#aaronpierre

He would run your bath, making sure the water was the perfect temperature. Then he’d undress you, careful to avoid any movement that might hurt.

Lifting you as if you were porcelain, he’d lower you gently into the water.

The way his hands moved across your skin brought tears to your eyes.

His touch was reverent, every stroke a vow of devotion. He washed you slowly, thoroughly, until you were ready to be wrapped up and tucked back in bed.

For months, his focus was only you. Never touching you sexually. Never asking for anything.

He cooked your meals. He fed you. He oiled your hair. He served you like a dutiful priest and you were his goddess.

But now, fully healed, you were still being treated like glass.

And it was beginning to frustrate you. Especially the part where he still refused to make love to you.

Being cared for like a doll was beautiful when you were weak. But now it made you feel trapped.

He was lying beside you, propped against the headboard with a book, when you turned wide, pleading eyes on him.

Your hand slid under the sheet to rest on his thigh. At first, your touch was slow, innocent. Then it crept higher, kneading, squeezing, until he finally turned glazed eyes on you.

The look in them made you clench so hard you gasped aloud.

He blinked rapidly, the raw lust in his eyes quickly replaced by concern.

He dropped his book. “Are you okay?”

You shook your head.

His brow furrowed as his gaze swept over your scantily clad body, his worry refusing to ease.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want you.” You meant for it to sound seductive, but it broke out in a sob.

His eyes softened, a small smile replacing his frown.

“I want you too, baby.” He leaned down, brushing your lips with a chaste kiss. When you tried to pull him deeper, he chuckled and pulled back. “But you’re not strong enough.”

You whined in frustration, crossing and uncrossing your thighs as the ache inside you grew.

Fisting his shirt, you tugged him down, crashing your mouth against his in a desperate attempt to show him your need.

For a moment, he kissed you back, a groan vibrating into your lips—before he tore himself away.

“Please,” you whispered, cradling his head between your hands. “It’s been too long.”

He cupped your face, thumb stroking your cheek in soft, loving passes.

You turned into his palm and kissed it.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, then slid his hand down to circle your throat… and squeezed lightly.

The animalistic groan that ripped from you had him chuckling against your ear.

That sound. That laugh. The one that promised, I’m going to take care of you.

His hand found your breasts, kneading one, then the other, rolling your nipples between his fingers before moving lower.

When his hand slipped into your pajama shorts, you leaned back and spread your legs, offering yourself to him like a love-worn guitar he knew by heart.

The first touch was slow, careful. He traced your folds as though relearning you. Five months apart had been an eternity.

When his finger brushed your nub, both of you groaned, eyes locked as he began to work his magic between your legs.

He pulled his hand away, and your eyes followed, glued to it as he slipped two fingers into his mouth and sucked.

His eyes fluttered shut, a low moan vibrating in his chest. More fluid leaked from you.

When his fingers returned, your folds yielded, parting for him as he slid inside.

Slow, torturous thrusts.

His lips found a nipple while his other hand roamed over your belly as it traveled down south.

You clenched around his pumping fingers in anticipation... then his thumb pressed against your aching clit.

The sounds lodged in your throat.

Your hips jerked, trying to ride his hand, desperate for more friction, for release.

He lifted his head, your nipple slipping from his mouth with a wet pop.

He shook his head slowly. “Uh-uh. Be a good girl and stay still.”

The hand working your clit shifted, pressing firmly against your lower belly, holding you down while his thick digits stretched you from inside.

He pumped slightly faster, watching the sex-crazed expressions on your face, moving his thumb back over your clit to drive you further into insanity.

Incoherent words babbled out of you, like a woman possessed.

Your head thrashed, your toes curled, your hands clutched at everything within reach.

Then he curled his fingers inside you and beckoned you to come...

And you did.

You came hard. Spraying all over his good shirt and landing a few drops on his lips for measure.

He licked it off.

Rising, he tugged his pajama bottoms down and moved to your side, stroking the thick length in his fist.

You parted your lips eagerly, and he chuckled — low, rumbling, ending in that hiss that always made you melt.

“What part of you’re not strong enough don’t you understand?” The words rolled out in a sinful timbre.

You pouted, tilting your puppy eyes up at him.

“Can I at least watch?”

