#stack x oc

That was until the twins moved back. You hadn’t heard of them, too busy wrapped inside your own little world to worry about what others had going on but once they came back, the word spread like wildfire. The flames were big enough to knock the walls down of your domaine and the whispers echoed loudly in your ears.

“Heard they just came back from Chicago.”

“I heard they was over there stealing and killing people.”

“I’m surprised they ain’t locked up. Somebody should do something.”

You minded your business though, tended to your horses, dogs and your bakery business.

Cookies, pies, cakes, brownies and just about anything sweet that you could name, was your specialty. You started getting called Peaches for your obsession with making peach cobbler and handing it out to your neighbors. You had learned to cook and bake from a very early age, your mother making sure you knew how to throw down in the kitchen so that you could impress your potential husband.

But you didn’t care for that, you learned because you liked it, loved it actually, and eventually you took your talents elsewhere.

To Tik Tok.

Pink kitchen and utensils caught the attention of millions of people who liked to watch you do what you do best. You hadn’t expected the surge of attention, the videos only being posted in hopes to your reach your friends and family, but the algorithm had other plans. And so that’s how you spent your days, tending to your animals and baking sweets for your millions of fans and to share with your neighbors. Eventually you became the talk of the town, everybody wanted to try a piece of your desserts and before you knew it, you had people showing up at your doorstep asking for anything, a crumb even.

One night, while you were preparing sugar cookies, you heard a knock at your door that wasn’t frantic like it usually was. It was slow and loud. Just two knocks.

You wiped your hands on your pink apron, long curly light brown hair cascading down your back as you walk towards the entrance, the shorts you wore barely covered your ass and the cropped tank top hugged your upper body tight. You weren’t expecting anyone this late, no one usually showed up at this time.

The clock ticked to 11PM just as your hand reached the handle. A man, who you hadn’t seen before, stood there in a all black suit. His face was expressionless but his eyes stayed on the way your cheeks reddened before they traveled down your body, zeroing in on the deep brown moisturized skin that glowed against the moonlight.

Something about his demeanor made your stomach turn, nerves clawing at your body, but there was something else, a heat hidden behind the fear.

“Oh. Hi! H-How may I help you?” Your voice was soft and something about it caused Stack’s jaw to tick slightly, that and the way you smelled of fresh vanilla and peaches.

“Evenin ma’am. Names’ Stack. My apologizes for disturbing you so late. I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Delphine, says her husband sick and in the hospital again, been craving sum of them lemon cookies you be making.”

His voice was deep and rough in a way that would send anybody else running. Accent slow like molasses and thick just like yours. Your thighs clenched before you could stop yourself.

“Oh um. Y-yeah. I have some. I just gotta pack them up for him. Um—” You hesitated, teeth sinking into your plush lip before mentally telling yourself ‘Fuck it’.

“Um— Do you want to come in and wait while I get everything together?”

Stack nodded, a small smirk appeared on his lips before he stepped inside your little world that you had carefully crafted for yourself.

And the rest was history.

Your viewers started to notice the change, the way you recorded videos with a smile so wide you’d think the measuring cups had told you a joke. They noticed how softer you were, the dreamy look on your face and the way you just glowed.

Assumptions about a man being in the picture were in almost every single video you posted. You didn’t bother confirming nor denying anything. Just let them keep guessing.

Until you popped out with a ring on your finger. You weren’t even bothering on being discreet, your perfectly manicured hand was all in the camera as you recorded how you baked a cheesecake. The boulder on your finger catching the light and making its presence known.

You tried to remove the ring, your audience too distracted by it to pay attention to what you were making but Stack wasn’t having that. Not one bit.

“Stop fucking playin with me. Put that shit back on.”

He groaned as he watched the video you had posted without it. Stack didn’t even have a tik tok account before you, didn’t even care about anything pertaining to social media. But once the two of you got together, he made sure to watch anything you posted.

‘User3829928’ liked your video.

He didn’t even bother making a name for himself, didn’t care to post or even watch anything else. His only purpose was to watch you. Sometimes you’d post things to get under his skin. A picture with a miniskirt that was wayyyy too short. A dress that hugged your curves too tight for a video on how to make homemade ice cream. Or starting a ‘get ready with me’ video in a silk robe that showed a little too much for him. Each time ended with you on your knees, attempting to apologize to him as he fucked your throat. You promised you wouldn’t do it again through tears that seeped through the pillow case while he fucked you silly.

But you never kept your promises.

-

You shouldn’t have done it, but you were frustrated beyond belief. Stack had left early that morning with the lie stuck on his lips that he’d return in time to make cupcakes with you. It was a cute little tradition the two of you had started since you first got together.

Every Friday, the two of you would spend the day baking or cooking something. Anything.

Last Friday, Stack wanted tomato soup and grilled cheese. So the two of you spent the day making that, even had more than enough to send over to Smoke and Annie.

This Friday though, you and the small little bean growing inside of your belly were craving cupcakes and Stack had given you his word. Said he just had a few errands to run with Smoke and that he’d be back early enough to bake the cupcakes so that they’d be ready by dinner time.

By 5PM you were still waiting for him, the pout on your face deepened as you texted him for the 8th time in the past 10 minutes.

By 5:30 you have had enough. You changed into a red halter top, mini dress that Stack had specifically bought just for you to wear for him, fluffed out your curls and touched up your makeup. You grabbed your phone, set it up on the tripod in the kitchen and started the live.

Comments flooded in seconds, compliments being thrown left and right. Some from the ladies but most from men.

“Hi guys!” You waved to the camera, the stack of bracelets dancing loudly on your wrist. “It’s a bit late but I was planning on making cupcakes so I figured you guys would like to join me.” Your smile was sweet, as it always was. No one suspected your ulterior motives.

No more than 5 minutes of you starting, your iPad started ringing. Your phone, which was placed on DND, recorded as you watched your iPad ring before shutting it off.

It only took Stack 20 minutes to drive home. You were distracted, too deep into explaining your recipe to notice him walk into the kitchen. His heavily tatted arms were crossed across his chest, his body stiff behind your phone. White T shirt clung to his muscles, black jeans handing low on his hips, some Jordan’s and chains sitting heavy on his pretty neck.

“Okay so make sure that you’re adding enough vanilla extract or it’s going to taste like—” You jumped once you noticed him, heart racing loudly in your chest. The viewers noticed, half concerned, half excited to maybe get a glimpse of your man.

“Is that him?”

“Omg don’t tell me we’re about to meet Mr.Peaches himself.”

“Guys have you noticed that she looks a bit pregnant here?”

Stack eyed you. Fully. From the top of your head, down to the French tip pedicure on your toes. He clenched his jaw as he looked at the dress you wore.

“End the live fa me, baby.” You bit the side of your bottom lip, eyes wide and staring up at him. Somewhat embarrassed that this was happening on live, somewhat turned on from the intensity of his stare.

“I—I’m not done, papa.”

“I know you ain’t done but we gotta talk, so end the live.”

“Ooop not my good sis done fucked up”

“Shiiiitttt girl he sound like he not playing, ga head and end the live.”

“Why do I feel like I’m the one getting in trouble?”

You nodded. “Okay guys, I’ll see yall in a bit.” The screen went dark as soon as the live ended. You locked your phone and placed it on the counter. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you but pretended not to.

“You like playing with me?” Stack slowly walked up to you.

“Stack—”

“Nah, answer me. You like pissing me off?” He stood right in front of you, arms on either side, holding on to the counter behind you. He leaned down and it took everything in you not to throw yourself into his warmth. He smelled of cologne and weed, scent strong enough to make you dizzy with desire.

“No…” your lips formed a pout, eyes wide in the way you knew could get you anything you wanted. His lips twitched, trying hard not to smirk at how cute you looked. “Get ya ass upstairs. Now.”

“But-”

“Now, baby.”

You nodded, and headed up the stairs with him trailing behind you. He didn’t like being mean to you, you were too sweet for that, but he was never afraid to put you in your place.

You sat at the edge of the bed and waited for him to walk in, your nerves were through the roof but you also lived for the thrill and he knew that. Stack’s steps were heavy, you expected him to walk right to you, to grab you up and choke you like how he always does but instead he walks to the vanity that sat across from the bed. You watched the muscles on his back move, his big frame blocking what he was doing.

After a few seconds of messing around, he turned and walked to you. His hand gently gripped your jaw, thumb smoothing circles onto your skin. “You wanted my attention, mama? Huh? That’s why you did that?”

You nod, face formed into a pout. This wasn’t usual for him, the gentleness after you piss him off.

“Nah speak up. Tell me what the problem is.” Your breath stutters and eyebrows furrow in confusion. His voice was soft, the complete opposite of what you were expecting. “Speak, mama. I’m here now. Tell me what’s up.”

Your mouth opens, getting ready to spill your truth, to admit that your hormones and emotions were completely out of wack and all you wanted was your man.

Stack lowers down to his knees, his hands pull your dress up in one quick motion. A small gasp escapes your mouth when he presses a kiss to your knee, trailing his lips further up your thigh. “I don’t hear you.” He looks up at you, waiting for you to say something, anything.

“I—It’s just that I-” Stack spreads your legs further, prompting you to lean back on to your elbows. He digs his nose onto the damp spot of your panties, groaning at your scent. Your breathing picks up, hands already gripping onto the sheets and body slightly trembling.

“Mm, so fucking sensitive.” He places a kiss to your covered mound before gripping the sides of your underwear and pulling them down your legs. “I don’t hear you talking.”

You whimpered at the heat of his face so close to where you needed him the most. “Elias” You softly begged.

“Nah, none of that. I ain’t moving till you speak.”

You groan, laying your body down fully as your eyes stare up at the ceiling. “I just… I really wanted cupcakes and you promised me you’d make them with me—” Stack dug his face in your drenched pussy, tongue flattening on your clit before pulling back. A moan stops you mid sentence, eyes drifting down to him as you watch him spit. His fingers mix it with your essence before slowly pushing into your tight hole.

“Eliiiasssss” Your back arches, small belly bump covering the way he leans in and wraps his lips around your aching clit.

“I ain’t tell you to stop, did I?” His fingers curl inside of you, moving faster as his tongue continuously laps up your juices. “Talk to me. I’m listening.”

“F-Fuck!” Your moans mixed into whimpers, already feeling the coil forming in your stomach. “Don’t stop.” You gasped, eyes rolled to back of your head while Stack feasted on you.

He smacked the inside of your thigh with his free hand. “Keep talking or ima stop.” You felt him slow down, face slowly pulling back just as you were about to cum.

“Fuuuuckk, okay okayyy. I just, I needed you here—” Stack hummed in satisfaction, fingers continuing to slowly pump in and out of you while he watched you try not to fall apart. “A—And you were gone for a long time—” You couldn’t stop whimpering, pregnancy making you extra sensitive to his touch.

“Mhm and what else, mama?”

You squirmed, full body trembling from the feel of his fingers reaching deep inside of you as he slightly picked up his pace. “Eliasss fuucckkkk.”

“Keep going, you doing good, baby.” He placed kisses to your clit, holding you right at the edge of that breaking point.

“Fuccckkkk, I just needed you here. I needed your attention— I just wanted you, daddy.” You sounded so sultry, voice high and full of moans.

“Yeah? That’s all it was?” Stack puckered his lips around your clit again and let his tongue play with it. You cried out, hands reaching out to grab his head while your hips frantically moved up and down his face.

“Yes! Yes! That was all, daddy. I swear!” It didn’t take much for the restraint to snap, your juices decorated Stacks face and your body twisted and turned as if trying to find a place to store the pleasure you were feeling.

“You so fucking wet, my god.” Stack moaned as he sucked and licked every drop from you. He stood to his full height, hands immediately reaching for his shirt and removing it. Next was his pants, thrown to the side along with his boxers. You moaned at the sight of him, tattoos tracing his front and back, including your name right along the side of his neck.

Stack grabbed your body and turned you to the side, then laid right behind you. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you to his chest while the other one gripped your leg, lifting it high enough for your knee to reach his shoulder. “This what you wanted, right?” You felt the head of his dick nudge your folds, drenching it in your essence. The sound was obscene. There was no denying how badly you needed him.

“Yessssss.” You arched back onto him.

“Ga head, take it. Take what you want.”

Your trembling hand reached down and grabbed his dick, slowly pushing it inside of you. Stack groaned, burying his face in your neck as he slowly moved his hips.

Moans escaped your open mouth as you felt the stretch from the pure girth he carried. “Oh my god.” You cried out as he bottomed out, his full length deep inside of you while you clawed at his arm and the sheets. “Fuck!”

“Mhmm, take it, take that shit baby.” He sped up his pace. Thrusting in and out of you while you cried out every time he kissed your cervix.

“S—so big, papa!” You whined, already feeling the way your stomach was tightening again.

“I know baby, I know. But you can take it right? Look how good you’re doing. Taking all this big dick.” He grabbed your face and turned it to his. Your lips met in a slow dance that contrasted with the way he was fucking you. You couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, your face forming a small pout.

“Don’t look at me like that. You wanted this right? Take it. Just like that.” His voice was like silk against your ears. Your hand weakly grabbed onto his arm as you squirted with every thrust.

“Eliaaaassssss!”

“Mhmmm, give it to me. Give me all that shit. Nut all on your dick, baby.”

Your body shook and bent against him but he wouldn’t dare stop. You were nothing but gasps and whimpers, trying your best to come down from the intense high you just experienced.

Stack pressed your lips together again, tongue sneaking its way into your mouth. “Open.” He spit into your mouth the second you followed his order. Hips still digging into you.

He slowed down and shifted so that he’d be able to deepen his strokes. You sobbed into his neck, your French tips pressing crescent moons on his thigh. His other hand rubbed your small but plump belly. “Cum for me again. Do it. Let me see you break.”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your juices sprayed out of you, another orgasm ripping through your body without permission.

“Drown me just like that. Keep going, don’t fucking stop.” His lips were right by your ear, you heard every small groan, every breath and whisper that he tried to hide.

“Okaaayyyy.” You whined, feeling completely out of your own body.

You couldn’t stop squirting, all you could was sob and try your hardest to gain some type of control of the situation but your body was overstimulated and done for. Stack didn’t care though, he kept going. Dick sliding in and out of you with a wet splat each time he went all the way in.

“Good girl, mama. You gon let me ruin you like this, huh?” His strokes slowed down, you felt each inch of his thick cock trying to tear you apart.

“I— I can’t.” Your tears fell in waterfalls, short breaths turned into gasps as he continued to abuse your already swollen folds.

“Yes you can. Come on, give me one more. You can do that for me, right?”

“I caaaannnt. Elias, I can’t, fuck. I can’t.” Your toes curled and your body hadn’t stopped trembling since he started. You cried out over and over again as you reached a state of what felt like hysteria. He felt so good but you could barely breathe and were practically drooling. Your eyes kept rolling to the back of your head and your juices drenched the mattress beneath you.

Stack reached his hand down and pressed a two fingers to your clit. Your jaw dropped, hand reaching back to lightly slap his chest over and over again, as he rubbed your nub in circles. Screams echoed throughout the room as your body practically convulsed.

“There she go. That’s exactly where I want you. Just like that, baby. Stay just like that while I ruin you.” Your walls fluttered around his length, another orgasm threatening to destroy you. “Breathe. Let me hear you.”

You took a deep breath, eyes squeezing shut while you sobbed. “I love your dick, daddy. I love it so much!” You cried out loud.

“Yea? This why yo ass pregnant now. Nasty ass girl.”

“Keep fucking me, please! You feel so good inside my pussy. Don’t stop. Don’t stop!”

He moaned against your ear, hips stuttering from trying to hold himself back. “Look at you. Dumb off of dick. They don’t even know how you get. Tryna act all innocent for them people—If only they fucking knew.” He sped up, hand lifting your leg higher to reach parts of you, you didn’t even know could be touched. “You love me, hm? Tell me you love me. Tell me I’m the only nigga that could ruin you like this.”

“I love you! I love you! I’m gonna cum. Fuck, I’m gonna fucking cum, Elias. Oh my god!” The hand on your clit sped up to match his thrusts.

“Say it. Tell me this mine. Tell me I own you.” His strokes were brutal, all that was heard was the slapping of his skin against yours and the mess you were currently making. “This my pussy, my body, my nut. All of it. Mine. You hear me? I own you, baby. All of you.”

“Yes! It’s yours. All yours! Fuck!” Your body snapped, shaking profusely as your cum flowed out of you. Stack whimpered, his thighs trembling as he filled you with his seed.

“Oh fucckkkk” he moaned against your shoulder, pressing kisses to your damp skin, trying his best to calm down. He slowed his movements, letting the both of you ride out the orgasm.

You twitched against him, slumped over in a state of absolute bliss. Stack kissed you all over, hands rubbing your sides to calm you down.

Your eyes opened slowly, looking around as if you couldn’t believe that just happened. It felt like you had an out of body experience.

The vanity that sat right in front you, had your phone propped up and facing the both of you. Your eyes widen as you gasp.

Stack followed your eyesight, he chuckled slightly before getting up. Grabbing your phone, he pointed it right at your exhausted figure.

“Thought I’d keep this for memory as a reminder of what happens when you try to play with me.” You bit your lip, stomach turning in a way that it shouldn’t have been after all that. But the thought of having a video of the two of you having sex, saved into your phone where you could watch whenever, caused a fire to burn deep within you.

“Come on, baby. Show the camera the mess we made.” A smirk played on your lips as you turn over. Back arched and chest pressed onto the bed, you reach back and open your folds with two fingers. Stack groans, moving the camera closer to catch the way his nut slides out of you.

“Perfect.” He moaned before turning it off and lightly spanked your ass.

“Let’s get you cleaned up before you get me started again.” You giggle as he picks you up bridal style and heads to the bathroom.

The first light that spilled through the apartment curtains were weak and yellow as the city sky danced with a distant haze. It filtered across the bed in long soft bands that glowed against the bronze of Smoke and Stack’s skin, turning old scars silver and making Sera’s freckles look like someone had sprinkled cinnamon down the bridge of her nose. The sheets smelled like sweat, cologne, soap, and the sharp ghost of whiskey, all tangled up with the lingering sweetness of her own skin.

Sera wrinkled her nose and rubbed a sleep heavy fist against one eye. Her eyelashes stuck together, still damp from whatever little dreams had been drifting through her head. She shifted to roll onto her left side and bumped straight into a wall of heat. Elias “Stack” Moore was sprawled there, taking up more than his share like always. He was stretched out on his stomach with one arm tucked under the pillow and the other flung aimless across the mattress. The sheet barely covered the dip of his lower back. His mouth hung open around a snore deep enough to rattle the headboard as a slick crescent of drool soaked into the linen beneath his cheek.

She blinked, let out a tiny baffled huff, and tried the other side.

Rolling onto her right only pushed her into another wall of sleeping muscle. Elijah “Smoke” Moore lay on his back, one hand resting heavy against his chest with his thick forearm cutting a dark line across the white sheet. The other arm had somehow hooked around her waist during the night, which was why she couldn’t move more than a few inches in either direction without bumping into him.

Hemmed in on both sides, she wriggled anyway. A little squirm against Stack’s hip. A slow push back into Smoke’s ribs. She tried to slip down under Smoke’s arm, then up over it but the mattress dipped and whispered loudly beneath her as she moved.

On the third shift to the left and the second wiggle to the right, Smoke’s lashes finally cracked apart. He stared down at the woman trapped beneath him and his brother, his woman… his wife. His pupils were curious and heavy with sleep while the rest of him woke up fast. Morning light slid over Sera’s face and turned the brown of her irises into warm amber when she glanced up at him, and her tangled ginger curls were wild around her head like she had been fighting angels in her dreams.

To him she looked like something pulled down out of a stained glass window and laid beside him. An ethereal thing with sleep swollen lips and a faint purple mark peeking at the curve of her throat where Stack’s teeth had marked the night before. She was a little miracle he felt compelled to guard until the day he died.

That old feeling, the one that sat in his chest like a rusted lock, clicked open a fraction and let memories flood in unguarded. Taking his eyes off his wife momentarily, his gaze drifted past her to Stack.

His brother was fully gone, knocked out cold, bare back rising and falling in a slow stubborn rhythm. The rumble of his snoring sounded like a train coming through the room. Nothing about the man looked careful in sleep. He took up space and air, with his limbs thrown wide, jaw slack, and the faintest suggestion of a little boy still there when he was unconscious and not pulling knives on people.

Unlike Stack, Smoke had forgotten how to sleep deep. He had taught himself not to when they were still boys in that leaning little shack that passed for a home. Back when the wind used to whistle through the cracks in the boards and their father’s boots used to stagger up the steps in the middle of the night. 

Smoke could still see it if he let himself.

He saw the way the door had slammed open with a crack that rattled the loose nails. He could still smell the liquor, sweat, and old tobacco. And he could still see their father’s shadow that lurched across the floorboards, thick and mean, before those heavy hands went for the wrong bed.

Stack, nine years old with his little afro smashed flat on one side from the pillow, had been yanked into the air before he even woke up. Their father’s fist had crashed into his face while he shouted that he had killed his woman by being born second and stubborn. Blows rained down, wild and vicious, and while Stack choked on sobs and a nosebleed, Smoke was deep in his slumber and didn’t even know the attack happened.

By morning, when the sun bled through the slats, Smoke had been the one dabbing at Stack’s split lip with a damp rag and whispering clumsy reassurances to a brother who tried not to cry and failed. In that hour, with the taste of iron still in the air and the echo of his father’s boots fading, he made himself a vow. As long as he lived he would never be caught sleeping that deep again.

Their father had tried the same stunt twice more, stumbling in with rage in his jaw and someone else’s sins on his tongue, but each time Smoke was already awake before the first creak of the floorboard in the hall. He would sit himself at the edge of Stack’s cot with a rusted blade hidden in his palm and his eyes fixed on the door. It was silent, that promise. Silent and solid. If the man took one more step toward his brother’s bed, Smoke would slit him open and live with whatever hell came next.

He had carried that vow into other nights. Into German trenches where the air tasted like mud and gunpowder. Into French cities where the beds were strange and the women were stranger. He once had gone five nights without sleep, body swaying on his feet, just to keep watch over his brother when the shells fell too close and men cried out in the dark.

He had kept his promise in juke joints and hotel rooms too. No matter what he would keep one eye open whenever a woman they barely knew lay close, his mind counting exits and weapons even as his body took what it wanted for the evening.

Now there were two people he couldn’t afford to sleep on. Stack, who was loud and reckless but loyal to the grave. And the precious gem wedged between them, the one he would burn down a city for if somebody looked at her wrong.

Something in his chest tightened at the realization and then softened when Sera wiggled again then made a little frustrated sound, like a trapped kitten.

“Go back to sleep, my love.” Smoke’s morning voice came out quiet and rough. “Sun barely yawnin’ in the sky. Get some moe’ rest.”

The pet name rolled over her skin like a glass of whiskey on a chilly winter night. Sera stilled under his arm and looked up at him, vision still glossed at the edges. His face was so close, eyes heavily lidded and mouth relaxed. An old scar that cut through his brow caught the thin light against the deep brown of his skin. Her heart did a slow and uneasy flip.

Instead of obeying, she scooted closer until her front pressed against his side, her fingers splaying over the wide plane of his chest like they belonged there. The cotton of his undershirt was thin, almost useless, and the heat of him seeped straight through.

“We in a new city,” she whined, fighting a yawn, her words dragging but stubborn. “I don’t wanna sleep the day away.”

Her gaze caught on the mark at his throat. The slash Annie had left there was healing but still angry, an ugly red line against the column of his neck. The sight pulled last night’s chaos up in her mind. Sera’s stomach tightened, but something else flared underneath it. She reached out gently and brushed her fingertips along the edge of the wound. The skin there was warmer than the rest of him and tender under her touch.

A smile tugged at her mouth, quick and mean before she bit her bottom lip to chase away the sarcastic giggle that tried to escape. “You need a new bandage, Elijah,” she murmured.

Smoke watched the path of her hand like it was a weapon she didn’t know how to use yet. Her fingers slid from his neck down to his collarbone, tracing the line where skin met fabric. Before she could travel further he caught her wrist. His grip was firm but not punishing and his thumb pressed against the flutter at the inside of her pulse. He lifted her hand and turned it, dark eyes never leaving her face as he brought the thin underside of her wrist to his mouth.

The first brush of his lips there was hardly more than a breath, a warm press against a fragile place. Sera’s lungs forgot how to work.

“First mornin’ after breakin’ you in,” he drawled, voice a shade darker now, “an you worried ‘bout my damn neck?”

The words dragged claws down her spine and another flash of last night broke open behind her eyes. The way he had held her down while she learned what it meant to take him. The way Stack had laughed low in her ear, then soothed and taunted in the same breath. The sting, the stretch, the way her own voice had sounded, desperate and wrecked, echoing off unfamiliar walls.

Heat flooded her face and her thighs clenched instinctively around nothing before a familiar small ache between them tugged up into something bright and needy.

She swallowed a whimper and failed. It came out anyway, soft and helpless as her eyes flicked away from him like she could hide under his watchful gaze. “You my husband,” she said quietly. The words felt strange and brave on her tongue. “I’m ‘posed to be worried ‘bout you.”

Something raw and unguarded flickered across Smoke’s face so fast she almost missed it. His expression sharpened, then immediately softened. He studied her like a man weighing treasure, eyes traveling from the undefined ginger curls around her face to the faint marks on her throat and the place where the sheet dipped over her hips. His hand still cradled her wrist, thumb stroking once over the jump of her pulse.

