not supposed to be his. She not supposed to be any part of him.

That’s Aaliyah’s friend. 

Some twenty-two year old girl still in school. Still tryna figure shit out. Still figuring shit out, still doing too much and not enough…but she got him acting like her name the only one he wanna say. She got no business fuckin’ a man like him. Not with everything he done. Not with the life he leads. He ain’t built for no relationship. No situationship or whatever the fuck that means. He got too many ghosts. Too much blood. And too many enemies. He ain’t got the luxury to feel soft. But she don’t make him feel soft. That’s the problem. She make him feel crazy. She make him feel needed. She make him feel possessive. She got no idea how dangerous that shit is.

He presses both palms to the tile now, lets the water run down his back, over his head. Tries to breathe through it.

But all he sees is her.

Greedy ass Sanaa. Face turned toward the pillow. Mouth open. Legs trembling. Pussy leaking. Whispering his name like she ain’t ever gonna forget who had her. And that’s why he gotta stay the fuck away. Because one more night like that? And he won’t leave next time.

Steam still clings to his skin when he steps out. Water dripping from his hair. From his shoulders. From the scars carved into his chest and arms like a map of everything he survived. He grabs a towel, drags it slow over himself. Down his neck. Across his back. Over his abs where her scent still lingers no matter how much soap he used.

He dries his dick last.

It’s still heavy. Half-hard like it ain’t got the memo yet that he’s supposed to be done.

He looks up.

Fogged mirror. Blurry reflection. Just a tall, dangerous-looking man with tired eyes and too much weight on his soul. He wipes a clear patch with his palm.

Stares at himself.

Jaw clenched. Lips tight. Brows low.

You trippin’, he thinks.

Then his eyes drift.

Bathroom shelf. Her shit. All over it. Edge control. Leave-in. Curl cream. Silk bonnet folded neat. A pink razor. Hair clips. Scrunchies. Little bottles with glitter labels and fruity names. Signs of a young woman still learning herself.

Then he sees it.

Her perfume.

Small bottle. Almost empty.

He hesitates, then reaches. Unscrews it. Brings it to his nose.

Big mistake.

It’s her.

Sweet. Warm. Soft. A little wild underneath. Like her skin after he been on it too long. Like her neck when she tilts her head back for him without even thinking.

His chest tightens. He exhales slow. Closes it. Sets it back like he didn’t just fuck himself up. Wraps the towel around his waist. Tosses his joggers in the hamper. He steps into the hallway quiet. Apartment asleep. Aaliyah’s still out. 

He walks, then stops.

Her door. Closed. Slight light underneath.

He stands there longer than he should. Hand hovering. Heart beating harder than any mission ever made it beat. He cracks it slow. Careful. Like he breaking into something sacred.

Room dim. Only her lamp on low. Soft yellow glow. Bed a mess. Sheets twisted. Pillow crooked.

And her.

Knocked out.

Flat on her stomach. One leg bent. Blanket halfway off her ass. Hair damp and wild from sweat. Face relaxed. Lips parted just a little. She look peaceful, even with his cum leaking out.  Like he ain’t just ruined her hours ago. Like she ain’t got his cum inside her. Like she ain’t got his name etched into her nerves now.

He steps in, door shuts quiet behind him. Half of him wants to walk over there, spread her again, wake her up with his dick and remind her exactly who she belong to when she sleep.

Other half screaming at him to get the fuck out.

She off limits.

She deserve better than this.

She deserve better than him.

He stands there, torn. Looking at her. Thinking about how good she was for him. How she took everything. How she didn’t complain. Didn’t flinch with his dick sitting heavy on her tongue. Pull away when he arched her back. Just opened up and gave it to him like she trusted him with her body. With her softness. With her wanting.

She deserved praise. Deserved him telling her how good she did. How proud he was. How she took daddy’s dick like a champ. How pretty she was when she came.

But he don’t say nothing.

He walks over instead. Pulls the blanket up. Covers her shoulders. Tucks it under her chin. She don’t even stir. Out cold.

He stands there after. Just looking. Taking her in.

Her lashes. Her nose. The curve of her lips.

Even sleep got her looking fine as hell. And his dick responds immediately.

Annoying as fuck.

He chuckles low. Shakes his head.

“She got me fucked up,” he whispers to himself.

Her hair is still damp and sweaty. Clinging to her forehead. He brushes it back gently with two fingers. Erik leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. Barely there. Nothing sexual or greedy. Something quiet. Something real. Something dangerous.

 Then he straightens. Turns. Walks out. Closes the door. And disappears down the hallway like he was never there at all.

The Next Morning

The water was starting to cool, but she hadn’t moved.

Bubbles clung to her thighs, floating soft against the curve of her hips, her breasts, the fine slope of her belly. One foot rested on the edge of the tub, toes pointed up, still slick with the last bit of warm suds and steam. The air was thick and heavy, clinging to her skin like a second layer. Her silk press, once bone-straight and bone-laid, had started to swell at the roots from the heat in the room, curling just slightly around her hairline where sweat had gathered and dried hours ago. She had it clipped up, lazy and messy, with a hot pink claw clip holding it in place like an afterthought.

She didn’t care.

Kehlani’s voice floated from the Bluetooth speaker on the shelf—low, pulsing, soft with a throb beneath it. “Can I” wrapped around the space like a whisper from her own mind. Everything felt slow. Too slow. The kind of morning that felt like it happened to somebody else. Except her body knew better. She let her fingers glide between her thighs, not to play, not to stroke—just to feel. Just to check.

Still tender and open.

The water moved with her. Her legs eased wider without thinking, knees drifting apart. She was sore deep. That deep kind of sore you don’t talk about. That deep kind of sore that meant you’d been handled, really handled, by someone who didn’t just fuck you, but took his time doing it. Her pussy ached. Not sharp. Just dull. Pulsing. Like it had its own heartbeat. She traced the inside of her thigh with the backs of her knuckles. Felt the sticky-slick residue that hadn’t washed away yet. His nut. Maybe hers too. She didn’t remember how many times she came. That was the part that fucked her up the most.

Her skin still had that glow. That fucked good dewiness. Her chocolate complexion warm, flushed, a little still across her chest and shoulders, even as the steam thinned and cooled. The ache in her lower belly was real. The kind of ache you wake up feeling and know right away it ain’t from sleep. She inhaled slow. Let her head fall back against the tub wall. Closed her eyes.

Erik.

His face appeared in flashes. Not even memories—just sense memories. Brown eyes gone darker than she’d ever seen. Full lips parted, but not speaking. Those golds catching the light when he looked down at her. When he watched his dick disappear inside her again and again, like he was never gonna get tired of the view. His dreads brushing her collarbone when he leaned in. That quiet sound he made when she squirted on his stomach. When she soaked the sheets.

She could feel his tongue again—right now—just thinking about it. The weight of it. The swirl. The pointed flicks. The way he flattened it, slow and mean, like he had all night. And those fingers. Thick, skilled, curling just right while he whispered nastiness in her ear. The way he owned her moans. Pulled them from her like strings.

Her thighs clenched under the water.

She arched, just slightly. The smallest shift of her hips upward, almost unnoticeable, but it was there. Her body remembering. Her body craving. One hand slid beneath the surface, resting on her lower belly like she was trying to hold the memory in place. She wasn’t touching herself.  Because this? This wasn’t about chasing another orgasm. This was about understanding what had happened to her. What he did to her. And what she let him do.

She opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling like it could give her answers. It couldn’t. Her stomach tensed once, involuntary. Her lips parted. She could still feel the stretch from him. The depth. The way he pulled her into position like she didn’t have a say, then watched her body fold for him like it’d been waiting. And that was the part that had her breath catching in her throat. Because she had been waiting. Not just last night.

She’d been dreaming about this since middle school.

Since the first time she’d written his name in the margins of a notebook like it meant something. Since she used to sneak looks at him when he came by to pick up Aaliyah from school. Watching him in basketball shorts. Watching him talk with that deep voice that made her stomach flip. Since she first figured out what it meant to want someone—not just like some silly crush, but the kind of wanting that twisted her up in private. The kind she used to pray wouldn’t show on her face when he asked how school was going.

She used to wonder what his mouth would feel like. What his fingers could do. How he’d sound when he moaned. She made up stories in her head about him taking her to the backseat of his car, or pulling her into his room while Aaliyah was in the shower, or grabbing her waist while pretending to move past her in the hallway.

And now? Now she knew. Now she had real memories to match every single fantasy. But that’s where the split happened. That’s where the softness ended. Because one side of her wanted to go find him right now. Climb in his lap. Rub against him like a spoiled thing. Nuzzle into his neck and ask for more. Whimper. Beg. Say Daddy, please, I need it again. I can take it this time, I swear…

But the other side of her? The side that felt the way he pulled out and walked away without saying shit?

That side sat up.

Nah.

You don’t beg him, bitch. You remind him.

You remind him that your pussy had him quiet. That your moans made him pause. That your body—this body—had him gripping your hips like he was tryna memorize the way you curved.

That you soaked the sheets and he still wasn’t ready to stop.

You don’t chase that. You lean into it.

You walk past him without flinching. You stretch slow when he’s watching. You bend over in silence and let the wetness glisten on your thighs.

Make him remember.

Sanaa smiled. It was small. Subtle. But it came from somewhere real.

The water whispered as she shifted. A soft slosh against porcelain. A faint ripple rolling across her thighs. The bubbles that had once sat high and fluffy were thinning now, popping slowly, leaving her skin exposed inch by inch. The warmth was fading, but she still hadn’t moved. She reached over and twisted the silver knob.

The drain opened.

A low, steady gurgle filled the tub as the water began to slip away, pulling suds and warmth with it. She watched it spiral down, foam thinning, skin rising into the air. Goosebumps followed immediately. Her toes curled. Her calves tightened. The ache between her legs sharpened for half a second as the cooler air hit her.

Her body still wasn’t done with him. Even now. Especially now. When the tub was empty, she stood slowly.

Careful.

Her legs protested. Not painfully. Just enough to remind her. Her thighs trembled faintly as she stepped onto the plush charcoal bath mat. Water streamed down her spine, along the curve of her waist, between her breasts, over her hips. Droplets clung to her skin like jewels.

 She moved slow as she stood, water slipping down her back in rivulets. She didn’t grab the towel. Just stepped out—dripping, glistening, diamond studs still in her ears, legs shaking a little as she moved. But her back was straight. Her chin up.

She was sore. She was stretched. But she’d never felt more powerful. And the next time Erik looked at her? He wasn’t just gonna remember how she sounded when she came. He was gonna feel it.

Everywhere.

Kehlani’s voice faded out, the last note stretching thin before disappearing. For a second, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the bathroom fan and her own breathing. Then the next song slid in. Ari’s voice. Soft. Familiar. Dreamy. New Apartment. Sanaa let out a slow breath through her nose.

Of course.

Her life always did that. Soundtracked her feelings like it knew before she did.

She walked straight to the mirror. The overhead light caught her reflection and stopped her in her tracks.

There she was.

Bare. Dewy. Glowing.

Her chocolate, toasty brown skin looked deeper in this light, kissed with gold where moisture still clung. Her shoulders were relaxed. Her back straight. Her posture different than it had been yesterday. More grounded. More aware. Her silk press, once pristine, had softened into something lived-in. Roots puffed slightly. Flyaways curling at her temples. A few strands escaped the hot pink claw clip, brushing her cheek. It made her look… real. Touched. Desired. Her diamond studs sparkled softly. Her heart-shaped face was flushed just enough. Lips full and slightly swollen. Eyes heavy-lidded but alert, almond-shaped and sharp, holding secrets. Thick lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Brows still sculpted even after sleep and sweat.

She leaned closer to the mirror. Turned her head. Watched how the light traced her cheekbone.

Her body…God.

Slim-thick. Hips full. Thighs toned and still faintly marked from his grip. Breasts sitting round and lifted, nipples darker from stimulation. Waist dipping in just right. Everything about her read grown. Read confident. Read dangerous in the softest way.

She placed both hands on the sink. Looked at herself. Not critically or nervously. Like she was meeting a new version. 

So this is who I am now. A woman who knows what it feels like to be taken apart. And put back together wrong.

A small smile curved her lips.

She reached for the bottle of Cocoa Radiant. Popped the cap. The familiar scent rose immediately. Warm. Comforting. Rich. Like childhood and womanhood meeting in the middle. She poured a generous amount into her palm, rubbed her hands together, then began.

Slow.

Intentional.

Over her shoulders. Down her arms. Across her collarbones. Over her breasts, circling gently, feeling how sensitive she still was. Down her stomach. Around her waist. Over her hips. Between her thighs, careful but thorough. Her skin drank it in. Shined. Glistened. She closed her eyes briefly as her hands slid over her legs, remembering how his had done it last night. Firmer. Rougher. Possessive. The memory made her inhale sharply.

Not now.

She wasn’t giving him this moment. This was hers. She finished oiling herself, then moved into her skincare routine. Cleanser. Warm water. Massaging in slow circles. Toner on a cotton pad, swiped gently. Serum tapped into her skin with soft fingers. Moisturizer smoothed across her face and neck. Lip balm. Everything neat. Precise. Practiced. Like she was resetting herself. Reclaiming herself.

When she was done, she padded down the hall toward her room, still naked and glowing, not bothered in the slightest.

Her bedroom greeted her like a lover.

Warm amber underglow slipped from beneath her low black bed frame. Satin sheets caught the light, dark and smooth like spilled ink. The blush velvet headboard stood soft and plush, dotted with subtle gold studs. Pillows layered in cream and mocha and mauve. A dusty rose throw draped lazily across the foot of the bed.

The air smelled like vanilla and soft musk and brown sugar.

Comfort. Seduction. Safety.

Her oversized velvet bean bag waited in the corner like it always did, faux fur blanket tossed over it. Floating shelves above held her silk bags and locked box. Her desk glowed faintly with soft LED light. Polaroids pinned above it watched her quietly. One blurry picture with Erik in the background made her pause for half a second. She grabbed her robe from the back of her desk chair.

She looked away, moved to her vanity. Sat. Looked at herself again in the lit mirror. And this time, she didn’t just see a girl who’d been fucked good. She saw a woman who knew exactly what that meant. She rose from the vanity and eased herself into the corner bean bag, the plush seat hugging her like a lover’s lap. The robe shifted high over her thighs as she leaned back, spreading her legs slowly. Wide. Lazily. Like she had all night.

Like she’d been touched proper. Fingers grazing her own inner thigh, eyes sliding over to her reflection in the full length mirror. Eyes dropping down to her center.

Still puffy and glistening.

The lips of her pussy sat fuller than usual, swollen from last night. Open like she’d been cracked wide and left that way. Her slick had dried into a faint sheen, but the warmth was already returning. She could see the slight parting of her folds, the visible dip of her entrance—stretched just a little, looser than before.

She tilted her hips to look closer. A soft smile curled her mouth.

Yeah. He’d touched the bottom.

He’d reached so deep, her body still hadn’t fully closed up.

She bit her lip.

Watched a shimmer of arousal begin to gather again. Her pussy didn’t know how to behave. Already wet. Already remembering. And she didn’t flinch from it or press her thighs together or rush to cover herself. She studied her own sex like it was a painting. Warm brown. Plush. Velvet lips parted like an invitation. A glossy peek of pink at the center. Her clit still slightly hooded, but peeking out just enough to catch light. She could smell herself faintly—sweet, creamy, still kissed by Erik’s mouth and dick.

She reached down with two fingers and spread herself wider.

Her folds glistened.

That same blush glow, wet and ready again.

“You really tryna show out again, huh, girl…” she whispered to her own pussy, amused at how eager her body was.

She sank back deeper into the beanbag. One hand still resting between her legs. The other sliding behind her head. She wasn’t touching herself for pleasure. Just admiring. Appreciating the way she looked after taking a man like Erik. The way her pussy wore the memory of it. Still shaped by him. Still parted.

She could feel it. That soft ache. That damp heat. That fullness.

She was marked. Opened.

And she liked it.

Loved the way it felt to be filled and emptied. Gripped and fucked. Used and kissed. She wasn’t some delicate little thing Erik broke in. She met him stroke for stroke. Now, she sat there glistening, robe riding up, thighs still parted, pulse steady.

Knowing she got him addicted. Because he definitely was. That silent aura and unbothered energy wouldn’t work for her.  Knowing her pussy—this pretty, greedy, unforgettable pussy—was gonna live in his mind like a trap house.

She smiled again.

Let him pretend he got the upper hand. Let him act like he got it under control.

She knew what she carried between her legs.

And she knew…

He wasn’t ready. Not for the next time. Not for the way she’d ride him with that same quiet power. Not for the way she’d stare right in his eyes while he tried not to fall in love.

She gave her pussy one last appreciative look before letting the robe close. She stood again—slow, hips still moving with that same weightless roll. She wasn’t hiding anything.

Sanaa Brielle Carter didn’t need to beg.

She didn’t need to chase. Didn’t need to explain herself. She had presence. Stillness. Intention. And now? She had experience. She rose from the beanbag, keeping her robe loose, letting it fall open just enough. No panties. No bra. Her hips rolled naturally as she walked. Not exaggerated or  forced. Just…confident. Sure of her power. Her pussy reigning power. And somewhere deep inside her, both voices finally agreed on one thing: Whatever happened next with Erik? He was not ready.

———

He was pacing.

The sliding glass door to the balcony was cracked just enough for her to hear him. Low voice. Focused. Measured. Serious in a way that said whatever he was handling had nothing to do with her—and everything to do with how he moved when he wasn’t in her space. Shirtless. Skin glowing against the late morning light. Those locs of his brushed the tops of his shoulders when he turned, hanging thick and clean. His tattoos flexed and curved across his chest and arms with every stride, keloid lines raised and unapologetic. His joggers sat low on his waist, loose and slouched, like they hadn’t been pulled tight after getting out of bed. There was tension in the way his hand moved while he talked. Calm, but ready. The kind of readiness that came from living with your jaw tight and your fists half-curled.

She paused in the hallway, just out of his direct line of sight, eyes on the stretch of his back through the open glass.

His voice reached her anyway.

“Nah. I’ll handle that…”

A pause. A slow turn.

“Just send it to the burner. I’ll ping when it’s done.”

His tone had changed. Not annoyed. Not stressed. Just final.

That’s when she saw it. The faint crease of a dimple at the corner of his mouth. It peeked out, barely there, a ghost under that hard look on his face. She watched him tuck it away just as fast.

Sanaa stepped into the kitchen like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t been listening. Like she wasn’t still sticky and sore and feeling his fingers between her thighs. She moved quiet. Slow. The tile cooled her bare feet as she crossed to the fridge. Opened it with one hand, letting the other lazily tug her robe just enough to keep it on her shoulders—but not enough to keep it closed. The cool air hit her bare legs, lifting goosebumps, but she didn’t rush.

She bent low. Too low.

Just enough to give a full view if he happened to glance in. The robe gapped open at the side, soft fabric hanging loose as she reached in and grabbed a tall glass bottle of spring water. Her thighs shifted. Tensed. She stood slowly, one leg stretching before the other, like she needed to work the stiffness out of her hips. Like she’d been fucked into a different walk and was still adjusting to it. Her body knew. Her hips rolled as she turned, placing the water on the counter beside her.

Then she reached up.

One smooth movement. Both arms extended. Back arched. That robe slipped again at the neckline, exposing the soft swell of her chest. She stretched high—not for a cup, not for a plate—but for a small glass jar of organic sea moss gummies Aaliyah left above the cabinet shelf. She didn’t even like them. But they were perfect for this. She let herself rise onto the balls of her feet. Let the muscles in her legs pull tight. Her ass curved just right in that pose, robe barely covering the under cuff of her ass. She held the stretch, then lowered. Slow. Controlled. With that soft, audible exhale that wasn’t quite a sigh. She grabbed a chilled container of sliced mango next and used her fingers to peel it open. Picked up a slice and slipped it between her lips.

Sweet. Cold. Sticky.

She dragged it slowly through her mouth, tongue flicking against the fruit before she bit. The taste was bright. Juicy. But her eyes were on him. Through the glass door, she could see it.

He had stopped pacing. No more movement. Phone still in his hand, but he wasn’t speaking. Not anymore.

He was watching. His eyes dark. Expression unreadable. Locs brushing his face. Shoulders still rising and falling from the controlled breath he was trying to calm.

Sanaa didn’t look away. She took another bite. Licked her fingers this time. Let the juice glisten on her lower lip. 

the silence said everything.

He finally entered, the sliding door hissing closed behind him slow. Erik’s chest still rose heavy as he stepped inside, breath cooled by the outside air but mind hot and coiled. He didn’t say a word. Just moved through the apartment like the floor belonged to him. Like nothing about that girl licking mango off her fingers had him throbbing inside those loose-ass joggers.

His body carried it anyway.

That walk. The tightness in his jaw. The curve of his spine flexing under gold-brown skin, still damp with the sweat from his workout. 

He passed her. Didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. He could feel her. Smell her. That low, slow perfume mixed with the faint trace of oil that made her skin look like it was melting. Sanaa sat at the island like she ain’t just been fucked dumb twelve hours ago. Robe tied low at the waist, legs crossed, one thigh peeking through the split like an invitation she knew he shouldn’t take. And her face? Smug. Soft. Gorgeous.

She had her hair pinned up in a cheap hot pink claw clip that didn’t match a damn thing, strands falling loose around her ears studded with diamonds. The kind of undone that money can’t buy—fresh fucked glow. Pretty brown skin lit bronze under the kitchen lights, lips shining with fruit juice, and a mouth that tasted better than anything he could cook.

He wasn’t looking at her. But she didn’t need him to. Her mouth had gone dry minutes ago, not from thirst—but from wanting to taste him again.

“Did you tuck me in last night?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

“I don’t remember pulling my sheets up. Especially not after being fucked numb like that.”

Still nothing. His fingers twitched on the fridge.

She let it sit. Then—

“Erik.”

That got him. He eased the fridge shut. Turned toward her slow.

“So you just gon’ act like last night ain’t happen?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then say something.”

He stepped away from the kitchen. Eyes unreadable. The kind of look that made her straighten up without thinking.

“Act like you know what you asked for.”

She tilted her chin. Didn’t back away.

He came in close. Close enough that his scent hit her hard—lotion and skin, his natural musk rising warm off his body. That Erik smell she remembers from last night. The one still clinging to her sheets. 

His voice dropped, “Next time you beg for me, you better be ready to deal with me.”

Sanaa’s lips parted. The air in the room changed.

Then she laughed. Soft. Sweet. Dangerous, “Deal with what? A killer?”

His jaw flexed.

She pushed, her voice silk and sting, “I already knew what I signed up for. Big bad Killmonger?”

That name landed heavy.

“Don’t call me that.”

She giggled again. Just a little.

“That why you left me laid out? Because I called you Killmonger when you asked me to say your name? Ain’t that who you are?”

Erik stepped in so close their chests almost touched. His voice didn’t raise. But it was sharp now. Sharp like a blade you don’t see coming till it’s pressed under your chin.

“You don’t know what you talkin’ ‘bout, lil’ girl.” 

Sanaa’s smile tilted, slow, “Maybe not. But I know what I felt.”

His hand rose, like he was about to touch her jaw, her neck—something. But it stalled midair. Hung there.

Then dropped.

He turned away. Walked back to the fridge. Opened it like she wasn’t still burning a hole in his back. His jaw tight, eyes low. Grabbed the carton of eggs. Spinach. Tomato. Turkey bacon.

Then the pantry.

Bagels. Avocados. He moved slow. Intentional. Like cooking might fix the war going on in his chest. Like toast and protein could erase the feel of her nails dragging down his back. But the tension stayed thick between them. Her chair creaked softly. He heard the shift.

He looked up and Sanaa was watching him. Not coy. Not sweet. Bold as fuck. Lips around another mango slice, tongue curling under the fruit before she sucked it down slow. Her legs shifted again. The robe slipped slightly higher. She leaned forward, elbows on the island, tits pressing together under soft fabric, one hand between her thighs like she was adjusting herself.

Her voice came soft.

“Still sore,” she said. Almost casual.

He froze mid-slice.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be sittin’ like that then,” Erik muttered, not looking up.

Sanaa smiled around the mango, “I like it. Makes me remember how good it was.”

He inhaled through his nose, slow. Controlled.

“And how wrecked I was after.”

His grip tightened on the knife.

“That what we doin’ this morning?” he asked, voice low, rough like gravel, “Tryna provoke me?”

“Not tryin’,” she said, “I already did.”

He turned. Finally looked at her. That stare made her whole belly flutter. Jaw tight. That low faded temple taper showing. Locs frizzy from all that tugging and yanking she was doing when he was sucking on her pussy. Full lips glistening under the light. Dimples peeked while he frowned he but it just made him cuter. The outline of his dick not even hiding. And that expression?

Dangerous.

“You don’t know what you playin’ with,” he said.

“I do,” she said softly, leaning forward with her chin in her palm, “I’m playin’ with you, Killmonger.” 

He stepped closer. Only a few feet between them now. Sanaa shifted in her chair again with a soft whimper, not dramatic, just enough to let him know her pussy was still sore. Still full. Still remembering the way he fucked her through that mattress.

“Keep pushin’,” he said, voice tighter, “You gon’ make me do somethin’ we both know I shouldn’t.”

She tilted her head. Eyes slow, locked on his, “Then do it.” Her voice dropped. Deeper. Darker, “Come remind me why I couldn’t walk straight this morning.”

He laughed once. No humor, “You really tryna pull him out this early? You want me to show up?”

She smiled with that mouth that had been all over his dick hours ago, “I want Killmonger to come out and play.”

The silence stretched. His dick twitched.

Sanaa dragged one nail down the inside of her thigh.

“You think you got control,” he said, stepping around the island, slow like a hunt, “You think just ‘cause I filled you up and tucked you in, you can talk reckless?”

She looked up at him through those long lashes. Bit her lip. Soft, “I don’t think, Erik. I know.”

He grabbed the edge of the counter with both hands, arms flexed, forearms tight, “You need to watch that mouth.”

“You liked it last night.”

He stepped in close, “I like a lotta shit that ain’t good for me,” he said, voice low.

Then he leaned in. Inhaled right near her neck. Didn’t touch her. Just let the scent roll through him like torture. Her skin was warm. Her thighs were soft. Her robe was hanging on by attitude alone.

And he was so close to losing the little bit of control he had left.

But he didn’t kiss her. He leaned back, eyes still locked on hers. And said the thing she wasn’t expecting. 

“You think this a game. You think this just dick.” He shook his head, “You got no idea what you inviting.”

She held his gaze. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Then she smiled, lips soft and slow, “I invited it the second I opened my legs. Don’t act like you didn’t RSVP.”

That broke something in him. And the look he gave her next? That wasn’t Erik. That was the man he tried to keep buried. The one who took what he wanted and dealt with the mess after. And she saw it. She wanted it. And he knew right then he wasn’t gonna be able to stay away. Not now. Not ever.

The skillet was already warming on the stove. Erik reached for the olive oil, poured a slow swirl in the pan, and rolled his shoulders like he could stretch the tension out of them. His body still felt too tight. Too on edge. His joggers had no business clinging the way they did, especially not with her sitting behind him licking juice off her fingers like his nut wasn’t deep inside her.