His hand worked faster. “Why do you think I’m here? You’ve got front-row seats.” He tapped his cock lightly against your forehead, making you wrinkle your nose as you leaned forward to catch his scent.

He laughed under his breath. “My nasty girl.”

You reached up instinctively, but his voice cut sharp and commanding. “Put it down.”

You dropped your hand at once, a needy whimper spilling out.

“Good,” he murmured.

He dragged his length along your cheek in slow, deliberate strokes, the silken skin tracing your face like a brand. His pumping hand slowed until the head brushed your lips.

A bead of precum smeared against them. You licked it off immediately.

He groaned, his voice raw and strained, and did it again.

You swiped the milky fluid from your lips and stuck your tongue out at him.

He pressed the swollen head against it, smearing more across the pink.

You swallowed, stuck it out again, teasing.

He was gone.

When he set himself on your tongue once more, he gave a few shallow thrusts before pulling away.

Your hands found your breasts, squeezing and rolling them, putting on a show just for him.

“Fuck it,” he growled, biting the words out. He propped your head up and swung a leg over, straddling you.

Your mouth opened wide, ready, as he guided himself between your lips. One hand caressed your cheek, the other steadied his cock.

He eased forward, ginger at first, as if afraid you’d break.

But your arms snaked around him, palms gripping the hard curve of his ass, pulling him in. You moved your head, inhaling his length.

“God-- fuck,” he croaked, voice cracking as you worked him the way only you could.

His hand left your cheek and braced against the headboard, while the other held the back of your head steady as you milked him.

It didn’t take long. He jolted, tried to pull out, but you were done with his carefulness. You kept him buried, throat tightening, swallowing down every hot spill of him until your eyes watered.

When you finally pulled off, it was with a wet pop, leaving him dazed and boneless as he collapsed to the side.

After a long breath, he tapped your thigh.

You rolled to face him.

Soft whimpers are heard throughout the small, luxurious apartment that sits in downtown Miami, the heat steaming up against the walls, leaving some sweat residue.

Underneath the ceiling fan blowing down coolness was you, drunk off your mind after another date that began with you being stood up, coming home and drinking a full bottle of wine before calling up someone you shouldn’t be bothering or you’ll regret it in the morning.

You keep on making incoherent sexual noises only you and the person you’re currently bouncing up and down on can hear.

Except this person was your Terrance.

Your fine ass space agent roommate who’s fat dick is poking against all of your sweet spots you can’t even reach with your own hands, fucking you like he finally getting a taste after a long wait.

Well. It was considering you and him been on and off for a couple years now, breaking up over your unsettled stance on wanting to travel with him as he did his assignments for his job while you worked yours or you moving to a different country for it, which he hated.

“What did I tell you, hm?” he asked in his deep British accent before slapping your ass, hearing your moan loudly.

“I. Should. Stop. Seeking. Out. When. I. Still. Got. You!” you cried out harshly, each word coming out as you thrust your hips down to his.

He growled before placing a sloppy kiss on your lips, hooking his arms under your legs before standing up carefully, lifting you with him.

He begins bouncing you up and down on his dick at a snappily pace, consistently hitting a sweet spot near your cervix, with you moaning his name out seductively.

“That’s right. You better say my name.” he mumbled, groaning at how quick you clench and unclench around him, missing that feeling.

You laughed quietly, but is cut off when you can feel your release approaching once again, burying your face into his neck.

“Hey!” as Terrance slapped your ass, making you look up all wide eye.

“Look at me while I’m fucking you through it.” he ordered, watching you nodded profusely as he slammed hard into you, signaling his release was coming.

“Oh my god…..” you cried out drunkenly, trying to push yourself off.

“It’s too much….you got too much dick!” you uttered, but he laughs, laying your body against the edge corner of the couch.

“You’re a big girl, you can take all of me.” he replied before speeding up his brutal strokes, watching you tremble underneath him.

“You owe me for making me leaving my assignment during work hours, knowing this.” he said, licking up your neck, which almost took you out.

You groaned loudly, feeling his hand slowly wrap around your neck, squeezing it a bit.

He was right since he was still in his polo dress shirt, but everything else? Gone, including your own clothes.

“Say you’re sorry.” he ordered, deepening his dick inside more, slowing down a bit.

“I’m sorry.” you said quietly, your release itching near.

His hand squeezed tighter, making you gasp and throw your head back, whining at how even more good this is feeling.