He wouldn’t say it out loud, not yet, not when their life in this city balanced on so many unfinished plans and ugly promises. But hearing her stake that claim, even tucked in between a frown and bedhead, it did something to him that felt permanent.

“Yeah,” he grunted, voice dropping even lower, the corner of his mouth tilting almost, almost into a smile. “Guess I am ya husband, little wife”

The nickname settled over her like a shawl. His eyes drifted to her mouth and stayed there, still and intent. The apartment outside their bedroom hummed with distant city sounds. A car backfired. Somewhere below, somebody shouted and laughed. In their little nest of rumpled sheets and heat, none of it quite reached them.

Between them the air thickened, and with Sera’s wrist still caught in his hand, she became acutely aware of how big his fingers were around her, how easy it would be for him to push her onto her back again, pull the sheet away and show her all over what belonged to who. Her body remembered the rhythm of his hips, the scrape of his stubble against her inner thigh and the way his voice had sounded when he lost that tight control for a heartbeat.

He, in turn, felt the tremor in her pulse and watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed. Watched her knees inch together like she was trying to hold in the memory of him. The possessive urge that lived inside him stretched, long and satisfied, and then coiled tight.

Behind them, Stack snored louder, completely oblivious with his foot twitching like he was running down some poor bastard in his dreams.

Smoke shifted, just enough that his thigh brushed higher against Sera’s, just enough that the curve of her hip slotted closer to his. “You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said softly, his mouth so close to her wrist that each word warmed her skin, “an we ain’t leavin’ this bed ‘til it’s time for me an Stack to go to work.”

Her heart lurched in her chest. Desire tangled with nervous excitement and the faint, stubborn curiosity that had gotten her into trouble since the first day she saw him standing in her father’s kitchen. The city outside called to her, new and glittering and unknown, but the man beside her glowed like his own kind of danger.

She wet her lips, eyes flicking from his mouth to his throat and back up. “I… I wanna see the city,” she whispered, bravery and shyness braided together. “With my husbands...”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed, not in anger but in thought, the way they always did when he was considering a move in a game somebody else didn’t even realize they were playing. “I can make that happen, my love,” he promised, quiet, and leaned in just enough to let his nose brush hers. “But you gon’ learn somethin’ first, Seraphim Moore.”

Her name in his mouth made her toes curl.

“What’s that?” she breathed.

His thumb dragged another slow circle over the throb in her wrist. He didn’t kiss her just yet, instead he simply hovered there, letting the want sharpen between them until it bordered on painful.

“That bein’ my wife,” he said, voice a low rumble that vibrated straight through her, “mean you ain’t never gotta wonder where my eyes at… or who I am ready to bleed for.”

Her answer lodged somewhere behind her ribs. The ache in her body and the weight of his vow pressed in from both sides, heady and terrifyingly sweet. For a second, she forgot all about the city beyond the walls, about the ghosts they had dragged with them from Mississippi, about the woman who had carved his neck seventy-two hours ago. There was only this bed, this man, and the new life that had come for her whether she was ready or not.

Smoke watched her for one long heartbeat, then another, like he was deciding something heavy in that quiet space between one breath and the next.

Then his hand slid from her wrist to her waist and he moved. His movements weren’t rough or hurried. He simply shifted his weight and drew her with him while turning her onto her back with an ease that reminded her exactly how much stronger he was. The sheet twisted between them as he came over her, caging her beneath his chest and forearms as his knees braced on either side of her hips.

The world tipped and for a moment all she could see was him. Dark eyes. Dark mouth. The line of his shoulders blocking out the weak morning light.

Her fingers twitched up out of habit, brushing his ribs, then dropped when his gaze slid lower.

“Hold still,” he said, voice soft but brooking no argument.

Sera’s breath settled in her throat. “Why… what you doin’?”

“Checkin’ my work.”

He started with her throat. His fingertips stroked along the elegant column of her neck, tracing the faint red crescent his teeth had left the night before. He hummed low in his chest, thumb pausing at a spot that made her swallow.

“This one mine,” he whispered, almost to himself. There was a note of pride tucked into the words he didn’t bother to hide.

He followed the edge of her jaw, then drifted lower. The top of the sheet had slipped down to the swell of her chest, baring the high slope of her collarbones and the upper curve of her breasts. His palm flattened there then he eased the linen a fraction further just so he could see what else was riddled on her body. Purpled shadows bloomed along the side of one breast where his grip had been a shade too firm in the heat of everything. His thumb brushed the darkest spot, the slight roughness of his skin dragging lightly over her.

“This one me too,” he said quietly. “Got heavy handed right here.”

He bent his head and kissed the bruise, mouth warm like an apology and a claim at the same time. Her fingers slid into his hair without permission, curls soft against her knuckles.

He moved on, methodically across the line of her ribs where another small mark rested like a thumbprint. Down to the gentle dip of her waist, where the sheet no longer hid the shadows at the flare of her hips. Red and violet marks dotted the tender skin there in the shape of fingers.

Smoke huffed, a single amused breath. “Any muthafucka’ lookin’ at you gon’ know you spoken for now,” he said, voice turning lazy. He tapped one of the hand shaped bruises, light enough not to hurt. “Every time you step outta this bed ya dress sittin’ over our fingerprints.”

Heat climbed into Sera’s face, but she didn’t look away. Something shameless and fierce thrilled through her at the thought.

His hand slid to her thigh and he lifted the sheet until the morning light washed over the length of her leg. Small mottled marks bloomed along the soft inside of one thigh, some faint and some darker where teeth had threatened.

Smoke’s expression shifted. “These here,” he said, tracing the arc of neat oval marks along the meat of her thigh, “Stack.”

He didn’t sound angry, just certain. His thumb rested beside one of the bites, measuring the width and he smirked. “Little bastard always been greedy ‘bout leavin’ teeth.”

Sera’s stomach dipped and she remembered the curl of Stack’s smile against her skin and how he had laughed, breathless and pleased, when she had yelped and grabbed at his hair.

Smoke kept going as he nudged her other thigh open with his palm, careful and unrelenting, widening the space between her legs so he could see the back of one tender knee where another bruise hid, high and almost secret. “That one mine again,” he mused, fingers brushing the spot. “Pinned you there.”

The memory took her breath. Her mind supplied the sensation of her leg hooked over his hip, the way the bed had creaked, the way his voice had sounded when he had told her to take a breath and give him all of it.

He went back up, attention returning to the cradle where her thighs met and the sheet bunched.

Sera could feel her pulse there, embarrassing and insistent. She squeezed her knees together on instinct, but Smoke was already between them, his broad shoulders nudging them apart again with quiet efficiency.

“Elijah…” Her voice came out airy. “You finished yet?”

“Not quite.” His gaze had gone focused, all lazy humor tucked away. “This the part I really need to see.”

His palm stroked along the inside of her left thigh, then the right, slow enough to make her toes curl. His thumb skated just shy of the place that still felt tender and strange and wonderfully wrong. Even without looking, he could feel the faint heat.

“You still a little swollen down here,” he said, tone gentle. “Body took a lot last night, my love.”

Embarrassment flared hot and sharp. She caught his wrist, fingers clutching. “I feel fine,” she protested, even as her cheeks burned. “I promise. I feel… good.”

“That so?” He raised one brow, unconvinced.

“Yes.” She tried to close her legs again and ended up simply rubbing her knees against his ribs. “I can handle more. I want…”

She trailed off, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she realized what she was about to ask for, what she was already asking without the words.

Smoke’s jaw clicked and he dragged in a slow breath through his nose, the muscles in his shoulders flexing above her. “We ain’t rushin’ this,” he said finally. “You gon’ be with us a long time. Ain’t ‘bout to break you tryin’ to prove somethin’ in one night.”

The firmness in his voice cut clean through the air. On the surface it sounded like a boundary. Underneath it was a protectiveness that made her chest ache.

“We gon’ give you another full body rub down tonight,” he continued, thumb drawing idle circles just above the place he was refusing to touch. “Get some moe’ oil. Work all this tension out. Let them muscles know we care 'bout ‘em.”

The mention of his hands and oil sliding over her sore limbs made her stomach swoop. Her mind flashed to the night before, when he and Stack had taken turns massaging her calves, back, and shoulders.

“But it’s mornin’ now,” she whispered. “Tonight a long way away.”

He exhaled, a rough little sound that might have been a laugh if it didn’t sound so pained. “You need rest, Seraphim.” His thumb finally stilled. “Ya body screamin’ at me an you too stubborn to listen.”

She frowned. “It ain’t screamin’… It just talkin’ kinda loud.”

His mouth twitched despite himself. “Don’t start with me, little girl.” He shook his head, eyes closing for a second like he was gathering himself. “I mean it. We take it easy today. Let you soak. Let you breathe. We ain’t gon hurt you.”

“But you not hurtin’ me,” she insisted. Her legs, traitorous things, shifted wider around his hips, giving him more room… more access. The sheet slipped higher, baring more coco brown skin and the faint shadow of her curls beneath.

His breath stuttered and she felt his gaze drag over her, slow and heavy. She could feel the air itself change and how it was charged now with something raw and hungry.

“Smoke,” she tried again, a little whine curling into his name. “Please… I want you. Right now. I don’t wanna wait ‘til tonight.”

Smoke stared at her, eyes dark as his past, and for a long moment he did nothing. Inside, he was counting, the way he used to count breaths in the trenches. One, two, three. He told himself he would move away on four, kiss her forehead, tuck the sheet back up and go into the kitchen to cook breakfast.

He reached four and didn’t move.

Sera’s hands slid up his sides, palms gliding over muscle and scars. Her nails scratched lightly at the back of his neck, just under his hairline, and a tremor chased down his spine. Her thighs flexed again, opening even further, and the soft needy sound that left her throat hit him low and mean.

“Hard for you to tell me no,” she whispered, almost like she understood exactly where the crack in him was.

The last of his restraint groaned. Smoke dropped his head, forehead pressing to hers, his breath hot against her mouth. “You gon’ make me regret this,” he muttered, though there was no real warning in it, only rough affection and a good man’s surrender.

“No I won’t,” she shot back, breathless. “I promise I’ll be real grateful.”

He huffed, a broken laugh that turned into a growl halfway through. One of his hands slid up, catching her smaller one, fingers weaving between hers above her head against the pillow. The other hand stayed between her thighs as his broad palm cupped her core feeling the tenderness, the heat,  and the way her body seemed to lean into his touch despite his caution.

“Listen here,” he said, voice low and serious, even as he shifted his hips closer. “You tell me if anythin’ feel wrong. Anythin’ hurt in the wrong way. You say it an I stop. I don’t care how close I am, you hear me?”

Her eyes locked onto his. “Yes sir,” she breathed. “I hear you.”

He searched her face a second longer, looking for doubt, fear, or some sign she was just chasing the high without understanding the cost. All he saw was trust. Nervous, trembling, hungry trust.

He sighed, defeat and desire tangled together. “Ight then,” he murmured, mouth finally claiming hers in a deep kiss that pulled a tiny sound out of her chest. “C’mere.”

The city went on buzzing outside their window, horns and footsteps and the distant call of a world that had no idea what was happening in that bed. Inside, between tangled sheets and careful hands, the morning thinned and blurred, swallowed up by the heat building once again between them.

Sera’s thighs were parted, one knee hiked lazily up on a pillow, the other draped over Smoke’s broad shoulder. He knelt at the foot of the bed with his mouth buried between her shaking legs, one hand gripping her plush hip to steady her twitching, the other working slowly between the cleft of her ass while his fingers curled inward to stretch her tightest, most private place with care.

His tongue lapped in careful patterns against her clit, tender but exacting, like he was tracing scripture he already knew by heart. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin every now and then, just enough to make her arch her back and sob his name into the sheets.

“So puffy,” Smoke groaned against her. His Delta accent was thick, syllables dragging from the pit of his chest. “We really put you through it last night.”

Sera whimpered, her toes curling, her fingers clawing at the linens. “I feel fine,” she whispered hoarsely, blinking up at the ceiling with dewy eyes. “I want more…”

He grunted, brows tightening as he fought his own instincts. “You always want more, don’t you?” he muttered, though his lips returned to her clit without hesitation.

She cried out when he resumed, spreading her thighs wider in invitation, hips rolling up in search of his mouth like she couldn’t bear to be empty for long. Smoke’s fingers pressed deeper into her backside, coaxing her to take more than just his tongue.

“Gone need to plug you again when I’m done,” he said with a low growl, tongue flattening against her clit before flicking it in tight, merciless strokes. “Keep you stretched an ready ‘til it’s time to fill you there. Ain’t no point trainin’ you if you tighten right back up.”

Sera’s thighs were trembling now, body slick with a sheen of sweat as her climax began to build. She reached for Smoke blindly, voice caught in the back of her throat—

—and then came the sound… A long, obnoxious yawn.

“Damn, y’all started without me?” Stack’s voice was hoarse with sleep, but his toothy grin was unmistakably sharp.

Sera barely had time to glance towards him before he moved. His weight shifted across the bed as he closed the distance between them. In the blink of an eye his hands were on her flushed cheeks as he leaned down and kissed her like she was his most prized possession. Tongue first and lips second, as though he intended to taste every unspoken desire left on the tip of her tongue. She moaned against him as her body still quivered from Smoke’s ministrations below, caught between the two of them with no reprieve.

When Stack finally pulled back, his eyes dropped to her lips. “How’s ya throat feelin’, baby?” he asked as his thumb dragged across her bottom lip, pausing where she had bitten it red and swollen.

Smoke’s eyes snapped up, brows drawn low in warning. “Stack.”

Stack didn’t even bother to look his way. He was busy palming the thick print of his manhood through his linen boxers, fingers flexing around it like he was already imagining her wrapped around him again. “I done asked how ya throat feels,” he repeated, his voice a rasp edged with arousal.

Sera blinked up at him, lips parted and breath ragged. “Fine…”

He grinned and leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Wanna taste me again, doll? Like how you did last night?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead her mouth fell open instinctively with her eyes soft and glassy as she waited.

Smoke pulled back from between her legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, visibly irritated. “Y’all don’t listen worth a fuckin’ damn,” he grumbled before swatting her bare ass with the flat of his palm.

Sera gasped, body jerking slightly as the sting bloomed across her skin.

“You,” Smoke pointed at Stack, “gone keep actin’ like we ain’t had conversations ‘bout bein’ patient?”

Stack shrugged lazily and unconcerned before thumbing Sera’s bottom lip again. “Our woman still got an untouched asshole. Think I’m bein’ real damn patient.”

Smoke’s jaw flexed before he grabbed a pillow and tossed it at Stack’s head. “You always do this shit. Always gotta jump in like you ain’t got no discipline.”

Stack caught the pillow mid air and tossed it back. “Whenever I gotta wait on you, I end up bored or blue-balled. I ain’t built like you, nigga. I like enjoyin’ things while they still warm.”

Smoke rose from his spot, bare chest heaving as he glared down at his twin. “Every time you ignore what I say, you end up lookin’ stupid. Like last night. You damn near nutted ‘fore you even got all the way inside.”

Stack’s jaw ticked, the insult settling into his bones like splinters beneath the skin. His nostrils flared, and for a beat it seemed like they would be at each other’s throats again. But Smoke didn’t bark another word.

His eyes shifted down to Sera, and his voice came quiet but edged with possession and care wrapped in command. “Seraphim,” he rumbled, deep enough that her lashes twitched at the sound. “If it get to be too much… say ya word.”

Sera’s gaze, dazed but obedient, met his. She nodded once, throat tight and lips glossy with the mess of Stack’s kiss. Smoke studied her expression for a heartbeat longer, then dropped back down between her legs like he never left.

No more warnings. No more arguments. His mouth reclaimed her with a hunger that bordered on obsession, lips parting to drag the entire weight of his tongue from the bottom of her slit all the way to her clit. The moan that cracked from her chest was breathless and strangled, like it punched its way up from her stomach. Her knees jerked, muscles flexing around his shoulders, but he held her firm with his mouth locked to her flesh like a man starved.

Stack tilted her chin toward him, his fingers coasting over her jaw. “That’s it,” he cooed, voice gritty with lust. “Open up for me, baby.”

Sera didn’t speak as her mouth obediently fell open again, while her tongue rested low and submissive as her lashes drooped. The wet sound of Smoke feasting between her thighs filled the room, obscene and constant, while Stack pushed his boxers down his hips and let his dick spring free. It was a sight to see, thick, flushed and already glistening at the tip.

He fisted it twice at the base, hissing softly through clenched teeth. “Damn, you look so pretty like this…”

His fingers threaded into her curls, anchoring her as he pressed the head of his dick against her waiting lips. Sera blinked up at him, needy and unfocused, her mouth still slack as he fed her the tip. Once her jaw muscles loosened he fed her the first inch, then another. Her throat worked to adjust, but she didn’t gag and she definitely didn’t flinch.

Stack groaned. “You ‘member how to breathe through ya nose, huh? Sucha good fuckin’ doll.”

Below, Smoke was relentless. He had slipped two fingers back inside Sera’s ass, twisting them in tandem with his tongue movements on her clit. The combination had her squirming, spine arching off the mattress as her voice broke into a whimper and her throat clenched around Stack’s dick.

“She squeezin’ up on me,” Stack said, voice strained. “Like her mouth missin’ me.”

“Usin’ that throat got her soakin’ me,” Smoke muttered darkly, though he didn’t stop.

Sera’s eyes rolled back slightly as Stack rocked forward, deeper this time, inch by inch until the weight of him pressed into her throat and her lips were kissing the base. He held her there, not cruel or fast, just long enough to watch the tears bead in the corners of her eyes. His thumb wiped one away with a gentleness that contrasted the way he groaned above her.

“Fuuuuck, this mouth was made for meeee.”

Smoke’s grip on her thighs tightened. His tongue flicked mercilessly, then he sucked her overworked bundle of nerves into his mouth with a pull that made her body convulse. Her throat clenched again, and Stack hissed out a curse.

“Better not make me cum first,” he growled under his breath, pulling out slightly and thrusting back in with more pressure this time, guided by her spit and the sheer slickness of her devotion.

“You keep nuttin’ quick like you the virgin,” Smoke taunted into her pussy, the words muffled by flesh and tongue.

Stack ignored him, but his pace didn’t slow down. He kept it just shy of fast, a steady invasion that filled her throat, then let her breathe, then fed her more. His free hand wrapped under her chin, guiding her, keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

Sera moaned around him, the vibrations traveled through his length and down into his gut.

Smoke’s tongue flattened and licked a lazy stripe up the middle of her folds before it circled again and again. His fingers crooked inside her ass with the same rhythm, bringing her toward the edge.

“She startin’ to throb,” Smoke warned, voice hoarse. “She gon’ cum."

Sera’s hands fisted the sheets beside her head, every nerve lit up like a wire pressed to flame. She didn’t know where she was anymore, only that Smoke was dragging orgasm after orgasm from her body, and Stack was stuffing her throat with praise and possession like it was his only purpose. And she loved it.

Smoke lifted his mouth only once to taunt, “You close, little wife?”

She nodded against Stack’s pecker, unable to speak with tears streaking down her face and her thighs trembling violently as her orgasm threatened to shatter her in half.

“Good,” Smoke growled. “Cum for me. I wanna feel it spill down my chin.”

And she did as she was told just as Stack pushed in again, his grip tightening in her hair while her mouth stretched to the limit as her climax finally took her under. Her body seized like she was frozen in time before her orgasm wrecked through her in vicious waves. Her thighs clamped around Smoke’s head, toes curling tight as if trying to grip the very air. Every nerve was on fire, overstimulated and singing, as if her body couldn’t tell if it wanted to run from the pleasure or drown in it.

Stack groaned low, hips jerking as her throat convulsed around him. “Shit… she suckin’ me back in like she starved.”

His hand flexed against the back of her head, fingers tight in her messy curls. He watched her expression closely. How the tears spilled from her eyes and how her lashes fluttered as her body trembled with delight. Her mouth stretched wide around his thick dick, lips glossy and ringed with saliva and desire. She was a mess, their mess, and neither of them could look away.

Smoke was soaked from chin to neck, his face buried between her thighs as her release coated his mouth and cheeks. He licked her through the aftershocks, tongue working in messy, devouring circles, not caring how sensitive she just became. Her body jerked again, breath catching around Stack’s rod, her fingers digging into the sheets like they were the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

“Don’t lock up on me now,” Stack rasped. “Take it, baby. Breathe through it. Just like that.”

She gagged once around him and he pulled back, just enough to give her air. His meat glistened with spit and arousal, veins bulging and jumping up and down with excitement. Her lips followed the retreat instinctively, mouth still open, like she didn’t know how to stop asking for more.

Stack’s thumb smeared a line of tears across her cheekbone. “Look at me,” he said. “You good?”

She blinked up at him, throat working, then nodded. Her tongue flicked out to lick at his tip, like an answer. A plea.

Smoke finally eased back, his mouth shiny with her juices. He exhaled like he had just taken communion and sat up, wiping his beard with the back of his forearm. “She gone pass the fuck out if you don’t pace yaself.”

“Nigga, I am pacin’ myself,” Stack shot back, guiding himself back toward her mouth, voice dipping into a darker register. “Ain’t even gave her half of what she swallowed last night.”

Sera moaned low in her throat as he eased forward again, filling her inch by inch, her head angled just right to take him deeper without choking. Stack’s hips rolled steady and deep enough to press against the limit of her throat and hold there, watching the flutter behind her eyes as she adjusted. Her hands rose on their own, clutching at his thighs like he was her lifeline.

Smoke’s eyes tracked every movement, the tremble in her inner thighs, the faint contractions that hadn’t stopped since she’d climaxed. He leaned in again, kissed the inside of her thigh, then dragged two fingers up her slit and slipped them inside. She gasped around Stack’s dick and the muscles in her abdomen jumped.

“Still twitchin’,” Smoke said, voice dark with satisfaction. “You cummin’ again an you ain’t even know it.”

Stack looked down at her, lips curled in a grin that was more wolf than man. “Mmm, greedy lil’ thing. We broke somethin’ open in her last night. Now she don’t know how to stop.”

Sera couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, and could barely think. All she could do was take. Take Stack in her throat, take Smoke’s fingers inside of her, take the wet sounds of her own body being used as if she were built for this exact thing.

Stack fucked her mouth a little deeper now, hips moving in a possessive rhythm while his hand gripped her curls tighter with every thrust. “You want me to nut in ya mouth, baby?” he asked between clenched teeth. “Wanna swallow it like you did last night? Or you want me to paint that pretty face?”

Smoke pressed deeper into her, fingers crooking to catch the spot that made her legs spasm. “She can’t answer,” he said, smirking as her hips bucked. “She too busy drownin’.”

“Then I’ll decide for her,” Stack growled, hips jerking forward again. “She earned it.”

Sera choked slightly as he slid all the way to the base again, her lips wrapped around him and her fluttered shut. Stack’s breath caught, thick and guttural, as her throat clenched around him again. He looked down at her one more time and groaned at how her mouth was stretched wide, tears streaked her flushed cheeks and spit dribbled from the corners of her lips. That was all it took.

“FUCK,” he groaned, voice hoarse and breaking. “Here it come, dollface. Hold still.”

He pulled out with a sharp inhale, hand gripping the base of his dick as his release spilled across her face in heavy, twitching ropes. One thick line landed across her cheekbone, the next across her lips, and the last just beneath her chin. It was messy, hot and claiming. Sera gasped, blinking through the haze, her tongue slipping out to taste what she could reach. She looked wrecked and radiant, like something that had been ruined with purpose.

Stack stared down at her for a long second, chest rising like a man catching his breath after a fight, then exhaled with a shaky laugh. “Damn near lost my soul in that throat.”

Smoke had already pulled back from between her legs, wiping his slick-coated fingers on the discarded sheet. His jaw was set tight, expression unreadable save for the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You done makin’ a mess of our woman?” His voice was dry as bone.

Stack chuckled, still high off the tension, and stroked Sera’s cheek with two fingers, smearing his cum against her skin like paint. “She wanted it.”

“Mmhm.” Smoke’s eyes dropped to Sera’s soaked thighs, still twitching with aftershocks, lips swollen and glistening from the feast she barely survived. “Well, since you turned her into a damn mess, you clean her up.”

Stack arched a brow. “That an order?”

“That’s me bein’ generous,” Smoke said, standing fully and stretching out his shoulders. His tone never shifted, but there was a glint behind his eyes. “You get her washed up. I’ll fix somethin’ to eat.”

“Gladly,” Stack chimed as he bent to scoop her into his arms.

Sera whimpered softly, the tension in her limbs melting the moment Stack’s hands slid beneath her thighs and back. Her head lolled against his chest, face still streaked with his seed and eyes dazed with lust.

“I got you,” he whispered, voice husky with something softer now. “Let’s go get you clean, baby.”

Stack carried her towards the bathroom, her bare body limp in his arms. Just before stepping through the doorway, he paused and glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. “Wait,” he said. “Why the fuck you ain’t get one off?”

Smoke looked back at his twin and gave a smile that was crooked, wolfish, and so ice-cold it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, I’m gon’ get mine,” he said, voice slick with unspoken intent. “After she clean. After she fed. Got a few things I need to address.”

Stack’s brow arched. “Yeah? Like what?”

Smoke rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, the motion smooth and unhurried. “First one,” he drawled, “is her thinkin’ she can keep disobeyin’ me when I give an order.”

Stack’s grin faltered.