He cracked one egg, then another. Set them off to the side. His movements were slow, deliberate, but his body told on him. The stiffness in his shoulders. The way his jaw kept flexing like he needed to bite something just to focus. He was trying to stay present. Trying not to let his mind wander back to how soft she’d felt last night underneath him. How her thighs had trembled around his face. How she tasted.

He reached for the tomato, started slicing.

Then he felt it. Not a word. No warning.

Just her body slipping between his and the counter like she’d been doing it her whole life. Bare feet, bare thighs, and that damn robe tied so loose it might as well not have been on. She didn’t say shit. Sanaa ain’t even look at him. She just slid in and took over. One of her hips brushed against him, that soft little bump right against the thick rise of his dick still hard behind the fabric of his joggers. She cracked an egg in one hand, flicked the shell into the trash like she knew the kitchen better than he did.

Erik froze behind her.

His eyes dropped. Watched her fingers move with no hesitation, clean and quiet. She was fully inside his space now, body pressed close, warm and casual like it was her spot to begin with. She reached up into the cabinet, pulled down the salt, pinched it with one hand while tilting the bowl with the other. Like he wasn’t even standing there. Like she didn’t just back her ass up into him. Dragging the bubble curve of it slow across the front of his joggers, just enough to make him twitch.

He didn’t move and he couldn’t breathe right. Just stared down at her from above, that low hum of restraint turning into a full-body grip on the counter. Her ass rolled once more. Just a subtle tilt. A soft grind. Tight little circles that made the air around them feel thick and wrong and good as fuck all at once.

Then she kept going.

Started chopping the tomato he left. Took over his space like it was hers. Her fingers moved quick, practiced, and while she worked, she didn’t stop moving that body. She didn’t need to say anything. Her body did the talking. That soft, steady grind. The way her thighs pressed back against him. The way her hips rolled with slow, precise tension like she knew what he liked. Knew how to make him fight every goddamn impulse rising up in him.

And behind her, Erik just stood there.

Fighting for his fucking life.

She kept chopping like nothing was out of place. Knife moving soft over the tomato, blade tapping rhythmically against the cutting board. Her ass never stopped. She rocked it back in tight little motions, circling slow, dragging the plush curve right over the front of his joggers, like she was testing him. Like she already knew the answer. Erik didn’t move. Just gripped the counter harder, jaw locked, trying not to let that groan catch in his throat.

And then, like it was nothing—like she wasn’t working him up just to watch him lose it—Sanaa tilted her head, glanced at him over her shoulder with that pretty little smirk barely visible under her lashes, and said, low and casual…

“Daddy…why you eat my pussy like that last night?”

His breath hitched.

She turned back around, like she didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of the kitchen. Like she didn’t just wreck his whole focus with one filthy question asked in the softest, sweetest tone he’d ever heard. She moved like she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Like her ass wasn’t grinding slow and deliberate right over the thick print of his dick, like her voice wasn’t about to destroy the last thread of his control. Her fingers stayed busy—chopping clean, precise strokes—but her mouth? That was the problem.

“I must taste good…” she said lightly, her voice dipping low, sweet like it wasn’t filth spilling out, “You couldn’t stop suckin’. Couldn’t stop lickin’ my clit, daddy.”

Erik shut his eyes for half a second, let his head fall slightly forward.

“Had me creamin’ all over your face. Drippin’. I couldn’t even stop it.”

She kept going. Like she didn’t just say that. Like she didn’t know how wet his dick was getting from the memory. Like she wasn’t trying to see what happened when she pushed a man like him too far. But she knew exactly what she was doing. That was the danger.

She scraped the chopped tomato into the pan, hips still rolling slow, back arched just enough to keep his dick pressed flush to her ass. Her voice stayed calm, casual, like she wasn’t already making him sweat.

“I got out the bath this morning…spread my legs in the mirror, lookin’ at my pussy real slow.” Her tone dripped with something smug. Soft, but nasty, “Tryna see if you stretched me with that big dick good.” She paused to stir the pan, and Erik’s breath came tighter behind her. “I couldn’t tell for sure,” she went on, twisting her wrist as she sautéed, that ass still grinding on him with each movement, “So now I wanna know if you can. You think you left a mark, daddy?”

Her voice curled around that last word like it was made to ruin him. And from the way Erik’s hands gripped the edge of the counter behind her—tight, flexed, veins raised—he was seconds from showing her just how permanent he could make it. She sat the spatula down on the counter and bent forward just a little. Giggling soft. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he gripped a countertop like this.

Not in warzones. Not in bar fights. Not in hotel bathrooms with blood running down his side. But right now? With this girl bent in front of him slow twerkin’ her ass against his dick like she ain’t got a care in the world?

This was the hardest thing he’d ever had to survive.

She kept her rhythm tight. Focused. Not fast. Not bouncy. Just slow, filthy little pulses, rolling that ass over the thick print of him like she knew exactly how to make a grown man lose his grip. She bent at the waist. Elbows pressed to the counter. Ass tilted just right. Up on her tip toes because of how much taller he is. That loose robe barely clinging to her hips, threatening to slide off completely. And still, she moved. A soft grind back. Then a slow lift. Then a tiny pop, just enough to send a ripple through both cheeks before they settled heavy on his lap again. Tight. Warm. Controlled.

She wasn’t dancing. She was working him. And he felt every bit of it. The curve of her ass spread right over the ridge of his dick. His joggers did nothing to cushion the way she rubbed herself into him, soft cotton soaked where he pressed hardest. He could feel the slick building between them, that friction low and dirty. Every time her ass dropped, she dragged it with just enough weight to make him pulse harder, like she wanted to grind the nut right out of him without ever taking his pants off.

Erik’s hands flattened over the counter. He bent slightly forward, eyes low, face close to the back of her head.

“You keep movin’ like that,” he said under his breath, “I’m not gon’ be responsible for what happen next.” 

She didn’t answer. Just dipped lower. Rolled her hips in a slow figure-eight. Slid one hand down her thigh like she was puttin’ on a show, dragging her fingers toward the soft dip between her legs. Her ass caught the full length of him again and he twitched behind her, teeth grit, chest rising hard.

“You forget Aaliyah live here too?” His voice was deeper now. Hot at the edge, “She come back early and see me bent over your ass, what you gon’ say?”

Still nothing from her. Just more motion.

Another roll. Another pulse. Her back arched deeper, that robe starting to slip off one shoulder. She looked over her shoulder, not speaking—just smirking. Watching him like she wanted to get caught. Like her pussy had a plan and her mouth didn’t need to help it.

“Yo little ass think this funny?” Erik growled low, breath rushing hot across her shoulder blade, “She walk in right now and see you creamin’ on my dick with your face in the stove, what then?”

That ass dropped again. Slower this time. And he felt it—slick, hot pressure grinding right over the head of his dick through his pants, her rhythm steady like she was testing his ability to not grab her. His fingers were twitching. His thighs tight. He could feel his own pulse in his dick now, so damn hard he thought he’d bust untouched.

“You keep playin’…” He trailed off, voice thick with warning but cracking with surrender. 

But truth was—he didn’t even know what he was threatening no more. Because she already had him. Every time she backed it up like that, every time her hips rolled in a new, dirtier pattern, he slipped further out of logic. Out of discipline. Out of whatever weak-ass reason he had for keeping his hands to himself.

She wasn’t just twerkin’. She was fuckin’ him without fuckin’ him. Slow. Messy. Intimate. Like her body already knew him, already learned how to pull his restraint apart one tight, wet grind at a time. He was breathing through his nose like a man trying not to bite. Trying not to take. The only thing stopping him was the lock on the front door. And even that might not hold if she didn’t stop.

Erik reached back to grip the counter top behind him like he needed the support, the other hand dragging over his mouth. His eyes stayed on her, dark and low, sliding from her ass, up her spine, and then her face. Then he licked his lips slow, like the taste of her was still fresh, like it haunted him, and his voice dropped to that tone that made her belly twist.

“I laid yo lil ass out last time,” he said, voice rough like gravel, “And that’s the only time you gettin’ this dick.”

Sanaa blinked slow. One brow arched. That mouth of hers curled into a smirk so calm it had to be disrespectful. She turned. She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t flustered. Just standing there in that soft little robe like she ain’t just soaked the memory of him into her body last night.

“See,” she said, voice low like a secret, “that’s the thing… you keep lyin’ to yourself.”

Erik snorted under his breath, shook his head like she was playin’ too much. But that smile? That slight one pulling at the corner of his mouth? That gave him away. She saw it. She knew what it meant.

“You think you special?” he asked.

She didn’t flinch. Just stepped in closer. Slower now. Her robe brushing against his leg. Her head tilted as her voice softened, turning intimate and wicked in the same breath.

“I know I’m special,” she whispered, eyes steady on his, “You still dreamin’ ‘bout how it sounded when I squirted all over that dick, huh?”

His jaw flexed. Nostrils flared. His eyes dropped before he could stop himself. Fell straight to her thighs like he needed to see the proof. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. His silence was louder than anything he could say.

She didn’t stop.

“Nah,” she said, stepping even closer, “You keep lyin’. If it was just once…why your hands still shake when I walk in the room?”

He stepped forward before she could finish the sentence. Stepped straight into her space, big body shadowing hers until they were almost nose-to-nose. His breath hit her lips. His chest brushed her robe. One more inch and she’d feel exactly what she was doing to him.

“Keep temptin’ me like that,” he said, voice so low it barely made it past his throat, “I’m not gon’ give you what you want, lil’ girl.”

Her eyes lit. Slow. Filthy. That little smirk deepened as she tilted her chin up, licking her bottom lip like she wanted to taste whatever control he had left.

“That sound like a challenge…”

Sanaa slipped away from him like smoke in the air.

One second she was standing close enough for him to feel her breath. The next, she was gliding back toward the counter like she hadn’t just had his pulse racing. She picked up her container of mango slices, moved with that quiet confidence that always made him watch even when he tried not to. She climbed back onto the high stool slow. Deliberate.

This time, she didn’t sit pretty.

She spread her legs.

One foot came up on the counter, knee bent, thigh open. The robe fell apart like it had been waiting for permission. Soft fabric sliding to the sides. No resistance. No modesty. Just bare skin. Warm. Smooth. Open to him.

Erik forgot how to breathe.

His chest stalled mid-rise. His throat went dry. His eyes locked in and refused to look away.

Her pussy was right there. Tender. Plush. Faintly swollen from the way he handled her. A soft shine to it that told him she was already wet again, already reacting to nothing but his stare.

She picked up a mango slice. Held it between her fingers. And rubbed it slow over her clit.

Back and forth.

Gentle at first. Then firmer. Letting the cold, sticky fruit drag across that sensitive spot. Juice trickling down her fingers. Down her thigh. Onto the edge of the counter.

Erik didn’t move. He just watched. Every nerve in his body lit up like somebody struck a match inside him. Sanaa kept her eyes on his the whole time. Never broke contact. Never looked down. Never hid. She bit her lip softly as her hips rolled just a little, reacting to her own touch. A quiet little breath slipped from her mouth before she could stop it.

Then she got needy. Her voice changed. Softened. Lost that teasing edge.

“Come here…” she whispered. Her fingers slowed, pressing the mango slice more deliberately now, “Please…”

Her lower lip trembled between her teeth. Not fake. Not dramatic. Just real want spilling out of her. Her eyes were glossy now. Dark. Heavy. Focused only on him.

Ain’t no woman ever had him like this. Not like this. Not with her body open and her voice soft and her pride still intact.

Erik clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. His hands curled at his sides. Veins popping in his arms from the restraint. 

“I ain’t supposed to be fuckin’ you, Sanaa,” he said quietly, “And I ain’t the type of nigga to get caught up with.”

She didn’t argue or clap back. She just looked at him like she heard him and didn’t care. Like his words were weak compared to what his body was saying.

He turned away. Walked to the stove. Shut it off.

The click sounded too loud in the quiet kitchen.

He leaned forward, palms flat on the counter, head dropping between his shoulders. His back rose and fell as he exhaled through his nose. Long. Controlled. Like he was trying to breathe himself back into sanity.

It didn’t work. 

He lifted his head slowly. Looked back at her. She was still open and touching herself. Watching  him like he was the only man left on earth.

He licked his lips. Once.

Then he started walking. Slow. Heavy steps. Each one dragging him closer to something he swore he wasn’t gonna do.

He stopped in front of her, reached out. Took the mango slice from her fingers.

Their hands brushed.

She shivered.

He brought it to his mouth. Sucked on it slow. Letting the juice coat his tongue. Letting her taste linger on it. Letting her watch him take something she’d just had between her legs and make it his.

Then he bit down. Chewed. Deliberate. Eyes never leaving hers. Every movement said what his mouth refused to admit.

He wasn’t going nowhere.

The juice of the mango lingered on his lips, thick and sweet, soaked in the heat of her. It coated his tongue with the unmistakable taste of her pussy—ripe, needy, messy—and Erik chewed like he was trying to punish himself for liking it. For wanting more. For letting her pull him this deep without ever lifting a finger. His jaw was tight as hell. Muscles locked. Brows drawn. But his eyes never left her.

Sanaa sat with her legs still open, robe fallen from her shoulders now, bunched behind her waist like it knew it had lost the battle. She looked so damn soft, thighs glistening, mouth parted just enough to show that low, constant panting that gave her away. But even like that, with her foot propped up and her slick still wet between her thighs, she had the nerve to look powerful. In control. Chin tilted like she already knew he was past the point of no return. Like the mango was just the first stroke and now he’d be the one left begging.

Erik stepped in. Not slow this time. Not cautious. He got between her knees, big hands sliding up the insides of her thighs, and then higher, one gripping the back of her neck, the other pressing flat against the front. Not rough but firm enough that she felt it. His fingers curled at her throat, holding her still. Reminding her.

His face was inches from hers, voice low and gravel-thick. “You ‘bout to get tore the fuck up for these games you keep playin’.” His breath hit her lips as he spoke, hot, uneven, laced with a kind of tension that made her thighs twitch around his hips.

She didn’t flinch, blink, or apologize. Her mouth parted slightly, tongue wetting her bottom lip like she was inviting it.

That was it.

Erik crashed into her mouth without another word, lips smashing against hers, tongue slipping past like he owned her breath, her taste, her noise. His mouth was hot and wet and greedy, tongue sliding over hers, deep and messy, his jaw moving like he wanted to consume her from the mouth down. Lips dragged. Teeth scraped. Their breathing tangled. He didn’t let her lead. He controlled it. Held her still with both hands around her neck, body crowding her until she couldn’t do anything but open her mouth wider and take what he gave her.

The kiss didn’t slow. It got nastier.

Slicker.

Spit laced between them when he finally pulled back, their mouths swollen and glistening from the exchange. He rested his forehead against hers for just a second. Breathing through his nose. Trying to find air in a room thick with her scent.

His hands stayed tight at her neck.

“Fuck…” he growled, voice broken now, “You got me actin’ crazy over you, girl. How fuckin’ dare you…”

He looked down at her like he didn’t know if he wanted to drag her off that stool and bend her in half or drop to his knees and taste every drop she left behind.

She smiled, soft and fucked-up pretty.

 Erik was about to show her what crazy really looked like.

She was breathing slower now, lips wet, mouth still parted from that kiss. Her thighs stayed open, loose from the way he held her, the warmth of his body still hovering at the edge of hers. Erik’s hand remained cupped behind her neck, thumb resting at the base of her jaw like he needed to keep her tethered there. Her gaze didn’t waver when she spoke, voice barely above a whisper, soaked in that soft, bratty need that had him spiraling.

“Can you look at my pussy?” she asked, words syrup-slow and coated in innocence that didn’t fool a damn soul, “Did you stretch it good?”

He went still. No smart-ass remark. No breathless denial. Just the crackle of silence between them and the weight of her question hitting him right in the chest.

His jaw worked once.

Then again.

His fingers tightened slightly against her skin, not squeezing, just pressing like he needed something to hold while he slid straight into the trap she set.

Erik dropped his gaze. Dragged it down her throat. Past her collarbones. Down the center of her chest where her robe lay open, soft brown skin exposed beneath. He let his eyes linger there for a moment, mouth twitching slightly at the memory of how she tasted. Then he kept going. Down her soft stomach. Past the slope of her hips.

And there it was.

That beautiful, wet, fucked-out pussy she had the audacity to sit on display for him. Glowing under the soft kitchen light. Faintly puffy from what he’d done to it. Glossed with slick and faint streaks of leftover juice from the mango. Her lips were slightly parted, still fluttering like she hadn’t come down fully, like her body was still remembering how he’d kissed it, sucked it, stroked it deep and slow while she trembled.

Erik tilted his head to the side just a little, brow drawn low, studying like a man inspecting a wound he caused and couldn’t stop thinking about. His eyes narrowed slightly, focused, dragging over every part of her pussy like it was a map and he was tracing the route back in his head. His tongue slid across his bottom lip. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

He leaned in, just a little. Bent at the waist, eyes trained right between her legs like he was reading something there. His nostrils flared as he caught the scent again, that raw, aroma that had clung to his upper lip since last night. He looked closer, inspecting every glisten, every twitch. Not just arousal—curiosity. The need to see what he’d done. If he’d changed her. If he left his mark the way she said. The way she wanted.

He tilted his head the other way. Sat in the silence. Let it stretch. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge and her soft breathing. His hand slid from her neck down her thigh, his fingers spreading lightly against her skin, but he didn’t touch between. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded deeper, heavier, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

“…Yeah,” he said under it, “I stretched you good.” His fingers hovered near her folds now. Not touching. Just close enough that she could feel the warmth of him again, “But I can still do better.”

Her lips curled slow, eyes half-lidded, voice like she was purring with satisfaction when she responded.

“Oh, I know you can,” she said, soft as silk and just as dangerous.

Then, without lifting more than a finger, Sanaa slid her foot up his torso. Her toes brushed his abs, warm and gentle, dragging over the firm ridges of muscle like she was getting reacquainted with the body that had wrecked hers the night before. She moved slow, just the pad of her foot pressing against him, dragging down the centerline of his stomach until it dipped into the waistband of his joggers. She didn’t push, dig, just hovered there, right above where his dick sat heavy, thick, impossible to ignore.

Erik stood still, but his shoulders rose with the effort it took to stay there. At full height now, chest bare and gleaming under the low kitchen lights, his joggers hung low on his hips. Too low. The elastic had lost the fight some time ago, stretched from her grinding and his own heat. The print of his dick was unmistakable.

It sat high on his thigh, slanting left, long and unforgiving beneath the thin fabric. The weight of it pulled the material forward, tenting it just enough to show the thick outline of the head pushing against the seam. His length was pressed hard to his leg, full and unrelenting, a swollen line from base to tip that screamed of tension—of denial—of pressure that hadn’t been touched since she left him last night with a mess on his tongue and a war in his chest.

Sanaa dropped her eyes to it. Lingered there. Her gaze dragged like a palm stroke. No shame. No hesitation. Just watching the way he throbbed beneath his clothes, how the fabric pulsed every time he breathed too hard. Her eyes narrowed with hunger and curiosity, and she bit her lip softly—just once—before looking back up at him.

Her voice came low, airy, dipped in need, “Can I have it?”

That question slid across the room and pressed right against the base of his spine. His nostrils flared again. His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek like he needed something to bite. He didn’t answer right away, just stared down at her with so much conflict in his eyes it made the air go still between them. Like he was calculating what it would cost him if he gave in again, and already knowing it didn’t matter.

Because she was looking at his dick like it belonged to her.

Erik hadn’t moved since she asked for it. Still stood there with that pulse pounding in his jaw, dick hard enough to ache, mind trying to split itself between self-control and the ache clawing through his gut. But she knew what she was doing. Knew how to wait him out. How to stay soft, relaxed, pretty while his body went tight with the pressure of not touching her.

She laid back slowly in the high stool, adjusting like she needed to get more comfortable. Legs falling open again. That damn robe still hanging open around her waist. She didn’t have to put on a show. Her body already knew how to make him watch. One finger slid down between her folds. She dragged it slow, glistening, then brought it to her lips and sucked the tip clean.

Her eyes stayed on his the whole time.

Then her voice came low, soft, like she was just thinking out loud.

“Kiss it for me, daddy…just once. You miss the way I taste?”

Erik’s eyes dropped before he meant them to. Jaw tightening again.

“You gon’ leave me drippin’ like this and not even clean it up?” she asked, all sugar, “That’s rude as hell.”

He still hadn’t moved. But the twitch in his jaw. The way his hand flexed at his side. That told her he was close.

Sanaa lifted her heel, pressed it behind his thigh, and gently pulled him forward, “You already down there…why don’t you open your mouth and say somethin’ nice to her.” Her voice made his dick throb. But she kept going. Knew exactly where to press, “She tight, huh?” she whispered, softer now, “Still wet from last night. You really gon’ act like you don’t wanna taste your dick on my pussy?”

Erik stepped closer. Couldn’t help it. And when he reached her knees—when her legs opened just a little more and her scent hit him again, warm and sweet and slick—he dropped his eyes.

Sanaa leaned her weight on her palms and tilted her hips forward, “C’mon…” she said, slow and dirty, “you was suckin’ on it like it was your last meal. Don’t be shy now.”

He stared. His knees bent slightly.

“You said you stretched me…” she continued, her voice now teasing, light, smug, “Prove it. Look in her face and tell her you didn’t fuck her open.”

Erik exhaled hard. His knees hit the floor.

No words. Just surrender. His hands gripped her thighs and he leaned in, face a breath away from that glistening, perfect pussy. She was soaked. Faintly pulsing. Her lips were swollen, glossy, sweet with the scent of her own need. His nose caught the mango, but underneath that—her. Warm and wet and waiting for him.

“You talk big,” she said, one hand resting in his locs now, sliding through the thick strands, “but this lil’ pussy had you moanin’ into it like a grown man beggin’.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t even blink.

Just leaned in closer.

“Ain’t nobody ever ate it like you, Erik,” she whispered, her voice dropping, shaking just a little from how soft it turned, “I still feel your tongue when I close my legs.” She guided him forward gently, two fingers sliding along the side of his face, “You gon’ fix that,” she said, breath hitched, “or just keep frontin’?”

He kissed her inner thigh. Then again. A little higher. He was breathing through his nose like a man being pulled underwater.

Then her last whisper sealed it.

“Put that mouth back where it belong. She miss you.”

Erik didn’t even hesitate now. He pulled her hips forward to the edge of the stool and opened her with his thumbs. Then he buried his mouth between her legs like it was the only place he’d ever belonged.

———

Erik didn’t come to play.

That was the first thing she felt.

Before his mouth ever touched her, before his lips parted or his hands explored, she felt the change in his presence. The way he lowered himself, spine straight, shoulders settled, gaze locked between her thighs like his purpose lived there. His whole body shifted into something focused and quiet, like he’d already decided this was how the day would go. No hesitation. No talking. Just action.

His hands smoothed along the backs of her thighs first, firm and slow, thumbs easing along her inner skin until her legs parted on instinct. His grip stayed warm, steady, holding her just open enough to see all of her. And when he looked, he didn’t rush that either. His eyes sat heavy on her pussy, watching every glisten, every twitch, every rise and fall of her breath as it got faster. He didn’t touch her right away. He waited. Let the air stretch, let the ache build. Her body answered before her voice did.

Sanaa’s hand moved into his hair. Fingertips brushing his scalp, then curling in tight as his mouth dropped toward her thigh. She wasn’t pulling. She was grounding herself.

He kissed the inside of her thigh first. Mouth warm. Intentions filthy. One kiss turned into two. Then three. Each one closer to the place she needed him most. Then he turned and kissed her hip. Then the crease of her thigh. Then right beside her lips, close enough that she held her breath. He didn’t rush. He just breathed her in. Let the scent, the shine, the pressure of her body rising meet his mouth on its own time.

When he finally licked her, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy. He flattened his tongue wide and dragged it slow, all the way up from the bottom, collecting everything she had to give. One single stroke. Unbroken. And it made her flinch. Gasp. Her hips lifted, but he followed, staying connected, matching the pace of her rising need with steady pressure.

Her eyes opened wide. Her mouth parted. The sound she let out was soft and wet around the edges, like she couldn’t stop it even if she tried.

He just went right back in.

That same thick, dragging motion of his tongue made her toes curl. Then he changed it. Lips sealing around her pussy, tongue flicking now—faster, tighter, more deliberate. He alternated between sucking gently and teasing with light circles that made her hips roll. She started grinding against his mouth in slow, uneven pulses, body chasing every stroke.

When he zeroed in on her clit, he didn’t test. He applied pressure. First with the flat of his tongue, moving side to side, then with the tip, tracing small movements so precise they made her moan his name.

Sanaa’s voice came soft and low, wrapped in a tremble that betrayed how close she already was, “Ohhh…this your favorite, huh? This little pussy right here?”

She looked down at him when she said it. Met his eyes. Her hips never stopped moving. He growled into her. A deep rumble that vibrated through her clit and made her jerk.

He sucked once. Just once.

And it made her cry out, thighs locking around his head. She pulled him tighter, grinding, breathless.

“Oohh, you tryna break me?” she said through a twisted smirk, legs shaking already. “Mmm…you tryna make me cry?”

That’s when he slid his arm beneath her leg. Locked her in. No wiggle room. His other hand spread her wider, fingers pressing just enough to keep her stretched open while his tongue got messier, wetter, more focused.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said, voice low and final.

Then he found the rhythm. That devastating rhythm.

Same lick. Same pressure. Right on the clit. He stayed there, mouth working in tandem with the grip of her body, dragging her closer to the edge with every pass.

Her face twisted. Her chest rose faster. Her thighs trembled. And when she clenched around nothing, just trying to survive the drag of his tongue he gave her something else.

He slipped a finger in. Then two. Curling them just enough to reach that spot he already knew by heart. He stayed on her clit while his fingers fucked her soft, rhythmic, deep. Sanaa’s hand was back in his locs now, tighter. Rocking her hips into his face, moaning out as her stomach started to fold inward.

“Ohhh, you like that, daddy? You like when I squeeze like that?”

She pulsed on his fingers. Did it again on purpose. Her whole body flinched. He moaned into her, the sound soaked and raw against her pussy, and it made her eyes shut tight.

Then he spoke again, “Keep archin’ like that. Let me see it jump.”

And it did. Her clit jumped under his tongue, her body reacting on instinct, hips lifting, voice rising.

She tried to hold on. But Erik didn’t let her. He stayed there. Deep in her. Groaning through his teeth while his mouth and hands ruined her in rhythm.

Her hips bucked. Her head dropped. She blinked fast like she couldn’t see straight anymore.

She knew she was close.

She needed to look.

“Look at me,” he said.

She forced her eyes open. That’s what broke her. His face was soaked. His mouth still full. His eyes fixed on hers while his tongue kept working like he could do this for hours. Her pussy answered every move. Wet. Open. Loud. The sounds filled the room. Slurps. Sucks. Soft, greedy kisses. The slick smack of his lips sealing and releasing. Her breath turned ragged. Low moans slipped out without permission.

“Mmm…fuck…”

Her voice cracked on it.