“Use your big girl voice. And wisely.” he said before grinding his hips into your pussy, hearing its wetness squelching loudly.

“I’m sorry for making you leave your job because of my neediness!” you cried out, almost wanting to rub your clit.

Terrance laughed darkly, kissing all over your face before lifting himself up, still pounding into you and moaning from it.

Both of you are sweaty and fighting against your nuts, not sure who’s gonna break first.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” he said in an exhausted voice, letting your neck go.

“Me too.” you uttered, twisting your nipples.

“Uh uh.” as he pushed in at a slight angle.

“You can’t cum until you say nobody, and I mean nobody, is allowed to fuck you like how I fuck you.” he said, eyeing you down.

“Terrance, please….I need to cum bad.” you whined, trailing your hand to your clit.

However, he’s quick to stop it, bringing it to his lips and sucking on your wrist, hearing you whine even more, beginning to slowly pass out.

“Holy shit…” you breathed out, your breathing slightly harsh.

“Come on.” he said, his mouth twitching as he can feel you clenching around him.

“I know you want to say it with that nasty voice of yours. You was talking filthy all over the call and shit.” he said lustfully, dragging his hot tongue over your hand.

You sucked your teeth loudly, feeling like your body is going to exploded if you don’t give in.

So you do.

“This pussy is yours, Terrance!” you breathed out, your legs tightening.

“Nobody else is allowed inside this but you and that fat ass dick of yours!” you added, tears pouring of your eyes.

He nods hungrily, licking his lips as he threw his head back, moaning sinfully as he speeds up his strokes, both of your moans mixing in.

“Alright. Cum for me” he said, slamming in one more time.

On cue, you cum hard on his dick, your essence spraying out, creating a tsunami under you and between y’all as your weak, erotic cries fill up the room, your body shaking a bit.

He cums really hard into your pussy, his hot seed flowing in like he’s been holding back from release all day, feeling very hot and sticky against his strained groans, squeezing the pillow next to you.

He collapses on top of you, nestling his head between your breasts before slowly falling asleep, breathing softly.

“You’re mine again…” is the last thing he says before falling asleep, his snores following.

You smile softly, rubbing his back in agreement before you fall asleep, exhausted from yet another session of him tearing up your walls.

A/N II: This was a surprise, to be quite honest. But I hope everyone enjoyed it just as much as I did, spending an hour writing this.

The screen lit up with the TikTok app’s familiar start-up jingle, followed by a soft gasp from the girl on-screen. She wore a silk bonnet, lip gloss, and an oversized tee, holding her phone like she had just discovered treasure

“Okay. Y’all… I was just trying to figure out who this woman was that literally almost shut down a street in Milan yesterday. Like—shut it DOWN. And I fell into a hole. So, let’s get into it because—why did no one tell me this princess is that girl?”

The screen cut to the now-viral photo of Princess Atarah Mbali, draped in a chartreuse Jacquemus mini dress with a long sculptural train, strappy metallic heels, and a pair of gradient sunglasses that half-covered her face. Her hair was in two sleek, waist-length braids, and her brown skin glowed under the paparazzi’s camera flash. In the background was a blurry figure in all-black — broad, tall, still.

“First of all — yes. This is an actual princess. Like, royalty. Heiress to a fucking throne. Her mom is Queen Samira — which is the one who brought that sapphire headwrap to a UN gala she attended with her husband, and it broke Twitter. Yeah, that’s her mother. So, her bloodline is already fashionable as fuck. Sort of known to be on of the best dressed families in power.”

The video then cut to a mashup, which was actually a vintage Vogue spread from years ago featuring Queen Samira’s wedding to King Kwame Mbali, followed by a slideshow of archival footage showing a much younger Atarah. From boarding school photos, grainy royal family candids, and charity gala appearances and even the occasional one of her as a child, waving to the paps. She was always poised, always beautiful, and was always watched.

“She’s twenty-four now. Went to university in London, dipped in and out of the spotlight for most of her life — and then bam, started popping up in these random clips and videos all over social media. Baby she’s been here.”

The TikTok cuts to a now-infamous video. It shows a bustling crowd outside an afterparty in France. Nothing but chaos and screaming as different security guards yelled in four different languages. The camera shakes wildly until it catches a tall, sharply built man with deep brown skin and a calm, stoic expression emerging through the crowd from the door of the party. It shows as he turned and effortlessly lifts a girl. And there, effortlessly balanced across his shoulders, laughing in a mini dress and stiletto boots, was Atarah Mbali, shades across her face as she blushed at the attention.  