Smoke’s smile deepened, but the air around him shifted. It turned heavier, darker and tinged with something too quiet to be safe. “She gone learn,” he said softly, eyes never leaving Stack’s. “Real gentle first. Then however I feel like.”

And just like that, the air in the room changed again. Stack swallowed, then nodded once before stepping into the bathroom with Sera still cradled against his chest, her breath feathering over his collarbone.

Steam curled up the bathroom walls as the water filled the tub, the sound was low and constant, a hush that wrapped the room in privacy. Stack set Seraphim down gently, easing her onto the porcelain edge before guiding her into the water. It lapped at her thighs first, then her hips and finally her stomach as she sank with a soft sigh.

“Easy,” Stack murmured, bracing her with a hand at her waist as she settled back. He reached for the soap, working it between his palms until it frothed thick and white. “Just relax, sunshine. I got you.”

At first, his touch was exactly what he promised. Careful. Thorough. He washed her face with his thumbs, tracing beneath her eyes where tears had dried, wiping away the last streaks of his mess with tender swipes. He rinsed her curly hairline, cupped water over her shoulders, and cleaned between her fingers like he was undoing every moment of strain she had just endured.

Seraphim leaned into him without thinking, her back pressing against his chest as he reached around her. His forearms caged her in, broad and warm, soap sliding down her arms and breasts as his hands worked.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, eyelids heavy. “Yeah. Just… floaty.”

He smiled at that, a pleased sound leaving him as he dipped the cloth again and dragged it down her stomach. His knuckles brushed the underside of her breasts by accident at first… Then again, less accidental.

The water sloshed as he stepped one foot into the tub. Then the other.

“Oh,” she breathed, realizing too late.

“Can’t reach you proper from out there,” Stack said easily, settling behind her. The tub creaked slightly under his weight, water spilling over the rim in thin sheets. He pulled her back against him, her spine fitting flush to his chest and his thighs bracketing her hips.

The cloth disappeared and his hands took its place. Soap slicked his palms as they traveled over her shoulders, down her arms, then lower. His thumbs circled her breasts with a languid confidence, washing, squeezing and pulling soft sounds from her throat.

Sera melted into Stack again, head tipping back to rest against his shoulder. Her body still felt sensitive, but not fragile. Touched raw, yes, but craving closeness more than distance. Stack kissed the side of her head, then her temple, then her neck. His lips lingered there, mouth warm and breath grazing skin that jumped at the contact.

They sat like that for a few seconds, water rocking gently around them. Then Seraphim spoke.

“What did Smoke mean,” she asked softly, “‘bout me bein’ disobedient?”

Stack let out a short laugh, surprised enough that it escaped him before he could stop it. “You serious?”

She shifted slightly, turning her head just enough to look at him. Her brows knit together, confusion plain on her face. “Yeah. I don’t… I don’t get it.”

He studied her for a moment, waiting for the punchline that didn’t come. When it didn’t, his grin widened into something incredulous. “Oh, you precious,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought you was bein’ slick.”

Her frown deepened. “I wasn’t.”

“Well,” he sighed, settling back against the tub. “Guess that means I gotta explain.” His hands resumed their path, washing down her sides, over her ribs and grounding her while he talked. “Ight. First one,” he started. “You askin’ ‘bout lettin’ other men flirt with you. Not once. Twice.”

Her lips parted. “That was just a question.”

“Mm,” Stack hummed. “An we ain’t gonna dig into that one too deep. Still a sore spot.”

She swallowed, nodding.

“Second,” he continued, “that car ride. When we went to see Annie.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “I already apologized for that.”

“You did,” Stack agreed easily. “Your way.”

She turned more fully toward him now. “What’s that ‘posed to mean?”

“It mean,” he said patiently, “you apologized how you felt comfortable. You ain’t apologize how Smoke needed.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. “What’s Smoke’s way of apologizin’?”

Stack chuckled, low and knowing, and shook his head. “We’ll get to that another time.”

She scowled at him, clearly unsatisfied, but he kept going.

“Third one,” he said, voice dropping a notch. “Last night an this mornin’. Every time Smoke told you we needed to ease up, an you chose not to listen.”

“I was listenin’,” she argued quickly. “I was listenin’ to you.”

Stack tilted his head, eyes sharp now but not unkind. “That’s the problem, baby. It don’t matter that you listened to me. You still didn’t listen to him.”

That stopped her cold and her brows pulled together again, this time slower, deeper. “So… if I listen to one of you, I’m still wrong?”

“If you ignore the other,” Stack said simply. “Yeah.”

She stared down at the water, lips pressed tight. “So I’m always gonna get in trouble for pickin’ one of you over the other?”

Stack’s hands slid to her back, washing there now, long strokes that soothed even as his words complicated everything. “Let me ask you somethin’,” he said. “If I tell you not to do somethin’, an Smoke encourages it, you think I’m just ‘posed to shrug an smile?”

She hesitated. “No…”

“Exactly,” he said. “You don’t listen to me, I’m gonna need my own apology too.”

Her head snapped back toward him. “That ain’t fair.”

He laughed again, softer this time, and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, lingering there as his hands finished washing her back. “Fair ain’t really the point,” he said gently. “We spoil you rotten. You know that. We love you hard. You know that too. But you ain’t lovin’ one man. You lovin’ two.”

His lips brushed her skin again, affectionate and grounding. “An more than once,” he continued, “you done been disobedient to one of ya husbands.”

The water drained in a low, steady pull, leaving the room quieter than before. Sera shifted in Stack’s arms, her fingers curling against his forearm as that sentence settled in her chest. She was still trying to untangle it all when she lifted her chin just enough to look back at him.

“So,” she asked carefully, voice small but curious, “how would you make me apologize?”

For a moment, Stack didn’t answer. Something in him shifted instead. It wasn’t loud or explosive. It was subtle. The playful edge dulled and his smile thinned. His eyes darkened in a way that had nothing to do with lust alone. Old instincts stirred, ones that Smoke tried to force him to keep buried around her. Ones forged long before softness ever entered his world.

His hands slid from her shoulders to her hips, firm now, grounding. “You askin’ real questions today,” he said quietly.

Sera swallowed, but she didn’t pull away. “I wanna understand.”

That honesty was what made his jaw tighten. Stack exhaled slowly and leaned her forward in the tub, guiding her with a hand between her shoulder blades. The lowering water sloshed softly as she braced herself on the porcelain edge. His touch never hurt but it carried a weight that made her breath hitch anyway.

His palms spread over her hips, then lower, fingers sinking into the plush curve of her ass. He squeezed once, testing and feeling her respond to him even now. Then his thumbs pressed inward, parting her just enough to expose the place that still made her shiver when she remembered their conversation earlier.

“See this?” he murmured, not cruel, but honest. “This right here still untouched. Still tight. Still yours… for now…”

Her breath stuttered.

“I ain’t like Smoke,” Stack continued, voice dropping. “He corrects with structure. Rules. Order. All that proper bullshit. Me?” He huffed a quiet laugh. “I correct with pressure.”

His fingers spread her a little more, not invading, just revealing and reminding. She whimpered softly, thighs drawing inward before she forced herself to relax again.

“You never wanna disobey me, doll,” he said, not threatening, but real. “‘Cause I can be tougher than I mean to be. Sometimes I don’t stop when I should. Sometimes I get carried away.”

He released her just as gently as he had taken hold, angling her deeper before she could spiral. Then he slid down the tub, kneeling between her thighs. “Which is why,” he added, softer now, “If you gotta disobey one of us… it’d be better for you to disobey Smoke...”

His lips pressed a line of kisses along her inner thigh, feather-light at first. She gasped, body tensing, every nerve already oversensitive from earlier. His mouth traced closer, kisses lingering and dripped in devotion in their own dangerous way. When his tongue finally touched her, it wasn’t to take. It was to tease. A painfully slow stroke along her slit. A soft flick against her swollen clit that made her cry out despite herself. Her hands flew to the edge of the tub, grip slipping as her hips twitched.

“Still too sensitive,” he hummed against her skin, almost amused. “Smoke did a number on you.”

His tongue circled her clit, barely there, just enough to remind her of how close pleasure still hovered beneath her skin. Her thighs trembled, trying to close, but he held them apart with a steady grip.

“That,” Stack said quietly, lifting his mouth just long enough for her to hear him, “is why I let him handle most of the discipline.”

Stack stayed between her thighs far longer than he had any right to. He didn’t take her over the edge again, no, that would’ve been too merciful. Instead, he hovered just beneath the line, circling her swollen bundle of nerves with his tongue and retreating just as she began to shake. Then he would pause, kiss the inside of her thigh again, hum against her heat like she was his favorite melody, and start all over.

By the third time her hips bucked backward, desperate for more than teasing, she whimpered his name like it was the only word she remembered how to say.

He finally pulled back with a grin, satisfied by the sight of her trembling, wet, and flushed. “Told you,” he said with a wink, “I get carried away.”

Sera barely had the strength to glare at him. Her legs wouldn’t stop twitching. Stack stood, drained the last of the water from the tub, and helped her out carefully, cradling her body like she was something precious. He grabbed one of the thick cotton towels from the warmer rack and began drying her with those big, unhurried hands. Once she was dry, he pulled a nightgown from the dresser drawer. Deep blue silk satin, so light it felt like water when he unfolded it. He slipped it over her head and smoothed it down her waist, fingers grazing every inch of skin on the way down. The fabric clung to her curves, catching the light with every step she took.

“You look like a dream,” he murmured, eyes hooded.

“Then stop teasing me like a nightmare,” she whispered back.

He barked a laugh, kissed her temple, and opened the door. They padded barefoot down the hallway, the air cooler now outside the humid warmth of the bathroom. As soon as they stepped into the living room, Stack stopped short and threw a hand to his chest with a dramatic gasp.

“Goddamn!” he said, voice rising like he had been hit with the Holy Ghost. “Is that sausage I smell? Real pork? Ooh, that nigga done put his soul in the skillet this mornin’!”

Sera giggled as Stack fanned himself and strutted into the kitchen with mock reverence. The table was already set. Sausage links glistening with just the right char. A steaming pot of grits thickened to perfection. Buttered toast stacked high beside a pitcher of cold orange juice.

Smoke didn’t so much as blink. He stood near the stove, his back still partially turned to his brother’s foolishness, spatula laid down, apron now folded neatly on the counter. But his eyes? They were locked on his woman. Watching her. Studying her.

She paused beneath the weight of that stare.

Smoke moved before she could even lower hers. He closed the space between them with quiet, measured steps. His eyes roamed her body, from the blue silk clinging to her hardened nipples, along the soft slope of her hips, the hem brushing her thighs and then back up to her flushed cheeks and parted lips.

He cupped her face gently and inspected her like a man inspecting the edge of a blade that belonged to him. Then leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her lips. Barely there. More a promise than a greeting. “You sittin’ with me,” he said quietly against her mouth, “for breakfast.”

Before she could answer, his hand slid around her waist, guiding her toward the chair he had already pulled out for himself.

Stack was already two sausage links deep and halfway through his toast. “She gettin’ extra princess treatment today, huh?”

“She always gets that,” Smoke said without looking at him. His voice had dropped an octave, all velvet and warning. “But she still got a lesson comin’.”

Sera’s breath lingered in her throat as Smoke sat down and pulled her gently into his lap. His arms wrapped around her waist, anchoring her, while the scent of sausage and buttered toast hung warm and heavy in the air.

“Eat up, little wife,” he whispered in her ear. “You gon’ need the strength.”

Stack tore into a second plate of food like a man who had earned every bite. Sausage snapped between his teeth and grease shined on his fingers as he leaned back in the chair with a satisfied groan. He shoveled grits onto his fork next, thick and steaming, the butter melting into glossy pools across the surface.

“Lord,” he muttered. “This some stay alive food.”

Across the table, Sera sat tucked into Smoke’s lap like she belonged there by design. Her back rested fully against his chest, her spine fitting the hard plane of him as if it had been carved for that purpose. Smoke’s toned legs were spread slightly, solid and unmoving, creating a cradle she couldn’t escape even if she tried. One of his arms wrapped around her waist, forearm warm and heavy across her stomach, while the other rested along the table edge, fingers flexing like they were impatient for something.

She lifted her spoon carefully, the sweet grits clinging to it in a soft mound, brown sugar and cinnamon scent curling upward. She blew on it once and took the bite, humming faintly as it hit her tongue.

Stack froze mid chew. “Sweet grits,” he said slowly, disbelief dripping from every syllable. “You lucky you our woman, ‘cause any other day I’d curse you for that.”

She turned her head just enough to look at him, eyes narrowing. “They good.”

Smoke’s chest shifted behind her with a quiet laugh. “They real good when they made right,” he said calmly. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with sweet grits.”

Stack scoffed. “That shit is blasphemy.”

Sera opened her mouth, ready to defend herself, but before a word could leave her lips Smoke’s hand slid beneath the hem of her silk nightgown. His palm met bare skin. No lace. No cotton. Nothing. 

He sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers flexing against the soft curve of her thigh. “Mm,” he murmured low in her ear. “Didn’t even bother with underwear.”

Her spoon trembled.

“You learnin’,” Smoke continued quietly, voice roughened with approval. “But you still green. Got so much left to teach you.”

His mouth found her neck, kisses pressed slow and possessive along the column of her throat. His lips lingered there, teeth grazing just enough to make her shiver. His hand drifted higher, fingers sliding through the slick warmth between her thighs until his thumb found her button.

Sera gasped and the spoon in her hand nearly tipped.

Smoke’s other hand came down fast and hard against her ass, the sound sharp in the quiet room. She yelped, body jolting against him. “Don’t you drop that spoon,” he said firmly. “Eat.”

Her breath stuttered as she scrambled to steady herself, fingers tightening around the handle. She glanced across the table, eyes wide and pleading, looking for mercy.

Stack just chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for another piece of toast. His grin was all teeth and trouble. “Ain’t nobody savin’ you,” he said lightly. “Lesson already started, doll.”

Smoke’s thumb resumed its work, pressing, circling and drawing soft broken sounds from her throat while his hand at her waist held her exactly where he wanted her.

“Keep eatin’,” Smoke murmured against her ear, voice thick as syrup.

Seraphim’s thoughts scattered the moment Smoke’s grip tightened at her waist. At first, she tried to focus on the bowl in front of her. The weight of it. The ceramic warmth against her palms. The faint sweetness of sugar melting into the grits. She told herself to chew, swallow, and lift the spoon again. Simple things. Normal things. Things she could still control.

But Smoke made control feel like sand slipping through her fingers. His hand kept moving. Always moving. Thumb dragging teasing circles that never quite gave her what she needed. Every time her body leaned into it, chasing relief, he shifted just enough to deny her. Her nightgown crept higher with each restless movement until fabric bunched around her hips, useless and forgotten.

Her cheeks burned where his palm had landed again and again, the sting blooming hot and bright before melting into something heavier. Something deeper. Her skin felt swollen and hypersensitive, like even the air brushing against her would make her cry out.

Her mind fractured under it. Part of her wanted to obey perfectly. To sit still. To eat. To prove she could listen. Another part of her was unraveling, desperate, aching, and furious at herself for wanting more when she had already been warned.

Smoke kept talking in her ear, his voice steady and almost calm, which somehow made this punishment worse. “Told you I wanted to take it easy today,” Smoke said quietly, fingers spreading her slick with unapologetic ownership. “But you don’t hear warnings. You test ‘em.”

Her stomach flipped.

“You listen to Stack when I tell you slow down,” he continued, letting a finger slide inside her just enough to make her gasp. “You push past ya limits like they don’t fuckin’ matter.”

Her spoon clinked faintly against the bowl as her hand shook.

“E-Elijah,” she whimpered, the sound thin and wrecked.

The smack came fast. Her ass burned as she cried out, the noise sharp enough to echo off the walls. Tears stung her eyes instantly, frustration and pleasure tangling so tightly she couldn’t tell them apart.

“Eat,” he ordered.

Sera’s thighs trembled and sitting still started to feel like an impossible task. Every shift rubbed her raw, puffy heat against Smoke’s hand, against his thigh, against nothing and everything all at once. Pain pulled her in one direction and pleasure yanked her another. Her mind couldn’t decide which to follow, so it fractured again.

Half a bowl in, her body felt like it was screaming from the inside out. She tried to look back at him, twisting her neck just enough to catch his gaze, lips trembling. Words spilled out, messy and unformed. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—I’ll listen—I promise—”

None of it landed.

Smoke’s hand slid up her spine and guided her head forward again. “Eyes on that nigga ‘cross the table you love listenin’ to.”

Sera’s breath hitched as she looked up. Stack was already watching her like a man watching his favorite show. His elbow rested casually on the table, hand palming himself through his boxers, eyes dark and unblinking. He didn’t hide his interest. Didn’t soften it. That look made her chest tighten.

He grinned slowly. “She got that look, Smoke,” he said, voice low and pleased. “The one right ‘fore she get to cryin’.”

Smoke hummed in agreement. “Mean she ain’t learned yet.”

She felt it before she fully understood it. The thick head of Smoke’s dick pressed against her entrance, warm and unrelenting. He didn’t push in, he just rested there. Teased. Let her feel exactly what she was being denied and her hips jerked involuntarily.

“Still got half that bowl, doll.” Smoke said calmly. “Finish it.”

Then he pushed inside. The stretch hit her all at once, deep and overwhelming, her body clamping down around him like it had been waiting for this exact pressure. Her vision blurred at the edges. Her brain short-circuited completely, pleasure detonating so suddenly she couldn’t stop the sound that tore from her throat.

Sera’s body tightened too tight and too soon. Smoke felt it instantly and landed a slap to her clit that was sharp enough to steal the air from her lungs. She sobbed as her orgasm shattered before it could crest, leaving her trembling and ruined in his lap.

“I’m tired of repeatin’ myself,” Smoke said flatly. “Finish. Eatin’.”

Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the spoon again. Tears slipped down her cheeks now, silent and helpless, as she forced herself to lift another bite to her mouth. Her body throbbed around him, aching and denied, every nerve lit and screaming.

“You gon’ keep me warm ‘til you finish,” he said quietly near her ear, his voice steady even as his body betrayed him. “That’s all you doin’ right now. Holdin’ me. Nothin’ else.”

Her breath shuddered as she nodded, lips brushing the spoon as she forced another bite of grits into her mouth. Sweet and buttery turned cloying on her tongue and her stomach knotted too tight for hunger. She chewed because he told her to. Because the alternative felt unimaginable.

“You don’t get to finish,” Smoke continued, one hand firm at her waist, the other hovering just close enough to her clit to make her flinch. “Not ‘til that bowl empty an not ‘til you apologize proper for not listenin’ to me this mornin’.”

Her chest tightened. She swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

Inside, Smoke was fighting a war. He could feel how wet she was. How her body kept pulling him in, clenching in small, helpless pulses that made his jaw lock and his breath turn shallow. Every instinct in him screamed to take her, to rock up into her until her words dissolved into sound and her eyes went glassy with pleasure. But this wasn’t about release. This was about patience and discipline. This was about teaching his woman that his warnings meant something.

He took a deep breath and lifted his eyes before meeting Stack’s across the table. Stack took one look at Smoke’s face and barked out a laugh. A sharp vein stood out along Smoke’s forehead, his control was stretched thin as wire. Stack’s shoulders shook as he tried to contain it, lips pressed together like he was savoring the moment.

Smoke’s gaze snapped hard and lethal towards his twin.

Don’t.

Stack raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning, but wisely shut his mouth.

Sera shifted again without meaning to, the movement instinctive as her body sought friction. Her walls clenched around Smoke, tight and needy.

The next smack came fast. Her clit stung sharply as Smoke’s palm snapped against it, the sensation electric and punishing. She cried out, thighs jerking.

“Don’t do that,” he warned.

Another involuntary clench. This time, his hand cracked against her ass, the sound loud in the kitchen. Her mahogany skin burned, already tender from earlier, the sting layering over itself until it felt like fire beneath her skin.

She whimpered, tears blurring her vision.

“Eat,” Smoke reminded her, voice firm but not raised. He said he was tired of repeating himself, but he kept doing it anyway, like a mantra he needed just as much as she did.

Her frustration finally bubbled over. “I am tryin’,” she snapped weakly, tears streaking down her cheeks. “You just— you bein’ unreasonable!”

The room froze and Smoke’s brow furrowed, his grip tightening on her hips until she gasped. The muscle in his jaw flexed, restraint cracking audibly in the silence.

Stack lost it before he leaned back in his chair and laughed so hard tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Unreasonable?” he wheezed. “Baby, Sera… you don’t even know how merciful he’s actin’ right now.”

Smoke inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to steady himself. It didn’t work. “Fuck it,” he grunted.

Before either of them could react, he grabbed a fabric napkin from the table. His hands were sure, practiced, as he tore it into long strips with a sharp rip. He caught Sera’s wrist gently but firmly, then the other, guiding her arms behind her back. The fabric tightened, binding just enough to restrain without cutting off circulation.

Her breath hitched. “E-Elijah—”

He lifted her effortlessly, repositioning her with a quiet authority that stole the air from her lungs. Her upper body was bent over the kitchen table, exposed skin braced against the wood, nightgown pushed up, her ass lifted and exposed. She felt impossibly open like this. Vulnerable in a way that made her pulse race.

Smoke stepped in close behind her and fisted her hair, tilting her head back just enough that his mouth brushed her ear. “If you can’t take no more,” he whispered, voice low and deadly calm, “use ya word.”

She nodded frantically, heart hammering. Without another syllable, he drove into her. No warning. No easing. He slammed into her soaked pussy with a force that knocked the breath from her as the table rattled beneath her weight. A broken cry tore from her throat as her body stretched around him, the sensation overwhelming and consuming all at once.

He stayed buried to the hilt, his chest pressed against her back, one hand cinched tight in her hair, the other gripping her bound wrists like reins. His breath thundered against the side of her neck, heavy and ragged, every exhale branding her skin. The only sounds in the kitchen were the tick of the clock, the soft drip of sausage grease cooling on the pan, and the uneven panting of two people locked in a dangerous rhythm.

Sera’s mind splintered the moment he entered her. The stretch had been brutal and deep. There was no gentle lead-in, no warning tap or whispered promise. Smoke had filled her in one merciless stroke and her swollen walls strained to take him all over again after being teased to madness.

She felt every inch. Every pulse. Every twitch of restrained fury that rippled beneath his skin. “S-S-Smoke,” she gasped, voice already wrecked.

His hand curled tighter around her hair and yanked her head back, forcing her spine into an arch. Her bound wrists strained behind her. “You don’t get to say my name like that,” he growled against her ear. “Not after what you pulled this mornin’.”

She whimpered, legs shaking.

“You got the nerve to tell me I’m bein’ unreasonable,” he bit out, punctuating the sentence by pulling halfway out and slamming back into her, making her cry out again. “When I been tryin’ all goddamn mornin’ to go easy on you.”

Her eyes slammed shut.

“Tryin’ to let you rest. Tryin’ to feed you first. Let Stack take care of you. But you? You kept pushin’. Kept mouthin’ off. Kept thinkin’ you ain’t gotta follow my word.”

Another deep stroke, punishing and deliberate. She screamed into the wood of the table, tears slipping down her cheeks as her body clamped around him. He groaned, long and guttural, forehead pressed to her shoulder as he barely held himself together. His dick throbbed deep inside her, wrapped in tight heat that was slick like velvet and honey.

Across from them, Stack was no longer laughing. His eyes had darkened again and the humor drained from his face as he watched Smoke discipline their woman. His hand stroked lazily over the bulge in his boxers, slow and appreciative, but his eyes never left Seraphim’s face. The way her mouth hung open, lips trembling, cheeks streaked with tears she couldn’t stop.

“You okay, baby?” Stack asked softly, voice laced with sarcasm knowing this punishment was all his fault. “You still with us?”

She nodded quickly, too afraid to speak, her body trembling like a fever had taken hold of her.

Smoke’s hand trailed from her wrists down to her lower back, then lower, until he gripped her hip in a bruising hold. “Say the words,” he demanded. “You know what I’m waitin’ on.”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” she gasped, barely able to form the words. “I should’ve listened—I didn’t mean to—”

“That ain’t good enough.”

He thrusted into her again, harder until her knees nearly gave out. She choked on a sob, her mouth barely finding words now.

“I’m sorry for not listenin’,” she cried. “I should’ve done what you said. I’m sorry! Please…”

The sound of her breaking undid something inside him. His grip tightened. His strokes turned sharp, brutal, relentless. Wet sounds filled the room. Her pussy gushed around him, puffy and wrecked, taking every punishing inch. Her cries dissolved into moans that were no longer pleading, but high, ragged and confused by how good the pain felt.

Her thighs quaked.

Smoke’s voice dropped to a growl. “Don’t you dare cum.”

“I—I can’t—” she sobbed. “I can’t hold it—”

“You will,” he snarled. “Or I’ll stop right now an make you sit on my pecker ‘til supper.”

Stack leaned forward on his elbows, eyes low and hooded as he watched her fall apart. “She gettin’ real close,” he chimed in. “That little twitch she do when she hold her breath… yeah… there it go.”

Smoke didn’t even glance at him. His focus was entirely on the woman folded over the table in front of him, arms bound behind her, nightgown wrinkled around her waist, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

He grabbed her ass in both hands, spreading her wide, the pads of his fingers sinking into her sore flesh. Her pussy stretched around him gripping his length like it didn’t want to let go. He fucked into her with a rhythm that was cruel in its precision—deep, steady, devastating. Not rushed. Not chaotic. Just brutal truth in motion. Every stroke landed in the spot that made her toes curl. Every retreat had her body sucking him back in like she needed him to breathe.