She grabbed his locs harder, fingers curling tight at his scalp, using them to guide him. Pulling him closer. Pushing his head where she wanted. Tilting him when she needed more pressure.

“Yeah…right there,” she whispered, breathy and thick. “Stay right there.”

Erik groaned into her. Deep. Low. Vibrating. The sound rolled straight through her clit and made her gasp. His tongue plunged deeper now. Curling. Pressing. Sliding inside her slow, rhythmic, deliberate. He tongue-fucked her hole like he meant to replace his dick with his mouth. Her legs shook. Her stomach clenched.

“Ohhh…you nasty,” she breathed, eyes heavy, lips parted, “You love this pussy, huh?”

He lifted his head just enough to speak. Mouth shining. Beard damp. Eyes dark.

“Shit addictive,” he said quietly, “Got me fucked up.”

Then he went back in. Harder. Messier. He sucked her clit deep into his mouth and held it there, tongue flicking underneath while his lips stayed sealed. The suction made her cry out sharp, toes curling hard against his shoulders.

“Ayy…ayy…slow down,” she gasped, even while pulling him closer. “You tryna kill me.”

He answered by slurping her louder. Dragging his tongue slow again.

Schluuuck. Schluuuck. Schluuuck.

Each stroke heavier than the last. Each one wetter. His hand slid off her thigh and dipped into his joggers, fingers wrapping around his thick shaft. He groaned when he touched himself, hips rocking just a little as he stroked slow, steady, desperate.

Sanaa noticed. Her eyes dropped. Caught the movement.

Her smile turned wicked, “You strokin’ while you eat me?” she whispered, “That’s how bad you need it?”

He nodded against her. Just sucked harder. She tugged his locs again, guiding him up, then down, grinding her pussy on his mouth.

“Yeah…take it,” she whispered,  “Use that long tongue. Don’t be scared.”

He growled. Then added his fingers again. Two at first. Thick. Sliding inside her while his mouth stayed locked on her clit. Curling upward. Finding that spot. Pressing. Holding.

Her whole body snapped. Her back arched off the stool. Her head fell back. A broken sound tore out of her throat.

“Fuck…Erik…that shit right there…” Her voice turned shaky. Needy. Soft and filthy, “Don’t stop,” she breathed, “Please…don’t stop.”

He pumped his fingers deeper. Tongue moving faster now.

Figure eights.

Tight circles.

Deep sucks.

Messy kisses.

Her pussy sounded obscene. Wet. Open. Greedy.

Every stroke echoed. Every slurp rang. Her breathing turned frantic. Her nipples stayed pinched between her fingers. Her thighs trembled in his hands. She leaned forward, looking down at him again. Watching. Needing to see.

His mouth buried. His jaw flexing. His eyes half-lidded. His dimples flashing when he moaned. Caramel skin slick with sweat. Gold slugs catching the light when he opened his mouth wider.

“You so fine when you eat me,” she whispered, “Got me feelin’ spoiled.”

He looked up. Did not stop, “You taste too good,” he said rough, “Got me weak.”

Her grip tightened. She rocked harder. Controlled him. Used him.

“Yeah,” she whispered, “That’s it. Let me ride that mouth.”

Her orgasm built fast. Hot. Sharp. Overwhelming.

Her stomach pulled inward. Her legs started shaking. Her breath fractured.

“Ohhh…uhhh…unhhh…I’m close… I’m so close…”

He groaned again. Fingers curling. Tongue pressing. Suction tightening.

“Let that shit go,” he said low.

That was all.

Her body seized. Her thighs clamped around his head. Her toes curled hard. Her voice broke. She cried out his name loud, shaking, coming so hard her vision blurred.

He stayed on that pussy. Licked her through it. Sucked her slow. Caught every pulse. Every tremor. Every aftershock. When she finally slumped forward, breathless and weak, he pulled back slowly.

His mouth was soaked. Eyes heavy. Hand still gripping himself. He stood and leaned close. Kissed her thigh. Then her stomach. Then her lips.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

She smiled lazy. Dangerous.

“Do I look good?”

Her robe clung to one shoulder, slipping further with each shallow breath she took, while the other side had fallen completely off, bunched at her elbow. The hot pink claw clip in her hair hung crooked and loose, half her curls puffed out, the rest damp and sticking to her temples. Her body glistened—neck, chest, the soft line between her breasts—all slick with sweat and shine, like she’d been kissed too long and licked too good.

Erik stood between her legs with his joggers low, dick heavy and glistening at the tip where it hung over the waistband. He didn’t speak at first. Just leaned in and kissed her. Slow. Deep. Letting his tongue drag across hers with weight, letting her taste the mix of herself and the mango slices they’d barely touched earlier. His hands stayed locked beneath her knees, palms pressing into the backs of her thighs, pulling them wider as he kissed her deeper.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were glossy too. He licked them once and squinted at her like he was trying to decide something. His voice came low, deep, still thick with what they just did.

“Wait. You talk to Aaliyah? When she say she comin’ back?”

Sanaa blinked slow, lashes damp at the tips. Her voice was softer now, worn down from moaning and grinding on his tongue, “She didn’t say an exact time. Just she’ll be back today.”

Erik looked down at her again, dick still in his hand, still slick. He gave it two strokes slow, dragging the tip against her inner thigh just to watch her twitch.

“You got me down bad,” he said, voice lazy, jaw flexing once, “Strokin’ my dick and eatin’ your pussy right here on this stool. You proud of that?”

Sanaa let her tongue touch the corner of her mouth before answering, “Real proud.”

“You so wet I felt it drip down my chin,” he spoke, “Thought you was tryin’ drown me.”

“You ain’t stop.”

“Cause you kept rollin’ that pussy on my face like you was tryna break my jaw.”

“You like that shit.”

He leaned in close again, mouth barely brushing hers, hand still wrapped around his dick, “I like how you taste. That’s what kept me there.”

Sanaa’s lips brushed his, breath sweet from the mango she’d bitten into earlier, “You kissed me so I wouldn’t forget.”

He smiled at that. One of them deep, sharp ones that didn’t reach his eyes, “Nah. I kissed you so you’d remember what you got me doin’. I’m supposed to be chillin’, layin’ low, and now I’m in this kitchen damn near ready to fuck you on this stool.”

“You the one that got on your knees. I was gonna sit and eat my mangos.” Sanaa tilted her hips forward a little, catching the drag of his dick against her folds. Her voice came quieter, more teasing, “Felt like your tongue was tryin’ to reach my throat.”

“That pussy got a grip on me,” he said low, “I was in here mindin’ my business, tryna eat. Soon as you walked out like that, sittin’ pretty on that stool, I knew it was over.”

“You the one who walked up on me,” she whispered.

He groaned through his teeth, grip tightening behind her knees, “That pussy got a grip on me. Soon as I walked in and saw that robe hangin’ off you, it was over.”

“You said you wasn’t gone do nothin’. You said you was chillin’.”

“I was lyin’.”

She smiled, but it didn’t last. He’d pulled her closer to the edge, hooking her knees higher on his forearms now, nudging the head of his dick against her again. She was throbbing, legs already loose, pussy slick from his tongue and her own need.

Erik stared between them like he was thinkin’ hard about a decision he already made, “Say you want it.”

Sanaa looked at him, lips parted, breath shaky, “You see me beggin’?”

“I hear you breathin’ like you need somethin’ back in you.”

“Then put it in.”

“You gone take it like that? No hands?”

“I’ll take it how you give it.”

Erik pulled her off the stool by her thighs. She gasped as her back hit the cold counter behind her and her legs stayed wrapped around his waist. He leaned in and kissed her again, messy this time. Teeth and tongue and soft grunts as his dick slid between her folds, slick and hard, pressing for entrance.

“If I fuck you right here,” he said against her lips, “you gone keep quiet?”

“Only if you make me.”

She hadn’t heard the lock. All she heard was the jingle—then the click.

The front door creaked open.

Erik’s his fingers were pressing low, almost under the curve of her ass. Her robe had slipped down one shoulder again. She’d been mid-laugh, soft and breathy, from whatever nasty thing he had just whispered in her ear after And then—

The door.

They jumped.

She spun away from him so fast she nearly knocked the water bottle off the counter. He moved in the opposite direction, stepping back like he hadn’t just had his palm cupped over the same pussy he’d been inside hours ago. Erik ran a hand down his face, the other tugging his joggers up, and disappeared into the hallway. She heard the quiet creak of his bedroom door shutting.

Sanaa straightened her robe, lips still wet with mango juice and something else, heart pounding—not from guilt, but the sheer adrenaline of being caught almost.

The front door eased all the way open. Keys clinked as they hit the entry table. Boots tapped over the threshold.

She turned and saw Aaliyah.

Her girl looked bomb—but tired. Curls pinned up, a few wisps slipping loose around her face in that soft, effortless way that always made her look ethereal. She was still in her going-out dress—long-sleeved, form-fitting, with an open back that dipped low. Her leather jacket hung off one shoulder like it’d been carried, not worn. And those heeled boots? Clicking across the floor like punctuation marks to a night she clearly wanted to end hours ago.

Sanaa didn’t miss the puffy eyes. The way Aaliyah didn’t speak right away. Just dropped her bag harder than necessary and kicked the door closed with the edge of her boot.

“Hey, boo,” Sanaa called out gently, voice lifting like she hadn’t just been plotting how to get fingered again by her best friend’s brother five seconds ago, “How was your date?”

Aaliyah didn’t answer. Just walked past the kitchen like she didn’t see her.

But Sanaa saw everything.

The clenched jaw. The tight grip she had on her own phone. The silence.

“Hey.” Sanaa moved around the island, robe fluttering around her thighs, “Liyah, what happened?”

Still no answer.

But Aaliyah headed down the hallway, fast, head low, jacket sliding off her shoulder completely now. Her body language screamed don’t ask me anything, which of course meant Sanaa followed. By the time they reached Aaliyah’s bedroom door, Erik’s door swung open.

He was in a white tee now. Barefoot, tattoos still peeking beneath his sleeves. His locs hung around his face, and his expression was no longer just focused. It was sharp. Protective. His eyes cut straight to his little sister.

“You straight?” His voice came low, direct.

Aaliyah didn’t even pause, “Mhm.”

Didn’t look at him. Didn’t clarify.

Just kept walking.

Erik stepped forward. His jaw ticked once.

“Yo. What happened—?”

Sanaa reached out, touched his forearm lightly.

“Let me talk to her,” she said, quiet but firm.

His eyes flicked down to where her fingers rested against his skin. He didn’t move right away. Then he exhaled through his nose, pulled back, and ran his hand over his face again. Walked off without another word, disappearing back into his room with the kind of tension that made it clear he wasn’t done, just paused.

Sanaa turned back to Aaliyah.

The bedroom door was open. She stepped inside and closed it gently behind her, leaving the heat of Erik’s eyes behind—but carrying the weight of both of them into the room with her.

She slid into the desk chair, the leather cool beneath her thighs. She shifted once, crossing her legs, then uncrossing them just as fast. Her body still remembered the way Erik had dropped to his knees in the kitchen—how he tasted her like a hunger he didn’t trust with words. She was still wet and pulsing in the center. And now she had to act like none of that happened. Like she hadn’t been up against the counter moaning while her best friend’s brother tongued her through an orgasm she was still mentally recovering from.

Focus.

Sanaa sat up straighter.

Aaliyah peeled off her dress in silence. Slid the sleeves down. Let the fabric pool around her ankles before she stepped out and grabbed a folded pair of gray sweats and an oversized Howard tee. No bra. No jewelry. Just bare and irritated. She didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled her hair loose from its pin, let her curls fall where they wanted, then crawled onto the bed and flopped onto her stomach like the night had physically bruised her ego.

Sanaa waited. She knew that flop. Knew when her girl needed space. And when the rant was coming.

Aaliyah turned her face into the comforter.

Then groaned.

“I’m so fucking annoyed.”

Sanaa smirked, “I clocked that the second you walked in.”

Aaliyah rolled over onto her back, one arm tossed over her forehead, “It’s not even like he did anything wild wild. It’s just…ugh. I shouldn’t have even gone.”

Sanaa leaned her cheek against her fist, “Wanna talk about it or should I just pass judgment blindly?”

Aaliyah sighed loud, “Girl. Okay.” And then it all poured out, “I sat through a whole date listening to this man talk about his podcast. Not like, mention it once. No. He gave a fucking episode breakdown. Talked about his ‘branding,’ his ‘audience growth,’ and how he’s tryna build a studio in his crib. I swear I asked him how his day was, and got a TED talk.”

Sanaa snorted.

“He ain’t ask me a single question. Not one. I’m sitting there asking him about his projects, acting engaged, being supportive, carrying the conversation like a mule, and the most I got back was, ‘That’s dope, you hella smart.’ Like—sir. What does that even mean?!”

Sanaa leaned back in the chair, “Lazy-ass compliment.”

“Exactly.” Aaliyah sat up now, animated, “And then—then—I finally bring up my fellowship. You know, the one I’m starting next fucking week, and this man looks me dead in the face and says, ‘Damn, that sound like a lot. You sure you ain’t doing too much?’”

Sanaa blinked, “Oh.”

“Oh.”

Sanaa squinted, “Like…he really said that?”

“Deadass.” Aaliyah’s voice pitched up, “‘You doing a lot.’ Like I’m supposed to dim myself so he can feel big. Like my whole ass life is just background music for his weak-ass ambitions.”

“That’s so—” Sanaa couldn’t even finish it. “That’s wild. He’s such a lame ass nigga.” 

“And the worst part?” Aaliyah laid back again, eyes on the ceiling. Voice flat now, “I still fucked him.”

Sanaa’s mouth twitched. “Wait—”

“Because I was already there. Because I was hoping maybe the dick would balance it out. Maybe he wasn’t deep, but he’d be good for something. Girl.”

Sanaa just waited.

Aaliyah groaned into her hands, “It was trash. Like—trash. Lazy strokes. No rhythm. No attention to detail. He came in like four minutes, didn’t even try to get me off, and then had the nerve to say, ‘Damn, you tight. I missed this.’ I’m sitting there like, nigga, did you? Because the dick said otherwise.”

Sanaa cracked up. Covered her mouth but couldn’t help it.

“I wasted a dress. I wasted coochie. I shaved, Sanaa. I shaved for that man.”

“Girl…”

“I should’ve stayed my ass home and finished my reading for SisterSong. At least that would’ve fed my mind.”

Sanaa nodded, legs uncrossing again. She was trying not to squirm in the chair.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, “You didn’t deserve that. Too good for this shit.” 

“I know I didn’t.” Aaliyah exhaled, “And now I’m irritated, I’m sore, I got nothing to show for it but a weak-ass orgasm that I gave myself when he rolled over.”

Sanaa grimaced, “Oooh. That’s dark.”

“It’s real.” Aaliyah turned to face her now, “You ever have those moments where you just be like, I should’ve chosen myself tonight? Like, truly. Fully. Just stayed home, lit your incense, ordered good food, and protected your energy?”

Sanaa swallowed, “Yeah,” she said, “I know that feeling.”

And she did.

She just wasn’t about to tell Aaliyah that choosing herself had looked like letting her brother lift her onto the counter and eat her like a last meal twenty minutes before she walked in.

She leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees, “You blocked him?”

“Oh, immediately,” Aaliyah said, “He texted ‘you home safe?’ and I deleted the whole thread. I need energy right now. I need passion, not podcasts. Not failing rap careers. I’m tryna build, not babysit.”

Sanaa smiled, “That’s a bar.”

“I’m for real.”

“I know you are. And you’re right.”

They sat in silence for a beat. Aaliyah curled deeper into her comforter, rubbing her temple.

“I think I’m just tired of giving people the benefit of the doubt,” she spoke, “Like…I’ve worked too hard for this. I want a partner, not a fucking follower.”

Sanaa nodded again, slower this time. Voice softer.

“You will have that. For real. You got too much vision not to attract somebody with their own.”

Aaliyah didn’t respond at first. Then she smiled, eyes still closed.

“Thanks, Bri.”

Sanaa stood and stretched, arms rising high, fingers lacing above her head. Her robe shifted again, brushing open along her thigh. She adjusted it lazily, not really caring whether it stayed closed or not.

“Alright,” she said through a soft yawn, mostly to shift the energy, “Lemme go drink my water before I turn into a raisin. Go wash that nigga off and get you some rest, bitch.” 

Aaliyah smirked, still wrapped in her comforter burrito, one foot sticking out at the edge, “Bring me a ginger ale if you feel generous.”

Sanaa leaned down and wrapped her arms around her, pulling her into a soft squeeze. Aaliyah melted into it.

“Love you,” Sanaa mumbled into her hair.

“Love you back, Bri.”

Sanaa kissed the side of her temple and turned toward the door. She slipped out, quiet again, closing it gently behind her. The hallway air hit different. Cooler. Still. But heavy—like it had been waiting on her. She paused to adjust her robe again.

That’s when she heard Aaliyah’s voice behind the door.

“Bri?”

Sanaa turned, still walking slow down the hall, “Huh?”

The bedroom door cracked open just a little. Aaliyah’s face peeked out, lips pursed like she already knew what she was about to say was petty.

“You alright?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe, “You walking like somebody rearranged your spine.”

Sanaa laughed, trying to wave her off, “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” Aaliyah tilted her head, “Why you walking like that? And hold up…” She squinted, eyes zeroing in on Sanaa’s head like a laser, “Girl, is your hair…?”

Sanaa paused mid-step. 

Aaliyah stepped out just a little more, arms folded, “Nah. Don’t try to tuck it behind your ear now. I know that ain’t the same silk press you had yesterday.”

Sanaa smoothed her hair quickly, but it was no use. The roots were thick with humidity, edges no longer laid, ends curling in that telltale way that only meant one thing. Sweat. Lots of it.

“Your shit puffed up like you ran track in the rain.”

Sanaa blinked, lips parted in protest, but she had nothing. Just laughter bubbling up from her throat.

“I knew it,” Aaliyah said, hands on her hips now, grinning hard, “Somebody been in your guts. Nathan snuck up in here, huh?” 

Sanaa doubled over laughing, “Girl, shut the hell up. Ain’t nobody been in my nothing.”

“Mmhmm. You walked outta here with your hair laid like a fresh press. Now look at you. You got kitchen curls and a crook in your back.”

“I do not have a crook in my back.”

“Okay. So you just woke up swollen, sore, and sweating through your roots?”

Sanaa backed up, still laughing, trying to end it, “Bye.”

“You nasty,” Aaliyah said behind her, voice teasing, “You ain’t even slick. Talking ‘bout Nathan ain’t come over…”

“He didn’t!” Sanaa called over her shoulder.

“That’s the story you sticking to?” Aaliyah shouted from the doorway, “Cause your walk saying different.”

“Let me live!”

Sanaa was still laughing when she disappeared around the corner, tugging her robe tighter and wiping under her eyes.

The hallway stretched quiet again.

Then Erik stepped out of his room.

White tee on. Shoulders broad and tight. Gold catching the light when he licked his bottom lip.

He didn’t say a word. Just looked down the hallway into Aaliyah’s room.

Aaliyah met his stare with a squint.

“You been standing there the whole time?” she asked.

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, “I know where that nigga Jordan stay.”

Aaliyah groaned, “Oh my God—”

“I’m not gon’ pull up or nothing,” Erik said, voice calm like he wasn’t already halfway planning it, “But if you give me the word, I’ll rearrange his teeth.”

Aaliyah folded her arms and leaned in her doorway, a lazy smirk creeping across her face.

“I don’t need a hitman,” she said, “I need a ginger ale and my peace back.”

Erik gave a single nod, “He say something reckless to you?”

“He said a lot of things. None of it worth the gas it took to get there.”

Erik stared at her a beat longer.

Then, “I ain’t like him anyway.”

“You don’t like anybody, N’Jadaka!”

“That’s because most of ‘em ain’t good enough.”

She shook her head, finally cracking a real smile.

“You gon’ be real annoying when I do find somebody, huh?”

“I’m already annoying.”

They both laughed.

Then Aaliyah nodded once, gently, “I’m good, big head. For real.”

Erik gave her one more long, silent look. Then turned back down the hall. Aaliyah watched him walk off, then shut her door softly.

———

The air in the apartment shifted. Not loud. Not sudden. Just…different. Like the silence between notes in a song when the next beat’s already hanging in the air.

She saw him again the next morning. Just a few feet away, in the kitchen this time. The same one where she damn near lost consciousness on his tongue. Erik stood in front of the open fridge in a sleeveless tee, forearm flexed as he reached for the oat milk, sweatpants hanging low, waistband slung under that sharp line of his stomach.

Sanaa stood frozen by the sink with her glass half full, trying to act normal.

She couldn’t sit too long on the couch without adjusting. Couldn’t fold her legs without feeling the way he bent her in half. Her thighs remembered. Her clit? Still twitchy from the memory of how he zeroed in on it like it was his favorite thing in the world. Every time he passed by her, she felt it again. That pressure in her core, that fullness that wasn’t quite there but still pulsing.

She dressed different now. Just a little. Tops with a lower scoop, soft and snug enough to frame her cleavage just right—round, high, and barely restrained. No bra. Nipples pressing faint outlines against cotton like they had something to say. The shorts? Cheeky, literally. Cut so that the under-curve of her ass peeked out when she walked or leaned forward just a little. When Aaliyah was around, Sanaa threw on an oversized cardigan, pretending it was just comfort. But the moment her best friend left the room? That cardigan came off like it was shedding permission. And Erik would see everything—cleavage soft and glowing under the light, her thighs gleaming, the bottom of her ass catching his eye like it knew it was being watched. Lip gloss stayed on. Even when she wasn’t going nowhere. She told herself it was for her, but deep down? It was for him. She wanted to break his concentration. Wanted him to feel what she felt: that pull, that ache, that slow, tight twist of wanting someone you weren’t supposed to touch but already had.

At night, she slept in the hoodie she stole from his room. The soft, worn cotton smelled like him. Like skin and weed and whatever cologne he always used. She’d turn her face into the collar, breathing it in, rubbing her thighs together slow, letting her fingers tease but not finish. Not yet. She didn’t want to come unless it was for him.

He watched her different too. Thought she didn’t notice, but she did. Always quiet and stealthy. Still. Like he was calculating something. Watching her move from the couch, the counter, the hallway, her bedroom, the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She felt his eyes on her even when her back was turned. Especially then. He lingered in doorways longer. Took his time lighting his blunt out on the balcony when she was in the kitchen. Let the smoke curl while he listened to her on the phone with one of her girls, laughing low and raspy. That laugh made him clench his jaw. Every time.

She wasn’t being obvious, but she wasn’t hiding either. When he walked in after her, the bathroom still full of steam, and that post-shower scent was hanging in the air—coconut and something soft underneath—he stood there for a beat too long. Inhaling. Letting his eyes drop to the towel hanging behind the door. Wondering if it had touched her thighs.

Sanaa felt him before she saw him. Could feel his eyes on her ass when she bent down for something in the fridge. Could feel the weight of his stare tracing the back of her thighs when she walked through the living room in those tiny shorts. She gripped her glass tighter whenever he spoke. And Erik? He noticed. Not just that. He noticed everything. The lip gloss. The way she rolled her eyes when she was pretending not to be nervous. The way she’d sway her hips as she walked. The faint bruise on her neck he remembered putting there when he sucked on her neck. 

At night, he laid in bed hard as hell. One arm behind his head, the other wrapped around his dick, stroking it slow, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. He’d picture her riding him—eyes low, mouth parted, her voice high and needy. He’d stroke to the image of her gripping his forearm, her back arched, that little whimper she made when she got too full.

But he always stopped before he came.

It didn’t feel right if it wasn’t her. Didn’t feel good enough unless her fingers were the ones doing it. Unless her mouth was wrapped around him. Unless it was her hips grinding down, her nails clawing into his chest.

He wanted her again. Bad. But he had to act normal. Because his sister was home. Because it was wrong. Because he was supposed to be the one in control.

And she kept looking at him like she wanted to be ruined all over again. That look? That look was gonna fuck around and get her pinned to the wall.

Act normal.

He said it to himself every time she walked in the room. But his eyes always followed her. His hands always twitched. His dick never stayed soft for long. She didn’t even have to say a word.

He already knew.

She was thinking about it too.

The sun had dipped just past the horizon when Erik unlocked the door and stepped back into the apartment, the scent of grilled food and spice trailing behind him. He needed the fresh air. Needed to get out of that cramped, sexually-charged space where his sister moved freely and Sanaa floated around like temptation in skin.

He wore it casual—black graphic tee hanging, cargo pants slouched just right over his Jordan 4s. His locs were pulled back low, neat and thick, a few strands left loose to frame his face. The gold Cuban link chain sat heavy around his neck. His watch caught the light from the kitchen as he moved, onyx studs glinting in both ears. Even relaxed, he looked like a threat. Not the kind you run from. The kind you run toward even when you know better.

The bag of leftovers swung from his wrist as he kicked the door closed behind him, making a beeline for the kitchen. He set the bag down, pulled it apart, started pulling the boxes out one by one. The seafood jambalaya, the sweet potato cornbread, the smoked cabbage. But tucked between the napkins and sauce packets was something folded. Small. A slip of paper.

He paused. Picked it up.

Unfolded.

A phone number. A name with a heart drawn next to it. 

Kim. 

He shook his head. Tongue clicked low in his mouth. Cute girl. Pretty smile. But she wasn’t what he wanted.

Erik crushed the paper in his palm and dropped it into the trash. Didn’t even think twice.

He grabbed a water from the fridge, cracked the cap, and made his way down the hall—shoulders wide, step slow. His body was tired, worked up from walking through DC air and that tight coil of tension he couldn’t shake. Tension that started and ended with her.

And then he saw it.

Her.

Door cracked.

She was curled up in bed, propped against a pillow, glasses sliding low on her nose as she bit the end of her pen, bare legs pulled up. His hoodie hanging off one shoulder, draped over her frame like it belonged there. Like she’d been wearing it all her life.

He slowed his pace.

Stared.

Her hair was slicked into a low bun, edges soft and perfect, glinting under the lamplight. Silver hoops caught the glow, framing her face. Her toes—painted white—rested atop the covers, gold anklets catching the light as she shifted just a little. Her fingers—French tipped and delicate—flipped the page of a textbook slow. Real slow. Like she felt him watching.

She did.

Sanaa looked up.

And froze.

The tension hit like a silent alarm. Her breath stalled. She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just drank him in. From the fresh line-up hugging his jaw to the thickness of his arms under that shirt. The way the cargo pants sat on his hips. The way his chain moved when he sipped from the bottle. The way he looked at her like he didn’t give a fuck about what was right or wrong.

She licked her lips. Forgot to look away.

His eyes flicked from her glasses to her thighs to that damn hoodie she was swimming in.

His hoodie.

He didn’t say shit.

Just took a step closer.

The air between them? Electric. Full of everything they couldn’t say. The memory of her knees on the counter. His face buried in her. Her hands pulling his hair while she cried his name through clenched teeth.

He knew what her skin tasted like. She knew how his hands felt gripping the back of her thighs. But now? They had to act normal. And normal looked like silence stretching between a cracked door and a hallway shadow. Normal looked like his dick pressing against the inside of his cargos and her legs rubbing together under the blanket she suddenly felt too exposed under.