“This was her. THIS was her. And that man carrying her like a paper doll? That’s not her boyfriend. That’s her bodyguard. Terry. Richmond. Who has apparently been with her for, like, almost ten years now???”

The voiceover softened, almost dreamily.

“And he is always so there? Like—girl, look at this.”

It then cuts to another video. A jet ski gliding across the turquoise coast of Antigua. Atarah in a red bikini, long braids flying behind her as she’s driving with her sunglasses on and laughing. And behind her, hands gently resting on her waist to make sure the standing girl didn’t fall, face unreadable, sat Terry. Wet shirt clinging to him with his eyes trained on the horizon.

Then it cut again — quick flashes of mirror selfies she’d posted on her now semi-active account throughput the years. Some of them were classic influencer content in a way. Chic bags, nails, jewelry. But if you looked closely, there he was in the background every time — blurred in the mirror, half cropped, standing at the door, boots in the frame.

“So like… she doesn’t post a lot, but when she does? He’s always there, which I know he’s her bodyguard, but he’s fine as fuck.” 

The TikTok cuts to one last clip , one low-resolution and shaky.

It was a New York Fashion Week afterparty. There was loud music and flashing lights. Atarah’s hand is in Terry’s as they move through the crowd with her in front. At one point, she stumbles in heels and he catches her by the waist like it’s second nature. She doesn’t even look that surprised by the touch. She just leans back into him for one second longer than necessary with a slightly agape mouth.

“You’re telling me that’s just professionalism? She not fucking his fine ass? Please. I bet that man is in love with his job for…many reasons. Either way, I need this in a book or on a screen near me, immediately.”

The TikTok ends with a picture of her reflection in Capri, Atarah smirking under sunglasses, head slightly tilted toward the large window she was taking the photo in. And Terry was behind her, one hand on the car door, the other on his hip as he watched her. 

That was the video Atarah watched on her phone last night, the hum of the private jet subtle. Once it send and automatically started over in her headphones, it was then she felt how much she was smiling. She looked away from the phone illuminating her face, the video still playing in her ears, and her eyes landed on the man across the aisle. There Terry sat in a reclined airplane seat, asleep with a fluffy yellow blanket thrown over him, the one she placed earlier. And as she gazed at him, the end of the video rang in her ears again. 

“She not fucking his fine ass? Please. I bet that man is in love with his job for…many reasons. Either way, I need this in a book or on a screen near me, immediately.”

With that, she shut her phone off and took her earphones off her ears. She let out a soft sigh as she placed the items in her carryon bag next to her before snuggling up in under her blanket and going to sleep, the last thing she saw being the sleeping man next to him. 

────୨ৎ────

The private jet cut a clean line through the skies above Los Angeles, the soft hum of descent barely noticeable within the luxurious interior. Plush cream seats gleamed under the warm glow of the cabin lights, and through the oval windows, the city stretched like a golden mirage beneath them.

“Terry, wake up!”

Atarah’s voice rang out like morning bells, crisp and bright, far too lively for someone who had been curled up asleep moments ago. She sat up quickly, brushing a stray coil of dark hair from her cheek, her smile wide as her eyes danced toward the window. “We’re here!”

Across the aisle, Terry sat upright, dressed in all black, as always—black trousers, black fitted shirt, black earpiece, black watch. His presence alone was intimidating, but unmoved. “I see that. He replied coolly, casting her a sidelong glance, unimpressed but not unamused. “I’m awake.”

“Well get excited!” She grinned, undeterred by his tone. Her international accent—a rich blend of aristocratic English with the softness of African musicality—filled the cabin as effortlessly as the scent of her lavender oil did earlier. No one on board blinked at her enthusiasm. The flight staff were used to her, used to them. Atarah, Princess of the House of Mbali. And Terry…her unflinching shadow.

They began their landing procedures, Atarah adjusting her pale yellow polo sweater over her grey sweats, slipping on her worn-in Uggs. “You’re going to help me carry my bags, right?” She teased as she stuffed her hair into a claw clip and collected her Hermès blanket.