Sera’s vision blurred, her lashes were damp and her lips trembled against the polished wood of the table. Her aching bud pulsed with need, but Smoke’s hands stayed on her hips, his dick did the talking, and she felt herself rising far too fast again.

“E-Elijah—” she whispered, or tried to. It came out like a sob, raw and shaking.

“You holdin’ ya breath again,” he warned, voice pitched low, just behind her ear. “That same damn twitch… That same cry... I just told you—”

His hips snapped forward harder, and she screamed. “—you don’t cum ‘til I say you can.”

Her thighs buckled. Her whole body shuddered, inching on the edge of collapse.

Stack leaned back in his chair again, watching with lazy fascination, the kind a man might show when watching fireworks right before the finale. His expression was still fixed on Sera’s face, like it was the most beautiful portrait of agony he’d ever seen. “You gon’ break her,” he muttered, voice thick with amusement and arousal. “An she gon’ love you for it.”

Sera’s mouth fell open, but no words came. Just a strangled cry and a tremor that ripped through her spine. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t plead. Her mind felt fractured, held together by nothing but the pressure of Smoke’s dick and the promise of a release that stayed just out of reach.

She clenched again. Smoke’s hand came down hard on her ass. Then again on her clit and she screamed.

“Stop clenchin’,” he growled. “Every time you do it, you gettin’ punished.”

Her sob hitched in her throat. “I—I can’t help it…”

“Yes you can,” he snapped. “You just don’t wanna. You think this still a game. You think Stack laughin’ means I’ma let you off easy. I ain’t.”

He dragged out the next stroke, slow and maddening, hips grinding deep until she felt the weight of him settle inside her like a curse. “You wanna cum?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “You need to cum?”

“Yes—yes, please—Sir, please—”

“Then prove you know who you belong to.”

Smack.

His hand connected with her clit again, and Seraphim’s scream caught halfway through her throat, unraveling into a ragged sob that echoed off the walls of their apartment. Her body trembled and she couldn’t take it anymore. One more stroke, one more word, one more push would split her open completely. Her pussy tightened around him, slick and swollen, so sensitive it felt like every breath she took rubbed her raw from the inside out. And still he didn’t let her finish..

Smoke exhaled through his nose like a man straining to keep the devil at bay. Then, in one fluid, powerful motion, he pulled out of Sera, making her whimper from the emptiness. He gripped her hips and lifted her off the table, turning her pliant, shaking body in his arms until she was seated in his lap again facing the table, back flush against his chest, legs straddling his thighs.

His length slid back inside her with a thick, wet glide, and they both groaned, though for very different reasons. Sera felt it like a punch to the gut. It was full, deep and searing. Smoke felt it like a curse, like the weight of restraint collapsing against him. His jaw clenched, a vein rising again along his temple as her tight, wet pussy squeezed him from every angle.

He untied the napkin bindings from her wrists with fast, frustrated movements. The fabric was damp from sweat and the heat of her trembling body.

“You gon’ finish that damn bowl,” he gritted out, dragging the half-full dish toward her. “An you gon’ do it right.”

Sera blinked, still dizzy, the spoon barely registering in her hand as Smoke forced it back into her palm. “I can’t—” she whimpered, trying to gather her thoughts.

“You can,” he snapped, the grit in his voice fraying, his patience unraveling by the second. “I done gone outta my way to show you mercy this mornin’. Now I’m givin’ you one more chance to sit here an eat in peace.”

His dick twitched inside her, throbbing with a rhythm that matched the hard set of his jaw. Every second it sat inside her unmoving was a torment he forced himself to endure.

“Couple seconds ago you begged for more,” he continued, lips brushing her temple, “but now you wanna fall apart ‘fore earnin’ it?”

She whimpered again, trying to lift the spoon, but her hands were shaking too much. The grits were cold now. They were sticky, sweet and forgotten but she brought the bite to her lips anyway.

Behind her, Smoke’s fists clenched at her hips. He held her in place as she swallowed, each throb of her pussy making him want to growl. Her walls tightened involuntarily again, soft little clenches that gripped him like a mouth trying to suck him deeper.

He hissed in her ear low and dangerous. “You better stop grippin’ me like that,” he growled. “I swear to God, Sera, if you keep squeezin’ me like that I’ma fuck this chair through the floor.”

Her hips trembled. Another clench. Reflexive. Helpless. Smoke’s entire body went rigid beneath her, every thick vein in his arms standing out as he breathed through his nose.

Stack, still leaning in his chair with his arms crossed, barked a laugh. “Look at you,” he said to Smoke, amusement dripping from every word. “You the one givin’ the lesson an look like you the one ‘bout to tap out.”

Smoke shot him a death glare that could’ve stopped time. “Shut the fuck up an go find sum’ safe to do,” he bit out.

Stack raised his hands in surrender, chuckling as he walked away with a shake of his head, mumbling something about pride coming before the fall.

Sera managed another bite. Then another. Spoon trembling between her fingers. Smoke stayed inside her, twitching and full, like a devil caged and waiting for the final chain to snap. The last bite felt like climbing out of deep water. She swallowed it with a shaky breath, her hands finally lowering the spoon back to the table with a soft clink. Her shoulders sagged in relief before her body remembered everything else at once.

Smoke exhaled, long and controlled, as if he had been holding himself together by sheer will. “Good,” he said quietly. “Now turn around.”

His hands guided her with a firm gentleness, repositioning her until she was facing him, knees bracketing his hips and straddling him fully. The chair creaked under the shift. She could see his face now. How tight his jaw was, how his eyes were dark and focused, and the sheen of sweat along his temple that told the truth of how hard this had been for him too.

He slid his hands away from her hips on purpose. No grip. No guidance. “You gon’ ride me,” he said. “An you gon’ apologize.”

Her heart stuttered.

“I ain’t holdin’ you,” Smoke continued evenly. “You gotta do this yaself.”

Sera nodded, nervous and aching, and tried to move. The first attempt was awkward. She lifted her hips too high, lost the angle, and Smoke slipped free with a wet sound that made her gasp in embarrassment.

“Easy,” he said, steady and calm. “Don’t rush it.”

She tried again, hands braced on his shoulders this time. Still clumsy. Still unsure. She sank down, missed again and frustration twisting in her chest.

“That’s alright,” Smoke murmured. “You still learnin’. Look at me.”

She did, cheeks burning.

“Slow your hips,” he coached. “Think ‘bout sittin’ on me, not droppin’.”

On the third try, she found him again, her body easing down until he filled her properly. A broken sound slipped from her throat at the sensation, pleasure blooming sharp and bright now that she controlled the movement.

“There you go,” he said softly. “That’s it.”

She began to move, tentative at first. Small motions. Rocking more than riding. Her rhythm faltered, and once more she slipped free, a frustrated sob leaving her lips.

Smoke reached up then, just briefly, guiding her back down to reconnect them before pulling his hands away again. “Ain’t mad,” he said. “I got patience for you. Keep goin’.”

She nodded, breathing hard, and tried again. This time, something kind of clicked. She rolled her hips instead of lifting them, letting the motion come from her core. The friction changed instantly. Everything felt deeper and steadier with a rhythm that made her eyes roll and her mouth part.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Smoke’s chest rose sharply. “Yeah… find that spot.”

Encouraged, she kept going, movements growing more confident, pleasure building in waves instead of spikes. Smoke watched her closely, his expression softening even as his voice stayed firm.

“That’s my girl,” he said quietly. “You doin’ good.”

Her chest tightened at the praise.

“Now apologize,” he reminded her before landing another swat at her tender ass.

She swallowed, riding him as she spoke, words trembling but honest. “I’m s-s-sorry for n-not listenin’ to you this m-m-mornin’.”

He nodded once. “Mmhmm… Keep goin’.”

“I’m sorry for pushin’ p-p-past what you told me,” she continued, hips rocking, voice breaking. “I wasn’t tryin’ to d-disrespect you. I just— I wanted you...”

Smoke’s jaw clenched as her walls tightened around him, but his voice stayed steady. “Say it right.”

She leaned forward, forehead touching his, breath mingling. “I’m sorry, E-Elijah. I’ll listen to you. I won’t ignore you a-a-again.”

Silence stretched for a beat. Then Smoke’s hands came back to her hips, firm and grounding, finally taking control again. His thumbs pressed into her skin with possessive certainty.

“That’s it,” he said low. “You did good.”

Her body responded instantly, relief flooding her so hard she nearly cried.

“You can cum now,” he murmured, voice thick with promise. “Use this dick an ride me ‘til you can’t think no more.”

The permission hit her like a snapped wire. Seraphim cried out, body surging forward as her hips stuttered through the movement, rhythm breaking under the weight of too much sensation at once. Pleasure had her seeing sounds and hearing colors, making her limbs feel clumsy and uncoordinated again, like she was learning how to use her body for the first time.

Smoke felt it immediately. “Hey,” he comforted, steady even as she trembled. “Easy, baby. I got you.”

Without breaking their connection, he wrapped one arm around her back and stood, lifting her with an ease that made her gasp. She clung to him instinctively, arms winding around his neck as he carried her across the room. Every step dragged another soft sound from her throat, his dick still seated deep inside her, keeping her anchored to him.

He lowered himself onto the living room couch and guided her with practiced care, settling back into the cushions before positioning her again. This time, he angled her so her knees pressed into the couch on either side of his thighs, grounding her. He took her hands and placed them on his shoulders.

“Right there,” he instructed quietly. “Hold on.”

She obeyed, fingers digging into muscle as she rocked forward, tentative again until she felt it… that familiar, devastating pull low in her belly. Her breath caught.

“There it is,” Smoke said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That sweet spot.”

Her hips began to move with more confidence now, guided by sensation instead of nerves. Smoke’s hands rested on her waist, thumbs digging in just enough to remind her he was there, that she wasn’t doing this alone.

He leaned forward, lips brushing her ear as he spoke, voice rough and unapologetic. “That’s it. You look so fuckin’ good ridin’ this dick. Just like that. You feel how you takin’ me now?”

She nodded frantically, words lost to the sounds spilling from her mouth. He spit into his palm, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and slid his thumb between her legs. When it touched her clit, she sobbed, head dropping forward as pleasure detonated anew. His thumb moved in slow, filthy circles, perfectly timed with the roll of her hips.

“Ya lesson is over,” he whispered. “Now you just mine.”

Her body responded instantly, tightening around him as her movements grew more desperate. Smoke’s praise poured over her in a low stream, grounding and wicked all at once.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “That’s my wife. Ridin’ me just how I like. You doin’ so damn good.”

Her world narrowed to the drag of his thumb, the fullness of him inside her and the sound of his voice. Her mind went hazy, thoughts dissolving into sensation until there was nothing left but the need to move, to chase the pleasure cresting higher and higher.

“Don’t stop,” he urged softly. “Stay right there. Let it take you.”

Her body was still trembling when the last waves eased, breath coming in uneven pulls as she sagged against him. Smoke kept her close, arms firm around her, his chest rising hard beneath her cheek. For a few heartbeats there was only the aftermath. The thud of her pulse. The drag of breath. The sticky heat between them.

Then she lifted her head.

Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, but the desire for more burned bright beneath it. She shifted her hips just enough to feel him still thick and pulsing inside her, still hard and waiting.

“Smoke,” she whined, voice wrecked and needy. “Please… feel good with me.”

He stilled and the muscles in his arms tightened while his jaw settled as he looked down at her. He was breathing hard now too as his desire roared through him unchecked. “Beg for it,” he grunted. “Beg me like a proper doll.”

Her lips parted. Her pride and inexperience wavered for half a second. Then she nodded. She slid her hands up his shoulders, fingers digging into him as she leaned in, forehead brushing his. Her voice came softer, shakier, and stripped bare of bravado. “Please,” she breathed. “Please fill me... I need you to. I need you to make a mess inside me… make me yours.”

Her hips rocked once, desperate and unsteady. “Please, Smoke,” she whispered. “I’ll take it. I’ll hold it. I’ll be good.”

That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Smoke growled and crushed Sera against him in a bear hug, arms locking around her torso as he took control completely. He surged up into her with no restraint left, driving into her from below with brutal, relentless power. The couch creaked beneath them as his hips snapped upward again and again, each thrust knocking the air from her lungs.

“Oh—oh—s-s-shit! Smoke!” she cried, the sound loud and unfiltered as her head fell back.

He didn’t slow down and he couldn’t even if he tried. He fucked her like a man claiming ground, like a storm that had finally been unleashed. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, obscene and wet. His balls smacked against her soaked folds with every hard thrust, slick sounds echoed as her body gushed around him, overstimulated and wrecked.

Sera’s moans grew louder, uncontrolled and tearing out of her as she clung to him. Her nails dug into his shoulders, sharp and desperate, and she sobbed into his neck, tears streaking down her face as pleasure overwhelmed her completely. Smoke’s head tipped back, eyes rolling as he drove into her harder, faster, every muscle straining. He was dimly aware of the noise, of how loud she was, of how anyone within a hundred miles could probably hear how thoroughly he was fucking his woman but he didn’t care.

“Mine,” he snarled, voice breaking as he buried himself deep. “Mine—FUCK—take it!”

Her body clamped down around him, convulsing as another orgasm tore through her, sharp and blinding. She screamed his name, voice cracking, nails raking down his back as she shattered. That was what pushed him over. Smoke groaned deep in his chest and slammed into her one final time, holding her there as he came hard, spilling inside her in thick pulses. He stayed buried, arms locked tight around her as he filled her completely, breath ragged, body shaking with the force of it.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room rang with the echo of what they had just done. Then Smoke lowered his head, forehead pressing to her shoulder, breath finally slowing as he held her close. His grip softened just enough to be comforting instead of crushing.

“There,” he murmured hoarsely. “That’s it.”

Sera sagged against him, spent and shaking, mind blissfully empty as she clung to him and let herself be held. Smoke’s body had gone slack beneath her, the corded tension in his shoulders melting away with each ragged breath. He held her now like something precious, not breakable, but claimed. His calloused hands moved across her back in slow strokes, grounding her, tracing the ridges of her spine, and soothing her through the aftershocks of everything they just endured together.

And then came the kisses. Soft, loving and unrushed. Smoke pressed them everywhere he could reach, her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, her chin. His lips lingered at the corner of her mouth before returning to her brow, each one an echo of the worship he couldn’t put into words. Sera breathed through the haze as her fingers curled loosely at his nape while she floated down from her high.

Neither of them moved to separate. He stayed sheathed inside her, their bodies still connected as if to let go now would mean something sacred might come undone.

They were still wrapped in that hush when the cushions beside them dipped with a familiar weight.

Flop.

Stack dropped onto the couch with all the care of a man who hadn’t just watched his brother take their woman to the brink and back. He leaned over, lit a freshly rolled cigarette with a flick of his lighter, then held it out toward Smoke, eyes half-lidded. Smoke took it without a word and brought it to his lips.

Sera didn’t move. She was boneless, her breath coming in long, shaky exhales, arms still lazily slung around Smoke’s neck. Her thighs twitched now and then, the soreness between them blooming as awareness returned.

Stack sucked his teeth as he looked her over, then leaned back with a groan and poured himself a glass of whiskey from the bar cart. The ice clinked once before melting into the amber liquid. “We keep fuckin’ her til her damn brain turn smooth,” he complained, swirling his glass. “Gon’ be real hard to share her when she don’t 'member her name no more.”

Smoke exhaled a long stream of smoke, then turned his head just enough to blow it away from Sera’s face. His arm stayed wrapped around her waist, his other hand cradling the back of her head like she might drift off right there against his chest.

“Was worth it,” he said, voice rough and satisfied.

Sera cracked one eye open, lips swollen, eyes glazed but glinting with sass beneath the haze. “I can handle both of you,” she grumbled, her voice hoarse but defiant. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Stack choked on his drink and turned his head to stare at her like she had just challenged the sun. “Oh yeah?” he said, one brow cocked. “You ready to get that second hole filled up proper then?”

Smoke didn’t laugh. He took another long pull from the cigarette, smoke curling around his lashes. His hand absently stroked Sera’s lower back, slow and possessive. “I was gon’ put her jade back in,” he said mildly, thumb brushing the top of her ass, “but the mornin’ went another direction.”

Stack looked her up and down again, mouth twitching. “Sure did,” he muttered. “Poor thing look like a wind could knock her out.”

Sera pouted and nuzzled deeper into Smoke’s chest like she hadn’t just been ravaged into near silence moments ago. She was sore, stretched, and dripping full, but somewhere deep in her exhausted core… she wanted more.

Smoke took one last drag from the cigarette, the ember glowing orange in the dim light of the living room. The taste of tobacco mixed with the salt on Sera’s skin still lingered on his tongue, warm and grounding. With a quiet sigh, he leaned to the side and passed the cigarette to Stack, who plucked it from his fingers with an easy smirk, already tipping it to his lips.

He brushed a hand through Sera’s damp curls and let his fingers linger at her nape. “You got any energy left in that body?” he asked, his voice roughened by the edge of spent desire. “Or did I fuck them city plans clean outta you?”

Sera tilted her head up, eyes still half-lidded and dreamy, lips parted in the afterglow. “I need…” she paused. “A bath. An a nap… Then maybe the city.”

Stack huffed out a laugh through a stream of smoke, the cigarette perched lazily between his fingers now as he stretched his legs and let his head fall back on the couch. “She say that like she ain’t ‘bout to be walkin’ sideways,” he teased, voice thick with amusement.

Smoke ignored him, his focus still locked on her. “A bath an a nap,” he repeated, nodding slowly. “We can do that.”

His tone softened, the grit giving way to something deeper. “We’ll check it out tonight. See what this city life got to offer us. Take it all in when the sun drop. It’s livelier at night. More to see.”

He leaned in and kissed her temple, slow and tender, the scent of her skin sweeter now, like sweat and lavender mixed with surrender. “Remember, you ain’t gotta rush, little wife,” he added against her skin. “You got us for a lifetime.”

Sera exhaled, a small, contented sound leaving her lips. She melted against him, her arms still loosely wrapped around his shoulders as if she wasn’t quite ready to let go. Tonight, they would walk the city streets. But for now, the twins would carry her back to the bath. And hold her, again and again, like something they never planned to release.

Author's Note: Damn thats crazy... Ya'll finally have an update after I was gone for like two days *cough*.

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The hallway pulsed like a drumline made of perfume and heat. Laughter spilled from behind the thick velvet curtain, mingling with the sound of Lucille Bogan’s last growl echoing through The Blackline like she left her spirit behind to fuck in her place.

Stack had his arm wrapped around Marigold’s waist, fingers splayed low and intentional across her hip. He walked slow, lazy, like a man drunk on good music and bad behavior, tugging her along like she was his prize and his possession all at once.

His lips were on her neck again, wet and hot, dragging up to the spot just under her jaw where she’d moaned his real name less than an hour ago.

“Lucille always did like a low room,” he whispered against her skin, “Say the air feel heavier, make her voice sit deeper in the cooch. Told me that once…after I poured her a drink in the back room, summer of ’28.” He grinned, nosing into her skin, “Kissed me soon as I brought her that drink. Slid her tongue in like she’d been waitin’ all night to spend it.”

Marigold’s heart pinched.

The hallway narrowed. Her robe clung damp to her thighs. She could still feel his tongue between her legs—the ache of it, the sweet bruised soreness he’d left inside her. But now he was talking about other mouths. Other women. Other nights.

His palm slid down. Grabbed a handful of her ass.

She gasped.

“I ain’t ever liked that woman in a dress, but damn she can sing,” he muttered low, right in her ear, “She sing like she fuck—loud, raw, full of teeth.”

Marigold’s stomach flipped. There was a tightness in her chest she didn’t recognize—sharp, hot, bitter at the edges. It sat just beneath her ribs, coiled like a belt pulled too tight.

Jealousy.

It wasn’t holy, but it was alive.

They entered the private lounge through a beaded curtain so thick it rattled like bones in a bag. The heat hit first—soft and thick, touched with sweat and rose oil. The room was velvet dark, lined in oxblood and plum. Satin couches curved around low tables stacked with half-melted candles, fruit trays, ashtrays, and bottles that dripped sweat down their necks. Lucille Bogan sat in the center like a queen who’d fucked her way to the throne. Her thighs were spread in a satin halter gown, glitter still clinging to her chest. She was drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and wearing a crooked grin that had broken a hundred men and at least two women that very week.

“Look who the dog done dragged up from between some thighs,” she crooned when she saw Stack. Her voice was smoke and dirty promise, dipped in molasses, “You still talkin’ sweet to ‘em, Mr. Magic Stick?”

Marigold stiffened.

Stack smirked.

Behind Lucille sprawled her girls—Trixie, Faye, and Ramona. All three were thick in the hips, tits spilling, eyes lined with kohl and lips painted dark like devils at a revival. Faye had one shoe off. Trixie was barefoot and flashing her pasties. Ramona had her leg slung over the arm of a velvet chair, her cleavage deep enough to drown in.

“Ooooh weee,” Ramona purred when she laid eyes on Stack. “Look at them lips. Got the kind of mouth make a girl see stars and the Lord.”

“I bet they soft too,” Trixie said, leaning forward, “Soft like silk on a sore tit.”

Faye laughed, drunk and delighted, “He got the kind of mouth make you forget what day it is. I wanna sit on it just to find out how deep it go.”

Lucille howled, “Y’all leave that boy alone! He just got done eatin’. Can’t you tell by the glow on his skin?”

Marigold froze.

Her glow.

Her cheeks burned. Her hands tightened around the wine glass that Peaches had handed her when they stepped in —unasked, unexpected, just thrust into her hand like she needed something to hold other than shame. She stood toward the back of the room, wrapped in Stack’s robe, her curls pinned up messily, damp with sweat and post-orgasm glow. Her lips were bare. Her feet were bare. She didn’t belong here, and everyone could feel it. She watched as Ramona straddled Stack’s thigh for a second, just being nasty, rolling her hips slow while Faye hooted and Trixie clapped.

Stack grinned. Didn’t stop her right away. That tightness in Marigold’s chest twisted again. He finally tapped Ramona’s thigh and leaned back, laughing.

“Y’all wild tonight,” he muttered, reaching for the bottle on the table.

“Wild?” Ramona licked her lips, “Baby, we just gettin’ started. You tryna start church or confession?”

That’s when Faye clocked Marigold.

“Who’s that?” she slurred, nodding toward the shadows, “You brought a lamb to the slaughter, Stack?”

Stack glanced back—spotted Marigold still hovering, stiff and quiet in her robe. He stood and said it calm. Straight.

“That’s Goldie.”

A pause.

Then Lula’s voice slid out from one of the corners like mischief in silk, “Y’all ain’t ready.” She grinned, tipping her wine glass, “That’s the preacher’s wife.”

Gasps. Whoops. Cackles.

Ramona’s mouth fell open.

Faye clutched her chest. Trixie screamed with laughter, “Well damn! Baby got saved and backslid in the same night!” Lucille sipped her drink and said, “Mmm. Praise be.” Marigold’s ears rang. The robe felt tighter. Her skin buzzed with humiliation. Stack moved back to her side. Slipped a hand around her waist. Spoke just to her now.

“They don’t mean no harm, baby.”

Marigold didn’t answer. She sipped her wine, jaw set, heat crawling up her neck like shame wrapped in silk.

Stack spoke low and hot against her jaw, “Mm. You jealous, church girl?”

She don’t answer—eyes cut away like she tryna pretend she ain’t, but that little pout say otherwise.

He chuckles, darker now, “Don’t do that…Don’t act like I ain’t just had you moanin’ through that pillow like it was gospel. Had you callin’ my name like it saved you.” He leans in, lips ghostin’ her ear, voice rich and mean-smooth, “Ain’t a damn thing Ramona could do for me. That lil’ loose beaver? That thing so stretched it don’t even blink no more.”

He grins when she stifles a gasp—embarrassed, maybe turned on. Both.

Stack whispers filthier, slow, “But you?” He hums, low and sinful, “You got that fat, tight coochie with the kind of grip that make a man rethink his whole lifestyle. Sweet… soft…messy.”

He licks his lips like he can still taste her, “Still got your scent on my mustache. Smell like sugar.” His hand brushed the hem of his robe on her thigh, “Could’ve stayed in that room all night, tongue deep in your pussy, suckin’ you ‘til you begged me to stop—then beggin’ me not to.”

He lets the words drip down her neck like honey, “Don’t stand here tryna act shy now. You ain’t just fucked me, baby. You fed me.” His tongue clicks, “Ain’t no bird in here ever gone do me like you did.”

Cordelia watched from a chaise—didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. Peaches clocked the whole thing, slow sippin’ her drink, quiet and knowing. And in the center of it all, Lucille raised her glass and purred.

“To the preacher’s wife.”

The girls howled.

Marigold didn’t raise her glass. Too shaky to hold it steady.

But Stack?

He kissed her temple, right there in front of everyone.

“To Goldie.”

The girls didn’t stop after the toast. If anything, Lucille’s declaration lit a new fire under their asses. Faye was already making a lap of the room with the whiskey bottle, pouring straight into mouths like communion. Ramona threw one leg over the arm of Stack’s chair again, this time leaning so close he could smell the peach liquor on her breath.

“So you really Mr. Magic Stick, huh?” she purred, eyes sliding down his frame, “That mean what I think it mean?”

Lucille barked out a laugh from her corner, “It mean that boy carryin’ a whole slab in them pants.” She looked Marigold dead in the eye, grinning crooked and filthy, “You felt it yet, baby? That beef?”