“Hey,” she said finally, voice low, a little breathless.

“Hey,” he replied, jaw clenched, still staring.

And then he kept walking, like it didn’t kill him to do it. Like he didn’t want to turn back, push that door open wider, and climb into that bed she was laying in. She watched his shadow disappear down the hall. Her chest rose, heart thumping, pulse thick between her thighs.

By the time Erik stepped out of his room again, he’d changed into something looser. A soft white tank, grey jersey shorts slung low on his hips, chain still resting against his chest, his locs half-up now, the rest hanging down over his shoulders. The tension in his shoulders was still there, so he grabbed the small wooden box from the top drawer of his dresser—the one Miss Marva gifted him—and took it out to the balcony.

Lamb’s Bread.

Bright. Sticky. The kind that smelled like sunshine and soil. No crossbred, overprocessed American strain. This was the real ting. Pure from yard. Rasta-grade. Miss Marva had handed it to him with a little smile last time she oiled his scalp and tightened his roots. “Just somethin’ to center your spirit, baby boy,” she’d said in that thick Trinidadian lilt, her hands fast but gentle. “You been tense lately. I can feel it in the way your hair growin’.”

He smiled at the memory, settled down on the lounge chair, and cracked open the box. The bud glistened under the string lights wrapped around the balcony railing. Bright green and dense, singing with citrus and something sweeter underneath. He plucked off a nug, broke it down with his grinder like it was a meditation. A moment to realign.

The blunt lit easy. Smooth pull. Hit his chest like clarity. He leaned back, lips wrapped around the tip, eyes half-lidded as smoke pushed from his nostrils and curled up into the late-night air. The city below hummed low. Not too loud. Just enough to remind you it was alive. He didn’t even flinch when the balcony door slid open behind him.

She stepped out like a dream in soft motion—Sanaa. Still in his hoodie. Still in her glasses. Now with fuzzy cheetah-print slippers on her feet. She didn’t ask to join. Just sank into the opposite lounge chair with a little sigh, pulled her legs up beneath her, and settled in like this was routine. Like they hadn’t been avoiding each other. Like he hadn’t eaten her pussy in the kitchen with a hunger that still made her twitch.

She didn’t look at him right away. Just scrolled her phone. Light tapping sounds from her acrylics on the screen.

Then, “Where you went off to lookin’ all fine like that?”

Her tone was light. Casual. But the way her eyes cut over to him from behind those lenses said different. Erik chuckled low in his throat, didn’t even turn his head. Just pulled another hit and exhaled slow.

“Solo date,” he said, flicking ash into the tray beside him, “Needed some air.”

“Oh yeah?” she teased, biting the corner of her bottom lip. “No lil D.C. chick out there waiting to feed you and rub on your chest a little?”

He finally looked over at her. Eyes dark. Steady, “Nah.” Then, slower—so low it almost slipped past the breeze, “You know why.”

The words hung between them, hot and dangerous. He held her gaze just long enough to make her press her thighs together under the hoodie. Then he glanced back inside the apartment, through the slightly cracked curtain, eyes checking for any sign of movement.

No footsteps. No Aaliyah.

Safe.

“You good with school?” he asked. Voice smoother now. A little gentler, “You ready for graduation?”

Sanaa swallowed, the switch in tone making her pulse skip. He always did that—moved from heat to softness so quick it left her dizzy.

“I’m good,” she said, tucking her feet tighter beneath her, “Almost done. Just gotta get through finals.”

“You will.” His voice was firm. Certain.

She nodded but kept her eyes on him, lips pressed into a smirk, “You sound like somebody’s big brother.”

“I am somebody’s big brother.”

“Right,” she said, dragging the word out slow, “That’s the problem.”

He looked back at her. Smoke curled between them again. Eyes low. Body relaxed but not soft. His thigh bounced once, slowly. Like restraint took effort. Sanaa licked her lips. Erik watched her do it.

Neither of them moved.

The city buzzed. The blunt burned slow. The hoodie hung too big on her frame, but her nipples pressed against it all the same. His eyes dropped to her thighs once—quick, but not quick enough. She caught it.

She smiled.

He leaned back again.

Erik’s head was tipped back, exhaling toward the sky like it held answers. That low hum of the city stretched under them, broken only by the soft scroll-click of Sanaa’s phone.

Then came her voice.

“Who were you talking to on the phone the other day?”

Her tone wasn’t accusing. Just curious. Light. But he could feel the weight beneath it. She didn’t miss shit. Erik’s jaw ticked. He didn’t look at her right away. Just tapped ash into the tray and took another hit.

“Work shit.”

That was all he gave her. Short. Controlled.

Sanaa shifted on the lounge chair, pulling her legs in tighter, “Work shit where you gotta leave again soon?”

This time, he did look. Eyes sharp. Smoke dancing around his lips.

“Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes and turned her head, lips twisted like she was already annoyed.

That made him grin.

“Why you rollin’ your eyes, Bri?” he asked, low and teasing, “You don’t want me to leave?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

He watched her through the smoke, smirk deepening, “I gotta handle business, baby girl,” he said, voice dropped a register lower, “Get in Killmonger mode.”

That did something to her.

She didn’t speak, but her body reacted all the same. Her thighs pressed together under the hoodie. Her breathing shifted, barely. Her eyes stayed locked on his like she was seeing something more than a man with a blunt and a chain—like she was seeing the danger. The power. The one behind the name. And it stirred something in her. Something deep. Something wet. That look she gave him—glass still on, lips parted just a touch, head tilted in that slow burn way—was louder than any words. A quiet hunger. A pulse-quickening dare.

Erik sat forward, elbows on his knees, blunt between his fingers. Caught it. Felt it. Didn’t speak on it. Just held her stare until the silence started to crackle with heat.Then he blew the smoke to the side and leaned back again, like he hadn’t just clocked the exact second she got wet for him. Like he hadn’t just filed that reaction away for later.

She looked away first. Pretended to check her phone.

But her fingers were trembling.

Sanaa leaned back deeper into the lounge chair, phone resting against her thigh, pretending she was scrolling through nothing in particular. Her face stayed neutral. Calm. Unbothered. But her thumb slid into her hidden folder. And there it was. The video.

Her breath caught just a little when it loaded.

It was her. On her knees. Hair messy. Lips glossy. Eyes soft and needy. His hand in her hair, guiding her mouth. His voice low and approving somewhere off camera. The way she took him deep, slow, hollowing her cheeks, looking up at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. She watched it on silent. Her thighs pressed together automatically. Her pussy reacted before her mind did, warmth blooming, pulse fluttering. She shifted in her seat, pretending it was nothing, while inside her body was lighting up like it remembered everything. She studied herself. The way her lips stretched. The way her tongue moved. The way she looked up at the camera, eyes dark and trusting and filthy all at once. The way he fed her his dick like he owned her mouth. Her breathing changed. Subtle. But different.

She replayed it. Once. Twice.

Her fingers tightened around her phone.

Then she made a decision.

Slowly, casually, like she wasn’t about to set something on fire, she tapped “send.”

Erik’s phone buzzed.

Once.

He barely reacted at first. Just reached for it out of habit, still half-lounged, smoke drifting from his lips.

Then he saw the preview. And froze.

His body went still like somebody had pressed pause. The blunt burned down between his fingers, forgotten. On his screen: her mouth wrapped around him. Her eyes locked on his. His hand in her hair.

Them.

His jaw tightened. His chest lifted on a sharp inhale. He stared at it like it might disappear if he blinked.

It didn’t.

Across from him, Sanaa was still scrolling. Still relaxed. Still pretending she was reading a group chat or checking Instagram. Like she hadn’t just dropped a sexual grenade in his lap.

Erik locked his phone. Then he looked at her.

Hard.

She felt it before she saw it. That heat. That pressure. That silent what the fuck are you doing to me look.

She finally glanced up.

Blink. Blink.

“Including me in your smoke session now?” she asked lightly.

Innocent. Too innocent.

He stared at her for a long second, then leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the armrest, eyes dark and dangerous.

“You play too much,” he said quietly.

She shrugged, “Do I?”

Her legs shifted again under the hoodie. Slow. On purpose.

The blunt burned low in the ashtray now, forgotten. The air on the balcony had changed. Thicker. Stickier. The silence between them was too loud—charged by the video she’d sent and the look Erik was giving her now. He sat up, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loose between his thighs, eyes locked on her like she was the problem and the solution all at once.

“How the fuck you get my hoodie?”

Sanaa didn’t miss a beat, “Went in your room and took it.”

His eyebrows rose, “You just goin’ through my shit now?”

She smirked and leaned back, pulling the hoodie tighter around herself like it was her birthright, “You got a fleshlight in there I wasn’t supposed to see?”

“Fuck outta here,” Erik snapped, shaking his head with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I don’t use no fuckin’ fleshlight.” Then he looked dead at her, “Not when my personal fleshlight sittin’ right there.”

That shut her up. Quick.

Her throat moved when she swallowed. Legs stilled. That cocky little smile faded—just a little—but not from embarrassment. Not from shame. From heat. That low, throbbing rush that hit her in the center of her body like a punch.

She didn’t look away.

Erik leaned back slow, eyes trailing over her thighs, her lips, her smug quiet, “You a bratty little girl,” he whispered, “You like pissing me off. You like it when I check you.”

Sanaa tilted her head, “Thought I was off limits?” she said, voice quiet but sharp, “Thought I wasn’t ready for you?”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees now, that same look she gave him in the video crawling back into her eyes.

“You don’t sound like you ready to be done with me.”

Erik stared at her. She could see his jaw tense, the way his tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, the shift in his chest as his breathing changed. His phone buzzed again. Another text. Erik glanced down, expecting more of the same—but what hit his screen made his breath catch low in his chest. It was a picture. Of her.

Sanaa.

Laid out on the bed, phone angled from her chest, camera facing down her body. Legs spread wide. Pussy glistening. Lips stretched open, two fingers spreading herself wide, creamy and wet like she’d been playing with it for a while. Her other hand held the phone, but her eyes were locked on the camera—on him—tongue poked out, spit dripping from the tip like she knew exactly what that look did to him.

Like a nasty little slut.

Erik’s grip tightened on the phone.

He blinked. Once. Twice. His jaw set hard as his dick twitched, painfully stiff now, throbbing under his shorts. His stomach clenched. His chest rose slow like he was trying to control something that was seconds from snapping.

He looked up at her.

She was already watching him. Already waiting. And just like that, Sanaa lifted her legs up onto the lounge chair and spread her knees.

The hoodie shifted. The hem hiked.

No panties.

Bare.

Erik groaned under his breath, low and guttural, a quiet growl scraping his throat as his whole mouth filled with saliva. She had him starving. That little pussy glistened under the moonlight like it was sending him a message. He didn’t know what the fuck it was about her. This little freak. This bratty, bold-mouthed girl who walked around in barely anything and sending him videos on her knees and sucking fat dick, now showing him how wet she stayed without even being touched. His fists clenched. He was about five seconds from grabbing her by the back of the neck, carrying her inside, and dropping her right on his dick.

His eyes dropped to her thighs again. Up to her eyes. Down to her spit-slick tongue. He was about to move. Then they spotted her.

Aaliyah.

Walking out into the living room, lit by the blue glow of the TV. Pajama shorts, bonnet, a bowl of cereal in her hand. She headed straight for the kitchen, then paused—her eyes flicked toward the balcony. Sanaa moved fast. Legs dropped. Thighs snapped shut. Hoodie tugged down just enough to cover the evidence. She picked up her phone like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t just been showing her best friend’s brother the wettest pussy he’d ever seen.

The sliding door eased open.

“Bitch, you out here smoking weed?” Aaliyah squinted as she stepped onto the balcony, “Last time you did that shit you was paranoid, talkin’ bout somebody laced it.”

“Nah. I just needed some air,” she said, voice even, casual, as if she hadn’t just been showing her pussy to her best friend’s brother seconds before.

She stood slow, hoodie falling back down over her thighs. Gave a soft stretch like she was bored. Slid her phone into her pocket.

Then, before walking back inside, she cast one last look at Erik.

Up and down.

Real slow.

Like she could still taste him.

———

The apartment was quiet except for the low flicker of the TV. Sanaa was curled up on the couch in a pair of tiny sleep shorts and a tank top with no bra, her legs crossed at the ankles, one foot swinging lazily in the air. Glasses still on. Phone resting face up beside her on the cushion, speaker on. Nathan’s voice drifted through, casual and familiar.

She giggled at something he said, fingers tracing lazy circles on her thigh, “You stupid,” she whispered into a smile, biting her bottom lip.

The microwave clock flashed 2:11 a.m.

Erik came out of the hallway shirtless, wearing loose black sweats and nothing else. He looked half-asleep, half-annoyed, rubbing a hand over his chest as he walked to the kitchen with a takeout container in hand. As he opened the trash, the sound of Sanaa’s voice made him pause. He glanced over his shoulder.

That’s when she looked up. Right at him. Still on the phone. Smiling. 

And when her eyes found his, they didn’t move. She just held that look like a dare, lips parted, lazy and slow. Then she waved him over, two fingers flicking in a “come here” motion, subtle and slick.

Erik stared for a second. He looked down at the trash, then back at her.

Then he came.

Didn’t say a word. Just walked over and dropped onto the other end of the couch. The cushions shifted. He leaned back, arms folded over his chest, eyes glued to the screen like he was watching something that mattered.

But inside? Inside he was burning.

Why was she still talking to that nigga?

Nathan was mid-story, something about his job, some girl he dated before. Erik wasn’t listening, not really. But Sanaa laughed again. That same soft, teasing laugh she gave Erik like she wanted to sneak into his bed and tug on his shorts under the sheets.

She shifted closer. Not much. Just enough that her thigh brushed his. Erik didn’t move but he cut his eyes down at her, then flicked them toward the hall. She leaned into him, body soft and warm, and whispered a “shh” like he was the one causing problems.

Then her hand dropped. Low. Over his crotch. She dragged her fingers slow over the front of his sweats. Light at first. Teasing. Then firmer. Stroking his print like it was hers to touch. Erik’s arms stayed folded, but his chest rose. Once. Twice. Then she rubbed harder, the heel of her palm dragging along his shaft. Erik turned his head and stared down at her hand. Then up at her face.

What the fuck was she doing?

She was on the damn phone. Still talking.

Nathan’s voice came through the speaker: “So when can I take you out again, Sanaa?”

Erik’s jaw flexed.

Sanaa blinked slow. She didn’t answer right away. Her hand was already inside Erik’s waistband, her fingers curling around the length of him. Stroking. Sliding. Her thumb grazed the underside of the head, watching the way his body tightened beneath her touch.

“Um…” she said lightly, pretending to think, “I’m not sure. I been kinda busy lately. But I’ll let you know.”

Nathan said something back, but Erik didn’t hear it. All he could focus on was how warm and soft her palm felt. How good it felt to have her fingers moving over his shaft like that. She was stroking him slow. Intentional. Like she was painting a picture for herself. Like she was trying to see how hard she could make him while another man’s voice filled the room.

Then she picked the phone up and placed it on the end table. Still on speaker. Nathan was talking about reservations now, something about a place downtown. Sanaa slid down off the couch. Settled right between Erik’s legs on her knees, her tank riding up in the back. The glow of the television flickered across her skin. Erik leaned his head back, nostrils flared, his abs flexing as she pulled his dick out fully, thick and hard and heavy in her grip. She didn’t speak. Just started stroking him again.

Long, slow pulls.

Her eyes locked on his.

Erik looked down at her, his arms now stretched over the back of the couch, trying to breathe quiet through his nose. He should’ve pushed her off. Should’ve told her to stop. But all he could do was sit there and watch that pretty little hand work him like she ain’t give a fuck who was on the other end of the line.

Nathan was still talking. But Sanaa? She had his whole dick in both hands now, twisting, stroking, tongue peeking out against her lip like she was considering taking it in her mouth just to see how far she could go before Erik lost it.

His stomach tightened. He hissed low under his breath.

Sanaa smiled up at him, soft and nasty. And went back to stroking.

Erik’s body was tense, but he didn’t move, not when she slid both hands up his thighs, not when she leaned in closer, not when her mouth hovered over his dick like she was about to say grace. Sanaa’s lashes lowered as her lips pressed a soft kiss to his tip. Just one. Then another. Erik’s jaw ticked, and he let out a quiet breath through his nose, eyes flicking toward the hallway.

She kissed the head again, slower this time, a little wetter, tongue peeking out to taste the bead of precum collecting at the tip. Erik’s lips parted, his hand balled into a fist and came up to his mouth as he stifled a laugh, because what the fuck was she doing? She was really doing this right now. Right here. While her little phone date was still talking into the air like he mattered.

Nathan’s voice came through again, soft and curious: “What you doing now?”

Sanaa didn’t look up right away. She kissed Erik’s tip again, then dragged her tongue gently around the crown, slow and lazy like she was savoring it. Then she glanced at the phone, smiled faintly, and answered like it was nothing.

“I’m eating.”

Erik gave her a sharp look, one brow lifting like she was out of her damn mind. She grinned at his expression, lips shiny, and then she wrapped them fully around the tip and started sucking.

Her mouth made a soft suction sound as she eased down just enough to let the head press against her tongue, then pulled back with a gentle pop. Erik’s hips jerked once. His eyes slammed shut for a second. When they opened, he looked back down the hall again, half-expecting to see Aaliyah standing there, but the hallway was still empty. Still dark. Just them. Sanaa’s lips closed tighter this time as she started working the tip with smooth, wet strokes of her mouth, each pass sending a chill crawling up Erik’s spine. He leaned back further against the couch, hands gripping the cushions, teeth buried in his bottom lip. She was barely taking him in, just teasing that thick head, but the way she did it made his toes curl in his socks. The pressure of her lips. The way her tongue flattened and dragged each time she came up. It was like she wanted to see just how much she could make him feel with the least amount of effort.

He looked down at her, eyes dark, chest rising slow but deep. She glanced up mid-suck, eyes glossy and wicked. And Nathan? Still talking. Still clueless. Erik didn’t know whether to laugh again or pull her off and take her right there. But he didn’t do either. He let her keep going. Let her use her mouth however she wanted. Let that pretty little lie she told—“I’m eating”—hang in the air like it was true. Because right now? She was. And he was letting her.

Her mouth settled into a steady rhythm, lips sealed tight around Erik’s tip, tongue pressing and dragging underneath with just enough pressure to make his thighs tense. She worked him slow and deep at first, easing down a little farther with every pass, letting more of his thick length slide into her mouth before pulling back up again. Each time she came up, she kissed the head softly like she was apologizing for how good she was about to make it feel.

Erik’s face told the whole story.

His brows stayed furrowed, jaw clenched like he was fighting himself, but his lips kept parting without permission. Every time her mouth tightened, his nostrils flared. Every time her tongue flicked against the sensitive spot underneath, his eyes fluttered shut for half a second before he forced them back open. He stared down the hallway like he was guarding a crime scene, neck stretched, shoulders tense, body locked in place except for the subtle roll of his hips when she hit him just right.

His hand slid from the couch cushion to his thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.

Sanaa popped her lips off him suddenly, a quiet wet sound filling the room. Erik sucked in a sharp breath, chest heaving, eyes snapping down to her in protest. Before he could say anything, she reached over and unmuted the phone.

“Mmm, yeah, that sound nice,” she said casually, voice sweet and normal, “We’ll see.”

Then she muted it again. And went right back to work.

Her mouth closed around him deeper this time, taking more of his length, cheeks hollowing as she sucked with real intention. Her hands joined in, one at the base, twisting slow, the other sliding up and down in sync with her lips. She was focused now. Locked in. Like she had decided she wasn’t stopping until she made him lose control.

Erik dropped his head back against the couch. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. A low sound rumbled out of his chest before he could stop it, somewhere between a groan and a curse. He pressed his lips together, then licked them slowly, trying to stay quiet, trying to stay aware of his surroundings, trying not to embarrass himself by losing it while another man was still talking in the background. He glanced down the hall again.

Sanaa’s pace picked up just a little, enough to make his stomach tighten. She alternated between slow, deep pulls and fast, shallow sucks on the head, her tongue tracing circles that made his knees weak. Every time she pulled back, she let spit string between her lips and his dick before sealing her mouth around him again.

Erik’s eyes rolled back for a second. He clenched his jaw.

“Fuck,” he mouthed silently, shoulders lifting with a sharp breath.

She popped off him again, unmuted, “Mm-hmm, I know,” she said softly into the phone, “That sound good.”

Muted it.

Then took him back in immediately, deeper than before, her nose brushing his skin, her throat relaxing just enough to make him gasp. His hands flew up to grip the back of the couch. His head fell back. His eyes closed. Then opened again just to check the hall one more time. His body was starting to betray him now. His hips rocked forward without permission. His thighs were tight. His abs were flexed so hard they hurt. His breathing was uneven, shallow, broken up by quiet hisses every time her mouth tightened.

Sanaa felt it. She felt him getting close. The way his stomach jumped. The way his dick twitched in her mouth. The way his breath stuttered every time she went deep. She slowed just enough to torture him. Worked the head slow. Dragged her tongue under. Sucked harder. Erik’s head fell back again, neck exposed, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as he stared down the hallway through heavy lashes.

He whispered under his breath, barely audible, “Ma… don’t…”

But his hands never moved to stop her. And she didn’t listen anyway. Because she was determined to make him cum.

Right there.

With Nathan still talking.

His grip on the couch tightened until his knuckles flexed. His jaw locked. His lips pressed together so hard they almost disappeared.

She knew that look. That was the look he got right before he lost it. So she didn’t ease up. She doubled down. Her mouth slid down him slowly, taking him as deep as she could, relaxing her throat, letting him fill it. Her hands stayed steady at his base, twisting gently, keeping the rhythm perfect. Her tongue flattened underneath him, stroking that sensitive spot over and over, dragging slow and firm like she was coaxing it out of him on purpose.

Erik’s head dropped back. His eyes squeezed shut. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. A sound tried to escape his mouth. He trapped it. Bit down on his bottom lip. Brought his fist back to his mouth and pressed it there, breathing through his nose, shoulders trembling as he fought himself with everything he had. He glanced down the hallway one last time through half-lidded eyes, checking, praying, making sure nobody was there to see him come apart like this.

Sanaa took him deep again. Held him there. Sucked hard.

And that was it.

His whole body locked up. His back arched slightly off the couch. His abs clenched. His thighs went rigid. And he came.

Hard.

Thick warmth flooded her mouth and throat as he spilled, pulsing against her tongue, wave after wave after wave. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t hesitate. She kept her mouth sealed around him, swallowing everything he gave her, staying right there until he was completely spent.

Erik’s breath hitched sharply in his chest. His head fell back against the cushion. His eyes rolled closed. His fist stayed pressed to his mouth as his body shook with the aftershocks, silent and restrained and barely contained. A low, broken exhale slipped through his nose, the closest he allowed himself to come to making a sound.

He stayed frozen for a moment. Like he was afraid if he moved, he would give himself away.

Sanaa slowly pulled back. Her lips were shiny. Her eyes were soft and satisfied. She swallowed once more, deliberately, then looked up at him with a quiet little smile that said she knew exactly what she had just done to him.

The phone was still on the table. Nathan was still talking. Completely unaware.

She had no business takin’ all that dick like that. But there she was. Hands locked above her head. Legs bent up by her shoulders. And Erik? Erik was deep. Guttin’ her slow and steady while he watched her face twist up beneath him.

His locs swung low, sweat glistenin’ down the dark golden glow of his chest, over every raised scar like the map of a war he’d already won. Those thick lips parted just enough for his breath to brush her jaw as he leaned close.

“You gon’ keep this pussy open for me?” he grunted, voice low, Oakland thick.

She nodded, mouth open, eyes glassy.

“Nah, you gotta say it. Say who this shit belong to.”

“You—”

He rolled his hips once—deep, nasty, pelvis flush with hers. Her toes curled. Nails scratched the sheets.

“Try again,” he said, baring those gold slugs when he smirked, “Who pussy is this, Princess?”

“Yours, Daddy—shit—it’s yours!”

“That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

He moved in again, deeper than before. All pressure. All stroke. Her body went limp under him, thighs trembling around his waist. She tried to hold on. Tried to breathe. But he was so deep she could feel him in her fuckin’ chest. He pulled out just enough to slap the tip against her clit, made her jolt.

“Put that leg up higher, yeah. Just like that.”

Then he slid back in. Long, hard, heavy strokes. The kind that turned moans into whimpers. The kind that made you forget what time it was. What your name was.

She started talkin’ too much, too soft.

“Erik—”

He stopped mid-stroke. That look in his eye? Gone was the smirk. Gone was the tease. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

“What you just call me?” he said, voice low and sharp.

She swallowed, eyes wide.

“I—”

He dragged his dick out slow, to the tip. Gripped her jaw hard enough to make her eyes water.

“That’s not my name, Princess.”

Before she could beg, he slammed back into her. The bed jerked. Headboard slammed the wall. Her body rocked under the force.

“I said that’s not my fuckin’ name!”

Now she was screamin’. Beggin’. Tryin’ to climb up the bed like he wasn’t holdin’ her down by the throat and drivin’ dick into her like she owed him money and answers.

“You think this some casual shit?” His voice stayed rough, hot in her ear. “You fuckin’ a king. You don’t forget who I am when I’m up in your guts.”

He flipped her over like she weighed nothin’. Face down. Arch forced deep. He slid back in and pushed his thumb in her mouth from behind.

“Don’t bite it. Suck it like you do my dick.”

And she did. Drool slid down her chin. Her eyes rolled. He was clappin’ her so hard she damn near lost her voice.

“Say it right,” he said, breath heavy, “Say who fuckin’ you.”

“Daddy! King—my King! Oh my god!”

“That’s it,” he groaned, “Say my fuckin’ name when you cum. Let everybody in this complex hear who own this pussy.”

She tried to say it. But she was too gone. Too stretched. Too full. He reached under and started rubbin’ her clit in hard, tight circles, fuckin’ her through with that thick dick and a mission in his soul.

When she finally broke, body seizin’ up, her mouth opened wide.

“DADDY! ERIK—I MEAN—KING! FUCK, I’M SORRY!”

He laughed, nasty and low.

“Nah. You gon’ get it right this time.”

He kept fuckin’.

And fuckin’.

And fuckin’.

She didn’t know what hour it was when he finally let her breathe. Didn’t know what position she was in.

Only thing she knew…

That wasn’t Erik.

That was Daddy.

That was King.

The city glimmered behind him as Smoke pulled up slow, his sleek matte-black ride humming low beneath the stars. The building before him wasn’t marked—no signs, no name—but its presence was unmistakable. Tinted windows. Subtle ironwork etched with ancient symbols. Gothic architecture fused with modern glass and steel. It didn’t need to announce itself. The wrong ones wouldn’t even see it. He cut the engine, stepped out smooth, black loafers hit the pavement with the weight of purpose. All-black everything—fitted slacks, long coat dusting his thighs, rings glinting like teeth under moonlight. He adjusted the collar of his jacket and looked up once.

The door opened before he knocked.

She stood there. Tall, fine, and faintly glowing.