“I already coordinated your luggage, Your Highness.” Terry muttered.

She beamed at that, softly clapping her hands while Terry stared at her. 

Fifteen minutes later, the jet touched down, the California sun spilling across the tarmac like honey. The moment Atarah stepped off the jet, she squealed in delight, her laughter light as she slipped her arm through Terry’s. She barely made it down the steps before the sound of shrill voices caught her ear.

“Tarah!”

“Ahh!” The woman squeaked, letting go of Terry immediately to run toward the small group of girls gathered near the base of the jet. They wore matching wide-brim hats and high-cut shorts, their Louis Vuitton crossbodies swinging as they jogged forward to meet her.

The girls collided in a chorus of shrieks and perfume.

“Omg, I haven’t seen you guys in ages!” Atarah said, pulling back just slightly to admire them, her cheeks still flushed from sleep and sun. Behind her, Terry stood like a statue, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding the storm in his eyes.

“That’s because you’ve been MIA.” Said Bailey, her British accent curled like a ribbon. Bailey was slim and surgically preserved, her cheekbones a little too sharp, and her lip filler giving her a constant pout. Classic British babe with an iffy tan but a nice beat face. 

Atarah shrugged with a soft laugh. “Because I’ve been busy. You know…princess, eldest daughter things.”

Harper rolled her eyes. “Besides not hearing from you for almost months, yeah, we can tell.” She said in that soft Italian accent, before her eyes racked the princess. “What are you wearing?” She added as she brushed her Bon blonde hair away from her face, her gaze, and the rest of theirs, lingering critically on Atarah’s oversized grey sweats, polo sweater, and Uggs. 

Atarah glanced down at herself and blinked. “What?” She said. “I was on a jet.” She stated, defending herself from the scrutiny she felt. Bailey scoffed, but it was Harper’s curled lip that gave it away. Atarah followed their gaze and saw the others already dressed for Coachella, all fringe, mesh, lace, and glitter. “Oh, are you guys heading out now?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Bailey said. “Didn’t think we had to tell you we wanted you to be ready.” Her tone was achingly sweet. And it scratched under Atarah’s her skin. She gave the girl a tight smile. “Well, Lady Gaga doesn’t come on ‘til later, so I’ll catch up with you guys after I get ready.”

“Where are you staying?” Sofia asked then, her soft blue eyes too curious. She was the prettiest of the trio, a nice blonde blowout and a Swedish accent with a supermodel’s height and bone structure to tie it all in.

“Uh, the private villa up north.” She responded. Sofia nodded, but Terry saw it—the subtle glance Harper threw Bailey, the way Bailey blinked hard just before she turned her cheek. He stepped forward without a word, hand landing protectively on the small of Atarah’s back.

Atarah glanced up at him, then back at her friends. “I gotta go get ready. I’ll see you guys later.” She said with a small smile. Terry ushered her toward the line of black SUVs parked nearby. He didn’t have to say a word. She already felt the prickle on the back of her neck. She waved at the girls once more before slipping into the middle car, and Terry followed.

As the door shut behind him, Atarah exhaled, gaze flicking over her stacked LV trunks in the back, just as the sound of Terry shutting the car door sounded. She settled into her seat as her eyes then drifted out of the window. Her friends were already climbing into their own vehicle, laughing again. The engine thrummed and the SUV pulled off into the city, heat shimmering off the asphalt.

There was a silence, thick and unspoken before looked over at the man next to him. “Go ahead and say it.” She muttered.  “I know you want to.”

“I don’t like your friends.” Terry said without a pause, looking away from the passing plains and connecting his eyes with her.

Atarah turned her body to face him, legs tucked under her. “And why is that again?”

“It wouldn’t be respectful for me to say.”

She tilted her head back with a small groan, but she couldn’t help the smile on her face. “You know it’s just you and I. You can say anything.” She looked over his face, his ocean-green eyes unreadable, but they always made her comfortable. Terry just started at her and after a brief pause, the girl snapped her head over to the driver. “And you too, Sergio!” She called up to the driver.

“Thank you, Miss.” The man replied evenly, and it was never clear if he even heard what she said or was just responding to the sound of his name. But Atarah nodded before she looked back over at Terry. “Come on.” She urged with a small whine, and since she was twisted in her seat, she poked his thigh with her so foot, since she slipped out of her uggs. There was silence, so Atarah began to repeatedly nudge him with her foot. 