Marigold nearly choked on her wine. Her hand jerked slightly.

Lucille didn’t miss a beat.

“Or you still tight like a communion cup?”

Cackles. More laughing. Ramona practically doubled over.

Marigold’s face burned. Her thighs clamped together instinctively, but the ache between them betrayed her. Because she could still feel it. Stack’s thick fingers stretching her, curling up and stroking until she screamed his name like a psalm rewritten. She tried to look away. But Stack…he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He reached for her again, real calm and pulled her back into his side.

“Chill out on Goldie,” he said, low and smooth, looking at Lucille, not angry, but serious enough that the air shifted.

The girls backed off just a little, not with guilt, but with the satisfaction of knowing they’d hit a nerve. But Stack…Stack turned back to Marigold like the room didn’t even exist.

His lips brushed her ear, “You okay?”

She nodded, stiff.

He stroked her waist with his thumb—slow, warm, grounding—then dipped his head to speak low, close, the rum in his breath licking her jaw.

“They don’t matter.” Another stroke, “Ain’t none of ‘em tasted you tonight.”

She shivered.

He chuckled under his breath. His hand moved lower. She felt it first at her hip. Then her thigh. Then…higher. His fingers crept beneath the hem of her robe, slow as sin. He watched her body while he did it. Watched the way she froze, the way her lips parted, the way her lashes trembled. His hand slipped between her legs. She gasped, soft and helpless. He found her still wet. Still open. Still aching.

“Mmm,” he whispered, tongue grazing her earlobe, “You feel that? That’s how good you taste. Still leakin’ for me.”

She pressed her thighs together, breath hitched, eyes flicking up to the room—terrified someone saw. But they hadn’t. Faye was now leaning against the piano, trying to light a cigarette upside down. Ramona had moved on to flirting with Cordelia, licking her lips and tracing a finger down her arm. Cordelia smirked slow, seductive, her lashes low, clearly entertained. But not untouched. Not untouched at all.

Peaches stood across the room, watching with a stillness too heavy for the wine in her hand. Her eyes lingered on Cordelia a second too long. And when Ramona whispered something in Cordelia’s ear and Cordelia laughed, tilting her head just enough to flirt back. Peaches looked down into her glass like it said something she didn’t want to read. And meanwhile, back in the chair, Marigold sat perched on the edge of sin and secrecy. Stack’s fingers were slow. Teasing. Just sliding along her slit, not pushing in, just petting. His voice was a dark lullaby in her ear.

“I could make you cum in this room, right now,” he whispered, “Wouldn’t even have to move my hand. Just let you ride my fingers till you soak this seat. Make you whimper all holy and hushlike, and they wouldn’t know whether to praise you or punish you.”

She trembled.

Her hand gripped his thigh hard and she felt it then.

His bulge.

Thick. Hard. Pressed against the inside of his slacks. She could feel it throbbing beneath her hand, begging for release.

And the best part?

She wanted it.

Even with Lucille laughing. Even with Faye drunk. Even with Ramona trying to seduce Cordelia and Peaches staring like she wanted to throw a drink. Marigold wanted him to pull her onto his lap and feed it to her like communion. She closed her eyes and prayed to a God to stop the pulse between her legs. Stack pulled her down without asking. One firm tug and Marigold was planted full in his lap, thighs parted around his, her robe still barely hiding anything from the rising temperature in the room. She let out the softest gasp, wine sloshing in her glass as her ass settled directly on top of his bulge.

Lord have mercy…

She could feel every inch of him. Hot. Heavy. Hard as a damn pipe beneath her. Her thighs instinctively clenched, but that only made it worse. Stack leaned back in the plush velvet chair, one arm draped low on her waist, the other nursing his drink—some deep brown rum with heat like woodsmoke. His breath smelled sweet and dangerous.

And he was drunk now.

Not slurring. Not stumbling. Just loose-limbed, voice thick, lips glossy, eyes heavy-lidded and full of sin. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder and hummed low, the sound vibrating against her collarbone.

“Mmm. That ass feel like a prayer answered, Goldie.” Another sip, “So damn soft…I swear I could die right here between your cheeks and not even ask why.”

She squirmed.

The fabric between them soaked with heat. His dick throbbed against her, and she gripped her glass tighter, trying to stay calm, to stay present, to not melt in front of all these people. Lucille’s girls—Trixie, Faye, and Ramona—had taken to the center of the room now, hips swaying, tipsy and barefoot, performing a slow, sensual dance to a new track Lucille had put on. The record crackled with low horns and thick bass—something slow and sticky that made folks clap and laugh and yell encouragement as they moved. The room had filled out more. High rollers now. A tall, dark-skinned man with diamond cufflinks and a silk scarf strolled in through the back curtain. He was flanked by two women—one of them none other than Odessa in a cream lace gown, lips painted like sin, cigarette in hand. She tossed her curls and smiled when she spotted Stack.

“You done turned this lounge into a juke brothel,” she teased.

The man behind her? That was Langston Duvall, one of the most infamous Black Stag film directors in the South. Folks said he could make anybody a star…if you were bold enough. But Marigold was too caught up in the man behind her. Stack nuzzled into her neck again, his voice dropping into a filthy hush only she could hear.

“You feel that?” He rocked his hips slow. Up. Just enough, “That’s all you. Got my dick hard and heavy and beggin’. You sittin’ on a problem, baby.”

She bit her lip, “Stop,” she whispered, heat flushing up her throat.

He chuckled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, “You don’t want me to stop.”

His hand slid back down to her hip, strong fingers stroking slow circles into her side.

“How you think it’s gon feel once I slide up in you, Miss Goldie?”

Her breath hitched. He kissed her neck again, voice thick with liquor and filth.

“You think that sweet lil’ pussy can take all this dick?”

A pause.

“Or you think I’ma have to stuff it in slow…make you cry a lil’ bit…break you in proper?”

Marigold whimpered.

“Elias—” she whispered, scandalized.

He groaned softly at the sound of his real name coming from her mouth again.

“Say it again,” he rasped, grinding up once more.

She shook her head, curls falling loose from the combs. Her thighs trembled. Her robe loosened just slightly. Across the room, Ramona had slithered up next to Cordelia, whispering in her ear while tracing the line of her arm with a painted fingernail. Cordelia didn’t move—just tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowed, mouth twitching in a smirk that wasn’t quite rejection. But it wasn’t acceptance either. From across the room, Peaches watched. She didn’t say a word. She just sipped slow from her wine and looked at Cordelia like maybe, just maybe…

Marigold was trembling. Not from cold. Not from nerves. But from the weight of him pressed beneath her, from the slow, steady, merciless filth pouring from his mouth like it was scripture. Stack had her in his lap like she was built for it. His hand gripped her waist, guiding every subtle grind, every twitch of his hips, every bounce that made his hard length throb right against her bare center.

“You feel so fuckin’ good sittin’ on me like this,” he whispered, voice hoarse now, drunk and raw, lips dragging across her throat, “Soft ass…warm lil’ pussy. I swear I can feel the steam comin’ off you.”

Marigold bit her lip hard.

Her leg started bouncing—slow at first, then harder— as if her body was begging for a release her mind was too shy to name.

Stack noticed. Of course he did. He grinned against her skin.

“That leg don’t lie, baby.” He slid his palm down her thigh, then back up again, gripping the meat of it with one big hand, “That mean you ready for somethin’. Ready for me to lift this robe, spit on that lil’ clit, and eat you all over again.”

She whimpered.

Hands gripped the arms of the velvet chair like they were the only thing tethering her to Earth. And then—He adjusted himself. Slow. Deliberate. Tilted his hips up, ground his bulge against her with a soft hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “I’m so hard it hurt.” He rocked again, “You doin’ that. All that tight lil’ heat rubbin’ against me. Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how you tasted.” He brought his hand to her jaw. Turned her face slightly, “Sweet and messy. Like rum and God’s mistake.”

Marigold couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t move.

Her breath came in shaky little pulls. Her lips were slick. Her skin was dewy. Her thighs were trembling so bad it felt like her bones might rattle.

Stack leaned in again, right against her ear now, “I can still taste you,” he growled, “On my tongue. In the rum. In the back of my throat. Pussy that good don’t disappear.”

She gasps. Bites her lip again. Shakes her head, mouthing stop even though she doesn’t want him to.

He laughs, low and lazy, “Mmm. You pretty when you beggin’ without beggin’.”

His hands slid lower again, and she could feel it—the way his dick twitched beneath her like it was ready to break out, demand entry, claim the rest of what he hadn’t already conquered. And then—He shifted again. His voice changed. Lower. More urgent.

“C’mon,” he said into her ear, like he was asking her to run off to war, “I need you in my mouth again.”

He stood up with her in his arms before she could answer. Cradled her like something soft and sinful. Walked straight past Lucille and her girls, past Cordelia, past Peaches, past the high rollers, past the eyes.

Didn’t explain.

Didn’t ask.

Just carried his preacher’s wife out the velvet lounge like a man who’d already been to heaven and wanted another bite.

They moved like smoke through silk.

Stack didn’t put her down—not once. His arms wrapped firm around Marigold’s waist, her thighs draped over his forearm, her robe hanging loose now, one comb slipping free from her curls with each step. The hallway behind the lounge narrowed into darkness and hush. No more music. No more laughter. Just the faint creak of wood beneath his boots and the way her breath caught every time he squeezed her tighter.

The walls changed here. No longer velvet red. Now black, with gold-painted edges and soft sconces that flickered like candlelight. It smelled like tobacco and perfume and pine floors. A hidden hallway inside the beating heart of The Blackline—one only certain girls and certain men had seen. And at the end of it, a single lacquered door.

Stack kicked it open.

Inside, it was warm, dim, private. A small room with no windows. A low couch. A velvet chaise. Hooks on the wall for hanging clothes and ropes. And at the center, a tall, wide chair—almost like a throne—carved from dark wood, plush and deep with an ottoman in front.

He called it the initiation room.

Because this is where he trained them. Broke them in. Showed them how to be touched right. How to be wanted. How to open without apology. He set her down slow, eyes already dark with liquor and lust, his slacks heavy at the groin, the outline of his dick thick, long, straining against the fabric. Marigold adjusted her robe on instinct, tugging it tighter across her chest. Stack watched her. Silent. Heat pouring from him in waves. Then—lazy, slouched—he took the center chair, legs wide, dick heavy between his thighs. His hand reached to stroke the thick length through his pants, slow.

“You know what this is, right?” he asked, voice low, smoky, “This where new girls get broken in.”

Marigold blinked at him, “What?”

“You a new girl tonight, ain’t you?” he said, grinning now, “Ain’t that how you actin’? All shy and sweet. All tight and unclaimed. That robe don’t fool me. That pussy still mine.”

She shifted in place, heart racing, thighs pressed together, “I—don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean…” he said, leaning forward, “tonight you just a little thing walkin’ in off the street. Lookin’ to be initiated. We don’t fuck on first meetin’. We just… introduce your pussy to my mouth.”

Marigold flushed hard.

She shook her head, took a step back, “Stack—”

He groaned loud, frustrated, hand still stroking his dick through the fabric.

“Lord, you still shy?” His hand gripped the arm of the chair. His jaw clenched, “You sittin’ on my face less than an hour ago, squirtin’ on my tongue and cryin’ my name like and now you actin’ brand new?”

Her eyes dropped to his lap—and froze.

The bulge in his pants was obscene. Long. Wide. So hard it curved slightly to the left beneath the fabric, pushing against the zipper like it wanted out. His thighs were spread just wide enough to make it worse,

Stack saw where she was lookin’. Smirked.

“Yeah. You lookin’ at it now.”

She flinched.

He stood up.

The room felt smaller suddenly. His height, his weight, the pressure of him. He curled two fingers, beckoning.

“C’mere.”

Marigold didn’t move.

He stepped forward.

“C’mere, Goldie.”

Still nothing. Then, in a flash, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her over his lap. She gasped, caught off guard, and suddenly she was bent over his knee, robe hiked, thighs bare, her ass warm in the low light.

“You wanna act like you ain’t hear me? Like you some brat?” he muttered, hand grazing her ass, “Then I’ma treat you like one.”

POP.

The first slap landed firm.

She yelped.

POP.

The second—harder.

“You don’t talk back.”

POP.

“You don’t tell me to stop talkin’ nasty when you like it.”

POP.

“You know how I know?” He slid his hand between her thighs, pressed two fingers to the mess between her legs, “’Cause this pussy still wet, still leakin’, still beggin’.”

She sobbed into her arm. Not from pain. But from overwhelm.

“Stack—please—”

He rubbed her clit once, slow, right over the hood. Then smacked her ass again.

“You wanna act like a hireling? Then obey.”

Her body arched. Her thighs trembled. She moaned, soft, high, like something sacred had come loose in her throat. He leaned down close, lips to her ear.

“You gon’ be a good girl for me now?”

She nodded, breathless.

He rubbed her again, slower this time. Warm circles. Fingers slick.

“Say it.”

“I’ll be good,” she whispered.

“Say you’ll obey.”

She swallowed. Gasped. Let out a shaky breath.

“I’ll obey.”

He kissed her spine. Smirked against her skin.

“That’s more like it.”

Marigold stood motionless, spine straight, heart slamming in her chest like it was trying to break free. Her robe clung to her skin, warm and damp from nerves and arousal, her lips parted in a soft pant. Behind her, Stack lit a match with one hand, cigar between his lips, watching her in silence through the flare of flame. The smoke curled slow.

“You nervous?” he asked low, voice rough like crushed velvet dragged over gravel.

Marigold nodded, throat tight.

Stack exhaled, slow and hot, “Good.”

He stepped closer, and the smell of him wrapped around her—rum, sweat, and whatever spell she was under that made her knees feel like sugar. His voice dropped again, almost tender, almost cruel, “Strip for me, baby.”

Her fingers trembled. But she obeyed.

The robe slid down her shoulders like a sigh. Stack watched her every move like he was starving. When she stood trembling and bare beneath the low light, he stepped forward again.

“Turn around,” he said, “Let me see what I came for.”

She turned, slow. Back to him. Bent over, shy. The curves of her ass framed the shadows like a painting. Thick. Plush. The kind of softness that promised comfort and ruin. The little thatch of hair between her thighs peeked out from behind, soft and natural, untouched. Even her ass had a dusting of hair—Stack’s eyes glazed, lips parted, dimples deepening with a twitch of awe.

“Goddamn…” he whispered, “That’s beautiful.”

She whimpered.

“Spread it.”

Her breath caught. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t bark. Just…asked. Smooth. Confident. Heavy. Her hand reached back, slow. Nervous. She spread one cheek. And Stack groaned. Low and filthy, one hand gripping the edge of the nearby vanity like he needed to brace himself.

“Look at that sweet little fuckin’ hole,” he said, voice thick, eyes glued to the split, “So soft…so warm…like it pulsin’ for me already.” He chuckled, “Look at you shakin’. You like that?”

She nodded.

“You need to hear how nasty I get when I’m in love with a pussy like yours?” His laugh was gravel, “Down,” he commanded gently. “On all fours. Spread wide.”

She moved—like a puppet string pulled her hips down. Elbows on the rug. Hips cocked. She arched. Obeyed. Her thighs shook as she parted them, wide and low, dripping and glistening. Stack dropped to his knees behind her with awe, cigar tossed aside, hands gripping her thighs just to feel how warm and soft her skin was. His head tilted, admiring the creamy slick gathering at the center of her pussy like dew. Her lips were puffy. Dark with blood flow. And wet—soaked.

“Look at this sweet fuckin’ thing. Leakin’ already, baby,” he whispered, almost like prayer, “She twitchin’. Can’t even wait her turn.”

He dragged one thumb through the slick, watching it glisten in the low light. Marigold whimpered. Her head dropped forward, face hot. She couldn’t meet his gaze if she tried—too undone already.

Stack leaned close, lips brushing her inner thigh, “You wet for me, pretty girl?”

She nodded. Weak.

“You creamy?” he asked, licking the crease slowly, “Mmm. You are.” He sucked on her inner thigh, hands spreading her wide, eyes locked on her dripping pussy like it held scripture. His voice rasped like sandpaper coated in syrup, “She openin’ up for me, sayin’ Stack come taste. Stack come break me off. Stack come ruin me slow.”

Marigold moaned. He didn’t touch her with his mouth yet. Just hovered. Breathed on her. Talked to it.

“Look at them lips. Soft little folds. All that pink under all that brown…fuck. That’s art. That’s heaven. I could tongue kiss you ‘til the sun burn out.”

He finally looked at her, eyes half-lidded, pupils dark, jaw flexing. His mouth glistened from the slick he’d smeared with his thumb across her skin. His hair was a little messy, that left side part falling forward now. His gold tooth flashed when he smirked.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispered, “You gon’ do just fine. I got you, girl.”

She trembled. He lowered again, hands gripping her ass like they belonged there, like he paid for them. He leaned in, lips parting, breath hot.

And when he finally licked—she nearly screamed.

He kissed her once. Just above the slit. Lips soft. Reverent. Then—One long lick. Thick tongue dragging slow and heavy up her folds like he was trying to taste her whole life. From her weeping entrance to the shy rise of her clit, Stack lapped like he was licking honey off his knuckles. Marigold gasped, full-body shiver rippling from her spine to her toes.

“Mmm.” Stack hummed.

Low. Deep. The sound vibrated right against her pussy like a second tongue.

He licked again, “Mmm.”

The hum came slower this time. A breath through his nose, an exhale through his throat, like he was worshipping. Like her pussy was something divine and he was singing to it.

Lick.

“Mmm.”

Every single stroke of his tongue left her wetter. Creamier. Shakier.

“Keep still,” he murmured against her folds, voice sticky and ruined, “You don’t run from what’s holy.”

Another lick. This one messier. Longer. His nose dragged through her curls, and his tongue stayed flat, savoring the way she leaked for him. Her thighs trembled.

“Mmm.”

Marigold moaned into the crook of her elbow, eyes glassy, face flushed. Her whole body was vibrating—hunger and fear and fire wrapped up in one trembling package of please don’t stop. She was slick down her thighs now. Her nipples stiffened so hard they ached. Her pussy pulsed and throbbed, twitching with each lick, each breath, each hum.

And then—he pulled back.

Stack sat up slow, like he was high off it. Eyes heavy-lidded. Lips glossy. Breath uneven. His big hand slid over his mouth but didn’t wipe anything away—he pressed that wet tongue to the corner of his mouth like he was tasting what lingered. He licked his lips, slow and wide, the kind of lick that started from the corner and dragged across—glossy, syrup-thick, leaving his lower lip shining. His tongue was big. Wide and full, pink and strong like it had been built to taste only pussy. It hung in the corner of his mouth for a moment, heavy with saliva, damn near dripping.

He looked wrecked.

“Fffuck, baby…” he breathed, sitting back on his heels, “Look at this. Just look.”

His hands slid to her ass, spreading her again. Tilting his head. His lip curled when he saw the fresh drip stringing from her slit to her inner thigh.

“She twitchin’. Look at that pretty lil hole flexin’ like she beggin’ me to come back.” He popped her ass once with a soft thud, “You missin’ me already?”

Another thump. Then a grip. Hard.

“Don’t run. You hear me?” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “You fuckin’ beautiful. Look at you. Back dimples, sweet fat lips, lil brown ring peekin’ out like a kiss. You made for this.”

She couldn’t answer. She was panting. Shaking. Her pussy so wet it squelched when she shifted slightly. Her elbows were trembling from holding herself up. Her chest was flushed, nipples taut, her mouth slack. She felt like she was outside herself—somewhere hovering, waiting to fall apart under his voice alone.

Stack stared like he was painting her in his mind.

His lip curled. He bit it. Grinned. Spanked her again just to watch the jiggle. His handprint bloomed hot and red across her ass. Then—He thumped her once more and sighed, eyes rolling back like a man on the edge.

“Go on,” he said, voice deep as thunder but velvet smooth, “Bend over the chaise.”

His tone changed.

Roleplay resumed.

Like he was the man in charge of breaking her in.

“Put them hands flat. Arch that back. Spread them legs. Don’t make me say it twice.”

She moved like a whisper. Silken, shy. The chaise groaned as she leaned over it, hands braced. Her thighs parted. Her pussy still slick. Still open. And Stack just stood behind her for a moment, rubbing his hand down his beard, that thick tongue peeking out again.

He wasn’t ready to stop admiring her. He smirked. Reached down. Spanked her again.

“Uh uh…” Stack rumbled, “Turn. I need them eyes.”

She started to move slow, hesitant, and that just made it sweeter. Hair wild again—those combs had long hit the floor—and her face, lawd…her face. Flushed and needy, trembling lip tucked between her teeth, lashes flutterin’ like she was scared to look too long or she’d come undone just off the eye contact.

Good.

He wanted her wrecked.

Marigold turned her head, just like he said. Cheek pressed to the chaise cushion, mouth parted, eyes locked on him like she ain’t even realize how desperate she looked. That moan-stuck expression. Pupils wide. Breath catching. Like he’d done laid her soul bare and she couldn’t gather it back fast enough.

Stack licked his lips again and sank down.

“I said legs wide,” he muttered, voice already thick, eyes dragging down her backside slow.

She parted them a little more.

He smirked.

“There she go.”

That fat little pussy was still leaking for him. All puffy and glistening, twitchin’ like it was waiting on him to come back and make it feel right. He leaned in. Didn’t rush it. Didn’t even breathe. Just let his nose brush her inner thigh first, lips ghosting the heat of her. She gasped. Tilted her head more. Neck long, soft and trembling.

And then—he dove in.

Thick tongue, open mouth, slurp first. Not no gentle lick. No soft taste. Stack feasted. Sucked the whole center of her into his mouth like he was tryna pull the moans straight from the source. His lips sealed around her like a man starvin’—chin buried in the crease, nose pressed firm against that brown ring while his tongue slid in deep, messy, wet.

“Mmmf,” he groaned, grinding his mouth into her, “Goddamn, baby…look at what you feedin’ me.”

He didn’t stop to let her speak. He wasn’t interested in words right now. Not hers. Just her moans. He dragged his tongue up again, wide and slow, then sucked her clit with a filthy, open-mouthed pop. She jerked. Thighs twitched.

“Ahn—Stack…” she whimpered, breath breaking.

“There she go,” he whispered, tongue flicking that button again, slow and heavy, lips swollen from how he’d been devouring, You hear yourself? That’s what this pussy need. Ain’t no prayer gon’ hush that.”

He kissed it. Like it was holy. Then licked it again. Long. Loud. Sloppy. Each lick came with sound—his moans, her gasps, the wet suction of his tongue against that creamy little hole. She was fuckin’ drippin’. Fat drops slid from her down to his beard and he let it coat him. Didn’t wipe a single drop.

He was talkin’ to it now. Real low. Filthy.

“You talk all that shit about sin,” he spoke against her folds, “and here you go…feedin’ a pimpin’ pussy so sweet. You should be ashamed, baby. That’s the Devil’s nectar, ain’t it?”

He kissed it again. Tongue swirling. He licked her open and watched the mess stick to his mouth like syrup.

“You moanin’ now instead of preachin’. Pussy preachin’ louder than you ever could.”

Marigold gasped. Her voice cracked—high, soft.

“Oh my goodness…ohhhh… Stack—please—”

He slurped.

Loud. Dirty. Intentional.

“Say it again,” he mumbled, licking right over her again and again, “Say my name like that. Don’t hold it in now. You already made the offering.”

Her face was a vision—eyes all glossy, lips glistening, jaw slack like her words got tangled up in sensation. She could barely keep her head up. Her body was trembling, her nipples stiff against the chaise, legs shaking from how wide he had her. She peeked at him through lashes, mouth still open, lower lip trembling like it didn’t know how to act.

He chuckled low.

“Look at you,” he whispered, “Look at me.”

She tried.

And what she saw?

His face drenched in her. Tongue peeking out again. Beard glistening. Eyes low and wild like a man mid-revival.

“I got you quiet now,” he said, licking her slow one more time, “That’s what you needed, huh? All that hollerin’ you was doin’? All that carryin’ on ‘bout righteousness?”

Spank.

“Let it go.”

Grip.

“Gon’ let Daddy rectify that shit.”

She whimpered. Her moans turned into pleas, head tilted like she ain’t had the strength no more to resist. Stack leaned in again. Mouth open, lips wrapped tight. He sucked. Sucked that clit until she squealed, until her hips tried to run, until her toes curled and she slapped the damn cushion.

“Stay still,” he growled.

Slap.

“Keep them legs open.”

Grip.

“Let me finish breakin’ you in.”

And then—he licked her again. Deeper. Sloppier. He groaned into it like her taste was a drug and he’d just hit the high.

And this time?

He didn’t stop.

She ain’t know what to do with herself. Still bent like a sinner in the pew when he grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over. Slow. Easy. The move made her tits bounce, her breath hitch, and that sweet lil’ gasp spill off her lips like a song she wasn’t ready to sing.

Now she was laid out.

Back on the chaise. Hair wild. Thighs open. That trembling, messy, perfect pussy glistening under the lamplight like a fresh anointing.

And Stack? He got low. Didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Just hooked his hands behind her knees and pushed them up, spread her thighs wide until her heels balanced on the edge of the cushion. Pussy parted. Pouting. Still soaked from the last go.

He stared.

Smirked.

Then—

He feasted.

Tongue first. Flat. Firm. The first lick made her whole body jerk.

“Ahn—!”

Yeah. That’s what he wanted. He kissed it again, tongue deeper this time. Then again. Then again. Then he got mean with it—slurping, open-mouthed, noisy like he had no shame. Chin coated, lips soaked. He didn’t stop.