Honey-brown skin, short blunt-cut bob, eyes rimmed with dark liner that made her stare hit like a blade. Her little black maid uniform was custom-fit: lace trim, deep neckline, white apron that didn’t hide a damn thing. Red-soled heels clicked against marble as she stepped aside to let him in, and Smoke didn’t miss the twin puncture marks blooming just beneath the curve of her neck.

Stack’s girl. A personal blood bag. Fine as hell.

“Been expecting you,” she said, southern drawl like melted wine, “He’s in the den.”

Smoke gave her a nod, eyes skating her figure with idle respect. He stepped inside. The place was ridiculous—vaulted ceilings, velvet curtains, exposed brick. Shadow and mood in every corner. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, but nothing felt cold. Stack didn’t do cold. He did intimate. Expensive. Old-world charm dripping in modern sex appeal. Down the hallway, smoke curled from a cigar already burning. And then—he emerged.

Stack stepped into view like something conjured. Dressed in black slacks and a wine-colored silk shirt, buttons open down to his chest. Gold chain catching candlelight. His skin was flawless—deep, smooth, kissed by something eternal. Eyes dark but amused. And those fangs… tucked away for now, but the threat lingered. It always did.

“Brother,” Stack grinned, arms wide.

Smoke smirked and met him halfway. They dapped up, hugged quick, shoulder to shoulder—an embrace deeper than most would understand.

“You look like money,” Stack said, eyeing him with that usual glint.

“You look like death.”

Stack bared teeth in a grin, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

They made their way into the den. Smoke settled into the low leather chair while Stack took the corner of the velvet couch. Another girl—same uniform, different body—glided in with a highball glass of something crimson and thick. She knelt gracefully beside Stack, offered the drink, and slid away without a word.

“Fresh?” Smoke asked, nodding at the drink.

“Few hours old. Still warm if you taste close enough,” Stack said, swirling it like it was wine, “Don’t worry. She likes it.”

Smoke lit a cigar. Sat back. Exhaled slow.

Stack sipped, “So. What brings you out here, brother? Ain’t like you to drop in without something on your mind.”

Smoke gave a low grunt, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Stack raised an eyebrow, “Someone?”

“A woman.”

Now he had Stack’s full attention.

“Mm.” Stack took another sip, “She fine?”

Smoke smirked, “Finest thing I ever had.”

Stack leaned forward, interested, “Talk to me.”

Smoke took his time, “She sweet. Brown skin, soft as butter, but don’t let that fool you—girl’s feisty. Quick mouth. Keeps me on my toes. Got that fire but knows how to simmer it when I tell her to. Little waist, pretty thighs, real soft lips. She folds for me.”

Stack chuckled, low and devilish, “Why you telling me all this? You tryna get me hard, or you tryna share?”

Smoke met his brother’s eyes, calm, “She don’t know about you yet. But I’m planning to bring her to the club. Introduce her. Get her acquainted.”

Stack set his glass down slow, “You serious?” he asked, “She down to bounce like the others were?”

Smoke shook his head, “She ain’t like the others. Not broken. Not desperate. This one’s got a mind. A heart. And a body I ain’t trying to give away. But…”

“But you still want her to feel me,” Stack said.

Smoke pulled out his phone. Swiped. Turned it to face him. The screen glowed with photo after photo—candid shots, posed, thirst traps. All of her.

One in particular made Stack lean forward.

She was in a black two-piece set, waist beads low, thighs thick and smooth. Her mouth was parted like she’d just been kissed. Hair tousled. No makeup, just glowy. Just soft. Just…real. Warm-blooded. Tasty looking. 

Another photo—her in bed. Sheets tangled. Smoke’s hand clearly visible gripping her hip. Bite marks on her shoulder—not fangs. Teeth. Love bites. Stack smirked.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes locked on the screen, “She’s…tender.”

Smoke blew out a stream of smoke, “She mine.”

“And yet you bring her to me.”

“I want you to see what I see. Feel what I feel.”

Stack let that sit for a moment, quiet. The red drink untouched now. 

Then, with a lazy grin and flicker of fang, “Bring her.”

Later That Evening...

The room still held heat.

Not just from their bodies, but from the way Smoke never rushed anything, even when he had already taken his fill. The sheets were rumpled and damp beneath them, cotton clinging to skin that had not yet cooled. Lamps glowed low on either side of the bed, casting amber light across dark wood furniture and the framed photographs that lined the walls. Their home always felt lived-in, deliberate, like every piece had been chosen with intention instead of impulse.

The bedroom opened into the rest of the apartment in an easy flow. Wide plank floors. Deep green walls softened by warm lighting. A low leather couch visible down the hall, throw blankets folded with care. Bookshelves packed tight with spines Smoke actually read. Vinyl stacked near the turntable. Plants that stayed alive because Smoke remembered to water them. The space carried his steadiness and her softness braided together.

She lay draped across him, cheek resting on his chest, one leg slung over his thigh. Her fingers traced idle paths across his skin, following familiar lines, pausing where she knew his breath would change. Smoke’s hand moved slow up and down her back, palm warm and grounding, like he was still keeping her close even though the moment had already passed.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then Smoke shifted beneath her, careful not to break the ease of it, and kissed the crown of her head. His voice came low and calm, the way it did when he had already decided something and was choosing the right moment to say it.

“I want you to meet my brother.”

She lifted her head slightly, enough to look at him. Her brows knit together as she searched his face, trying to place the tone. This was not casual. This was not offhand.

“Your brother,” she repeated, “You got a funny way of bringing family up.”

Smoke’s mouth curved, but there was no joke in it. His hand slid up to her neck, thumb resting just under her jaw, steadying her gaze.

“He ain’t like anybody you’ve met before.”

She pushed herself up onto her elbow now, sheets slipping down her back, “That’s not an answer.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, “There’s some things about him I haven’t told you yet.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. Not angry. Just alert, “And you picking right now to start.”

“I didn’t want to spring it on you cold.”

She gave a soft scoff and shifted her weight, straddling his hips again without pressure, just closeness, “So you warm me up first?”

Smoke’s hand tightened at her waist, not rough, just enough to remind her where she was, “I want you to trust me.”

She studied him for a moment. This man knew her body in ways that made lying pointless. If something was off, she felt it immediately.

“What’s the real reason,” she asked, “Why you want me to meet him.”

Smoke did not answer right away. He ran his hand down her spine, then back up again, grounding himself in the familiar before stepping into unfamiliar ground.

“Because he matters to me,” he said, “And because what I feel with you is something I want him to understand.”

Her lips parted, “Understand how.”

“I want him to see what I see,” Smoke said, “Feel what I feel.”

The words settled heavy between them.

She shifted back, sitting upright now, pulling the sheet with her, “That don’t sound like just meeting.”

He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers,  “It don’t have to mean more than you want it to.”

There was a pause. Long enough for her to weigh the way his thumb brushed her knuckles, the steadiness in his eyes, the fact that Smoke never asked for anything lightly.

“When,” she asked.

“Next Friday.”

She shook her head slowly, more confused than upset, “And you telling me this now because?”

“Because I don’t want secrets between us,” he said, “And because the living can’t just walk into his world whenever they want.”

That made her still.

“What you mean, his world.”

Smoke’s jaw tightened just enough to show the seriousness of it, “There’s rules. He’s bound to them. I’m not, but he is.”

She searched his face, heart picking up speed,  “You saying this like he ain’t normal.”

“He ain’t.”

Silence filled the room again, thicker this time.

“You asking me to treat him how I treat you,” she said carefully.

“I’m asking you to be yourself,” Smoke replied, “Nothing more.”

She leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, “This feels weird.”

“I know.”

“You sure everything’s okay.”

“I wouldn’t put you in danger,” he said, “Ever.”

That much, she believed.

The Big Night...

Evening crept in slow, the city outside their windows deepening into blue and gold. The apartment filled with quiet movement as she got ready, the sounds of drawers opening, fabric shifting, the hum of the bathroom light.

She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of her black dress. The fabric clung like it was made for her, smooth and sleek, hugging her waist before skimming her hips. The neckline dipped just enough to feel bold without asking for attention. She leaned closer to the mirror, touching up her makeup, smoothing her lips, fixing her lashes.

“One night with your secret brother,” she said to her reflection, voice low, “What could go wrong.”

Her stomach fluttered. She stepped out into the main room and stopped short.

Smoke was already dressed.

All black. Tailored coat. Clean lines. Rings catching the light when he adjusted his cuffs. He looked composed in a way that made her feel suddenly underdressed emotionally, even if the dress itself did its job.

“You look good,” he said, eyes moving over her slow.

She crossed the room and pushed him back against the ottoman before he could take another step. His back hit it with a soft thud, surprise flashing across his face for half a second before desire took over.

“Sit,”she said.

Smoke laughed under his breath, “We gotta go.”

“Not yet.”

She climbed into his lap, fingers already working at his belt, mouth finding his without permission. The kiss was deep and urgent, her way of saying stay without using the word. Her hands moved fast, unbuckling the leather with a quick tug, then unzipping his pants. She reached inside, wrapping her fingers around his dick, feeling it thicken and harden under her soft touch. It was already half-erect, the fat shaft pulsing as she stroked it firmly from base to tip, her thumb circling the broad head where a bead of precum glistened.

Smoke’s breath caught, his hands coming up to her waist, but she batted them away lightly, taking charge. She shifted her hips, bunching her dress up around her thighs, exposing the smooth skin and the thin fabric of her panties. With one hand still gripping his now fully hard big dick, she used the other to shove her panties aside, revealing wet pussy, the lips already slick and swollen with the need for his dick. She positioned herself above him, the thick head pressing against her entrance, teasing the tight folds.

She sank down slowly at first, savoring the stretch as his big dick pushed inside her tight pussy. Inch by inch, she took him deeper, the girth filling her completely, her inner walls clenching around the veined length. A low moan escaped her lips against his mouth as she bottomed out, her ass settling against his thighs, his balls pressing warm and tight against her flesh. The sensation was intense, her pussy gripping his hard shaft like a pair of vice grippers, wet juices coating him as she adjusted to the fullness.

Smoke groaned, his fingers digging into the ottoman beside him, fighting the urge to thrust up, “damn, baby. Hold on—”

She rolled her hips in a deliberate circle, grinding her clit against his pubic bone while his fat dick stirred deep inside her. The movement sent sparks through her body, her tight pussy fluttering around him, but she kept the pace controlled, rising up just enough to feel the ridge of his dickhead drag along her sensitive walls before sliding back down. Each descent was firmer, her hips snapping with purpose, the slick sounds of her wet pussy taking his dick filling the room.

Leaning forward, she grabbed his wrists, guiding his large hands to her breasts. She pressed his palms against the soft mounds, making him squeeze through the fabric of her dress, his thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples. Then she shifted, turning her body while still impaled on him, her back now to his chest. The new angle let his curved dick hit even deeper, the tip nudging against her cervix with every downward push. She reached back with one hand, tangling her fingers around his tie to pull his face close to her neck, where she could feel his hot breath on her skin.

Her rhythm built steadily, hips lifting and dropping in a steady bounce, her ass cheeks slapping and rippling lightly against his lap. She rode him hard, controlling the depth and speed, her tight pussy milking his hard shaft with each clench. Wetness dripped down, soaking his balls and the base of his big dick, making every slide smoother, more obscene. She arched her back, pushing her breasts out as she worked him, her free hand sliding down to where they joined, fingers spreading her pussy lips wider to take more of him, feeling the stretch burn in the best way.

Smoke’s chest heaved behind her, his teeth grazing her shoulder as he held back, muscles tense under her. His hands roamed now where she allowed, one sliding up to cup her breast fully, pinching the nipple between his fingers, the other gripping her hip to steady her motions without interfering. He was rock hard inside her, that thick dick throbbing with restraint, veins pulsing against her gripping walls. She could feel him fighting not to buck up into her, letting her dictate every twist and grind.

She picked up the pace, slamming down harder, her tight pussy squeezing rhythmically around his length, chasing the building friction without letting it tip over. The ottoman creaked under them, her dress hiked up completely now, exposing the way her body moved, the curve of her ass rising and falling over his lap. Sweat beaded on her skin, mixing with the slickness between her thighs, her breaths coming in sharp pants as she controlled the ride, owning the moment before they stepped out into the night.

She lifted off him with a wet pop, his fat dick glistening with her juices, still hard and twitching in the air. 

“Nah, get back on this dick,” Smoke commanded with a gruff tone, popping her on the ass, “You wanted it so fuckin’ much. Take it.” 

She did not slow down this time. Instead, she sank back onto his fat dick with renewed determination, her tight pussy enveloping the full length once more in one smooth motion. The stretch returned immediately, her inner walls stretching around the thick girth, the veined shaft sliding deep until her ass pressed flush against his thighs. Wetness from before made the entry slicker, creamier, her juices coating him anew as she began to move, hips lifting and dropping with controlled force.

Smoke’s  hands tightened on her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, but he let her lead, his body tense beneath her. She rode him steadily at first, rising up until just the broad head of his big dick tugged at her entrance, her pussy lips clinging to the ridge before she plunged back down, taking every inch. The sensation built with each thrust, her tight pussy gripping him rhythmically, squeezing the hard length as she ground her clit against him on the downstrokes. Her ass cheeks jiggled slightly with the impact, the ottoman shifting under their weight as she picked up speed.

Leaning back against his chest, she arched her spine, her dress still bunched high around her waist, exposing the explicit union of their bodies. She could feel his fat dick throbbing inside her, the base slick with her arousal, his balls drawing up tighter against her skin with every bounce. Her hands braced on his knees for leverage now, she slammed down harder, the wet slap of her pussy meeting his lap echoing in the room. Each descent forced a grunt from him, his breath ragged against her neck, his cock swelling even thicker within her clenching channel.

She twisted her hips on the next rise, circling them to drag his big dick along different angles inside her, the tip pressing firmly against her front wall before she dropped again, chasing the friction that made her walls flutter without pushing her over the edge. Sweat slicked their skin where they touched, her thighs burning from the effort but she pushed through, owning the rhythm, dictating how deep and fast his fat dick filled her tight pussy. One hand slipped between her legs, fingers parting her swollen lips to feel where he stretched her wide, the obscene sight of his shaft disappearing into her wetness spurring her on.

“Fuck…Smoke…you feel that?” She moaned. 

“Yeah. I feel it, baby. Don’t you slow down on me now. Keep that pussy right there.”

“Fuck,” She gasped when the tip of his dick nudged her spot.

“You shaking.” Smoke whispered, “you right where I need you. Don’t move. Don’t switch it. This pussy gripping like it mad at me.”

“Because you been teasing all day. Now stay right there and let me have this.” She cooed. 

“You soaking me, shit.” Smoke grunted. 

Smoke’s control frayed, his hips jerking up involuntarily to meet her halfway, but she pinned him with her weight, keeping him seated as she rode.

 “Fuck,”' he gasped, voice strained, his hands roaming up to squeeze her breasts again, rolling the stiff nipples between his fingers through the fabric. 

The added stimulation made her pussy clench harder around him, milking his hard length with deliberate pulses, drawing out low groans from his throat. She felt him thicken further, the veins pulsing against her sensitive insides, his big dick on the verge as she hammered down relentlessly.

Her pace turned punishing, hips snapping in quick, shallow bounces now, focusing on the upper half of his shaft to rub her clit while the girth kept her full. Wet sounds grew louder, her arousal dripping down to soak his balls, the pressure building in him until his thighs tensed beneath her. She ground deep one final time, rotating her hips to stroke every inch, and that broke him. Smoke's body went rigid, a deep growl rumbling from his chest as his fat dick pulsed violently inside her tight pussy. Hot spurts of cum erupted, flooding her depths, coating her walls with thick ropes that mixed with her wetness.

She kept moving through it, riding out his release with slow rolls, squeezing her pussy around him to draw every drop, feeling the warmth spread inside her. His hands gripped her waist bruisingly, holding her down as he emptied himself, the last twitches of his big dick making her inner muscles quiver in response. Only when he stilled, spent and softening slightly within her, did she lift off, his cum leaking from her pussy in a slow trickle down her thighs.

Without a word, she slid from his lap, dropping to her knees on the floor between his legs. His pants were still open, his dick glistening with their combined fluids, semi-hard and slick. She wrapped her hand around the base, stroking firmly to coax the last bits out, then leaned in, her mouth enveloping the head. 

“Fuck—goddamn. You slid off just to suck it, huh? Greedy lil’ thing.” His voice gets lower, rougher as he grips the base of her neck, watching her lips stretch around him.

Her tongue swirled around the sensitive tip, tasting the salty mix of his cum and her own juices, sucking gently to pull more from him.

“You want all that nut, don’t you? You want me to bust in that pretty mouth? Fill you up? Make you swallow all that shit like a good girl?”

Smoke watched her, chest still heaving, as she took him deeper into her mouth, lips stretching around the fat shaft. She bobbed her head slowly, hollowing her cheeks to create suction, her hand pumping the length she could not fit. 

“Don’t run. Stay right there. Let me fuck that throat.” He groans deep, thrusting harder as his jaw clenches, Mmhm. Just like that. Keep suckin’. Keep suckin’ til I nut in your fuckin’ mouth.”

The veins stood out under her tongue as she licked along them, cleaning every inch, swallowing the remnants of his load with deliberate gulps. Her free hand cupped his balls, massaging them lightly, feeling them relax under her touch as she worked him thoroughly.

“There it go—fuck, there it go—open up, baby. Take that shit. Yeah…swallow it. Swallow all that shit. Let me see your tongue.” He grabs her face after, thumb pulling her jaw down, “Atta girl. Nasty ass. I fuckin’ love you.”

She sucked harder now, drawing out soft hisses from him, until his dick was clean and twitching faintly in her mouth. Only then did she release him with a soft pop, licking her lips to catch the last traces, her eyes locking on his with a satisfied glint. Both of them flushed and breathing hard, she rose, straightening her dress while Smoke tucked himself away, zipping up with a shaky exhale.

Smoke steps in, big hands gripping her waist, dragging her back against him. His mouth already open as he catches her lips. Slow at first—wet, deep, tongue pushing in like he owned her mouth same way he just owned her throat.

“Open up, baby,” he rasps between kisses, “Lemme taste how nasty you been.”

He kisses her harder now, tongue sweeping over hers like he’s trying to claim every inch, groaning low in his chest.

“That’s my girl. Swallowed all that nut like you was starvin’ for it.”

Another kiss. Wetter. His teeth scrape her bottom lip.

“You know how fuckin’ good that mouth is? How good you make me feel?” He pulls back just a little, eyes hooded, thumb brushing her lips as they glisten from him, “I could tongue kiss you all night, just to taste myself on you.” Then, quieter, dirtier, “Next time I’m nutting in your pussy, and I want you lickin’ it off my dick after. You hear me?” He grins slow, pulling her back into another long, open-mouthed kiss, “Mouth too fuckin’ good to waste.”

She pulled her dress down slow, gave him that look over her shoulder,  the one that always got him. Her voice was soft but sinful.

“We can stay home. You can nut in this pussy now if you want. We both know you got it in you.” She turned fully, smoothing her hands down her hips, “Ain’t gotta wait. I’m warm, wet, and beggin’. Right here.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. He stared at her a beat too long, like he was this close to folding.

Then he exhaled rough, adjusted his coat, and licked his lips, “We still goin’,” he said, voice hoarse, almost growled.

She sighed—half annoyed, half aching—and followed him out the door anyway, thighs still slick.

Whatever waited on the other side of this night, she knew one thing.

This was not just a meeting.

The car was too quiet.

Not because the stereo was off, but because the silence inside her was louder than any music could fix. She sat low in the passenger seat, one leg crossed tightly over the other, the cool leather brushing her thighs where her dress had ridden up. Her heels clicked once against the floorboard when she shifted, but even that sounded too sharp. She stared out the window at nothing in particular, fingers resting lightly on her lap, nails tapping slow against her skin.

Smoke drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting in his lap. Calm as always. The dash cast a soft blue glow across his jaw, catching on his gold ring as he adjusted his grip. His profile was carved in stillness—stoic, composed, unreadable unless you’d memorized the map of his moods the way she had.

She watched the way his thumb tapped against the wheel. That rhythm. That calm. It irritated her tonight.

Her thighs were still tingling, a dull ache pulsing between them, and he was sitting there like she hadn’t just tried to fuck the whole idea out of him twenty minutes ago.

She reached over, let her hand rest lightly on his thigh. Her nails grazed the fabric first, then the warmth underneath. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop her. Just kept driving.

Her palm smoothed up, thumb circling, pressing slow. She wasn’t trying to start something—not really. But maybe she was. Maybe she just needed to feel like he was still hers.

“You ain’t said where we going yet,” she said, voice soft but lined with bite.

Smoke didn’t look over. “You’ll see soon.”

She clicked her tongue once, leaned back, hand falling away.

“That supposed to calm me?”

He finally turned his head, just enough to meet her eyes.

“I told you, it’s safe.”

“That’s not the same as saying it’s normal.”

Smoke’s jaw tightened, just a twitch. He wasn’t mad. He was patient. That was worse.

She let her head fall back against the seat. The car curved through a turn, the city falling away behind them. Buildings blurred into shadows, then into trees. Streetlights stretched thinner. The sky deepened, that dark velvet blue creeping higher, bleeding out the last light of day.

She hated how pretty it was.

Her mind kept circling back to what he’d said earlier. “Feel what I feel.” That was the part that stuck.

This wasn’t just about introductions.

He wanted to share her.

He hadn’t said the words that way, but she heard it clear. It wasn’t jealousy that twisted her stomach—it was confusion. She trusted Smoke. Trusted his hands, his voice, his grip around her throat when he told her she was good. But this?

Why now? Why him?

Her palm dragged down her own thigh. She crossed her legs tighter.

The car was moving fast, too fast for her thoughts to settle. Every tree that passed felt like it was watching. The night was getting thicker, quieter, heavier. She looked over at Smoke again. He hadn’t changed. One hand on the wheel. Calm. Sharp. Focused.

“You ever think about how this would make me feel?” she asked.

“I think about how it’ll change everything,” he said.

That wasn’t a no.

She scoffed lightly and looked out the window again. “This ain’t just a meet and greet.”

“No,” he admitted, “It’s not.”

“So what is it?”

“A bridge.”

His voice was steady, sure. Like that explained something.

She turned to face him fully, knee drawn up on the seat, angling herself toward him.

“I’m serious. You talking in riddles. And I’m supposed to be in this dress, all soft and pretty, when I don’t even know what I’m walking into.”

Smoke glanced at her then. Slower this time.

“You look more than pretty,” he said.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t even blink. Her eyes stayed on him like they were daring him to say something honest for once instead of slipping through her questions.

He sighed and rubbed his hand over his jaw, “It’s hard to explain until you see him.”

“Try.”

Smoke let the silence sit for a beat before speaking.

“He’s not like me. He’s not like you. But I see myself in you. I see you in him. That’s why I need this.”

She didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Because part of her understood. And that was what scared her most.

She turned her body forward again, arms crossing over her chest.

The road stretched longer now. Fewer signs. No turns. Just an endless path that felt like it had been waiting for them.

Something about it felt…final.

Like once they crossed whatever line was up ahead, there wouldn’t be a coming back.

The car slowed before she ever saw the building.

There were no lights, no neon signs, no velvet rope, no valet waiting to open her door. Just a long stretch of cracked blacktop, edged by trees that looked older than anything in the city. The road had narrowed into something almost forgotten—like it had once been paved, then buried under years of leaves and shadows. Ahead of them, a single iron gate stood half open, twisting vines woven through the bars like the land had tried to take it back.

She felt it before she saw anything else. A shift in the air. Not colder—heavier. Like the world beyond that gate didn’t breathe the same way.

Smoke turned the wheel and guided the car through without speaking.

On the other side, the landscape changed in slow motion.

First the smell—smoke, earth, incense, the ghost of something sweet like sugared tobacco and orange peel. Then the sounds. A low hum, not music, but movement. As if the ground itself buzzed with memory. As if something beneath the soil had started waking up.

The trees parted.

And there it was.

A building nestled into the hill like it had grown there, built from deep gray stone and black iron, smooth in some places and jagged in others, like it couldn’t decide whether to seduce or warn. Ivy curled thick up its sides, but the windows glowed—soft amber, flickering from inside like a hundred candles had been lit at once. It didn’t look old, and it didn’t look new. It looked timeless. It looked hungry.

Smoke parked near the front. No one else in sight. The gravel crunched under his boots when he stepped out and came around to open her door.

She hesitated.

That gut feeling hadn’t left her. In fact, it had only deepened. Something about this place prickled under her skin. Like she wasn’t supposed to be here, but someone—or something—had been waiting for her all the same.

Smoke extended his hand, “You with me?”

His voice was calm. Steady. His fingers looked warm.

She nodded once and slipped her hand into his.

The moment their palms met, the sounds intensified.

It wasn’t music at first. Just a hum that felt like it came from the walls. A heartbeat. A thrum.

As they walked toward the door, a low, haunting saxophone note curled out into the night. Then a drum, soft and slow, like footsteps over velvet. Then the voice.

It was low and honey-thick. A woman. Singing something old, something southern, stretched and drowned in blues. She sang like she knew things. Things that made your knees buckle. Things that made you forget your name.

The door opened before they reached it. Not by a person. It just…opened.

Smoke didn’t react. He guided her inside, his hand pressing at the small of her back.

The moment she stepped over the threshold, the temperature changed.

Inside, it was warm and dark, but not dim. The walls flickered with candlelight from tall candelabras and crystal chandeliers hung low from the ceiling. The air shimmered with gold and shadow, like dust suspended in honey. The floor beneath her heels wasn’t wood or tile—but some kind of stone, polished so smooth it almost reflected movement like water.

She turned her head and caught a blur of something—someone—floating past. Not walking. Floating. They moved like they were halfway between here and somewhere else, trailing wisps of smoke behind them like a train of silk. The figures were beautiful and strange, their features blurred at the edges, like they were wearing glamour made of light.

The singer stood on a small stage near the back. Barefoot. Deep red dress hugging her curves like it had been painted on. She swayed as she sang, voice sliding up and down like it was riding smoke trails.

The band behind her looked mostly human. Mostly.

The piano player had hands that moved too fast. The upright bassist didn’t blink. The drummer looked like he was playing underwater, every movement fluid and slow, like time worked differently behind the veil of that stage.

Smoke kept walking, hand firm at her back.

She tried to look at everything at once. Couldn’t.

The room was wide and open, but intimate. Velvet curtains draped down from high ceilings. Lounge chairs and low tables sat arranged in elegant clusters, most of them occupied. But no one stared directly. They glanced. They sipped. They whispered without moving their mouths. Some leaned too close. Some faded into shadow entirely.

But she could feel it.

Eyes on her.

And not just on her dress or her body—but on her pulse. On the way her chest rose with every nervous breath. On the color in her cheeks. On her blood.

She stepped a little closer to Smoke.

“Where are we?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the room like he was clocking every shadow, every gesture.

“You won’t find it on a map,” he said finally. “This place finds you.”

That didn’t make her feel better. But it explained the ache building behind her ribs.