And Terry had the patience of a monk. He was military trained since the young age of sixteen and there was little to nothing that could break him. Even the ever spoiled persistence of a princess that he’s known for years now. But Atarah had grew to be a friend, someone he had a soft spot for. So he grabbed her ankle gently, his large hand wrapping around it as his gaze slid over to hers. Her toes wiggled in his lap.

“I think they’re spoiled brats.” He said, voice low.

“That’s not what you wanted to say.” She sing-songed, looking him in the eye. She knew him too well. “You say the same thing about me.”

Terry’s jaw ticked. “I think they’re bitches.”

“There it is!” Atarah squealed, clapping once. “See, I know you so well.” She grinned. She leaned over, pressing her fingertip from her temple to his, her smile all honey and victory. He didn’t flinch and held the most subtle smile as he watched her. Her touch lingered a little too long before she dropped back into her seat, legs still draped across his lap.

She folded her hands in her lap, then gave him a prim look. “Now let’s talk about your choice of words for women.”

He chuckled—just a breath—but it made her heart skip. He rarely laughed, rarely softened around anyone but her. And when he did…it made her feel like she was the only person on earth who could. She watched him quietly, chin resting against the back of her seat. His thumb rubbed a slow, lazy circle into the inside of her ankle, unaware or uncaring of the way her breath hitched and made her heart beat. 

Outside the window, the desert sprawled into sun-drenched silence. But inside the car, it was warmer. And there was a tension that hung somewhere between comfort and longing.

Terry finally looked away from her and back over to the passing plains. “They don’t deserve your time.” He said simply.

And for the first time all day, Atarah didn’t have anything to say back.

The ride to the villa stretched across golden stretches of highway, sun slicing through the tinted windows in drowsy beams. Atarah chattered about the things she’d missed of the city. The food trucks on Melrose, late-night runs to Erewhon, how nobody did iced lattes quite like L.A., all while Terry responded with low hums and sparse nods. It wasn’t that he wasn’t listening; he always listened. He was just…more focused on watching. Her. 

When they finally pulled up to the secluded villa, tucked high in the Coachella Valley hills and wrapped in flowering bougainvillea, Atarah reached for the door instinctively, ready to burst out like she always did—except Terry’s sharp glance caught her mid-motion.

She froze. And with a dramatic sigh and a roll of her eyes, she folded her arms and waited.

Terry stepped out first, the desert sun casting sharp angles across his sharp cheekbones. His black shirt hugged the contours of his broad chest and arms, a quiet authority in his every movement. His eyes scanned the villa once before flicking back to the SUV. He reached out a hand.

“Come on.” He said.

With her small hand in his, she stepped down from the vehicle, her fingers tightening briefly around his. Terry guided her across the gravel path as Pedro and Nash, two more men from her security detail, did a sweep of the property. When the nods were given, he opened the front door for her, and they stepped into the villa together, hands still clasped like a quiet ritual neither of them ever spoke about. It was second nature to them now. A rhythm of theirs.

He led her through the villa and to her room—an airy, high-ceilinged suite with floor-to-ceiling windows and light pouring in. The rest of her bags were already being delivered in shifts by Sergio, the ever-loyal driver. When Terry finally released her hand, Atarah darted toward the patio doors like a spring uncoiled.

She threw them open, linen curtains flying up as wind surged in, tousling her dark curls. Her body moved to the edge of the balcony, where the view opened into a vast stretch of golden plains. In the distance, she could make out the Coachella stages being lit up for the day. “I’m soglad to be back in the States!” She cried, arms wide open, wind tugging at her baggy sweats and polo. She stood there a moment, basking in the warmth like a cat in sunlight.

When she turned, Terry was there, posted by the door, hands behind his back, as disciplined as a palace guard. Her grin softened as she brushed past him to return to the room, the curtains trailing behind her like silk.

Sergio was just finishing with the bags.

“Thank you.” She said sincerely as she pulled her phone form her pocket and ,add her way over to her bed 

“You’re welcome, madame.” He replied with a small bow, and after a nod from Terry, he quietly exited.

She was halfway through connecting her phone to the portable speaker when she noticed Terry turning for the door.

“Where are you going?” She asked, pausing mid-pairing.

“To keep watch.” He answered, never quite turning fully toward her.