Not even when she tried to squirm.

Because now?

He could see her face.

And fuck, that face. Eyes wide and glassy, lips wet, parted in disbelief. Like she ain’t know whether to cry or cum. Every sound she made hit different now. No hiding in the crook of her elbow. No more pressed cheeks or shy gasps.

She had to feel it.

Had to watch it.

And that made her all the more wrecked. Her chest rose fast, her nipples hard, round tits bouncing slightly every time he sucked on that soft lil’ clit. His beard was slick with it now. Chin shining like he’d been baptized in her. Stack groaned low, tongue dipping again, mouth locking around her entrance with filthy precision.

And then—

He felt it.

That sweet little hand reaching out. Her fingers clawed into his scalp, tangled in the slick waves of his hair like she needed something to hold while she lost her mind.

That grip?

Whew.

That grip made his cock throb.

She was moaning now. Whimpering, whispering nonsense like she couldn’t even figure out what was happening to her body. Stack just kept working, tongue relentless, beard rubbing up against her like he was tryna rub the good girl off her skin.

And then he pulled back just a bit. Just enough to talk to it. He licked his lips slow and wide, left that bottom one shining again. Then leaned in so close her clit twitched from the heat of his breath.

“Say it,” he whispered, tongue flicking once, twice, licking the words into her. “Repeat after me, baby.”

She blinked. Lips trembled. Stack lifted his head just enough to look her dead in the eyes, still holding her thighs open wide.

“Say—Daddy eat this pussy up.”

She hesitated. Gasped.

Bit her lip.

“I—I…” Her voice was soft. Barely breath. “Daddy eat this…pussy up…”

That shy little whisper?

That did him in. He growled and went right back in. Lips locking tight. Tongue moving like he had something to prove now. Every flick, every slurp, every suck was rougher. Deeper. Slower. Purposeful.

She screamed.

“Stack! Oh my—Stack!”

Her hand fisted tighter in his hair and he let her pull. Let her grind. Let her moan till she sobbed, pussy squelching and shining with each new suck.

He came up for air once—just once—to whisper.

“Yeah you do. You need this. This what that sweet pussy been waitin’ on.”

And then he dove back in like he was tryna take her whole soul with his mouth.

She was done. Wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful.

And he wasn’t fuckin’ stopping.

She said it.

Whispered it like a secret.

Like a confession.

“Daddy eat this pussy up…”

He damn near came just hearing that come out her mouth.

Sweet. Shy. Sin-drunk.

“Yeah…” he growled against her folds, tongue sliding low, slow, deep, “You got damn right.”

Stack buried his face in her pussy like he planned to never come up again. Hands firm under her thighs, holding her wide, beard soaked, tongue moving like scripture on a Sunday mornin’.

But this?

This was filthy.

“Talkin’ to me now, huh?” he muttered right against her entrance, licking in slow, pulsing circles, “Mouth was runnin’ all that righteous shit and now look at you—slobberin’ all on my fuckin’ tongue.”

Marigold whimpered. Full-body shiver. Hips arched up like her pussy was trying to meet his mouth halfway.

“Nah, baby,” Stack chuckled, licking long and firm up her crease, “Lay back. I got you.”

Then he leaned in real close and did it—

He started talkin’ to the pussy. Low. Wet. Groaned like he was talkin’ to a woman he was tryna tame.

“There she go…lil twitchin’ thing. You like Daddy talkin’ to you, huh?” He slurped her clit like he was sucking mango juice from a split fruit, “That lil’ thump I feel? That heartbeat in this pussy? Mmm. She close.”

Stack flattened his tongue and dragged it up again. Her thighs shook. He licked her hard and slow, then sucked her clit deep between his lips with a pop that made her whole body spasm.

“Oh—oh my God—Stack—yesss—uhnnnnnn—”Her voice broke. One leg kicked. She was there.

He didn’t stop.

He locked on and kept goin’. Slurping. Sucking.

Worshipping.

He growled into her folds.

“C’mon then. Let it out. Don’t fight it. Let Daddy taste it.”

He licked in tighter circles now. Deep, rhythmic, slow-fast-slow again. Tongue drawing patterns like he was writing his fuckin’ name.

Her breath caught. Hips bucked. Hand still fisted in his hair, dragging, holding on like she was falling through the damn earth.

And then—

He spoke again.

“You gon’ cum for me, ain’t you? That lil’ pussy need it bad, huh? C’mon, mama. Let Daddy make her cry. Let me hear her talk back.”

Marigold’s mouth dropped open—eyes rolled, breath shattered—

“I’m—oh—oh fuck I’m—”

She came.

Hard.

Body curling, legs trembling, her pussy gushing against his mouth. That creamy release rushed out warm, thick, sweet, and he caught every fuckin’ drop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go.

He groaned like it fed him.

“Nnnhh…there she is,” he moaned into it, “That’s my good girl.”

He kissed her through it. Licked her clean. Sucked her clit until her thighs twitched again. Until she sobbed his name, broken and beautiful, body limp with relief and ruin.

And when he finally pulled back? His face was drenched. Beard glistening. Lips shining. Eyes dark. He licked his bottom lip slow, savoring it like honey.

“Taste like redemption,” he muttered, grinning crooked, “Told you I’d get that pussy.”

And she was still spread. Still trembling. Still breathless.

Half-lidded. Fucked-out. Blessed.

Stack wasn’t finished. Not even close. He stood. And the moment he did, her breath hitched.

Stack loomed above her, thick muscle and confidence wrapped in dark wool and sinful intent. And there it was—pressing against the front of his slacks like it had a pulse of its own. A thick, twitching outline that made her mouth go dry. She couldn’t stop staring. Her knees pressed together on reflex, thighs clenching tight like they could hush the throb blooming between them.

Then came his voice—low, teasing, so deep it seemed to vibrate inside her.

“You wanna free it, baby?”

Her eyes snapped up, wide and nervous. She didn’t answer at first. Just blinked. Like she didn’t know if he was serious. Like she didn’t trust herself to touch what was clearly dangerous.

“Hesitatin’?” he goaded, cocking a brow, “That don’t sound like a woman ready to get her guts rearranged.”

She bit her bottom lip. Hard.

And then…she nodded. Barely. But he caught it. He reached down, unfastening the top of his slacks, unzipping slow, and then stepped closer. He didn’t pull himself out—not yet.

“Do it,” he said, “You brought all this shy heat in here… now act like you want me.”

Her hand trembled as she lifted it, fingers brushing against the warm fabric of his briefs beneath. The heat coming off him was obscene. She could already feel the throb through the cotton. Her hand paused there—just resting—until he spoke again.

“Mmh… go ‘head. Bring me out.”

Swallowing hard, she slipped her fingers beneath the waistband and eased it down. It sprung out.

God.

Her whole face flushed hot. It was so much. Long and heavy and thick, the color deep and rich and angry-looking. Veins snaked the shaft like roots, pulsing just beneath the skin. It twitched in the air like it had a heartbeat—like it knew it was being looked at. Already slick at the tip, glistening.

She gasped. Actually gasped.

Stack just stood there biting his lip, watching her watch him like it was a damn show. His chest rose slow. Eyes hooded. Lips parted.

“Well?” he drawled, “You gon’ hold it or just stare like it’s the second coming?”

She reached for it.

Her fingers wrapped around him, and even that felt shocking. Heavy in her hand. Warm. Smooth but ridged. He hissed through his teeth the moment she gripped it, and her thighs squeezed tighter at the sound.

“Mmm,” he moaned, “Thaaaat’s it…How that feel, baby?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her mouth was parted, her breath uneven. She was too busy staring at how her hand barely wrapped around it. He reached for her other hand and slid it beneath. Brought it to his balls.

“Both hands,” he whispered, “Yeah…warm lil’ hands. You feel how heavy them nuts is? That’s full, baby. That’s a whole baptism waitin’ to happen.”

She whimpered. Actually whimpered.

Because the weight of it in her palms—the twitch of his length, the scent of skin and musk and heat—was too much. She started stroking, slow and unsure. He made a sound deep in his throat, head tipping back, hips shifting just enough to push into her grasp.

“You see how big it is?” he grunted, “You really think you ready for this in them holy holes of yours?”

She couldn’t speak. She just nodded again, helplessly. He took over then—guiding her stroke. Fisting himself with her hands still wrapped there. Making it glide slick and smooth between her palms. She watched as he played with his own tip, thumbing the slick bead leaking out. He brought it to her lips without a word. She opened her mouth without thinking. He smeared it across her tongue. Let her taste it. She blinked up at him—ashamed, stunned, starving. Stack smirked. His dimple carved deep like it knew what kind of devil he was.

Then he swung his length in her face.

Not playfully.

Like a warning.

Like a threat.

It slapped her cheek with a soft, wet smack, the weight of it making her shiver. She gasped again, frozen, lips parted.

“Stroke it,” he ordered, “Nice and slow.”

She did. She obeyed. And he just watched her, biting his lip again, his chest rising, his hand guiding hers, until his hips started to roll with it—gently at first, then a little deeper.

“You see what you do to me?” he asked, voice rasped, “Look how hard I get for you. You gon’ keep playin’ with it or you gon’ put it where it belong?”

Her breath hitched, “It’s…warm.”

He laughed. Quiet and rough, “Course it is. It’s waitin’ on you.”

She swallowed again. Her eyes trailed down. She already knew where it belonged. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she continued stroking him, his tip gliding in her hand, slick and messy. Her thighs wouldn’t stop clenching. She could feel her own slick now, sticky, heat pooling in her belly like something unholy.

And still—he kept watching.

Waiting.

Ready to ruin her.

“Nah,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly, eyes trailing down to her lips, “You ain’t ready for this in your mouth.”

The words hit her like a palm to the chest. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed. Ashamed. Aching. Her lips were parted, trembling a little. She didn’t even realize she’d started leaning forward, mouth open like she was gonna beg. But Stack saw it. Saw all of it.

“Look at you,” he spoke, voice low, amused, wrecked. “So hungry, and still ain’t earned your supper.”

She swallowed thickly, face burning. His dick bobbed in her hand—heavy, twitching, leaking like it was aware of every sinful thing passing between them. Her palm was slick from stroking him, fingers wet with that glossy mess from his tip.

“You still got work to do, baby. But I’ma show you.”

He slid a hand along his own length while she held it, guiding the pressure. He gripped the base and slapped the tip across her cheek again—wet, slow, a soft pap that made her flinch and whimper. It swayed afterward like it was alive, twitching with every beat of his heart. He stepped back, breathing heavy, and dropped into the nearby chaise like a man needing to sit. His thighs parted, one arm thrown over the back lazily while the other gestured for her to follow.

“C’mere. On your knees, right there.”

She crawled forward, still holding him. She felt delirious—like she’d been drugged by desire. Her whole body flushed, nipples tight, core pulsing, her pussy sticky from how worked up she was just from looking at it and the way he ate her up. He leaned back, eyes dark, and his lips gleamed with pussy juice and spit. Half-lidded now. Ravished.

“Pump it slow, baby. Like I showed you.”

She wrapped her hand back around him, and he hissed loud through his teeth.

“Thaaaat’s it. Mmm. Just like that…”

Her hand moved, gentle but firm, up and down. She watched how his length looked in her hand—too big, too thick, veiny and proud and angry-looking. The tip had a deep flush, and it kept drooling like it couldn’t hold back. His skin was satin-warm, but there was a steel weight underneath. Her hand trembled as she stroked—her thumb catching the sensitive underside every time she came up.

“Good girl. That’s how you stroke me.”

Then he started talking filthy.

“Mmm, you feel that weight? That’s a whole Sunday’s worth of sin sittin’ in your hand right now. You strokein’ it like a good little convert…You tryna be saved by the stick, huh?”

Her throat tightened. Her breath came faster.

“Mmph—ahhh…fuuuuck…” His moan broke loose like it slipped past his teeth on accident. Long. Raw. Guttural,“Hhhahhhh—shhhhit…” He bit his bottom lip hard, nostrils flaring. His hips flexed once. His abs tightened. He growled something deep and Southern under his breath, voice low and rough, “Just like that, baby… fuuuuck, yeah…”

She could hear how wet the sounds were now—her hand moving through all that slickness. The mess was obscene. His tip kept swelling, his balls drawn tight now in her other hand. He pulsed so violently in her grip it made her tremble.

“Faster now. That’s it—tighten that grip. Lemme fuck your fist for a second—mmmghh—fuck.” He threw his head back, “Nnnngh—shit. That’s it. That’s it. Keep goin’. Don’t stop now, girl—fuck—”

The sound of her name half-escaped his mouth but died on a moan so raw it made her thighs clench again. His voice cracked with it. Her name had turned into just a sound:

“Mmm—Marigo—fuck—gold—uhhhhhh…”

She’d never heard a man sound like this. Like he was unraveling at the seams. He started breathing through his teeth, fast and sharp. His thighs tensed, the muscles twitching. His chest lifted and fell with every stroke of her hand. Sweat gathered at his collarbone. His lips parted, and he looked down at her like he was ruined.

“You gon’ make me cum, baby…You gon’ make me spill all this in them pretty hands…You gon’ keep pumpin’ like a good girl, or you gon’ stop now and disobey?”

Her hands didn’t stop. Her mouth opened in a shaky gasp. She wanted it. Wanted to see what he looked like when he let go for her.

And she was about to find out.

It happened fast.

One moment, she was stroking him like he taught her—watching the way his body tensed, listening to the filthy praises falling from his lips like gospel—and the next, his whole frame snapped.

“Hhhhnnn—fuck—right there—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

He gripped the back of the chaise like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth, his arms stretching wide, every muscle flexing like a cord drawn taut. His back arched. Hips jolted. His thighs trembled as he spilled with a broken, desperate groan.

“UHHHH—shhhhit—Marigold—fuck, baby girl—”

She gasped.

Her hand flew to her mouth in pure, wide-eyed shock. It was spurting. Thick and hot. Rope after rope spilling over her fist and wrist. Her skin was painted in it. The first shot startled her—it hit her thumb, thick and sticky. The next slid down between her fingers, warm like molten honey. The way it pulsed out of him, kept pulsing…it was unreal. Her hand never stopped moving, instinctively now, as if guided by his need.

He was twitching. Moaning through it. Loud.

Not quiet grunts, not polite sounds.

“Ahhh—ahhhnn—fuckfuckfuck—mmmghhh—look what you do to me…you see this mess you made?”

His head tipped back. Then it dropped forward again as if the weight of release was too much. His eyes squeezed shut. His brow wrinkled in the middle, lips falling open in a moan so raw it sounded like prayer. He was panting. Rattled. Ripped apart.

She had never seen a man come before.

Not like this.

She’d heard whispered things from the church wives, veiled confessions in kitchens and back pews. But nothing prepared her for this. The way his body moved…the tremble of his thighs, the way his abs clenched, the way his dick jerked in her slick palm, spurting more than she thought possible. The veins down his shaft bulged. His tip flushed nearly purple. It just…kept coming.

She was soaked in him.

His moans…

They weren’t just noises.

They were unholy.

“Uhhhhhh—mmmhh, shit—so warm—that’s it, that’s it—you made me bust like that…like a nasty fuckin’ addict. You feel that mess? That’s from you, girl. Thinkin’ ‘bout that sweet lil’ mouth. That tight lil’ hole. You did that to me…”

She was shaking.

Knees pressing together, breath ragged. Her heart thumped like a drum in a revival tent. Her thighs were soaked now—not with him, but with herself. She was leaking, pulsing around nothing. Vibrating from the inside out.

She kept staring at her hand.

It was coated.

Sticky, messy, oozing down her palm and wrist in strands. Creamy and warm. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t dare move.

Stack opened his eyes.

They were wrecked. Heavy-lidded. Glazed over like he was still coming down. His voice was hoarse but deep when he spoke again.

“You wanna taste?”

Her eyes jerked up to his. She froze.

She didn’t answer.

“Go on. Just a lil’ taste. You earned it.”

She looked back down. Swallowed hard. The heat between her legs pulsed again. Her face was burning. But her hand lifted.

Slow.

Uncertain.

She brought two fingers to her mouth, lips trembling. Her tongue darted out… just a flick. Just enough to sample what was still slick and warm on her skin.

The taste was…startling.

Raw. Salty. Heavy. Not sweet, not bitter—just masculine. Musky. Like the scent of his skin, but deeper. Something earthy and thick. Her eyes fluttered closed for a split second as she took it in.

Stack was watching her.

His mouth twitched into a slow, sinful smirk.

“Mmm…taste good? That’s that stuff that fill your lil’ hole up like a cream fillin’. That’s what you make me do when I think ‘bout you. When I picture you sittin’ on that church bench all high and mighty. That tight dress. That mouth runnin’. You know what I wanna do?” He leaned forward now, breathing still uneven, “I wanna stuff that mouth full so you hum when you pray. Wanna bust again in that sweet lil’ pussy. Feel it spill deep inside. Warm you up from the inside out. Don’t worry… you gon’ feel it soon. In your mouth. In that holy lil’ puss.”

She whimpered. Her thighs squeezed together again. Her stomach turned in knots. She was damn near vibrating—with shock, with shame, with overwhelming desire.

She wanted it.

Wanted him.

All of it.

Even the parts that made her feel like she’d never be clean again. She licked her fingers again—slower this time.

And Stack groaned.

Low. Long. Possessive.

The robe slid soft over her shoulders.

Stack’s fingers tucked it closed with care. One hand lingered at her waist while the other rose to cradle her cheek, his thumb stroking just beneath her eye. Marigold was still trembling a little—body flushed and spent, lips kiss-worn, thighs sticky with arousal and ache.

“You did good f’me tonight,” Stack spoke softly, voice low and warm against the curve of her jaw, “Better than good. You was beautiful.”

She swallowed hard. Couldn’t quite look him in the eye yet.

Stack’s lips brushed her temple, “I know that was a lot. Intense. But you made it through. And you gon’ keep makin’ it through.”

A beat.

“Long as you listen.”

Marigold nodded, shy. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Stack kissed her there—soft and slow—before pulling back and adjusting the robe again like she was something precious. Then he ran a hand down her back, giving her a little pat on the behind.

“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He opened the door.

And there she was.

Mirabel.

Perched near the end of the hallway, leaning casual against the wall like she’d been waiting to catch him. The lighting cast her face in partial shadow, but not enough to hide the spark of jealousy in her eyes. Her gaze dropped to Marigold—robe-wrapped, cheeks flushed, collarbone still damp with sweat—and then it snapped back to Stack.

She smiled. Tight. Slow.

“Evenin’, Stack,” she said cool, but her eyes were daggers.

“Evenin’,” Stack tossed back just as calm, guiding Marigold past with his hand firm at her waist. He didn’t stop walking. Marigold’s heart pounded harder as they passed, but Stack just leaned down toward her ear once they were beyond reach.

“She mad,” he whispered with a smirk, “Let her be.”

The bathroom was one the girls used—a big space with soft yellow light, lace curtains, and a clawfoot tub full of steaming water already drawn and waiting. Someone must’ve prepared it during the performance. Maybe Cordelia. Maybe Peaches. Stack guided her to the edge of the tub and helped untie her robe, laying it across the bench before helping her in like she was something breakable. The warm water hit her skin, and she gasped softly. Stack knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled, one hand lazily skimming the water near her knee.

“I’m gon’ keep takin’ care of you,” he said softly, “Long as you let me.”

Marigold blinked at him, still trying to find footing in her own body. He picked up the soap and a washcloth, worked up a gentle lather, and began to clean her—slow and thorough. Between her breasts. Under her arms. Between her thighs. He never rushed. His hands were skilled, but his touch was almost devotional. And then, just as he was wringing out the cloth, he spoke again.

“You goin’ to church tomorrow?”

She nodded.

Stack leaned in closer. His voice dropped like honey over fire, “Then go with your collar loose.”

Her brows knit.

“No gloves, neither.”

“But—”

“Uh-uh,” he cut in softly, “You wanna wear them stockings, fine. But leave that stiff little jacket off. Let ‘em see you. Let ‘em see that skin glowin’.”

She looked down into the water, heat creeping up her throat. Stack grinned, brushing a kiss to her shoulder.

“Let it be known you ain’t hidin’ no more. Not from me. Not from them. Not from yourself.”

A pause.

“Wear somethin’ with some movement,” he added, “Somethin’ that feel good on your skin. Not just somethin’ to be good in.”

Marigold stared into the rippling water, the heat curling between her ribs and down between her legs all over again.

Stack stood and wiped his hands, “I’ll see you in a couple days. Finish soakin’”

He left her with that—wet, warm, soaking in his scent and his commandments, her fingers brushing the steam off her thighs and her heart pounding like a hymn.

The bathwater had gone lukewarm.

Marigold sat still in it, her knees tucked close now, the steam gone but the heat still lingering—beneath her skin, between her legs, in the deep places where Stack’s voice still echoed like a pulse. She didn’t even realize he’d returned to the doorway until she heard the gentle click of the door shutting again. He carried a fresh towel, big, soft, still warm from the line, and he knelt beside the tub without a word.

“Come on, sugar,” he said gently, “Let me get you out this water.”

She stood, legs wobbly, heart even worse. The air felt too cool against her flushed skin. Stack didn’t leer. Didn’t smirk. He just wrapped her up and held her there for a moment, hands rubbing slow over her back, the towel soaking in the water beading off her thighs.

“Still tremblin’,” he murmured, “You somethin’ else.”

He dried her in silence—slow, sure strokes. No rush. No shame. He was still half-drunk, but his hands were steady now. Every time she flinched or tried to cover herself, he just shook his head and pulled her hands away.

“You got no reason to hide from me, Miss Goldie.”

Once she was dry, he crossed the room and returned with the same church clothes she’d arrived in—folded neat, the little pearl buttons glinting in the bathroom light.

“Put your arms up,” he said.

She did. Stack dressed her like she was a doll—patient, careful, brushing her curls back from her face once he was done, fastening the buttons she was too dazed to handle herself. He stepped back to look at her once it was all done, nodding slow with his arms crossed like he was admiring something he built with his own two hands.

“You came in lookin’ like the preacher’s wife.” His smile deepened, “Now you look like mine.”

She didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t say anything.

He held out his hand. She took it.

The walk to the kitchen was quiet. The Blackline had quieted some, the pulse of the music fading into background laughter and the clink of glasses being washed. Late-night was creeping in now. But there was still that magic in the air, that slow drag of honeyed sin and soft perfume. Aunt Pearl stood at the big wooden counter, wiping down mugs. Stack kissed her on the cheek.

“Need a favor, Auntie.”

Pearl glanced between them—between Marigold’s glassy eyes and Stack’s possessive hand at the small of her back—and smiled slow.

“Let me guess. She need a ride?”

“If you don’t mind takin’ her home the long way, quiet-like. Don’t want no preacher poppin’ up with holy water at the back door.”

Pearl smirked, “Ain’t no problem, baby.”

Stack turned to Marigold and took her face in both hands. His thumb stroked just under her lip.

“I got some things comin’ up later in the week,” he spoke, close enough that she felt the rum still warm on his breath, “My lil cousin Sammie comin’ in town from Clarksdale. Throwin’ a lil event here for him. Lot to plan.”

She nodded, trying not to show the disappointment that fluttered through her chest.

“But I can’t wait to see you again.”

He kissed her. Tongue slow, soft, just enough to make her knees buckle again. Just enough to make her whimper and press closer.

He broke it with a soft growl and a smile.

“I’ll have Auntie come get you next time. Make it easy. Safe. That alright?”

She nodded again, more grateful than she could say, “Yes, thank you.”

“Good girl.” He kissed her one more time. Slower this time. Possessive. Sweet, “Get home safe.”

She was still floating when Pearl led her out the back. Still tasting him on her lips. Still flushed beneath her clothes. The robe, the bathwater, the whisper of his mouth between her thighs—every part of it clung to her like perfume. She stepped out into the cool night air with a full moon overhead and a feeling she couldn’t name blooming wild behind her ribs.

She had just been claimed. And she didn’t know what would come next…but she knew she wanted more.

The road was quiet at that hour. Streetlamps cast long amber streaks across the windshield of Aunt Pearl’s old Ford, the soft rattle of the engine humming beneath them like a low lullaby. Marigold sat in the passenger seat wrapped in her robe and freshly buttoned-up clothes, thighs still tingling beneath the hem of her skirt, fingers nervously fidgeting in her lap. The scent of cinnamon oil and sweet tobacco clung to the air—Aunt Pearl’s scent. It felt like a balm. For a while, neither of them spoke. The tires hummed beneath them. Houses passed like slow-moving ghosts.

Then Pearl said softly, without even looking, “You alright, baby?”

Marigold blinked. “I…I think so.”

A pause.

Pearl’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, knuckles catching the orange glow of the dashboard, “First time a man look at you like you ain’t never been seen before… whew. That’ll rock your world.”

Marigold’s face flushed, but she smiled. She turned to the window, a quiet laugh caught behind her hand. Pearl gave her a look from the corner of her eye.

“Don’t be shy with me. I know that look. Your lips all bitten, eyes got that glossy glaze to ‘em, cheeks hot as the back of a cast iron stove.”

Marigold let out a bashful giggle.

Pearl softened.

“Let me tell you somethin’, baby girl. I was married once. Long time ago. Thought I had it all. A husband who wore a suit to church and shined his shoes every Sunday. But you know what else he did?”

Marigold glanced over, brows lifting.

“He made me feel small. Like I was too much and not enough all at the same time. Said my laugh was too loud. My hips too wide. My needs…‘unholy.’”