As they passed deeper into the club, she noticed the scent again—orange peel and warm spice, layered now with old wood, wine, sweat, and perfume. It smelled like history. Like bodies had loved and fought and fallen apart here for centuries. Like none of it had ever left.

They passed a corner booth where a woman sat with a glass of something black in her hand. Her skin shimmered like copper and ink, and her eyes glowed faintly violet in the low light. She tilted her head when they passed. She smiled—but not in greeting. It felt like a knowing.

Every table felt like it held secrets.

Every hallway looked like it led to a memory.

Every door pulsed with temptation.

“Breathe,” Smoke said softly.

She realized she hadn’t.

The singer hit a note so deep it made her thighs clench.

Smoke stopped in front of a long staircase. The railing curved like bone. Each step lit underneath with a soft glow, like the path had been waiting for them.

He turned to her, finally giving her the full weight of his attention, “You still with me?”

She nodded. Her mouth was dry, “Where’s your brother?”

Smoke didn’t smile. But something shifted in his face. Like the real night was just beginning.

“He’ll find us.”

He reached for her hand again. She gave it, slower this time.As they ascended, the singer changed her tune. The tempo lifted slightly, a dangerous kind of flirtation in her voice now. The crowd below began to move more. Laughter floated up—too light, too slow, like it had been stretched.

Halfway up the stairs, she turned to look back.

The lounge below pulsed with light and bodies. The walls breathed. The shadows curled like smoke around ankles and wrists. Everything felt alive and not alive at once.

And somewhere beneath the surface, she felt it.

He was here.

Watching.

Waiting.

She felt him before she saw him.

It started as pressure, subtle but unmistakable, like the air had thickened around her lungs. Her breath shortened, not from fear exactly, but from awareness. The kind that made the skin along her arms prickle and her scalp tighten as if someone had leaned in too close without touching her.

Smoke’s hand was still on her lower back, solid and familiar. He stood relaxed beside her at the top of the stairs, posture easy, shoulders loose, like this place answered to him in its own way. He looked unbothered, grounded. Present.

She did not feel grounded at all.

The jazz below softened, the singer’s voice stretching long and slow, syrup-thick and heavy with longing. The band shifted with her, tempo dragging like something was being pulled up from deep water. Conversations lowered across the room, not stopping, just thinning, like the crowd itself had leaned in to listen.

The lights flickered once.

Not out. Just a blink.

Then the shadows at the far end of the upper level moved.

They did not part like curtains. They folded inward, collapsing and reforming, darkness drawing tight into a shape that stood upright where there had been nothing a moment before.

He appeared.

No footsteps. No warning. One second the space was empty, the next it was occupied by him.

Stack.

He stood near the railing, hands resting loosely at his sides, head slightly bowed as if he had stepped out of a private thought instead of thin air. He was dressed in black like Smoke, but where Smoke’s presence felt steady and anchored, Stack’s felt fluid, dangerous, like a held breath that never quite released.

They were identical at first glance. Same height. Same broad shoulders. Same face carved with sharp jawlines and a mouth that knew how to smile without warmth. 

But the longer she looked, the more the differences surfaced.

Stack’s skin caught the low light differently, smooth and luminous in a way that did not belong to the living. His eyes were darker, deeper, like wells instead of mirrors. There was a stillness to him that felt unnatural, like he did not need to shift his weight or breathe to remain balanced.

His gaze lifted slowly.

And locked onto her.

Not Smoke. Her.

The weight of it hit her low in the belly.

She swallowed.

Smoke turned his head slightly, already aware. His mouth curved into a small smile that held no surprise.

“There he is,” Smoke said calmly.

Stack’s lips curled in response, revealing the faintest glimpse of gold when he smiled back. He stepped forward, and this time she noticed it. The way his movement did not disturb the air. The way the shadows bent around him instead of away.

“Brother,” Stack said, voice smooth, rich, threaded with something old.

Smoke stepped forward and met him halfway. They clasped hands, pulled each other in close, foreheads nearly touching for a brief moment. It was intimate in a way that went beyond affection. It was recognition. Survival. Shared history layered too deep for words.

“You look good,” Smoke said.

Stack chuckled low, “You know how I do.”

They stepped apart. Stack’s attention returned to her immediately.

“So,” he said, eyes never leaving her face, “This is her.”

The words were simple. The way he said them was not.

She felt like she had been placed under glass.

Smoke turned slightly, hand sliding from her back to her hip, anchoring her without shielding her, “This is my girl. Alanna. Alanna this is my twin brother, Elias. But he prefers Stack.”

Stack took another step closer. Not invading her space, but close enough that she could smell him. Something dark and clean. Iron and spice. Night air after rain.

She shifted her weight closer to Smoke, fingers curling into his sleeve, “So this is the famous brother.”

“The only one,” Stack said, “And you must be the reason he’s been distracted.”

Smoke’s jaw flexed, “Watch it.”

Stack glanced at him, amused, “Relax. I’m appreciating.”

The word landed heavy.

“You’re prettier than I imagined,” Stack said.

Her spine straightened, “You imagined me?”

He smiled wider at that, clearly amused, “My brother talks.”

She glanced at Smoke, “Oh, I’m sure he does.”

Smoke laughed quietly, “She got a mouth on her.”

“I like that,” Stack said, “Means she’s not empty.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, “I’m right here.”

“Good,” Stack replied,  “I would hate to talk about you like you weren’t.”

There was no malice in it. No mockery. Just interest sharpened to a point.

She felt it then. That pull. That strange draw that made her chest feel tight and warm at the same time. Her instincts told her to step back. Her body did not listen. Something about him felt wrong in a way that made her curious instead of afraid.

“Why does everyone keep looking at me like that,” she asked, voice steady even as her pulse raced.

Stack’s eyes flicked briefly to her throat. Then back to her eyes, “Because you don’t belong here,” he said, “And yet you fit.”

A chill traced her spine.

Smoke squeezed her hip once, firm, “You okay?”

She nodded, “I’m fine.”

Stack’s gaze softened at that, just a fraction, “She’s loyal.”

“Damn right,” she replied, lifting her chin, “My man.”

Smoke smiled then, pride plain on his face.

Stack watched the exchange closely. Something unreadable passed through his eyes. Hunger. Respect. Something more dangerous than either.

Stack leaned in close to whisper something to Smoke—something low and half-smiled that Alanna couldn’t catch. Then he looked at her, one hand briefly brushing her lower back in a barely-there touch.

“‘Scuse me a minute,” he said, voice dipped in syrup and dusk, “Got a little itch to scratch.”

Before she could ask what that meant, he was gone—vanishing into the crowd like water through fingers.

Alanna blinked, “Where the hell did he go that fast?”

Smoke didn’t answer. Just smirked, slow and satisfied, like he’d seen this play out before.

Up front, the jazz singer finished her number to light applause. Then, as the band played a bluesy vamp, she lifted her mic again.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she purred, dressed in deep plum satin that caught every light like liquid sin, “You know him, you love him, and if you don’t—you about to. The man of the hour. Stack Moore.”

The crowd stirred. Cheers. Whistles.

Alanna’s eyes flicked to the side of the stage—nothing.

Then suddenly—there he was.

Already at the mic. Guitar in hand. Like he’d been there all along.

No footsteps. No stage door. No time.

Just there.

She frowned, eyes narrowing, “Wait—what?”

Stack looked calm. Composed. Maybe even a little smug.

He tipped his head once in their direction. Not just to the room.

To her.

The club pulsed like a living thing—low and hot and thick with rhythm.

Stack leaned into the mic like it owed him something. Shirt open to the sternum, gold chain gleaming against his dark skin. Rings catching the light. He gripped the neck of a steel guitar, fingers loose, head bowed, lips brushing the mic when he finally spoke.

“Y’all feel that?” he said, voice soaked in wickedness and smoke, “That heat crawlin’ up your spine?”

A murmur rolled through the crowd.

“Good. Let it.”

She didn’t ask another question—not yet. Not when the sound of a single, sliding guitar string rang out across the club, casting a hush like a spell.

Then he played.

It wasn’t polished, wasn’t sweet—it was dirt and blood and the river’s breath, all twisted up into a slow, aching Delta blues riff that sounded older than anything Alanna had ever heard. His voice came next—low and rough, the kind that carried grit and desire and the ghosts of juke joints long gone.

🎶 “I had a woman in Clarksdale once…

She knew my name ‘fore I could speak…

Said I tasted like the moonlight…

And I touched her in her sleep…” 🎶 

The room melted around him.

People swayed. Women rubbed their thighs together. Men closed their eyes like they were trying to drink the sound. Even the air shifted—grew heavier, stickier, like the heat of the Delta had crept in through the cracks and sealed the room shut.

Alanna felt her pulse climb.

Smoke’s hands didn’t move, but she could feel him closer—his lips near her ear.

“He ain’t bad, huh?” he spoke low, his voice deep and knowing, “Don’t even need to try.”

She nodded slowly, unable to look away from the stage. Stack opened his mouth again and let out a note that scraped the belly of the guitar like it had been pulled from a back porch at midnight, a note thick with ache and want and time.

And suddenly, Smoke was behind her. Arms sliding around her waist. His mouth brushed the curve of her neck. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. She just leaned into him and let the music wind through her spine.

His lips grazed her skin.

She felt his breath before she felt the kiss. Slow. Lingering. Right below her jaw. Her body swayed, unsure if it was the rhythm or his mouth guiding her. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it was something else entirely.

On stage, Stack’s eyes opened—gold-flecked and glowing. For a split second, they met hers.

And in that moment, Alanna felt it. Something pulling. Something deep. Something not quite human.

But she didn’t know that yet.

Not fully.

The last note lingered in the air like smoke—curling slow, glowing red, then gone.

Stack stood still for a breath, then two. His guitar hung low against his hips, and when he finally lifted his gaze from the mic, he wasn’t scanning the crowd. He was looking straight at her.

Alanna.

Like he’d known where she was the whole time.

A flicker of something unreadable passed behind his eyes, and then he lifted a glass that someone—somehow—had already placed at the edge of the stage. Its contents were dark, almost black, but when the light hit it just right, it shimmered red.

Not wine. Not anything she recognized. But it looked alive.

He held it high. Toasted.

To her.

Then downed it slow.

Alanna’s breath caught, and she didn’t know why.

The crowd responded in waves—moans, laughter, bodies pressing closer. The beat returned, softer now, but still humming underneath everything. She didn’t even realize the music had never really stopped. It just lived here.

Stack stepped down from the stage like he’d never been on it in the first place. Smooth. Languid. Confident in that eerie, too-composed way that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He walked straight toward them—straight toward her—and the crowd parted like they felt him coming.

Smoke leaned into her side again, exhaling slow, “You starting to feel it yet?” he asked, voice low, like he was asking about more than just the music.

She didn’t get a chance to respond.

Stack stopped in front of them, teeth flashing in that half-smile that never quite touched his eyes. “So?” he asked, voice a low rasp from the stage still clinging to his throat, “What y’all think?”

Smoke clapped his twin on the shoulder, “You already know. Shit was good.”

Stack chuckled once, then turned—slowly—to her.

Waiting.

Alanna tilted her head, arms crossed under her chest, “You tryna be famous or somethin’?”

His grin widened.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t good,” she added, eyes narrowing just slightly, “Just wondering who you were serenading exactly.”

“You,” Stack said plainly, “you’re my special guest. Had to give you a taste of what it’s like.” 

And then he looked away, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Alanna blinked.

Before she could think of something clever, her gaze drifted across the room—and widened.

A couple near one of the booths was full-on grinding, his hand up her skirt, her eyes rolled back. In another corner, two women kissed feverishly while a third licked a slow path up one of their thighs. Everywhere she looked, people were touching—deeply, openly, without shame. There were sounds too—gasps, groans, the wet slap of skin. One man knelt in front of a woman like he was praying with his mouth, and she didn’t seem inclined to stop him.

Alanna turned back to Stack, eyebrows raised.

“So…is this a kink club?”

Stack laughed.

But it wasn’t mocking. It was smooth. Hot like bourbon.

“People come here to undress from the weight of what’s beyond these walls,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets, “So if they wanna fuck…” he leaned a little closer, voice darkening into something more primal—thicker.

“…let ‘em fuck.”

The word hit like a thud in her chest.

Fuck.

The way he said it wasn’t vulgar. It was beautiful. Dangerous. Like he’d invented it. Like he could write it across her skin and her body would obey.

Smoke didn’t say a word, just looked at her, as if waiting to see how she’d react.

Alanna blinked, steadying her breath.

Stack stepped back, tilting his head toward the darkened hallway behind him, “C’mon,” he said, “Alcove’s this way.” He turned, and just before they followed, he looked over his shoulder and said, “Ladies first.”

Alanna walked ahead of them, aware—painfully aware—that both men were behind her. Watching. Their silence spoke more than anything they could say. She didn’t need to turn around to feel it.

The hallway smelled like cedar, wine, and something deeper. Something old. And as she walked, her heels clicked slow on the worn black floor, her hips swinging with a rhythm she hadn’t meant to have. Something about the air made it hard not to move like that.

Behind her, the brothers said nothing.

But she felt them watching like hunger with hands.

Stack’s spot was hidden in plain sight. No signs. No name. Just a red light flickering overhead and a velvet rope that only opened for those who already knew how to ask. Inside, the air smelled like honeyed wine, sweat, and old wood lacquered in history. Every surface gleamed dimly, gilded by candlelight and the soft flicker of chandeliers that looked like they’d been stolen from a Delta juke joint in the 1920s and stitched back together with secrets.

The room was long and wide, sunken in the middle like a basin of sin. Tables and booths hugged the perimeter in plush shadows while the dancefloor shimmered, slick with bodies, skin against skin. Couples swayed, some slowly grinding, others tangled together in something far older than dancing. Some just stood—held still by some invisible rhythm only they could feel.

And scattered in the low light were pairs—human and not. Women with their heads tilted back in ecstasy. Men with mouths pressed to throats. Some of them looked drunk. Some looked…entranced. All of them were being fed from.

But Alanna didn’t know that yet.

She only saw mouths on necks. Soft moans. Hands slipping under dresses, past belts. The kind of feverish touch that made it hard to breathe.

Smoke walked with her, hand resting low on her back like he knew she’d need grounding. Every now and then, her body tensed against his palm. 

“Well,” Stack said, stepping back slightly, giving her room without breaking the connection, “Welcome.”

They did not go far.

Stack led them along the upper level, past a series of heavy velvet curtains that swallowed sound as they passed through. Each layer muffled the club below a little more, until the music became a distant pulse rather than a presence. The air changed again, growing warmer, denser, laced with a faint metallic sweetness that Alanna could not place.

They stepped onto a private balcony overlooking the main floor.

It was framed by dark wood railings carved with intricate designs, old symbols woven into modern elegance. Plush seating curved around low tables set with candles that flickered without smoke. Gauze curtains drifted lazily in an air that moved though no windows were open. From here, the club looked unreal. Bodies moved in slow, fluid patterns below, some gliding rather than walking, others blurring at the edges like heat mirages.

Alanna stood still, absorbing it all.

Smoke moved immediately, his body fitting behind her without asking. One hand rested at her waist, the other slid up her arm, thumb brushing along her shoulder. The contact was grounding. Familiar. He kissed her cheek, then her jaw, then her mouth, unhurried. A reminder. A claim. Her shoulders eased despite herself.

A server appeared without sound, placing drinks on the table.

Smoke’s glass was clear, amber catching the candlelight. Normal. Comforting.

Stack’s was not.

His drink was darker, thicker, almost black, with a sheen that reflected red when the light hit it just right. It clung to the sides of the glass when he lifted it, slow and deliberate.

Alanna noticed.

She did not comment.

She wrapped her fingers around her own glass instead, the chill biting into her palm. She took a sip. Sweet at first. Floral. Then something sharper underneath. It loosened her tongue and softened the tight coil in her chest just enough to make the room feel slightly less oppressive.

Stack leaned against the railing opposite them, one elbow resting casually, glass cradled in his hand. He watched her openly now.

Not staring. Studying.

She felt it everywhere. Along her neck. Down her spine. Between her thighs. His attention was not aggressive, but it was thorough, like he was learning her shape without touching her.

She shifted closer to Smoke, instinctively. His arm tightened around her.

The alcove wrapped around them like a velvet hush. High above the rest of the club, it gave them a view that felt almost voyeuristic, like the gods looking down on mortal sin. Low lighting swirled with smoke and shadow, gilded edges flickering gold. Jazz curled through the air like perfume, breathy and slow, clinging to the walls. Down below, bodies moved in time with a rhythm that was older than the instruments playing it—hips rolling, hands wandering, mouths caught between glances and hunger.

Alanna sat close to Smoke on the crescent-shaped lounge, the curve of her body tucked neatly into his side like it belonged there. His arm was slung over her shoulder, casual in appearance, but his hand rested just beneath her collarbone—possessive in a way that felt deliberate. His other hand stroked slowly along her bare thigh, thumb gliding over her skin with idle, sensual attention.

She couldn’t stop watching the crowd below.

The way they moved.

How alive they looked.

But it wasn’t just the dancing—it was the energy. Thick. Drowsy. Feral. It felt like something was coiling beneath the surface of this place, like the longer you sat in it, the more it seeped into your bones. Lust without urgency. Hunger without shame.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on her knee, eyes trailing one of the dancers twirling in the arms of someone masked in silver.

The waitress appeared like as if out of thin air, all red lips and silence, and leaned in with a practiced smile, “Champagne, miss?”

Alanna nodded, her voice caught somewhere behind her ribs, “Yes, please.”

Smoke’s voice was low and easy behind her, “Bourbon. House-made. Neat.”

Then came Stack, seated across from her, lounging like a man born to shadows. He didn’t raise his voice. Just leaned in close to the waitress’s ear and murmured something quiet—too quiet for Alanna to hear. But she noticed the way the woman’s eyes flicked sharp, the slight hitch in her nod.

“Coming right up,” the waitress said, vanishing with a grace that unsettled her.

Alanna’s pulse thrummed louder in her ears than the music, and when the glass of champagne was placed in front of her moments later—light gold and fizzing—she took a sip to steady herself. It helped, but not much. The room felt like it was shifting. Or maybe it was just her.

“Beautiful view,” Stack said from across the low table.

Alanna didn’t answer right away.

She turned her head slowly, gaze flicking toward him.

He was watching her. Not discreetly. Not politely.

He was undressing her with his eyes, openly and without apology. Not just her body—but her ease, her resistance, the pulse at her neck. She felt it in her chest. In her thighs. In the air between them.

Stack leaned back, lounging in his seat like a king with time to kill. He sipped from his strange red drink, eyes never leaving hers.

“You’re a quiet one,” he said, voice low and silk-smooth, like he already knew what that meant.

Alanna raised a brow, “and you’re a nosy one.”

Stack grinned, “only when I’m interested.”

Smoke chuckled under his breath beside her, lips brushing the shell of her ear, “Told you she had a mouth.”

“Mhm,” Stack said, not breaking eye contact.

Stack’s gaze finally dropped, trailing the length of her dress, “What do you do, Alanna?”

She hesitated, torn between answering honestly and holding her cards.

“I work in marketing,” she said, “Brand strategy. Campaign building.”

His eyes lifted again, curiosity flaring, “So you sell fantasy for a living?”

She tilted her head, lips curling, “I sell what people already want.”

“That so?” Stack’s voice dropped half a note, tone brushing against something deeper.

Alanna looked to Smoke for a beat, searching his face, but he seemed content to let the moment unfold.

Stack continued, “And how’d you meet my brother?”

“She found me,” Smoke answered before she could. His fingers were tracing slow circles on her thigh, rhythm hypnotic.

Stack’s eyes flicked between them, “Is that right?”

Alanna nodded once, “He was quiet. Still is. But I liked the way he looked at me.”

“Like what he wanted already belonged to him,” Stack said.

She froze for a second. The way he said it—too precise. Too intimate. Her spine straightened just slightly. When she glanced back at him, his expression hadn’t changed. Calm. Watchful. But his eyes…God. She could’ve sworn—

Did they just glow?

It was only for a blink, but something in her stomach flipped.

And then she felt it. A chill. Or a shiver. Not on her skin—but through her. Like someone had whispered inside her head. Like a hand, cool and unseen, had grazed the inside of her thigh from across the room.

Her eyes snapped to Stack. He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just sipped his drink and stared like he knew.

Alanna sat back slowly, crossing her legs, swallowing a breath she didn’t realize she’d held.

What the hell was this?

Smoke’s touch returned to her shoulder, steady, grounding, warm, “You okay?” he asked, his voice just for her.

She nodded. Too fast. Her thoughts were racing and she couldn’t name a single one of them.

They looked the same.

Same jawline. Same lips. Same thick lashes and dark eyes.

But Smoke’s touch was steady, anchored, familiar.

Stack’s presence was something else.

Not like a man.

Not even like a predator.

He felt like a question she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to.

Still, she kept stealing looks. Trying to solve something with her eyes before her body betrayed her.

Stack asked another question—something about her favorite cities—but she barely heard it. All she could feel was the pressure building in the room, thick with silence and suggestion. She pressed her thighs together and hoped no one noticed.

The singer’s voice below swelled again, slow and deep, wrapping around the moment like velvet. She realized something then. This was not a meeting. This was an arrival. And whatever Stack was, whatever waited beneath the charm and the stillness and the eyes that did not blink enough, he had already seen her. All of her. And he was pleased.

Alanna stiffened.

Not out of fear—but because her body needed space to think.

The air between them had thickened, too warm and charged. Her hand found Smoke’s without thinking, fingers threading tight through his like a tether, like gravity, like truth. Her eyes stayed fixed on Stack.

He didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t push. But his presence pressed against her skin was like heat from a nearby fire. Calm, composed, watchful. And still…she felt it. Something darker, deeper, hungrier than what met the eye.

She turned to Smoke. Her voice was low, “Can I talk to you,” she asked, “alone?”

Smoke gave a single nod, “Yeah.”

Stack’s mouth curved, but he stepped back with a slow drag of his drink, “Five minutes,” he said, amused, “Don’t take all night, sweetness.”

Alanna frowned, “You’re not helping.”

He winked, “Didn’t say I was.”

Smoke led her through a velvet-curtained arch toward a shadowed lounge alcove—rounded bench, dim amber light, thick privacy. The hum of music dulled behind fabric and walls, replaced by the flicker of candles and the hush of their breath.

Alanna sat. Stared at the room.

Then looked at Smoke, “What is this place?” she asked, “And what’s the deal with your creepy-ass twin brother? He said five minutes,” she added, “What happens after five?”

Smoke leaned back, resting one arm along the curve of the booth. He wasn’t offended. Just quiet.

“You gonna tell me what this is?” Alanna asked, eyes flicking to Smoke, “Because right now, it feels like I’m the only one without a rulebook.”

“This place,” he said, “is a safehouse for people who don’t belong anywhere else. A place for hunger. For curiosity. For truths that can’t survive daylight.”

She blinked, “That’s not an answer. That’s a riddle.” 

“No,” he agreed, “But it’s the truth.”

He reached out, touched her knee gently—rubbed slow circles through the fabric of her dress, grounding her again.

“You don’t have to understand it all tonight,” he said, “But you gotta stop flinching every time the wind changes. Relax. Feel it. Let the moment speak to you.”

She swallowed, not answering.

Smoke leaned in, brushing his lips across her cheek before finding her mouth. He kissed her once—slow, grounding, unrushed.

“Stack’s intense,” he said softly when he pulled back, “Always has been. But he’s not gonna hurt you.”

Her brow furrowed, “And why did he wanna meet me so bad?”

Smoke smiled faintly, hand trailing along her thigh, “Because he’s curious. He’s been asking about you for months.”

She huffed softly, barely a laugh, “You both act like you’re not telling me something on purpose.” Alanna raised a brow, “The way he’s looking at me like I’m something to eat? Yeah. Real subtle.”

Smoke chuckled, deep and low, “My brother’s got a big appetite.”

She stared at him, “And why me?” she asked, “Out of everyone in this room…”

He let the words hang—then added with a crooked grin, “We’ve always had the same taste in women. Only difference is how we express that.”

back at the alcove balcony…

Stack leaned against the iron rail like he had all the time in the world. One hand rested on the curve of the balustrade. The other slowly swirled the half-empty glass of blood-spiked champagne he hadn’t sipped from in ten minutes.

Below, the club churned and throbbed. Bass lines rolled through bodies like seismic waves. Couples kissed hard in corners. Fangs pierced soft flesh in the open. Some fed discreetly—mouths grazing inner wrists or necks with affection. Others fed hungrily, knees spread, heads thrown back, blood and pleasure indistinguishable under the red haze of the lighting.

Stack didn’t see any of them.

His eyes were fixed on the hallway Smoke had just taken Alanna down.

He could hear her heartbeat. Loud as war drums. Thudding faster the closer she stood to his brother. The way her breath caught, the shallow gulps, the nervous swallow as she tried to say the right thing. Her voice was low—but not to him. Not to his kind.

Vampire senses were cruel that way.

“…just five minutes? Yeah, okay?” she whispered.

Stack’s jaw ticked. His teeth clenched behind his half-smirk. Five minutes.

He wasn’t just envious. He wasn’t just aroused.

He was aching.

From the moment she’d stepped into the alcove, her scent had hit him like a velvet snare. Honey-slick nerves. The sweetness of her sweat layered with notes of wine, want, and something else—something faint and floral, like jasmine pressed between book pages.

And those veins.

Fuck.

The ones that trailed along her cleavage, vibrant with every rapid beat of her heart. The swell of her breasts made the line of her cleavage a map of temptation. Her jugular visibly ticked when she looked at Smoke.

That pulsing rhythm. That wet, human throb.

He could hear the blood in her.

He could taste it in the air already.

And she was talking loyalty. Talking patience. Like he wasn’t starving.

Smoke had pulled her aside, further into the shadowed hallway where mouths couldn’t read lips and bass couldn’t swallow words.

Stack didn’t need to strain.

Not when her heartbeat gave her away.

Not when her breath trembled like something just waking up.

“You gonna tell me what this is?” Alanna asked, eyes flicking to Smoke. “Because right now, it feels like I’m the only one without a rulebook.”

Stack’s mouth curled.

“He said five minutes,” she added, “What happens after five?”

She didn’t sound scared.

Just…restless. Curious.

“And why me?” she asked, “Out of everyone in this room…”

Because you called to me before you ever stepped inside, Stack thought.

Because you’re standing there wondering if I can hear you. And I can.

She huffed softly, barely a laugh, “You both act like you’re not telling me something on purpose.”

That one made Stack chuckle under his breath.

“And I’m supposed to be okay with all this mystery?” she pressed. “With him watching me like that?”

With me craving you like that, he corrected silently. With me knowing how close your pulse runs to the surface. How warm your blood tastes just from scent alone.

He dragged a fingertip across his bottom lip.

Five minutes was up.

Actually—no, it wasn’t.

But he didn’t give a fuck.

Stack appeared at the end of the hallway like a shadow peeled off the wall. Silent, sharp, golden-eyed.

“Five minutes up,” he said dryly, “Though I was generous. Clocked it at three.”

His tone held something hot beneath the sarcasm—jealousy sharpened to a blade’s edge. But his mouth wore a smirk, smug and dangerous.

He didn’t look at Smoke.