“But I need you to help me pick an outfit.” She said quickly, padding barefoot toward him. “My friends aren’t here, and I need someone honest to help me figure out what looks good.” She explained, but his face didn’t change as he looked down at her.  She saw the hesitation in the twitch of his brow. She stepped closer, reaching for his hand, wrapping hers around it like it was natural—like it always had been. “Terry,” She said, voice soft. “Just for a little while.” She pleaded. 

The fight in him dissolved instantly. He released a long breath through his nose before squeezing her hand once, a gesture so gentle it made her chest flutter.

He turned and pressed a hand to his earpiece. “Keep watch.” He said, eyes scanning the view of the living space elf the villa before closing the doors. “Copy.” Pedro’s voice came through as Terry turned to face her again to see Atarah’s beaming face. 

Then she squealed and bolted to her bags like a child on Christmas morning. The speaker kicked on, flooding the room with a blasting beats, songs from R&B to hip hop. Thumping basslines, soft synths, and female vocals that bled into every corner of the suite. 

Terry settled into the ottoman at the foot of her bed, sitting with his legs apart, elbows on his knees. His eyes followed her as she disappeared into the bathroom with an armful of options, and the show began.

She stepped out a minute later in a white two-piece, mesh skirt riding low on her hips and a crochet halter top tied around her neck, showing the cursive tattoo she had on her hip that said “made in heaven”. She twirled in front of the mirror, then turned toward him.

“What do you think?” She asked, posing for him with a smile. 

Terry tilted his head, assessing her from head to toe.

“Cute. But more so for the beach, not a music festival.” He said. 

She let out a small sight before turning away from him, giving herself one more look. “Ugh, okay.” She said before walking back into the bathroom. Next came a butterfly top with flared jeans, but she shook her head before even asking, disappeared again.

Then came sequins—so many sequins. A matching bra and shorts combo that shimmered like fish scales in the light. She struck a few poses and snapped photos in front of the mirror. She glanced back to find Terry watching, his jaw slack just barely, the muscle ticking.

“This one’s hot.” She said, teasing.

“It is.” He agreed. “But what shoes would you wear with that.”

She teasing smirk dropped and disappeared again, this time taking longer. Each time she reappeared, her confidence built. She laughed freely, twirled for him, winked at herself, even bent to see if she would flash anyone when she twerked. The air in the room grew warmer with every outfit. Every look. Every comment from Terry that made her feel seen and admired.

Finally, she emerged wearing the outfit she didn’t want to try at first. A storm-gray hooded mini-dress clung to her curves, cinched with a thick, black belt that sat high on her waist. Beneath the draped neckline peeked the edge of a black lace bra, sultry and deliberate. Stacked silver jewelry shimmered at her collarbone and wrists. Chunky black boots hit just below the knee, elongating her legs.

She didn’t pose this time. She just stood there and watched as Terry sat up straighter and eyed her up and down, her hands brushing down the front of the dress to straighten it

Her lips curved slowly. “Well?” She asked, placing her hands on her hips.

“I think that’s the one.” He said, voice low, rougher than it had been all day.

She didn’t say anything at first, just smiled, almost shy, before walking to the mirror to snap a few photos, her behind facing him. 

Terry watched her the whole time, fingers curled on his knees, heart beating louder than usual. The song playing in the background was low and sultry, ‘Naught Girl’ by Beyoncé almost like a whisper meant just for them. When she lowered her phone, her eyes met his in the mirror. “I think I just needed you to remind me who I am.” She nodded, her eyes moving to rake over her figure again, though her voice was soft. 

Terry stood slowly, the space between them suddenly much smaller than before. “You never forgot.” He said, approaching her with a quiet kind of reverence. “You just let them convince you to question it.”

Their eyes locked and her breath caught a bit as her eyes moved over his alluring features.  In the silence that followed, they didn’t touch. They didn’t need to. But it was clear as the sunlight pouring in through the balcony door—neither of them wanted to walk away. Atarah softly cleared her throat before turning around to face him, looking up at the handsome man, his grey eyes moving down to look into hers. “Now let’s get you dressed.” She smiled, giving his broad chest a pat before moving past him. But her brushing him against him was something that didn’t go unnoticed by either of them,  especially with the spark it sent through their bodies. 

If you would like to be added to the taglist, comment here!