Pearl gave a scoff that turned into a hum.

“Let that man convince me I was a sin for wantin’ to be touched soft. For wantin’ more. Took me years to shake that lie off.” She looked over now, her eyes steady on Marigold’s, “So let me be clear with you, sugar. You a woman. You got blood in your veins and fire in your belly. Don’t you ever let anybody—preacher or not—make you feel bad for wantin’ to be seen, touched, loved. That don’t make you sinful. That makes you alive.”

Marigold’s eyes stung, her throat catching with something deeper than gratitude. She reached across the seat and took Pearl’s hand, squeezing it tight.

Pearl gave her a wink.

“And while you at it…get that head, let him spoil you, and have yourself a time, baby!”

Marigold burst into laughter, covering her face, shoulders shaking, her heart suddenly light. The car slowed at the curb outside her home. The laughter faded. The quiet crept back in. Marigold stepped out of the car slowly. The night air was still warm, but it carried a different weight now. A solemn hush. The kind that curled around old houses and old habits.

She leaned in the window before Pearl could drive off and whispered, “Thank you.”

Pearl nodded, “Go on, Sister Goldie. Be soft with yourself.”

With one final squeeze of her hand, Pearl drove off into the dark, her red taillights disappearing like slow-dragging fireflies into the quiet night.

Marigold turned to face her house.

The porch was dark. The windows stared back like judgmental eyes. She stepped onto the walkway, every footfall heavy. Each one peeling a layer off. The robe felt tighter now. Her dress stiff. As the front door opened and she stepped inside, the warmth of The Blackline seemed to slip right off her skin. Her church clothes became a yoke again. The buttons became a seal.

Goldie slipped away…and Sister Marigold Baptiste took her place once more. The silence inside her home wasn’t gentle. It was cold and holy and hollow. She walked past the mirror in the hall without looking. Somewhere in the quiet, in the hush between then and now, a line was typed on paper—faint, soft, but resolute.

He didn’t save me. He saw me. And that was enough…

Thursday Morning—Loosened

Marigold stood barefoot on the worn floorboards of her bedroom, toes curling against the rug, a slip clinging to her skin like a hush. The morning sun spilled through the lace curtains in fractured gold, catching dust and memory in its beams. The house was still. Too still. She stood in front of her wardrobe, staring. Her usual church uniforms hung in a neat row—high collars, long sleeves, skirts that swept to the ankle, gloves folded into little nests in their matching hats. Obadiah liked her polished. Liked her dressed like the wife of a man of God should be.

Stiff. Lacquered in piety. Unreachable.

Her fingers drifted toward her usual dress—the navy one with the pearl buttons. But they stopped.

Go to church tomorrow with your collar loose.

Don’t wear gloves.

Stack’s voice, still hoarse with liquor and lust, wrapped around her spine like a binding spell.

She exhaled. Slowly. Deeply.

Her thighs still trembled with aftershocks. Her hips ached faintly from how wide he’d spread her. Her pussy twitched at the memory of his mouth—hot, open, devouring. The sound he made when he came. That growl. That filthy, guttural praise as he spilled thick and heavy into her hand. She stared at her palm like it had been marked. It wasn’t just the touch. It was the way he made her feel—worshipped and ruined at the same time. Her lips parted, breath catching. She squeezed her legs together. She still couldn’t believe she had let that man—that gangster—do all that to her. That she had gasped, moaned, begged for more. She, Sister Marigold Baptiste, had opened her legs for Elias Moore and nearly drowned in her own pleasure.

What am I becoming?

The robe slipped off her shoulders. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror.

Skin flushed. Nipples still taut.

She never thought about sex. Never allowed herself to. Not like this. Obadiah had never undressed her slowly. Never kissed her thighs. Never praised her wetness. Never even called her pretty during the act. Sex was a duty. A quiet, rushed thing. A groan in the dark. He barely removed his shirt. She had seen his penis—briefly. Small, and already soft when he rolled off of her. She had never felt a man hard in her hands. Had never stroked one.

And then Stack…

Lord.

The weight of it. The way it twitched, leaked, pulsed. Veiny. Warm. So long she couldn’t close her fingers around it fully. So thick she had no idea how it would fit inside her. She could still feel it against her stomach, taste the salt of it on her lip from when she brought her fingers to her tongue to taste.

She trembled.

Her heart beat between her legs.

She reached for a blouse. One without the stiff high collar. She left the top few buttons undone. Her neckline open just enough for a breeze. Just enough to feel free.

No gloves.

Her hands were bare. Feminine. Exposed. She pinned her hair up soft instead of slicked back tight. Let a few curls hang. Her lips looked fuller today. Her cheeks glowed. When she looked in the mirror this time…

She saw her.

Goldie.

Not fully, but there. Blooming beneath the layers of shame and satin. Marigold touched the edge of her blouse, breathing deep.

Was it wrong? To feel this good?

Was it unholy to want?

She didn’t have the answer. But her body had already made the choice. She closed her eyes for a moment and whispered a quiet prayer—half apology, half thanks.Then she stepped into her shoes and walked toward the door.

One button looser than she used to.

No gloves.

The church was near-empty. Sunlight filtered through the high windows in dusty shafts, slanting across wooden pews and catching on the glint of polished brass. It was the middle of the week—too quiet for comfort, too sacred for secrets. Marigold stepped inside, her gloves absent, collar loose at the throat. She hadn’t dared to add rouge, but her skin still held that post-bath glow, a hush of warmth left behind by hands that had no business touching her. The heels of her shoes clicked against the worn tile floor as she made her way past the vestibule.

“Sister Baptiste,” came a voice—crisp, sweet, and dipped in Southern varnish. She turned to see Sister Bernadine rising from a side pew, wiping her palms down the front of her skirt, “You just missed Reverend Obadiah. He arrived early this morning, before sun-up. Said he wanted to have a word with you after his meeting.” Bernadine gave her a curious glance, “Said to tell you personally.”

Marigold’s heart stuttered. A small, polite smile curled on her lips, “Of course. Thank you, Sister.”

She turned toward his office, trying to still her breath.

He knows.

He had to.

The door was slightly ajar, just enough for sound to bleed through.

“…it’s already begun,” a deep male voice was saying.

Another voice: “The signs are here, same as the others.”

Obadiah’s voice: low, calm. “She don’t know yet. But we’ll guide her.”

Marigold’s hand paused on the door. Her stomach turned, bile rising to her tongue. She knocked once, just hard enough to interrupt.

Obadiah called, “Come.”

She entered. The room smelled of sandalwood, ink, and something like musty linen. Four men were present— Deacon Braith, Deacon Ellison, Deacon Ross, and Deacon Wells. Their eyes flicked toward her without warmth. On Obadiah’s desk lay an aged black book with a cracked leather spine. Its pages were stained in sepia and shadow, the title embossed faintly in gold. The Book of Pruning. The deacons excused themselves with short nods, brushing past her like a chilling fog. Obadiah did not move. He watched her with his chin propped on one hand, fingers tapping at his mouth.

When the door clicked shut behind the last man, he rose.

“Marigold.” His voice was smooth, but cool, “Come sit.”

She obeyed.

“You’ve had a busy week, I assume?”

She nodded gently, folding her hands in her lap, “Yes, Reverend. I’ve made sure the Wednesday scripture pamphlets were printed and the children’s corner in the chapel was dusted—”

He cut her off, “I wasn’t asking about pamphlets.”

She stiffened.

“I’ve been made aware of a few matters during my absence,” he continued, walking slowly around the desk, eyes never leaving her, “Namely, Evangeline. Her mother and father came to me concerned. Said she’s been slipping in her study, missing youth devotion. Said she’s…distracted.”

Marigold’s throat dried.

“You were entrusted to oversee the young women’s ministry,” he said, now standing just beside her, “It is your duty, as First Lady, to guard their gates. Their minds. Their bodies.”

“Yes, Reverend,” she murmured.

“Tell me, why wasn’t your focus where it should’ve been?”

She opened her mouth—to lie, maybe. To give some excuse. But nothing came out. Just the sound of her own guilt, ticking like a metronome inside her skull. Obadiah turned his back briefly, adjusted the placement of a hymn book on the shelf. Then, as if it were an afterthought, said:

“You won’t be attending the leadership banquet tomorrow.”

Marigold blinked. “But Obadi—Reverend…the event was reserved for First Ladies—”

“It is,” he said, without turning.

Her voice dropped. “Then why—?”

“I’ve extended the invitation to Sister Lillian instead.”

The name cut like glass.

Obadiah turned slowly now, walking back toward her, gaze sharp, “Because your attention is better spent here, at this church. On the youth. On prayer. On watching.” He leaned closer, voice almost tender, “You do believe in purity…don’t you?”

Marigold nodded, but her throat burned. Her blouse collar felt suddenly too loose, like a noose hanging slack. Obadiah’s fingers reached forward, too soft, and buttoned the top of her blouse himself. His thumb brushed the hollow of her throat. She flinched.

“You rushed from your bed, I imagine?” he asked quietly, “You’re exposed. Immodest.”

She dropped her gaze.

He let out a slow breath, “I’ll let it pass. You’re tired. But we must be careful with tiredness, Marigold. The devil moves fastest through women who are weary.”

His words hung heavy.

And yet, underneath his cold poise, she could see something twitching beneath the surface. A restlessness in the way he adjusted his cuffs. A fire behind his eyes. He was looking at her too long. His nostrils flared slightly, as though searching for scent. She felt like an open book. One he was preparing to underline in red.

“I’ll pray for your clarity,” he said.

Marigold stood heart racing, “Yes, Reverend.”

She left the office with her head down, but her fists clenched. Something inside her was beginning to burn. And far behind her, unseen, Obadiah reached back and laid a hand on The Book of Pruning. His fingers tightened.

The porch creaked beneath Marigold’s heels.

Afternoon light lay heavy across the crooked planks, and the rusted screen door swayed just slightly with the breeze. Paint peeled from the siding in long, flaking strips, and a row of flower pots sat cracked and bone-dry along the railing. The yard hadn’t been trimmed in weeks. She adjusted her gloves, hesitated, then knocked. It was Ruth Monroe who answered—thin-lipped and graying, her face drawn tight like the line of her apron. A streak of flour dusted her cheek, and her hands were stiff with age and labor. She blinked once, slowly, before recognition set in.

“First Lady Baptiste,” she said, voice clipped, “Didn’t expect no company.”

“I was hopin’ to speak with Evangeline, if she’s home.”

Ruth’s eyes flicked down the road before settling back on Marigold. A pause. Then a stiff nod, “She in her room. Supposed to be readin’ scripture. I won’t stop you.”

The house was dim and quiet. The smell of old starch and yesterday’s cooking clung to the air. Crosses lined the hallway—some metal, some wood, one with a cracked porcelain Jesus. Marigold’s shoes made soft taps on the floor as she passed.

Ruth didn’t follow.

Evangeline’s door was cracked just enough to let the breeze curl in from the open window. Lace curtains danced slow, and somewhere beyond, a mockingbird sang. The scent of faint smoke lingered, tucked behind the sweetness of youth and dust. Marigold knocked gently before pushing the door open. Evangeline sat on the floor, cross-legged, in a faded cotton slip. Her Bible was open in her lap—but a carved-out hollow in the center held a pouch of weed. Her eyes were sharp as glass when she looked up, wide-set and dark like stormwater.

She didn’t rise.

“Didn’t know we had surprise inspections now,” she said dryly.

Marigold stepped inside, softening her voice, “Ain’t here to scold. Just checkin’ on you.”

Evangeline leaned back against the wall, “Sure you are.”

Marigold’s gaze drifted to the bruise on the girl’s arm. Faint, blooming purple beneath warm brown skin. It looked like a grip. Marigold said nothing, but the chill moved through her.

“You’ve been missed,” she offered, “The studies ain’t the same.”

“They never were,” Evangeline said, “Naomi knew that. That’s why she left.”

Marigold stiffened, “You’ve spoken to her?”

Evangeline tilted her head, “Maybe I have. Maybe I ain’t. What difference it make?”

There was something older than eighteen in her tone. A tiredness that hadn’t been earned fairly.

“You should come back,” Marigold said, “Even if it’s just to talk.”

Evangeline smiled bitter, “Talk to who? The sisters who whisper about my skirt length? Or the elders who think weed’s worse than bein’ touched up by your own blood?”

Marigold’s stomach twisted, “That bruise—”

“Don’t worry yourself.”

“I am worried.”

Evangeline held her gaze a second longer, then looked out the window.

“I don’t need pity,” she said, “You ain’t gotta pretend.”

“I’m not pretending. I just…I want to help.”

The silence between them crackled.

Finally, Marigold said, quieter, “If you ever need to talk—my door’s open. You know where I stay.”

She turned to go.

“Hey,” Evangeline called out.

Marigold paused.

“Tell the church ladies I’m doin’ just fine,” she said with a crooked smile, “Tell Obadiah too.”

Marigold nodded, but her heart felt like glass cracking. She stepped back into the hallway, past the stiff furniture and the quiet disapproval in Ruth’s eyes.

Door on the knob, Ruth’s voice cut through.

“Tea?”

The teacups trembled slightly in their saucers as Ruth returned with the tray. She set it down on the table with care, though her hands betrayed her—fingers stiff, nerves frayed at the edges.

“Chamomile,” she said quietly, “Calms the heart.”

Marigold nodded, her hands folded politely in her lap. “Thank you, Sister Ruth.”

They sat across from each other, the tea untouched at first. Ruth stared into her cup as if it held answers she didn’t want to name.

“I worry ‘bout my baby,” she said finally, voice catching in her throat.

Marigold glanced toward the hall, “She’s still young. Young women…they test boundaries.”

Ruth’s hand came to her mouth, “Last week, I caught her with a boy. In her room. Pants down. The devil in both their eyes. I—I ain’t never seen her like that.” Her voice broke, “I raised her better.”

Marigold’s expression softened. She reached into her purse and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, embroidered with a tiny cross in the corner. She placed it gently in Ruth’s hand.

Ruth took it with a whispered thank-you, dabbing her eyes, “I told her daddy. He ain’t say nothin’. Just got quiet. That quiet he get when he ready to act.”

Marigold’s brows lifted, concern blooming, “He put his hands on her?”

Ruth didn’t answer directly. She looked away, swallowing hard, “He say he takin’ it to Obadiah. That’s what he said. Said the church gon’ fix her.”

The words sank into the room like wet cement. Marigold kept her posture composed, but her knuckles were white around the teacup.

“I’ve tried, Sister Marigold. God knows I have. I’ve prayed. Fasted. Tried to bring her back to the Word. She used to be so close with Naomi. I don’t know what changed.”

The shift in Ruth’s voice was subtle, but sharp. A buried grudge resurfacing.

Marigold straightened, “Naomi was a good girl. Spirited, yes. But kind. And smart.”

Ruth’s mouth tightened, “Spirited is one word for it. Wild’s another.”

Marigold blinked, the sting immediate.

Ruth sipped her tea, then sighed, “I’m sorry, but…Naomi was already walkin’ a dangerous path when she left. And your sister—Esther—Lord knows she had her own darkness to wrestle with. That blood runs hot, Sister Marigold. Always has. And now my child’s caught up in it.”

Marigold rose from her chair slowly, “That blood is my blood, Sister Ruth.”

Ruth flinched, but didn’t apologize.

Marigold’s voice was quiet but firm, “Esther may be in a home now, but she is still my sister. And Naomi is still my niece. She stayed with me after everything. When no one else would take her in.”

“She ran off again, didn’t she?” Ruth asked, “Left you, too.”

“That’s between me and God,” Marigold said.

A beat passed. Ruth’s expression faltered.

“I–I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I—I’m just scared, is all.”

Marigold nodded, brushing invisible dust from her gloves, “We all are.” She reached for her purse and paused before leaving, “If Evangeline ever wants to talk…she can come to my home. No judgments. No rules.”

Ruth looked up, eyes shining, “Thank you.”

With a polite nod, Marigold turned to go, her shoes tapping lightly against the wood floor. But something about her posture had changed—shoulders set a little firmer, gaze a little deeper. She was beginning to see it now. The cracks. The blame. The way righteousness could be twisted into something cruel.

The hallway is dim, lit only by the last stretch of sunlight clawing its way through the lace curtains. Shadows stretch across the walls like reaching fingers. A faint tick-tick of the old clock chimes from the mantel in the front parlor, counting down a moment she’s already decided on. Evangeline moves quietly, barefoot on the worn wood floors. Her room door closes behind her with a soundless pull. She’s changed out of her at-home dress into something a little looser, a little freer—soft cotton skirt, button-up shirt tied at the waist, and a pair of borrowed saddle shoes. Lips glossed. Hair fluffed. Her eyes flicker like they’ve been holding back a storm.

She steps carefully past the kitchen doorway.

Inside, Ruth Monroe, hunched at the table, her back to her daughter, a teacup forgotten in her hand. She’s holding something in her other hand—a photograph. The edges are curled from years of drawer dust and sunlight. The image: a toddler in frilly white socks with a wide, gummy smile. Baby Evangeline. Ruth stares at it, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Evangeline stops in the hallway—just for a breath. Her eyes soften, guilt threatening to root her feet in place. But she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t step in.

She moves on.

Out the back and into night fall.

The screen door creaks, the sound swallowed by the rising hum of crickets and distant dogs barking in the dark. The porch light flickers once, then steadies. Down the gravel driveway, headlights flash twice.

A car waits at the corner.

Behind the wheel is a broad-shouldered boy with slicked-back hair and a look that says he knows how to lie for fun. In the passenger seat is a girl, maybe twenty, sharp-lined eyeliner and bubblegum lips, smacking gum with the window half-down. She waves Evangeline over like she owns the night. Evangeline grins—crooked, excited, a little scared—and runs. She climbs into the back seat, sliding in with practiced ease, the leather hot against her thighs.

The girl up front twists in her seat, “Took you long enough.”

“Had a visitor,” Evangeline says, breathless.

“You good?”

“Always.”

The car rolls forward slow at first, wheels crunching gravel as it pulls away from the Monroe house. In the rearview mirror, Evangeline sees the porch light still on. Her mother still inside. Her past still burning quietly behind her. Then the car turns the corner. The house disappears. The road stretches on. The music comes up low and dirty—something bluesy and grown. And Evangeline leans back, wind slipping through the open window, eyes wide and wild with the freedom of a girl who knows the night belongs to her.

The back office of The Blackline was dim-lit, heavy with cigar smoke and the faint sound of Ella Fitzgerald humming low from the gramophone in the corner. Stack stood by the mirror, brushing the dust from his shoulders, a half-buttoned shirt hanging open over his chest. His gold toothpick glinted as he adjusted the tilt of his fedora. Behind him, Smoke sat in the old leather chair, one leg draped over the other, wrist resting on his knee. He looked tired. The kind of tired that clung behind the eyes even when the body sat still. His undershirt was damp with the heat of the day and he was nursing the stub of a cigar that had long gone out.

Stack caught his twin’s reflection.

“You look like you been rode hard and put up crooked,” he muttered with a grin.

Smoke smirked, slow, “Ain’t slept much.”

Stack glanced over, “Everything straight?”

Smoke nodded once, eyes sharp even in fatigue, “Goods came in this morning. Delia counted it out. Runners are loading the dry cellar now. I’ll handle the rest ‘fore sundown.”

A beat passed.

Then Smoke added, like an afterthought, “Thank God for Aunt Pearl and Minnie. They been holdin’ it down.”

Stack caught that—the weight in his voice. But he didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, he moved to the small liquor cart and poured himself a splash of bourbon.

“You gon’ be alright while I pick up Sammie?”

“Go ahead.” Smoke exhaled slow, “He’s grown now. Shit’s wild.”

Stack chuckled, “Feels like yesterday he was cryin’ ‘cause we wouldn’t let him hold the shotgun.”

Smoke’s mouth twitched. Then, like a shift in the wind, he asked, “You been seein’ her lately, huh?”

Stack’s hand stilled on the glass, “Who?”

“Don’t play dumb wit’ me.” Smoke tilted his head, “That preacher’s wife.”

Stack leaned back on the desk, licking the bourbon from his bottom lip. His face didn’t give much away—but his voice softened, “Names Marigold.”

Smoke raised a brow, “You helpin’ her or huntin’ her?”

Stack gave a long pause. Then said, “She don’t even know what she is, man.”

Smoke narrowed his eyes slightly, waiting.

“All her life she been told she was a lamb. Quiet. Meek. Somethin’ to protect. Somethin’ to keep holy. But she ain’t just that.” Stack swirled the liquor in his glass, “She a woman. And ain’t nothin’ shameful about that.”

Smoke let the words hang, chewing on them like tobacco, “You like her.”

Stack didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either.

“Ain’t got a name for it yet.” He looked toward the half-cracked window where the sunlight broke in like gold ribbon, “But when she talk, I listen. When she cry, I feel it. When she’s quiet…I still hear her.”

Smoke whistled low. “Damn. That’s deep for you.”

“She different.”

A silence settled between them.

Smoke leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. The tension in his shoulders never left, “You sure you know what you doin’? Messin’ wit’ a church woman. You don’t think she’ll break the moment she sees all this?” He gestured around to the room, to the whole world they’d built.

Stack shook his head slowly, “She already cracked, Smoke. I’m just showin’ her what’s on the other side of it.”

Smoke blew out a breath, finally standing. He grabbed his coat from the hook and tossed it over one shoulder.

“Just don’t fall too hard, Stack. Been through enough trouble.”

“Too late.”

Smoke stopped in the doorway and looked back, lips parting like he might say something more—something truer. But instead, he clapped his brother on the back once and said, “Go get the boy. I’ll have the drinks cold and the girls ready.”

Stack grinned.

“You better. He ain’t never had his dick wet or his soul stirred.”

Smoke chuckled, shaking his head as he walked off, “Lord help him.”

And just like that, the office went quiet again except for the soft scratch of Ella on the record player, and the faint echo of two lives breaking in ways neither of them could name yet.

Stack stepped out of his office like a sermon in silk.

Midnight-blue three-piece suit hugging him just right, pocket square crisp, gold rings glinting with every flick of his fingers. His toothpick shifted as he adjusted the collar of his shirt—an ivory number with subtle embroidery so fine you’d have to squint to catch it. His shoes? Black leather gators. He walked like they knew how much they cost. On his way out, he caught sight of Violet at the end of the hall—pressed sweet against Smoke, who was acting downright boyish for a man with a .38 tucked beneath his waistband. Smoke had her giggling in a soft dress, hands roaming her hips, his voice low and teasing in her ear. He cupped her ass like it was his second home.

Stack paused with a smirk.

“Lord, y’all actin’ like I ain’t got places to be.”

Violet laughed, bashful, swatting Smoke’s hand away.

Smoke just grinned, eyes never leaving her.

“And you actin’ like you ain’t jealous.”

Stack strolled closer, leaned in, and pressed a kiss to Violet’s forehead.

“Nah, I’m proud. She finally got him to smile like he ain’t made of brick and bourbon.”

Smoke snorted. Violet blushed deeper.

Stack adjusted his cuffs and headed into the main lounge.

The Blackline—Main Floor

The air was velvet-thick with cigarette haze and the scent of clove oil and red lipstick.

Cordelia, draped in deep plum and dark pearls, stood near the bar snapping orders with a voice that cracked like a whip.

“Move them tables. No, not there—by the stage. Odessa! If that hem ain’t fixed by showtime I swear—”

Stack passed her with a grin and a low whistle.

“Don’t work too hard, Boss Lady.”

“Don’t flirt too loud, Player.”

He blew her a kiss. She caught it midair and slapped it into her bra with a wink. Near the front, Liza June sat cross-legged on the velvet fainting couch, her eyes deep in a tarot spread laid across the lap of Clarissa. The air around them shimmered with mystery and slow jazz.

Stack gave Liza a nod.

She nodded back without looking up.

“You walkin’ into somethin’ new today.”

“Ain’t I always?” Stack replied, slipping on his overcoat.

West Ninth Street—“Little Harlem”

Early evening. Golden hour. A Cadillac LaSalle, black with whitewall tires, glides through the bustle like a crown through a crowd. Stack’s hand rests out the window, rings catching light. Street corners hum with life—boys shining shoes, girls laughing in curls and cotton, a brass band warming up down the block.

West Ninth is pulsing.

Men in brimmed hats gather outside the barbershop, talking baseball and bootleg money. Church mothers step out of bakeries clutching warm pies and giving Stack a knowing side-eye. Teenage boys pause their dice game to admire his car. Stack pulls up outside a Black-owned shoe shop—Thompson & Sons Fine Footwear—where the windows glisten with patent leathers and hand-stitched brogues. A wooden sign out front reads:

EST. 1917 – STYLE THAT SPEAKS

He steps out slow, coat sliding off one shoulder, giving the full view of his suit. The wind catches the edge of his jacket. A girl walking by mutters:

“Mmm, that man look like trouble in cologne.”

Inside, the shop smells like cedar, leather polish, and confidence. Mr. Thompson, an elder with sharp eyes and a sharper press, greets him:

“Moore.”

“Thompson.”

Stack tries on a pair of custom blood-red two-tone lace-ups, alligator trim. He lifts his leg, admires the gleam.

“You makin’ devils dance in these, old man. Only the bold can wear red without bleedin’ in it.”

Stack pays in full. No haggling. He tips extra for the young boy who buffs the heel until it gleams like a moonlit spill. Outside again, he slides into the driver’s seat, lets the door thud shut, and lights a cigar. His reflection smirks at him in the rearview.