He looked at her.

Eyes dropping to her neck. Her chest. The pulse he wanted to feel under his tongue.

“You ready to head back and enjoy the ride?” he asked, voice rich with something older than flirtation. His eyes dragged slow over her throat, down the line of her collarbone like a man memorizing his next meal, “Or you need a little more time to figure out why you’re trembling?”

They didn’t say much on the walk back.

Smoke held the curtain open, but it was Stack who leaned in first, voice low and velvet-rough:

“Ladies first.”

Alanna raised a brow at the formality, but stepped forward anyway—shoulders back, head high, trying not to let her nerves show.

They both watched her walk.

The sway of her hips. The dip of her waist. The soft roll of tension in her spine that told them she was still deciding if she should turn around and run—or keep walking toward whatever this was.

Stack’s eyes dragged down the length of her legs like he could taste them. Smoke’s gaze didn’t move at all. Just watched, eyes half-lidded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if to say I already know how she moves when she’s on top of me.

Behind the curtain, the alcove waited. Shadow-soaked. Hungry.

Just like them.

The jazz faded behind the velvet curtains. Smoke’s fingers traced idle circles on the inside of her thigh, but Alanna’s body was no longer paying attention to his hands. Her senses were on something else entirely.

He sat across from her, one arm resting on the back of the couch, the other loosely gripping his glass. The red drink swirled lazily in the crystal—too thick to be wine, too opaque to see through. His legs were parted. Posture relaxed. But nothing about him was casual.

He was watching her.

Not with hunger.

With certainty.

Like he already knew her.

Alanna took another sip of the chilled champagne, barely tasting it. The bubbles tickled her throat, sharp and effervescent, but it was the cool weight of the glass in her hand that grounded her. She sat back, spine taut, caught between Smoke’s quiet heat beside her and Stack’s relentless gaze across from her. It felt like a velvet-lined cage—luxurious, yes, but closed. She didn’t even notice she’d drained the glass until a silent waitress appeared at her side with a fresh pour. Alanna accepted it without a word, fingers curling around the stem a little tighter than before.

Alanna shifted slightly in her seat. Smoke’s thumb flexed gently against her thigh, grounding her—but her mind was slipping somewhere it didn’t belong. The more she tried not to look, the more her gaze wandered back.

And when their eyes locked again, Stack’s lips curved—just slightly.

“That quiet act supposed to keep me guessing?” he asked, eyes glinting, “’Cause it’s just making me want to know more.”

Alanna tilted her head, deflecting with a dry smile, “Maybe I’m just thinking.”

Stack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His stare didn’t waver.

“You ready to talk, then?”

She blinked, “Talk?”

“You’ve had about a thousand questions dancing across that pretty face since the moment you stepped foot in this place.” His tone stayed smooth, but there was something heavier tucked beneath it. Something knowing.

Alanna glanced at Smoke, as if to check whether he noticed anything off.

He was calm. Too calm.

Stack smiled at that.

“I won’t bite,” he added, tilting his glass in her direction, “Not unless you ask nice.”

Her lips parted slightly—whether in amusement or something else, she wasn’t sure, “You always this forward?”

Stack’s eyes didn’t glow. Not fully. But they shimmered, just for a second. Like light bending where it shouldn’t.

“Only when I already know the answer.”

She stiffened.

He couldn’t know. There was no way he could know.

But her heart was already racing.

He sat back again, fingers dragging across his thigh, eyes still locked on her like a tether, “You’re curious. That’s good. Curiosity is honest.”

“I didn’t say I was curious.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Smoke shifted beside her—almost protectively—but he didn’t speak. His hand stayed on her leg, thumb still moving slow.

Alanna swallowed.

She wasn’t afraid. But she wasn’t calm, either. It was like standing at the edge of a deep pool, feeling the gravity tug at her calves, knowing the second she stepped in, she’d be pulled under something she wouldn’t understand.

Stack tilted his head, watching her process.

“Let me help you,” he said, “You got questions, sweetness. I can feel them. Let me give you the kind of answers only I can.”

Alanna met his gaze, defiant now, trying to gather what was left of her footing.

“And what kind is that?”

He smiled again, slower this time, “The kind Smoke can’t give you.”

The air tightened around her. Her mouth went dry. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, but deep in her chest, she knew...

This was the moment the night changed.

Stack said nothing.

He only held out his hand.

It hung there between them, palm open, fingers relaxed, unfazed by her hesitation. Smoke stood just behind her, close enough to steady her with his presence, but not pressing. His silence was a kind of trust. A vow to let her decide.

Alanna looked at Stack’s hand.

His fingers were thick, smooth, dusted with a few rings that caught candlelight along their beveled edges. His nails were clean, shaped. Everything about him was exact. Still. Waiting.

She stepped forward and placed her hand in his.

The contact was immediate.

Not cold, not anymore. But not warm either. His skin felt like it held temperature differently. Like whatever heat he absorbed, he stored it slowly, intentionally. His grip was firm without force. Her hand fit in his, and she knew somehow he’d already memorized the shape of it.

Stack didn’t speak. He simply began to walk.

And she followed.

His private quarters were hidden behind an archway draped in thick black velvet. The moment they crossed beneath it, the sound of the club dropped away entirely. No jazz. No laughter. No ghostly movement. Just quiet.

The hallway stretched long and narrow, lined with tall mirrors framed in ornate black and gold. The lighting came from wall sconces shaped like cupped hands, each holding a flickering flame no taller than a pinky finger. The air was scented—rich and woody, with something beneath it she couldn’t name. Not incense. Not perfume. Something darker, like amber cracked open under pressure.

She glanced at Stack as they walked.

He moved like he had all the time in the world. No urgency, no nerves. Each step measured. His posture wasn’t showy, but it commanded attention. Shoulders square. Chin lifted. He did not walk like a man—he walked like something that used to be one.

And yet…there was no cruelty in him. Not yet.

Just silence.

He hadn’t looked at her since they left the balcony, but she felt it in the space between them. That magnetism. That gravity. Like his body pulled at hers even without intention.

Her breath came a little shallower. Not from panic. From anticipation.

The dress she wore suddenly felt tighter. Or maybe it was the way his presence filled the corridor.

Her heels clicked softly against the stone floor. His loafers made no sound at all.

She noticed.

He led her to a set of double doors carved from deep walnut, each panel inlaid with more of those intricate patterns. Symbols that felt familiar even though she didn’t know what they meant. He pushed them open without effort.

Inside, the space stretched wide.

It was not a bedroom, not exactly—but a den of some kind. The ceilings were high, draped with sheer black fabric that hung in long waves. Candlelight flickered from the corners, reflected in glass and gold. There was a low sectional arranged near a hearth where a fire burned without smoke. Bookshelves lined one wall, tall and packed. A long table stood near the far end, crystal decanters and silver trays set out in perfect symmetry.

Everything was dark and lush and slow.

Stack let go of her hand.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said.

His voice was lower here, thickened by the hush of the room. It rolled down her spine like velvet tipped in heat.

She stepped forward and turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

There were no windows. No clocks. No doors visible beyond the one they came through.

Time had no weight here.

Smoke entered last, his presence re-centering her for a moment. He came to her side, his hand resting at the curve of her back.

“You still with me, baby?” he asked softly.

She nodded, eyes still scanning the space, “This feels like somewhere dreams get made…or broken.”

Smoke smiled against her temple, “Only if you let it.”

A tray appeared from the side, carried by someone who didn’t walk so much as drift. Another woman in black. Pale eyes, high cheekbones, lips stained the same deep red as the singer downstairs. She held the tray out between her palms, offering drinks without words.

Alanna reached for one.

The glass was thin and cold, filled with something golden and glimmering. It looked normal. She took a cautious sip—dry, sweet, touched with something floral. Smooth. Calming. She let it sit on her tongue before swallowing.

Stack took his own drink from the tray. A darker glass. No surprise. But this time, Alanna watched the way he held it. The way the liquid inside clung to the sides. Slower than it should have. Thicker.

He noticed her watching.

She didn’t look away.

“What is that,” she asked.

Stack raised the glass slowly, “What keeps me…steady.”

The answer was too clean. But he wasn’t hiding it.

She looked back at Smoke, “So…what now?”

Smoke didn’t speak.

Stack did.

“Now I ask,” he said, stepping closer, “if you’re here for him, or if you’re here for you.”

Alanna blinked, startled, “Excuse me?”

“This place doesn’t care what you do,” Stack said, “But you should.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she said.

“I know. And yet you walked in.”

Her lips parted. He was right. But that didn’t make it easier. She crossed her arms lightly. Not defensive. Just gathering herself.

“I’m still figuring out how I feel.”

“Good,” he said, “Most people lie. You haven’t.”

She met his eyes fully now.

Something passed between them. Not quite heat. Not yet. But something sharper. Something that could burn if left untended.

“I just don’t want to get it twisted,” she said slowly, “What any of this actually is.”

Stack’s gaze flicked that way, “He knows the rules. He wrote them.”

“And you?” she asked.

“I don’t want to take,” he said, “But I know how to want.”

That stopped her breath for a moment. She took another sip and for the first time since they’d arrived, she let herself settle into the seat. Not because she felt safe. Because she wanted to feel something else.

And Stack saw it. All of it.

Alanna wasn’t sure when the air had changed.

The room hadn’t moved. No lights flickered. The walls hadn’t shifted. But something beneath her skin told her things had turned. The kind of shift you feel before a thunderstorm breaks. Before the water boils. Before the drop on a rollercoaster you didn’t brace for.

Stack had been watching her.

Not in the usual way. Not like a man watches a woman he wants.

This was older. Slower. Hungrier.

He stood a few feet away, drink in hand, his posture relaxed, but his attention was razor sharp. Every movement of hers—how her breath hitched, how her eyes kept scanning him like her body was trying to figure something out her mind hadn’t caught up to yet—he watched all of it.

“Alanna? You’re still with me, baby?” Smoke’s voice pulled her back. He was at her side again, fingers grazing the top of her hand.

She nodded. Once. Not convincing either of them.

Stack set his drink down on the nearby table, the soft click of glass on marble louder than it should have been in the silence.

Then he turned toward her fully.

And something changed.

Alanna’s breath caught.

His mouth parted ever so slightly, and when it did—

She saw them.

Fangs.

Not long. Not exaggerated. But sharp. Smooth. White as bone. Not prosthetic, not decorative. Real. Real in a way that hit her all at once like the air had been yanked out of her lungs.

Her body stiffened.

She couldn’t move for a second. Couldn’t blink.

And Stack smiled. Slow. Like he had been waiting.

Her mouth opened but nothing came out.

Then—barely audible—

“Y-you’re a…a…”

Stack chuckled, and God, even that sounded smooth, “A vampire?” His eyes glinted, and as if on cue, they began to glow. Not in a cartoonish, garish way. It was subtle. Beautiful. Terrifying. Like a candle lit behind dark glass, “That what you wanna say?”

She took a step back. Not far. Just enough.

Her gaze darted to Smoke.

But even he looked different now. Not dangerous—but not innocent either. The shadows on his face had shifted. The weight in his eyes was real.

“Smoke,” she whispered, “Tell me I’m dreaming.”

He stepped toward her slowly, hands open, calm, “You’re not.”

“No.”

“Alanna—”

“No.” She backed up another step. Her chest rose in quick, short breaths. Her voice cracked when she said it, “Maybe you fucked me into some deep sleep I can’t wake up from…this shit ain’t real.”

Smoke moved to her, cupped her face gently. His thumbs stroked beneath her jaw. She didn’t pull away, but her eyes were wide, wet, searching, “This is real,” he said quietly, “And you’re safe. You’re still you.”

“I watched you…” she shook her head, blinking, “He just…appeared out of shadows. His eyes—your eyes—but darker. And his teeth—what the fuck are his teeth?”

“Truth,” Stack said from behind Smoke, still leaning casually against the table, “You said you wanted it. This is mine.”

She stared at him again, her whole world shifting beneath her, “You’re serious.”

“Always.”

“And you drink blood?”

Stack tilted his head, eyes glittering, “What else would I drink?” he drawled, “I’m a vampire, sweetheart. We drink blood. Seduce. We fuck like we’re starving.” He didn’t blink when he said it. Didn’t smile right away either. Just let it sit between them—hot, heavy, and deliberate. Then came the grin. Slow. Knowing, “Sound like something you could survive?”

Alanna’s lips parted again, but she had no words.

Her knees felt weak.

Smoke noticed and guided her gently to sit. She lowered herself down, trying to breathe through it, the room spinning slowly, like her reality was rotating just off axis. She pressed her palms to her thighs, trying to ground.

“Alanna,” Smoke said, kneeling in front of her, his forehead nearly touching hers, “I know this is a lot. And I should’ve told you sooner. But I needed you to see it. Not just hear it. I needed you to feel it.”

She didn’t speak.

Stack stepped forward a few paces, slow and deliberate, “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, “And I’m not some storybook monster. But I am what I am. And now that you know…”

He let the words hang.

And that—that—was the part that hit her hardest.

Now that she knew, there was no going back.

And for some strange reason…even as the fear curled in her gut and the questions beat against the inside of her skull, she realized something else.

Alanna’s fingers curled tighter around Smoke’s sleeve, her nails digging gently. She pressed in closer to him, almost chest to arm now, and she didn’t care how it looked. His presence was the only thing anchoring her in this room. Stack stood only a few feet away, posture loose, hands relaxed, but the way he looked at her was anything but casual. His eyes weren’t just admiring—they were studying. Licking over her skin without a single touch.

It made her insides tighten.

She wasn’t sure if it was dread or something far worse.

And he saw it.

That unnerved her more than anything.

Stack’s gaze moved from her mouth to her throat, then down the lines of her figure with no shame, like he was reading her pulse just by watching it beat under her skin.

“Damn,” he said low, his voice like thick honey poured slow over the rim of a glass, “He didn’t do you justice.”

Alanna’s body stiffened immediately.

She turned toward Smoke, incredulous, her voice sharp, “You just gon’ let him talk like that in front of you?”

Smoke’s jaw tensed. Not in anger—but restraint. He didn’t answer right away.

Stack smirked, “You actin’ like I’m being disrespectful,” he said, shifting his weight casually, “I’m complimentin’ the queen. Ain’t that right?”

She squared her shoulders and leaned in slightly toward Stack, voice cool but edged with fire, “First of all, I’m not interested in flattery from someone who looks like my man’s dark reflection. And second…I didn’t come here for all this smooth-talking, cryptic charm bullshit.”

Stack’s grin widened. He dragged his tongue lightly over the edge of his canine—subtle, calculated, “Dark reflection. I like that. You get poetic when you mad, huh?”

“I’m not mad,” she shot back, “I’m confused.”

Smoke stepped in, hand settling at the small of her back again, “Alanna—”

“No, for real,” she said, snapping her head to him, “What are we doing here? You been quiet this whole time while he’s out here talking like he’s picking out dessert.”

Stack let out a low laugh, “Baby, if you was dessert, I’d savor you slow.”

Her eyes narrowed, cutting right through him, “See, it’s that right there.” She took a breath and looked back at Smoke, but her voice cracked just slightly when she asked, “Why are you letting this happen?”

Smoke didn’t flinch. His thumb stroked across the dip of her spine in a way that always calmed her—but not tonight, “Because I trust you,” he said, “And I trust him. It ain’t about letting anything happen. You’re in control.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one that didn’t get the script?”

That was when Stack took a step forward.

His body didn’t rush. He wasn’t imposing. But the air shifted when he moved, as if something unseen moved with him.

His voice dropped—smooth, direct, unfiltered, “So you still don’t get it, sweetness?”

Alanna blinked, “What exactly is this,” she asked finally, “Because nobody’s said it out loud yet.”

Stack took a slow sip of his drink before answering. His eyes never left hers.

“This,” he said, gesturing lightly around them, “is where things that don’t fit above ground come to breathe.”

Her brow furrowed, “Breathe?” 

Smoke kissed her again, softer this time, “Just hear him out.”

She did.

Stack straightened, setting his glass down. When he stepped closer, she felt it again. That shift. The air tightening around him.

“My brother made a pact some time ago,” Stack said, “One that lets him move between worlds without paying the price I did.”

Alanna’s fingers curled around her glass, “And the price was?” 

Stack tilted his head, “Death.”

The word settled heavy. Her breath caught before she could stop it. She looked at Smoke sharply, but he did not look away. He did not deny it.

“Stack,” Smoke said calmly.

“It’s fine,” Stack replied. “She’s already standing in it.”

Alanna swallowed. “You’re dead…”

“Yes.” The simplicity of it was unsettling., “And I can only touch the living,” Stack continued, “one day out of the year.”

Her stomach dropped, “Tonight.”

Smoke’s hand tightened at her waist, “I’m here. You don’t have to do anything.”

“But,” Stack said softly, stepping closer, “you already crossed the line just by walking in.”

She laughed once, sharp and nervous, “That doesn’t sound like a choice.”

“It is,” Smoke said quickly, “Always.”

Stack’s gaze flicked to his brother, something dark and amused passing between them, “What Smoke hasn’t said,” Stack continued, “is why you matter.”

Alanna’s pulse thudded in her ears, “Why do I?”

“Because you are alive in a way most people aren’t,” Stack said, “And because my brother is tethered to you.”

Smoke did not interrupt.

“Through you,” Stack said, “he can reach me. Share what he has.”

Her chest tightened, “You’re talking about me like I’m a door.”

Stack smiled, “A bridge.”

Silence stretched.

Stack’s fingers trailed the rim of his glass, slow and deliberate, as he looked at her. The club pulsed below, bodies swaying, velvet shadows moving like liquid, but up here, in the hush of his private alcove, everything stilled. Alanna stood across from him, close to Smoke, yet aware of Stack like a live wire just beneath the skin. His presence was impossible to ignore. She tried not to stare, but his eyes—deep, unreadable, full of things she didn’t yet have language for—pulled her gaze back every time.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he said softly.

Her brows knit, “Feel what?”

Stack leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice dropped to something intimate. Not flirtation now—but confession.

“This pull. The static in the air when I look at you. The way your skin knows something’s not right but doesn’t want to run.”

Alanna swallowed. Her heart beat louder in her ears.

Stack’s eyes never left hers, “You think it’s just curiosity. Maybe lust. Maybe nerves. But it’s more than that. You don’t even know what you’re carrying, do you?”

She didn’t speak.

He sat back, exhaling, glass still in hand, “My brother…he don’t share easy. But he shared you.” Stack paused, letting that land, “And not just because you’re fine as hell—though God knows, you are.” His gaze dipped, once, over her body before rising back to her face, “He shared you because you’re more than a lover. You’re his rhythm. His tether. You make him feel.” His voice sharpened, quiet but charged, “And I don’t get to feel much anymore, Alanna.”

Her lips parted, a breath catching in her throat.

Stack went on, “When we were younger, women came and went. But when we found one we both liked—really liked—it was sacred. Something pure. Something ours.” His jaw flexed, “But now? I’m stuck in shadows. Silence. I can’t touch the world without consequence.”

He lifted his hand, palm open, “But through you…I can reach him.”

Alanna blinked, confused, “Reach him?”

“Not just him. What he has.” Stack’s voice thinned, like he was trying not to let too much emotion slip out with the words, “The warmth. The breath. The ache of real skin under my hands. The heat of blood rushing under the surface.”

She sat still, caught in the gravity of it.

“I’m not asking for pity,” Stack added, softer now, “But understand this—through you, I get a taste of life again. I get to feel human. I get to remember what it means to want something that ain’t just about survival.”

He let the silence hang there. The heat of it. The truth of it. Then, his eyes dropped to her lips, “That’s why I want you,” he said, voice low as silk and shadow, “Not just because you’re his. Not just because you’re beautiful. But because something in you woke something in me. And if you let me touch it…” He leaned in slowly, just close enough for her to feel the cold edge of his presence across her neck, “…I promise I’ll make you feel everything he does. And more.”

Smoke turned her gently, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I would never offer you if I didn’t trust you.”

“Offer me,” she repeated quietly.

“Yes,” Stack said, unashamed, “One night. That’s all. I get to feel what my brother feels. You get to walk away untouched.”

Her skin prickled, “And what do you get?”

Stack’s eyes darkened, “Relief.”

Smoke leaned his forehead against hers, “You don’t have to decide right now.”

But the way Stack looked at her said otherwise.

The balance had shifted. She felt it clearly now. The way Smoke stayed close, protective but expectant. The way Stack stood just far enough away to let curiosity do the work for him. She was no longer just Smoke’s girl standing at his side. She was the center of something older, heavier, and far more dangerous than she had imagined. And both brothers were watching her to see what she would do next.

Stack tilted his head slightly, those shadow-rich eyes locked on hers, his fangs just barely visible now behind a slow grin, “My brother,” he said, “is offering you to me. For one night.”

Alanna’s breath caught in her throat.

Stack took another step, still a respectful distance—but it felt closer, “He loves you,” he continued, “and he wants me to find out how much.”

The words hung in the air, heavy as velvet soaked in wine. Alanna stared at him. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her chest rose slowly, breath trying to steady itself against the shock.

“You think this is a joke?” she finally asked, voice quieter now, but no less sharp.

“I think this is trust,” Stack replied, “And trust is rare. Even rarer when it comes wrapped in a body like yours.”

She hated how her skin reacted to that. The warm flush up her neck. The curl in her belly. Not from what he said—but how he said it. The calm. The confidence. The eerie certainty, like he knew she’d end up curious, if nothing else.

Smoke didn’t speak. He was watching her, quietly. His eyes weren’t pleading. They weren’t pushing. But he was waiting. Waiting to see if she’d leave. Or lean in.

Alanna lifted her chin again, eyes burning straight into Stack’s, “If I say no?”

Stack’s smile didn’t fade. It softened, “You walk,” he said, “I don’t touch you. You stay with him. Just like now.”

“And if I say yes?”

He didn’t answer. He just looked at her. And the silence answered for him.

Alanna’s voice didn’t tremble when she said it, “I need to go home.”

Stack didn’t move.

Smoke didn’t argue. He stepped closer, hand settling lightly on her lower back—never guiding, just there, “You sure?” he asked.

She nodded.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the stem of the half-finished glass still in her hand. She set it down carefully on the tray. Stack’s eyes followed the movement, then rose slowly to her face. She looked at him once more. Just a glance. And even that felt like too much. Because his eyes…didn’t beg. They didn’t plead. But they lingered—a heatless fire behind glass. Like he could see all the way through her, and he’d be waiting for what he saw to come crawling back on its own.

She hated how that made her chest ache.

Stack didn’t speak. Didn’t stop her.

And that, more than anything, made it harder to walk away. But she did. She walked out the way she came—in Smoke’s shadow, but on her own feet.

The Ride Home Was Quiet...

Too quiet.

The tires hummed against the road, and the city lights returned bit by bit, blinking like nothing strange had ever happened just beyond their reach. Alanna didn’t speak. She sat turned slightly toward the window, her body perfectly still, but her mind was clawing through everything. The smell of Stack’s drink. The flash of his fangs. The glow in his eyes when he smiled and said her name like he was trying it on.

One night.

She pressed her palm to her knee and dragged it down to anchor herself. She wasn’t afraid. Not of him. Not of what he was. She was afraid of how easily she had listened. And how hard it was to forget the way he looked at her.

The front door clicked closed behind them. Home.

Alanna slipped out of her coat and walked through the familiar hallway. The space was dim and quiet. Soft lighting spilled from a single lamp in the corner, casting warm shadows over the leather sofa, the record player, the folded blanket she always used. Safe. She sat on the edge of the bed without a word. Smoke followed her in silence. When he crouched in front of her, it startled her—not because she didn’t expect him, but because of how gentle it was. He reached for her foot and lifted it onto his thigh. Fingers unbuckled her heel slowly. Deliberately.

He didn’t look away once. His eyes stayed locked on hers, “You mad?” he asked, voice low.

Alanna didn’t answer right away. He slipped the shoe off and set it neatly aside, then reached for the other. She spoke as he touched her again, “Are you into sharing your woman?” Her voice wasn’t sharp. It was real. Raw, “Is that a kink for you?”

Smoke didn’t flinch. He didn’t drop his gaze. He took the second shoe off and let it fall beside the first, his hands now bare against her calves, moving up slow, resting just below her knees.

“It is,” he said, “But it’s not just that.”

Alanna stared at him, waiting.

Smoke exhaled slowly, “I knew Stack would love you.”

She blinked, “Love?”

His hands paused, “I didn’t mean that kind of love,” he clarified, “I meant…he’d get you. The way I do. I could see it from the beginning.”

Her throat tightened, “So this was always the plan?” she asked.

“No,” he said, “This wasn’t a setup. I didn’t bring you to him to trick you.”

She searched his eyes. He didn’t look like a man trying to lie his way out of something. He looked like a man who’d thought about all of this…and still chose it. Alanna shifted slightly, knees brushing against his shoulders. Her voice was quieter now.

“Have you two done this before?”

Smoke’s jaw flexed once. Then he nodded, “Yeah,” he said, “We’ve shared before. Not often. Not recently. But yeah.”

Alanna leaned back slowly on her palms, “Why? What else is there? Besides the whole supernatural stuff.” 

Smoke stayed crouched in front of her, hands on her thighs, still keeping that eye contact that never wavered.

Smoke didn’t look away.

Not when she asked. Not when the weight of it sat between them.

He stayed crouched in front of her, hands still resting on her legs, thumbs pressing lightly into her skin like he needed to feel something solid while he said it.

“I’m not gonna dress it up,” he said, “I get off on it.”

Alanna’s breath stilled.

“On what?” she asked quietly, even though she already knew.

“On another man fuckin’ my woman,” Smoke said plainly, “On sharing what’s mine. On watchin’ her take somebody else and still come back to me.”

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t pull away.

Smoke continued, voice steady, unashamed, “And if I’m gonna explore that part of me, it ain’t gonna be just anybody. It’s gonna be my brother.” He shifted closer, lowering his voice, “Me and Stack might be on two different sides of the world, but the kind of women we like?” He gave a faint, knowing smile, “Same. Always been.”

Alanna searched his face, trying to find uncertainty. Doubt. Something softer.

There wasn’t any.

“I figured if I’m gonna enjoy it,” he went on, “I might as well enjoy it while I can. Vampire laws don’t play fair anymore. No human feeding. No human companions. Everything he does has to be quiet. Controlled. Hidden.”

His jaw flexed.

“He’s already had problems before. Crossed lines. Drew attention he shouldn’t have. So now? He moves careful. He moves alone.” Smoke’s hands slid slightly higher on her thighs, grounding but not possessive, “This,” he said, meeting her eyes again, “is one of the few ways he gets close without breaking the rules. And I’m not gonna lie to you and pretend I’m some kind of martyr about it.” He paused, then added calmly, “I like watchin’. I like knowin’ she’s wanted. And I like knowin’ she still mine when it’s over.”

The room felt quieter after that. Not tense. Honest. Alanna sat there, absorbing it, realizing that what unsettled her wasn’t the kink itself—but how clear he was about it. No excuses. No justifications dressed up as romance. Just truth. And somehow, that made it harder to dismiss.

He straightened slowly, rising to his feet.

Alanna looked up at him, heart aching and racing all at once, “And now through me,” she said quietly.

Smoke stepped closer, hands sliding to cup her face, “I’ll never let him have what’s mine unless I know she can handle it. Unless I know she wants it.” His thumb brushed her cheek, “And if she doesn’t…we leave it right there. No harm. No guilt.”

Her breath caught again. She felt like she’d been peeled open. But not violated. Not pushed. Just seen.

She reached for his wrist and held it, thumb brushing across the back of his hand, “I’m still thinking.”

Smoke nodded once, “I’ll wait.”

One Week Later: 

The week passed like a fever dream she couldn’t sweat out. By day, she tried to stay busy—answering emails she barely read, cooking meals she didn’t finish, folding the same basket of clothes more times than necessary. Smoke gave her space, and that somehow made it worse. He didn’t push, didn’t crowd her. Just…watched. Waited. Sometimes touched her low on the back when he passed, or brushed his lips against her temple in passing, like he already knew what she was deciding.

And God, maybe he did. Because it wasn’t just the offer that haunted her. It was the look in Stack’s eyes. That knowing, ageless hunger that seemed to see straight through her skin and down to the pulse beneath. That crooked smile, those fangs slipping forward with deliberate ease. The way he’d looked at her like she was ripe fruit he’d waited decades to taste. She was scared. But not of Stack. She was scared of herself.

Of the way her thighs had clenched when he called her sweetness. Of how she kept replaying the moment he licked his teeth and said, “You still don’t get it, do you?”

She wanted to slap him and kiss him in the same breath. And that pissed her off more than anything. The nights were the hardest. She’d lie next to Smoke, curled against the familiar heat of his chest, and find herself wondering what his brother’s skin would feel like. Cooler? Rougher? Would he grip her the same way? Would it hurt? Would it change her? She hated herself for wanting to know.

Until she didn’t.

By the seventh day, she cracked.

The house was quiet. Rain tapped against the windows in slow rhythms. She lit candles, poured a glass of wine—red, almost black in the low light—and sank into the tub. Bubbles lapped at her collarbones. The water was hot enough to flush her skin, to make her limbs loose. And still, she couldn’t relax. Her mind wandered. Stack, in the shadows. Smoke, behind him. Watching. Wanting.

She closed her eyes, letting the water rise over her chest, her neck. She ran her fingers slowly down her stomach, imagining what it would be like to have both their hands on her. One warm, one cool. One familiar, the other forbidden.

What does it feel like to fuck a vampire?

The question echoed. Not whispered in shame—but bold, sensual, pulsing. She’d only seen it in movies. Pale fangs, dramatic moans, red lips, necks bitten in ecstasy. She always rolled her eyes. Now she couldn’t stop imagining it. Stack’s voice in her ear. Smoke’s weight behind her. The air electric. Her body torn between fear and need. She didn’t even realize she was trembling until she took another sip of wine to calm herself. And in that moment—warm, wet, buzzed, aching—Alanna made her choice. She knew Smoke would feel it the moment she made the decision. He’d come to her. And she would let him know.

She was ready.

The air was still heavy with warmth and lilac-scented bathwater. Soft neo-soul played low from the corner speaker, and the candlelight danced against the tile walls, casting shifting shadows over Alanna’s skin. She sat curled in the deep porcelain tub, knees drawn in, wine glass balanced on the lip behind her, her hair damp, her body glistening.

The door opened with a subtle click.

Smoke stepped in, slow and unhurried, as if he’d already known she’d be here—waiting, soaking, thinking.

His eyes found her first. Then the tub. Then the wine.

And then, her eyes.

“Hey,” she said softly, voice slightly hoarse from not speaking.

He didn’t answer at first. Just walked over and sat on the edge of the tub, arms resting on his thighs. Watching her.

“Was wondering where you disappeared to.”

Alanna looked up at him. Her gaze didn’t flinch, “I needed to think.”

He nodded once, “You land on something?”

She breathed in. Out. Steam rose up between them like smoke.

Then—finally, steadily—she said, “I want it.”

Smoke’s brow arched slightly, but his face remained unreadable, “You sure?”

Alanna nodded, “Yeah.”

He leaned in, elbows on his knees, studying her like he was watching the truth rise from her skin, “What made you decide?”

She shifted in the tub, water rippling gently around her thighs. Her eyes dropped—bashful, almost embarrassed—but when she looked back up, it was there. The quiet confidence. The pull she could no longer ignore.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, “It’s just…something about him. The offer. The way he looks at me. I shouldn’t want it. But I do. I’m curious.” She lifted a shoulder, lips twitching faintly, “And maybe I wanna know what it’s like to fuck a twin.”

Smoke gave a low, wicked laugh. His grin was slow, crooked, and too fine for his own good, “Vampire twin,” he corrected.

She smiled then—genuine, soft, “Right. Vampire twin.”

Smoke leaned forward just enough to trail a finger along the rim of the tub, letting the tip skim through the bubbles, “You ever gonna ask me if I’ve done the same?”

Alanna tilted her head, “Have you?”

His eyes found hers again, “Yeah.”

“Really?” she said, teasing, “You’ve fucked a vampire woman before?”

Smoke smirked, “That bother you?”

“I’m not,” she said quickly, “I just—wanna know what I’m getting into.”

His voice dropped an octave, velvet-thick, “It’s an out-of-body experience,” he said, “Literally. Like your nerves split open and something else slips inside to feel it for you. Every stroke feels like a current. Every orgasm feels like it’s made of light…even in the dark. You’ll understand…soon enough.”

Alanna’s breath caught just a little. The room grew warmer.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead—soft, grounding—and then whispered, “Just remember what I told you, baby. You call for me? I’m there. He’s only got what you give.”

She nodded.

And somewhere in the rising steam, in the flicker of candlelight on tile and skin, her choice began to feel less like falling—and more like being pulled somewhere she was always meant to go.

Smoke didn’t rush. He never did. He stood from the edge of the tub and peeled off his shirt slow, letting it drop to the tile without a second thought. The flicker from the corner caught his gold chain, casting light across the ridges of his chest. His pants stayed on, but the imprint of him—thick and ready—pressed bold against the fabric. Alanna watched him move, mouth parting as he reached for the towel, unfolded it with quiet purpose, and held it open.

“Come here.”

She rose without protest, water sliding down her body like it didn’t want to let go. Smoke extended his hand, palm up, waiting for her to take it. Alanna placed her fingers in his grip, the warmth of his skin contrasting the cooling water around her. He pulled her up slowly, water cascading down her body in rivulets, soaking the bath mat beneath her feet. She stood there, naked and exposed, droplets clinging to her breasts, her nipples tightening in the humid air. Smoke's gaze traveled over her, lingering on the curve of her hips, the soft mound of her pussy, already showing a hint of slickness from the tension building between them. He wrapped her in the towel, pulled her close, dried her gently, slowly, like she was something worth preserving. His hands skimmed her back, her thighs, the swell of her hips.

Then he reached for the body oil. Thick. Gold-toned. Warm in his palms. He poured it, rubbed his hands together, and started with her shoulders. Worked it into her skin, watching the gloss spread beneath his touch. Down her arms, across her collarbone, between her breasts. he worked the oil into her skin with firm, deliberate strokes, massaging down her arms, then across her collarbone. His hands glided over her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they pebbled harder, sending sparks through her core. She shivered when he slicked over her stomach—when his thumbs dipped below, grazing the tops of her thighs.

“You have no idea how long I've waited for this,”  Smoke said, his breath brushing her ear as he spoke, “To see you give in completely. Experience every bit of it with him. The way he'll stretch you, fill you up until you're shaking. And I'll be right there, watching you surrender, your body arching, begging for more.”

 His words wrapped around her like a promise, stirring the ache low in her belly. She could see the bulge in his pants, his dick straining against the fabric, thick and insistent, as he continued rubbing the oil lower, over her stomach, then her thighs. Alanna's breath quickened, her skin tingling under his touch. He knelt slightly to coat her legs, fingers tracing inward, brushing the sensitive skin near her pussy but not quite touching yet. The oil made her glow, slick and inviting, every inch of her body humming with anticipation. Smoke stood, wiping his hands on a towel, but his eyes stayed locked on hers, dark with desire.

“You ready for what’s coming?” he asked low, “For how he gon’ pull sounds outta you you didn’t even know you had? You sure about this?”

She nodded. Barely.

He smiled at that—but there was nothing soft in his gaze now. Just a slow-building hunger, “Good. I want you to remember how you felt right now. Want dripping down your legs, body soft, chest rising like you already halfway gone. I want you to remember I saw it first.”

He directed simply, taking her hand again. They moved into the bedroom, the air cooler but no less charged. He guided her to the bed, the sheets crisp and waiting. Alanna lay back as he positioned her, legs parted just enough, her oiled body sinking into the mattress. Smoke stood above her, her eyes taking in the defined lines of his chest and abs, then he knelt between her thighs, his erection tenting his pants even more prominently. He started slow, pressing a gentle kiss to her inner thigh, lips soft against the oiled skin. Alanna sighed, her hands fisting the sheets. Smoke's mouth moved higher, tongue flicking out for a wet lick along her outer lips, tasting the faint salt of her skin mixed with the oil. He parted her folds with his thumbs, exposing her clit, swollen and pink, and leaned in to deliver a soft suck, drawing it between his lips with just enough pressure to make her hips twitch. Another lick. A thick one—up and flat. Tongue pressing heavy as it slid over her clit. She let out a soft whine. Fingers curled into the sheets.

He took his time. Didn’t rush, didn’t talk. Just stayed focused on the mess she made for him, mouth working like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. His tongue circled slow, then sucked. Just enough to make her toes curl. And then he did it again. And again. Wet licks, soft sucks, mouth greedy. He flattened his tongue and dragged it up through her center, then back down, collecting everything. Cream thick on his chin. She bucked. He held her down. Her legs trembled. He didn’t stop. When she moaned louder—he pulled her closer, one arm locked around her thigh, lips sealed over her clit now. Sucking soft. Pulling slow.

“That's it,” he breathed against her, the warmth of his words vibrating through her core. 

His tongue delved deeper, a long, slow lick from her entrance up to her clit, lapping at the gathering wetness. Alanna's pussy responded immediately, juices starting to flow, coating his tongue as he munched gently, lips nibbling the sensitive flesh. He took his time, alternating wet licks that flattened his tongue against her slit with hungry slurps that pulled her arousal into his mouth.

“That's it, spread for me, let me tear this sloppy pussy up,” Smoke rasped, his words vibrating against her core as he flicked his tongue faster, alternating with hard sucks that made her thighs quake. 

He slurped up the flood of her arousal, lips smacking greedily, tearing at her with fervent laps that left her pussy throbbing and raw. 

“Goddamn, you're so fuckin’ nasty, creaming on my face like a desperate slut. Keep leaking, I wanna drown in it.”

Smoke had her legs open wider, ankles resting on his shoulders, her back arching just slightly off the bed as he settled between her thighs. One strong hand gripped her waist, the other palming under her ass, tilting her up to his mouth just how he wanted. Smoke stopped to stare at her pussy for a moment, glistening, twitching, lips parted soft and creamy. Then he leaned back in. 

First kiss was light. A tease. The second? Open-mouthed. Wet. He licked flat and slow, bottom to top, tongue dragging thick and hot through her folds until her thighs jumped and her toes curled.

“Mmm,” he breathed against her, licking again, “Keep them fuckin’ legs open.”

Alanna gasped, thighs quivering as he spread her wider with his hands. His thumbs pressed into the creases of her hips, holding her down while his mouth worked deliberate and slow. He latched onto her clit, sucking gently, then flicking with the tip of his tongue. Soft. Rhythmic. Her hips rolled up, but he pressed her back down.

“Nuh uh,” he warned, pulling back to speak directly against her swollen flesh, “Stay still. Let me eat it how I wanna.”

He spit slow against her pussy, then spread it in with his tongue, sloppy now, audible, his mouth working like he was tasting the last meal of a man about to die.

He groaned low against her, tongue dragging slow through her folds, “Yeah,” he said quietly, “Just like I knew.”

Alanna moaned, hands reaching for his head, fingers curling into his short twists. He let her, just for a second. Then he pulled her closer, burying his face deeper.

“Say my name when I do that,” he growled against her clit, tongue swirling, “Yeah. Right there. Say it again.”

“Smoke…Smoke…Smoke—” She cried out. Not a scream, not a whisper, just raw need, her hips fighting for more friction.

He groaned into her. A deep, hungry sound, “You clenchin’ like you bout to cum. Go ‘head. I want it on my tongue.” He flattened his tongue and licked her in long, slow strokes. Then sucked her clit just once—hard and wet, “Fuck,” he groaned, jaw moving with lazy hunger, “You feel that? That’s you, baby. Creamin’ like a slut.”

She whined his name now, legs shaking. He didn’t stop. His fingers gripped her ass, tilted her up, mouth sealed tight around her clit again, sucking rhythmically until her body writhed under him.

Then, she came.

Hard.

He stayed down, riding the wave, tongue flicking through her aftershocks, lips still working like he was addicted to the taste, “I’ll stay down here all night if you keep feedin’ me like this,” he rasped when he finally pulled back, mouth glistening, beard wet, “You gon’ let him hit after I done opened you up like this?” He leaned over her now, cock bulging behind his zipper, thick and aching, “After I done made you cum just from my mouth?”

She was too breathless to answer.

He smirked, dragged his fingers through her slick, rubbed it against her own lips, “Keep runnin’ from it if you want. Still mine.”

Then he slid two fingers in slow, curling them deep, and lowered his mouth again—ready for another taste.

“Round two,” he said softly, “you ain’t ready for him yet, But you gon’ be.”

Alanna’s legs trembled around Smoke’s shoulders, slick with oil and sweat, her back arched off the bed as his mouth stayed buried in her pussy. No words. Just the sound of him.

Lips suctioned to her clit. Tongue dragging through her folds. The soft slurp of wetness, the heavy breath through his nose. The slow stretch of two thick fingers sliding deep inside her, curling just right —over and over. She choked on a moan, fingers tangled in the sheets, her thighs shaking like a live wire. Her stomach clenched, hips twitching. He didn’t stop. He didn’t stop.The drag of his fingers matched the rhythm of his tongue —slow and deep, then fast and tight, rolling her clit between lips slick with her cream. Her body jerked when he sucked harder, a sudden pulse of pressure that made her cry out.

“Ah—Smoke,” she whimpered, voice breaking.

She couldn’t see his face, just the top of his head between her legs, shoulders flexed as he held her down with strength and hunger and control. His fingers fucked her in steady rhythm, knuckles deep, thumb spreading her folds open while his mouth took everything. Her sounds turned soft and wet, little whines, breathless whimpers, a shaky gasp that turned into a sob.

She was crying now.

Tears slipping from the corners of her eyes as her body locked up. As the build overtook her. He licked deeper. Pressed harder. Sucked like her pussy owed him something. Fingers pumped faster.

Her hands clawed at the bed. One reached down to push, pull—she didn’t know—but he growled low, and her hips dropped again. His mouth sealed tighter. The orgasm hit like a slow collapse.

Her legs gave out. Her body convulsed, locked, shuddered in his grip. Her pussy clenched around his fingers, leaking all over his hand, into his mouth. He held her through it. Licked her through it. Didn’t come up for air. Didn’t move an inch until she was wrung out, boneless, soaked and sobbing, her breath catching on the aftermath of what he just did to her.

Smoke didn’t need to speak. He let her body say it all. He pressed kisses to her pussy like it was his, tongue still flicking lazy against her sensitive bud, drawing every aftershock out until she gasped. Smoke finally rose from between her legs. His lips glistened with her, beard wet, jaw locked with control. He didn’t speak right away. Just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes fixed on her ruined body sprawled across the sheets.

She was still twitching. Breathing hard. Thighs trembling where he’d left her wide and wet. Then, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and slid them down slow. Let gravity do the rest. His dick sprang free, thick and heavy, veins bold down the shaft, the tip slick with his own need. He gave it a slow stroke from root to crown, breathing deep through his nose as he walked back to the bed.

Alanna’s eyes dropped instantly. He caught it. She wasn’t ready. Not fully. But she would be.

He climbed up slow, knees sinking into the mattress. One hand stroking his dick, the other pressing soft between her thighs, parting them again. She opened like she belonged that way. He rubbed himself against her. Up and down. Through the mess he made. Her slick coated his shaft in slow, gliding strokes. He dragged the tip from her clit to her entrance and back again, not entering—just teasing. His eyes never left hers.

“You sure you ready to handle my brother?” he asked, voice low, “This dick already got you cryin’.”

She blinked up at him, chest rising. Mouth open. Legs wide.

He smirked.

Then he gripped behind her thigh, pulled her closer, and shifted her body where he wanted her—hips tilted just right, knees up, feet flat.

His dick pushed forward, parting her slow.

One long, smooth stroke.

Deep.

Her mouth dropped open. A small cry escaped. Smoke’s brows lowered, jaw flexed, eyes fixed on where they met. He bottomed out, holding still for a moment, feeling her stretch, feeling her flutter. Then he started to move. Slow at first. Then deeper. He wasn’t giving her anything to hold on to. Just the weight of him. And the quiet promise that no matter what came next, he was the one who’d be inside her first. Inside her best. Inside her always.

“That’s my pussy he gettin’ to fuck,” he said, licking his lips,“I just wanted her nice and full before I shared.”

Smoke stayed deep for a breath, letting her feel the weight of him and every inch. His hands gripped the backs of her thighs and pushed them closer to her chest, bending her easy, folding her open. Then he pulled back slow. All the way to the tip.

Paused. And drove back in.

The sound of it was thick and wet. A deep glide that made her body jolt and her chest rise. Her lips parted around another moan, quiet at first, then louder, strung out by the stretch.

He pulled out again. Slid in deeper this time.

Long strokes. Unhurried. Heavy. Like he was carving his name inside her. Her hands gripped the sheets but didn’t pull. Her eyes stayed locked on where their bodies met, mouth open in a dazed moan that never stopped. She couldn’t look away. Smoke grunted low, rolling his hips forward again, pace steady. He started working a slow rhythm—in and out, in and out—dick dragging along her walls, dragging her moans out with it.

Her pussy made wet, sucking sounds with every push. He tilted his hips on the next stroke, angled just enough to grind deeper. She whimpered. Her eyes rolled halfway back but landed again on his dick, hypnotized. She wasn’t moving. She couldn’t. Just breathing, watching, moaning like a girl possessed. Smoke leaned in, hand slipping under her knee to press it higher. Her thighs trembled. Her mouth dropped wider. Her breath hitched. He smiled, then fucked deeper.

Harder.

She mewled when he hit that spot again. She tightened around him like her body was begging. Her lips shook. But he never stopped. Never changed the pace. Thick. Slow. Deep.

He pulled out almost fully, then glided back in, hips flush, balls tapping the curve of her ass. She whimpered again, breathy and soft like she was about to break. He dropped one hand to her stomach, palm flat, pressing down just enough to feel himself inside her.

Smoke stayed deep. Buried to the hilt.His hips rolled slow, smooth, steady like the rhythm of a man who knew he wasn’t in a rush to finish. Just to feel. Just to own the space inside her.

Each stroke was thick. Full. Controlled. The drag of his dick pulled moans from her that sounded almost involuntary now, soft, breathless, fluttering at the edges. Her eyes fluttered too, lids heavy, lashes wet. She was losing track of time, of breath, of herself. He held her bent and open, legs pushed high, body folded under the weight of his pace.

And still he rolled. Still he fucked.

Still he watched her come undone beneath him, every thrust hitting deep and slow, like his dick was coaxing her into submission. Not with force. With fullness. With rhythm. With pressure. The bed creaked soft beneath them. The air felt hot and close. Her chest lifted in quick, shallow breaths. The kind that couldn’t quite keep up.

Her arms were loose now. Her grip on the sheets had gone slack. Her moans turned weaker. Then smaller. Then faded into tiny gasps. Barely there. Her eyes rolled back, unfocused, fluttering closed for a moment—then again. And he was still fucking her. Still there. Still grinding. His hands moved up, one pressing lightly on her hip to hold her still, the other dragging over her belly, slow and firm, like a reminder that he was deep. That he wasn’t done. Her mouth parted once more and no sound came.

She was gone. Fucked to sleep. Fucked silent.

Her legs fell open wider as her body went limp, her breath evening out into slow, steady exhales. And Smoke gave her a few more strokes, slower now. A final roll of his hips, pushing all the way in and staying there. Watching her. Feeling her. Then he pulled out gently, eyes still locked on her twitching thighs, her leaking pussy, her wrecked body sinking deeper into the sheets.

No words. He didn’t need them. She’d feel it when she woke up. Her body was attempting to give up to sleep—slow breaths, parted lips, thighs still open, glistening and twitching from the stretch. His cum didn’t fill her yet, but she was leaking something rich and messy just from the way he’d worked her open. Her pussy still fluttered in aftershocks, swollen and slick.

And she took it.

The sheets were still damp with sweat and the mess from her pussy when Smoke finally eased away from between her thighs, his tongue and dick leaving her fluttering and wrung out. He kissed her stomach, her hip, her inner thigh, and slid beneath the covers, pulling her close until her body fit into his like a final exhale. Even as her eyes closed. Even as Smoke’s breath steadied beside her. Her body wouldn’t settle. Her mind was adrift. Something in her pulsed too loud beneath the surface. And when sleep finally came, it didn’t come gently.

It opened her.

The sheets still held the scent of her. Smoke’s mouth had been between her legs not long ago, and his tongue had left her trembling and glassy-eyed, her body drenched in a quiet kind of aftershock. He’d kissed her thighs, her belly, the slope of her hip, and then folded her into him beneath the covers like a secret tucked away in warmth. His breathing slowed. His grip around her waist settled into something tender.

But Alanna’s body didn’t quiet. Her skin still tingled. Her pulse dragged slow and thick through her limbs, like a storm hovering just off the coast.

She closed her eyes.

But sleep didn’t soothe her.

It seized her.

And took her somewhere else entirely.

She stood naked in front of a tall mirror that glimmered like a pool of obsidian. Her skin glowed bronze beneath the low, golden light of flickering candles. Her nipples were taut. Her petite frame reflected back at her as though the mirror wanted her just as much as the man behind her did. Her hair spilled over her bare shoulders in loose waves, still wild from earlier, and her thighs gleamed like polished silk, as though someone had already touched her there. But it wasn’t Smoke.

Not here.

The room shimmered. The air was thick and warm, perfumed with jasmine, ripe blood orange, something smoky, and something older—leather damp from rain. The floor beneath her was dark wood, cool against her feet. Behind her, walls loomed deep blue, almost black, hung with heavy drapery that moved as if it breathed.

And then…a presence.

His presence.

She didn’t have to turn.

She felt him.

Stack.

Annie is a rootworker. She trusts nature, ancestral knowledge, and Black women-led practices. The medical-industrial complex (especially in the South) would be suspect to her. Tainted by violence, racism, and detachment. She would never feel safe or seen in a sterile hospital system unless absolutely necessary.

Drinks red raspberry leaf tea for uterine strength.

Uses oils and herbs passed down from her aunties.

Has protective wards and ancestor altars lit during labor.

Chooses midwives who speak the same spiritual and cultural language.

Believes in labor as a rite of passage, not a clinical emergency.

Annie absolutely would be aware of the horrific statistics around Black maternal mortality in hospitals. She would not gamble her life—or her baby’s—on the whims of medical professionals who often don’t listen to Black women. Instead, she’d center sovereignty and safety.

This also adds a political layer: her birth is resistance. A reclaiming.

Now that one-shot idea you mentioned? Gorgeous!

Smoke seeing Annie in pain and fighting every instinct to fix it would be so layered. He’s a man who lives by control, precision, solutions. Watching the woman he loves cry, bleed, scream but refuse intervention? That would break something in him and build something new.

I imagine a moment like:

Clarksdale, Mississippi, 1979

The storm had rolled in with her contractions. Low thunder. Hot rain. Cicadas screaming like they could feel her pain too. Annie gripped the wooden headboard, her bare back arched like a bowstring pulled tight, belly trembling with the next wave. Sweat rolled down her temple, past her jaw, down to the curve of her throat. Smoke stood behind her, shirtless, his big hand flat against her lower back. Steady. Solid. But helpless.

He hated this part.

She moaned low, guttural. It was primal, animal. The kind of sound that changed a man.

Smoke clenched his jaw. His palm was slick with the oils her doula had used. The room smelled like sage and rose, like frankincense and saltwater. Everything sacred. But all Smoke could see was her pain.

“Baby,” he said. Low. Gravelly. “You sure? You still sure you wanna do this all natural?”

Annie didn’t answer. She was swaying through the contraction, eyes shut, lips parted. Her head was wrapped in indigo cloth, loose strands of hair curling wild around her cheeks. Her breath came hard. Labored.

The midwife looked up. “She’s focused. Let her ride it.”

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“She’s been ridin’ it for twelve hours,” he spoke low. “Don’t make sense for her to suffer like this if there’s relief—”

“She don’t want that kind of relief,” the doula whispered. “She wants to feel this. She wants to own this.”

Smoke looked down at Annie. Her thighs trembled. Her feet dug into the woven rug beneath her. Her knuckles were white where she held onto the bed.

Another contraction.

She cried out this time, hands slipping. Her knees buckled and Smoke caught her, strong arms scooping her up fast. “I got you. I got you, girl.”

Her head dropped to his shoulder, hot tears sliding onto his skin. “I can’t…Smoke…”

“Yes, you can.” His voice cracked. “But you don’t have to.”

“I need to.” Her breath was ragged, words broken. “I need to do this my way.”

Smoke didn’t speak for a long moment. He just held her.

His chest rose and fell against her. He buried his face in the side of her neck, kissing her skin, feeling her pulse drum steady beneath his lips.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Then I’m right here. However long it take. However hard it get. I’m right here.”

She nodded weakly, already breathing through the next one.

An hour later, she was in the birthing tub.

Candles flickered. The water was warm and deep, red rose petals floating across the surface. Her hips were spread wide, belly low and heavy. The doula knelt on one side. The midwife stayed close, gloves ready.

Smoke was in the tub at her back, legs folded, arms open. She leaned against him, his thighs bracketing hers, his voice in her ear.

“You doing good,” he told her. “So fuckin’ good.”

Annie shook, panting.

“She’s coming,” the midwife said.

Annie’s cry split the room. Her fingers clawed into Smoke’s thighs. His hands didn’t flinch. He held her tighter.

“Come on, baby. Push through. You got her. Bring her home.”

Annie screamed, long and deep, and Smoke felt it in his bones.

And then…

The wail of a newborn split the night.

Later, they laid the baby girl on Annie’s chest, skin to skin. The storm had passed. Only the quiet hum of night now. Annie was limp, eyes heavy, glowing with something wild and ancient. Smoke couldn’t stop looking at her.

“You did that,” he said. “You brought her here.”

Annie didn’t speak. Just stroked the tiny curls on their daughter’s head.

“Thank you for trusting yourself,” he whispered. “Even when I couldn’t stand to see you hurt.”

She smiled faintly. “You held me steady.”

He kissed her shoulder. Then her temple.

And their daughter let out a soft coo, like she already knew the rhythm of love she was born into.