The man’s ready. He ain’t just Stack. He’s legacy. Swagger. Lust in linen. Blues in human form.

And tonight?

He’s got Preacher Boy Sammie to pick up.

Union Station—Little Rock, Arkansas—4:16 PM

The train hissed into the station with a long, dusty breath, its steel spine gleaming beneath the fall sun. Smoke curled up from the engine stack like an omen softened by rhythm and routine. A gust of wind kicked through the terminal, lifting loose flyers from the bulletin board and tousling the feather in Stack’s wide-brimmed hat.

Elias “Stack” Moore leaned against his Cadillac LaSalle, black with whitewall tires, immaculate as always. The paint caught the light like obsidian, fresh from a hand-rubbed polish. His shoes—custom-made from stingray leather, jet-black with a silver tip—gleamed as he crossed one ankle over the other. He flicked open his pocket watch, adjusted his cufflinks, and waited with a crooked grin, knowing he looked like sin with credit.

And then he saw him.

Sammie Moore.

Twenty years old and walking like the world had finally called him by name. Fresh off the train in a three-piece tan suit—clean, but not flashy—with a golden pocket square folded just right and a worn leather guitar case slung over his shoulder like a badge of freedom. His hair was brushed back in smooth waves, sides taper-clean. His eyes, wide and alert, took in the city like a hymn he’d only ever heard about.

Sammie Moore was Delta-born, raised in the tight drawl of wooden churches and crooked porch swings, but he carried the sharp edge of something bigger now. A college man. A first-generation miracle.

He stepped down onto the platform, his gold fraternity pin shining on his lapel: Alpha Phi Alpha—the first of its kind, newly founded by Black scholars hungry for more. And Sammie? He was studying Education and Black History, determined to uplift what his people had been taught to forget. His scholarship came from a local Black benevolent society—one his mother petitioned after his father refused to sign the papers.

He spotted Stack instantly.

“Cousin Stack!” Sammie grinned, wide and sunlit.

“Preacher Boy!” Stack stepped forward, his voice slick and gravel-laced. “Look at you, all grown and full of scholar. What they feedin’ y’all in them lecture halls? Confidence?”

They embraced hard and quick, two firm slaps on the back, the kind that say I see you, I’m proud, I got you always.

“You look like Harlem itself,” Sammie said, eyeing Stack’s tailored fit and toothpick grin.

Stack cocked a brow. “And you look like you just graduated from Sunday school for grown men. C’mon, lemme show you what Little Harlem got cookin’.”

They walked toward the Cadillac, Sammie whistling low. “This yours?”

“She purrs when I talk sweet and bite back when I don’t. Just how I like ’em.”

Sammie chuckled as they slid into the car. The doors shut with a deep, luxurious clunk. Windows down, wind in their collars, blues on the radio—somewhere between Bessie Smith and the devil humming in a bottle.

As they eased into traffic, Sammie caught the glint of sunlight off glass across the street. He turned to look.

There she was.

Evangeline Monroe.

Standing just outside a beauty supply shop, laughing with two other girls. Her dress was butter-yellow with white gloves and shiny black oxfords. Hair done in a neat bob, curls perfect. Her profile hit like a note not written down—delicate, sharp, unforgettable.

“Damn,” Sammie whispered, eyes tracking her every movement, “Who that sweet thing?”

Stack didn’t look. Just kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift like a preacher who knew exactly when to pause before the punchline.

“There’s plenty of sweet at the House,” Stack said, “You’ll see.”

Sammie glanced once more, then leaned back into the seat, guitar case pressed against his knee. But the look on his face stayed soft. Curious. Marked.

Stack didn’t say more.

And somewhere behind them, Evangeline turned—as if she’d felt eyes on her—but the car was already gone.

The front doors of The Blackline eased open with a slow, sensual creak—like even the hinges knew how to tease—and the air inside wrapped around Sammie like velvet dipped in molasses and smoke.

He stepped inside behind Stack, and the world bloomed.

The camera didn’t cut. It glided. Swooped. Curved around their shoulders and swept left, past the smoky lamps and satin-draped booths, past the heavy perfume of sin and sugar, and the sound of laughter layered like jazz chords—sharp, low, then rising.

Stack paused in the doorway, Sammie just a step behind him, holding tight to that leather-strapped guitar.

The scene was alive.

🎺 Cue jazz horns and shuffling feet 🎺

Liza June was halfway through a Tarot reading near the fireplace—her golden curls bouncing as she laid a card down with a hiss of silk and whispered, “Ooh baby, Death reversed. That mean change is comin’.” The woman across from her gasped like she’d caught the Holy Ghost. Someone refilled their glasses with blackberry wine.

The camera panned right.

Cordelia, decked in a sheer black robe with nothing underneath but thigh straps and a mouth full of threat, barked orders to a new girl about fixing her eyeliner, then turned, heels clicking, and caught sight of the boys.

“Well well well,” she drawled, one brow cocked, “The Moore boys walkin’ in like Sunday salvation. And who’s the cutie?”

Sammie blushed under the lights. His tie already felt too tight.

Cordelia sauntered up and cupped his face gently with one manicured hand. “Ain’t you handsome. You legal, baby?”

“Just turned,” Sammie mumbled.

“Mm. That’s the best flavor.” She winked and moved on, hips rolling like music.

The camera kept moving. Girls passed by—some half-dressed in beaded bustiers and garter belts, others wrapped in lace robes or chemises that barely skimmed their thighs. A group of them waved from a nearby booth, one licking whipped cream off her finger.

“Happy birthday, sugar!” one called.

“Damn,” Sammie whispered, eyes darting, lips parted, “This place real?”

Stack just grinned, proud and unbothered, an arm slung heavy across his cousin’s shoulders, “You in The Blackline now,” he said, “I built it from sin and good taste. You see liquor, you drink it. You see sugar, you taste it. You see pussy, you praise it.”

They passed a hallway where flickering wall lamps threw long shadows. The camera dipped low as someone dashed past in stockings and laughter. Somewhere deep in the back, the slow clatter of dice and the moan of a piano spilled through a cracked door.

From the kitchen, the smell hit like a memory Sammie hadn’t earned—fried catfish, hot water cornbread, sweet peach glaze, and something that smelled like his mama’s poundcake but naughtier.

He inhaled sharply, “Goddamn.”

Stack chuckled, “That be Aunt Pearl. Don’t let her fool you—she got more spice in that pot than Jesus had disciples.”

And then—

Violet.

A burst of soft curls. A squeal of joy.

“Sammie!” she called out, hurrying over in a warm, wine-colored dress that hugged her soft curves. She wrapped him up in a hug that was all hips and sunshine.

Sammie grinned wide, surprised but clearly overjoyed.

“I ain’t seen you in—”

“Too long,” Violet finished. “Look at you! Little cousin all grown up and dressed better than a Pullman porter.”

“Look at you! You jumped wit’ Ghost and got fine doing it.”

She laughed, and Stack tilted his head, “Don’t give him all your sugar, Vi. Leave some for Smoke.”

She smacked his arm.

Stack turned to Sammie again, clapping a hand on his back, “I brought you here for a reason,” he said, his voice lowering just a touch, like a promise being carved. “We gon’ celebrate your transition. Blues, bourbon, and if you play your cards right…” He smirked, “You gon’ get your tip wet for the first time.”

Sammie blinked. “I—wait, what?”

“Don’t act brand new.” Stack leaned in, voice thick with mischief. “You grown now. I’m givin’ you the keys to the kingdom.”

The camera followed as they crossed through the den, past sultry shadows and swaying silhouettes. Upstairs, Stack showed him a room set aside—modest, but nice. Clean sheets. A basin. A mirror edged in gold. Sammie dropped his duffel on the bed but kept the guitar slung over his shoulder like it was part of his ribs.

“You still playin’?” Stack asked.

Sammie nodded, stroking the neck gently. “Every damn day.”

Stack gave a small nod, respect in his eyes, “You should. That axe got blood on it.”

Sammie looked down at the guitar—the one he and Smoke had passed to him when he was just thirteen. Their father’s.

He swallowed hard.

Stack tapped the doorframe.

“Come on, Preacher Boy. Night’s young. Let’s get you blessed proper.”

And as they stepped out, the camera stayed behind for just a moment, lingering on the guitar’s worn fretboard.

The hallway behind the bar was narrow, lined with old liquor crates and dusty red curtains that swayed for no reason at all. Just past a locked door—key slid from Stack’s boot—was The Secret Room. The one with no windows. The air changed when they stepped inside. It smelled like old velvet, aged whiskey, tobacco, and secrets. Thick crimson drapes hung heavy over the walls. A pull-down screen waited, curled like a tongue. In the corner, the projector sat humming quietly like it had a memory of its own. Stack lit a cigar and let the door click shut behind them. Sammie followed, carrying his guitar case, eyes darting across the room like he’d stumbled into a place grown folks didn’t talk about out loud. He tried to play it cool—but he was twenty. Curious. Alert.

And perched in the far armchair, legs spread and boots dusty, sat Rattlesnake Joe—grinning like a man who knew too much.

“Evenin’, Pretty-Slick,” Joe said with a gold-toothed grin, lifting a brown burlap sack from beside him, “Brought you some heat. And a lil’ moon blessin’ for them tender girls o’ yours.”

Stack took the sack. Set it on the sideboard beside a bottle of Bama bourbon and a stack of steel canisters.

“Let’s see what you got,” he said, voice smooth but watchful.

Joe leaned back, tipping his hat toward Sammie, “You the one he was talkin’ about? Birthday boy?”

Sammie gave a polite nod, “Yessir.”

“Well, well,” Joe chuckled, “You in for one hell of a sanctified education, son.”

Sammie squinted, “What’s a stag film anyway?”

Stack turned slowly, lips twitching around his cigar. He walked over, draped one arm around Sammie’s shoulder, and pulled him in, “It’s like church,” he said low. “Only instead o’ shoutin’, they screamin’ your name.”

Joe hooted.

“Shit, that’s good! Write that down, Pretty-Slick!”

Stack ignored him, lifting a canister off the stack. He showed it to Sammie—Reel #14: Pussy on the Phonograph—smudged label, faint red kiss mark near the edge.

“This here?” he said, handing it to Sammie like it was scripture, “A woman touchin’ herself while her own blues record spins. You ever seen a woman make herself cry with her own voice?”

Sammie flushed. Swallowed, “No sir.”

Stack smiled faintly, then clicked the projector into place.

The machine began to whir.

Joe tossed over a leather pouch of herbs—“that’s for Cordelia’s tea, and the girls’ knees,” he muttered—and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Stack watched the reel come to life, light flickering on the screen as grainy, black-and-white heat filled the room.

The figure on screen moaned. Slowly. With rhythm.

Sammie’s mouth parted. He leaned forward, guitar case still between his legs.

Joe lit up, “See that right there? That ain’t no actress. That’s a real woman. She ain’t performin’. She rememberin’. That’s what make the reel worth a damn.”

Stack nodded, still watching.

“You listen to the breath. That lil’ hitch when her fingers dip lower? That ain’t no script. That’s memory. That’s ache.”

He looked at Sammie.

“You ever had a girl touch herself to you before?”

Sammie blinked. Eyes flicked back to the screen.

Stack laughed soft, low, “Didn’t think so. But you will. Maybe sooner than you think.”

The moaning on screen grew louder. The woman’s thighs trembled. The record player needle skipped.

Joe wiped his eyes with a kerchief, “Goddamn that’s art,” he whispered.

Sammie shifted in his seat, “So…these get shown here?”

“Only for folk who know the password,” Stack said, reaching for another reel, “We call it Midnight Sermon. You sit in one of these velvet chairs, light a cigar, and let truth flicker ‘til it stick to your ribs.”

Joe pulled a flask from his boot. “I ever tell y’all about the cursed reel I found down in Plaquemine? Swear to God, the folk on it kept lookin’ at the camera like they was watchin’ me—”

“Tell it later, Joe,” Stack muttered, “Let the boy finish his first viewing.”

The screen glowed.

The moans got real.

And Sammie, breath caught in his chest, clutched the neck of the old Moore guitar—the one Smoke and Stack had given him years ago, their father’s—like it was the only holy thing left in the room.

West Ninth Street, Little Rock

The sun glared low, syrup-thick and lazy, as Stack’s flashy green and cream roadster rolled smooth down West Ninth. The chrome caught the day just right—gleaming like fresh silver, purring like a panther. Folks on the sidewalk turned to look. They always did when Elias “Stack” Moore pulled up. He parked clean in front of Del’s Shine Parlor, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. His suit was pressed to perfection, tie knotted sharp at the throat. A gold toothpick rode lazy in the corner of his mouth. He turned his head just enough to speak.

“Stay here, lil cousin. I’m just makin’ a drop. Won’t be long.”

Sammie, sitting passenger, nodded, his fingers absently tracing the neck of the old guitar that lay in the backseat, strapped in like a relic. Stack stepped out and closed the door with the kind of swagger that didn’t need announcing. He moved like he owned the whole block. The gold handle of the Shine Parlor door caught the sun just before it swung closed behind him. Inside, Del’s was dim and cool, smelling of leather polish, cigar smoke, and the faintest trace of musk perfume. Delphina—the owner—sat behind the long, high counter, legs crossed, counting bills in a ruby-red slip and silk robe. Brass spit buckets glinted near old barber chairs. A phonograph spun a scratchy jazz tune in the corner. And in the back, behind a velvet curtain, murmurs from the men laying bets rolled low like thunder.

Stack tipped his hat, “Got somethin’ warm for your drop box.”

Del didn’t look up, “You always do.”

Outside, Sammie cracked the window and leaned back, watching the bustle on West Ninth through dark lashes.

Then he saw her.

Again.

Evangeline Monroe.

Same girl from earlier. Same dress—butter-yellow, soft and spring-sweet, like pound cake cooling on the sill. White gloves tugged tight to the wrist. Shiny black oxfords catching light with every step. Her hair was a flawless bob, curled under like she’d just come from the beauty parlor. She walked with two other girls, laughing about something only they knew—but when she paused to lick at the edge of a vanilla cone, Sammie forgot to breathe.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

He climbed out of the car, smoothing his slacks with one hand and checking his breath with the other. The collar of his dress shirt was popped open, no tie, sleeves rolled. His fraternity pin gleamed at his lapel—Kappa Alpha Psi, recently founded, and he wore it proud. Sammie adjusted his stance, made sure his posture said: charming, not desperate.

“Miss?”

Evangeline turned. Lips still close to that ice cream. Eyes sliding over him, then back down the cone. No smile yet. Just that curious arch in her brow.

“Twice in one day?” she said coolly, “You followin’ me now?”

Sammie chuckled, a low, warm sound, “I think it’s the other way around. You keep appearing like sunshine.”

That got the ghost of a grin. She licked slow, once, eyes on his face, “You a poet or just full of it?”

He stepped closer, “Little bit of both.”

Evangeline didn’t move. Her two friends stood off to the side, whispering, giggling behind cupped hands. One elbowed the other and whispered he’s cute, but Evangeline ignored them.

Sammie glanced down, bashful but still bold, “You from around here?”

“Born and half-raised.”

“You ever heard of The Blackline?”

That name made her eyes flicker. Not wide-eyed, not shocked—just…knowing. Like she’d heard stories behind closed doors. She leaned on one hip.

“Maybe. Depends who’s askin’.”

“I’m Sammie Moore.” He held out a hand, “Stack’s blood. Smoke’s too. I just got in.”

Evangeline didn’t take his hand. She licked the ice cream again, then said, “You a Moore? That explains the mouth.”

He laughed, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s a dangerous thing,” she said, one brow lifted.

“Well…maybe you like a little danger.”

“You maybe ain’t as smooth as you think.”

He leaned close enough for her to catch a breath of his cologne—citrus, vanilla, something boyish and clean. A college man’s scent.

Then he whispered, low like temptation, like something you weren’t supposed to repeat unless you meant it, “Three slow. Two fast. Then say: Velvet Devotion.”

That made her pause. The corner of her lip twitched, “Velvet Devotion, huh?”

Sammie nodded once, “Gets you through the front. Tomorrow. What happens after…depends on how bold you feel.”

Evangeline’s lips curved slow, “You got the tongue for a preacher.”

Sammie grinned, “Maybe I just been sinnin’ better.”

Her friends hooted behind her. One of them asked, “You gon’ invite us too, Vangie?”

Evangeline glanced back at them, then looked Sammie up and down.

“If I come…I bringin’ company.”

Sammie nodded, “Long as y’all come lookin’ this good, I ain’t got no complaints.”

She tilted her head, “What if we don’t come lookin’ good? What if we come lookin’ dangerous?”

He smirked, “Then you’ll fit right in.”

From the parlor door, Stack stepped out just in time to see the last of that smile exchanged. He raised a brow but said nothing—just tapped the side of his pocket where his cigar case sat and headed back to the car.

“C’mon, Romeo. Time to get you ready for your rites.”

Sammie nodded at Evangeline, tipped an imaginary hat, “I’ll see you soon.”

She turned without answering, hips swaying like she knew she had him.

Because she did.

THE BLACKLINE – NIGHT – WEST NINTH STREET

The night air hung low, sweet with magnolia and sin.

Stack Moore leaned against his coupe, slow-smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He looked sharp as a straight razor—slacks pressed, suspenders hugging his shoulders, white tank gleaming under the streetlight. His hat sat tilted just enough to show off the glint in his eye. A quiet smirk curled the corner of his mouth like he was always halfway to trouble. Behind him, The Blackline was alive, low brass and blues seeping through the walls, laughter floating past velvet curtains. A shadow moved across the stained-glass window just as Sammie disappeared inside, guitar case in hand, wide-eyed and grinning.

Stack took a drag.

Then he heard it.

Polished footsteps.

Church leather.

Turning his head just slightly, Stack watched as a black Studebaker slid to a clean stop across the street, engine purring like judgment withheld.

The driver’s door creaked open.

Out stepped Reverend Obadiah Baptiste, tall and rigid in his navy wool suit. Crisp. Sanctified. A silver pocket watch chain glinted against his vest. He adjusted his cufflinks, smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle, then shut the door like it had sinned. Sister Lillian exited next, already halfway up the church steps, her Bible pressed tight to her chest. She didn’t look back. Obadiah paused to speak with an older Deacon Josiah at the gate—just murmured blessings and leadership pleasantries—but his eyes…his eyes were locked on Stack.

Stack didn’t move.

Just blew a stream of smoke toward the stars.

Then, with a cocky flick of his chin and a smile that could skin a preacher alive, he spoke, “Evenin’, Rev.”

Obadiah’s jaw twitched.

He offered a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes, nodding once like a man humoring a snake.

“Mr. Moore. How you be?”

They stood there in silence for half a breath too long. The street hummed. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The lights from The Blackline pulsed behind Stack like a neon halo of temptation. Stack tilted his head, studying Obadiah like a man sizing up an old rival at a poker table.

“Can’t complain. Got a full house tonight. Blues, bourbon, and bad intentions.”

He grinned, “Gearing up for a weekend of sinnin’, you could say.”

Obadiah’s smile flattened. His hands folded at his waist, the way one might withhold a curse behind a hymn.

“The women in my congregation…they don’t protest no more.” He paused,“Figured there ain’t no use preaching to a hell den.”

A quiet laugh rumbled from Stack’s chest—genuine, easy, but edged like a switchblade.

“That’s real kind of you, Reverend. Makin’ room for the damned.”

Obadiah’s smirk returned, but now it was bitter. He turned as if to leave, but Stack’s voice cut the silence like a crack of gunfire in an old Western.

“How’s your preacher wife doing? What’s her name…uhh…” He tapped a finger to his temple, mocking thought, “Slippin’ my mind.”

Obadiah froze. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth, “Marigold.”

“Ahh, yeah.” Stack snaps fingers, “Marigold. First Lady.” Stack leaned off the car now, real casual. Took another puff. Let the smoke drift slow from his nostrils as he stepped closer, boots clicking like spurs on sacred ground. He tilted his head slightly, “That ain’t who you showed up with though.”

Obadiah stiffened.

Stack could see the vein twitch in his temple. Could feel the fury coiling beneath that collar like a serpent under holy linen. But Obadiah’s voice came calm, trained, weaponized.

“My wife is a busy woman. Teaches purity. Leads young girls to righteousness. She’s an example…of what a Lady of God ought to be.”

Stack just smiled.

He didn’t say a word about how Marigold moaned when he tongued her from behind, face buried deep, nose pressed to her crack like he was trying to breathe in her sin. Didn’t mention how she trembled when he bent her over and spread her knees wide, pussy glistening and twitching like it was begging to be fed on. Didn’t speak on how her breath hitched when he whispered “Good girl” against her throat, voice thick and hungry, or how she begged—begged—for him to spank the holy right outta her, crying out every time his palm met her ass, soaking his lap like a filthy little church slut.

Nope.

Stack didn’t say a word.

He just flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushed it beneath a polished heel, and turned back toward The Blackline, “You have a good night now, Reverend.” He paused, smirking over his shoulder, “Oh—and can you keep that bell tolling to a minimum? You spookin’ my girls.”

Mary.

You were heart broken, blowing up his pager in hopes to get some sort of answers from him - but he ignored you like the plague. Which meant you two were done.

"Who all gone be there?" You asked Pearline, careful hands slowly painted your big toe with cherry nail polish.

"Everybody, that's why you should come - it'll be fun!" She replied, you could tell she was hiding something from you.

"Who is everybody?"

A pause lingered onto the conversation, which earned an eye roll from you.

Of course...He'd be there.

News spread like wild fire around the neighborhood about the twins coming back home; you couldn't avoid the whispers about them. You were cool with Smoke - even though he kept to himself and was hard to read, but you knew he was a genuine man that held good morals within his heart.

But Stack?

He was a trifling ass man who only looked out for himself - though you did admire his fierce loyalty he had for his brother and little cousin, Sammie. But you wished that his loyalty extended towards you.

"I'm not goin', sorry sis. You have fun, though." You said cutting through the tension between you and Pearline - which made her sigh in annoyance.

"You not even gonna see him, I doubt he'd be there."

"Isn't the party at Smoke's place? You think his twin brother ain't gonna be there? Please, Stack follows Smoke around like his damn shadow." You shot back in a matter of fact tone. She couldn't argue against you about it - you were right.

If you saw one twin, the other was close by.

"Please, please come with me! I know you're still raw about it--"

"You goddamn right I'm still raw. Pearline, he left me without giving me the courtesy of tellin' me and on top of that, after everything I did for his sorry ass, he went and fucked that bitch Mary!" You shouted, cutting your friend off in the middle of her sentence.

"Swear words." Your baby niece chimed in, ear hustling the conversation you had on the phone, she couldn't understand what you were talking about due to her age, but you gave her a light mean mug - not serious enough to hurt her feelings.

"You stay outta grown folks business, watch the show or Imma kick you out my room." You reprimanded which made the girl turn her attention back onto the cartoon. A chuckle hit your ear again, Pearline's light laughter made you playfully roll your eyes.

"Look, sis. I get it - I do. But I know you don't wanna be sittin' in that hot ass house sad all night. Come out with me! Enjoy some good food, music, 'allat stuff. Fuck him, don't let him ruin your mood," she then paused as and you could tell she was smiling from ear to ear. "And some fine ass men will be there - single. It's about time you broke that dry spell."

You thought about the words she said and you thought about the pros and cons of going to the party. The pros: free booze, free bud, good music, great food, seeing friends, and potentially getting flattered by some fine ass dudes.

Cons: Elias "Stack" Moore.

"If I come you better make sure you keep him away from me." You whispered out, closing the nail polish and placing it on your wooden end table, a high pitch static scream of excitement pierced your ear through the phone - a smile clinging to your face.

"Ah! Of course! I'll come over at three - I need you to fix my hair; this girl I went to fucked me up."

"I told you! You should've just waited for me to do it."

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

If it was hot inside - it was scorching outside. Sweat already formed on your body as you and Pearline walked side by side towards Smoke's home - the sound of music blast through the speakers and the smell of barbeque floated within the air made your mouth slightly water. You were ready to dance and eat. Tucking your braids behind your ear, you Pearline towards the backyard were the party resided. Opening the chain linked gate - her eyes lit up as she saw Sammie walking towards her.

"Hey, baby," He said, planting a tender kiss on her lips, holding her close towards his body. His brown irises then landed on you, giving you a warm smile. "Whatssup?" Sammie greeted you and you gave him a quick hello.

"I didn't think you was coming." Sammie chuckled out as his arm wrapped around Pearline's shoulders, lovingly leaning his weight slightly on her smaller frame.

"I wasn't - but your lil' girlfriend forced me." You jested back, which made Pearline dramatically gasp, her hand playfully slapping the warm skin on your arm.

"Sounds like her, c'mon, it's hot out here, I know you ladies could use a cold drink." Sammie tilted his head back towards the crowd that danced in the large backyard, signaling for you to follow him. The thumping of music reverberated through your body as you followed behind the couple, passing the speakers and towards the multiple coolers, 'hellos' rolling off of your lips as you briefly greeted familiar faces you saw around the neighborhood. Pearline was right - everyone was here.

"Water, beer, soda, or juice?" Sammie asked.

"Water, please." Pearline spoke as she rubbed Sammie's back, her giddy smile never fading.

"Ugh, ya'll don't got liquor?" You asked, trying your best to mask your slightly annoyed face - but Sammie could tell you weren't feeling the options he gave. With a chuckle, handing Pearline a water bottle he spoke: "We don't, technically. It's bring your own booze - but since we know you; ask Smoke, he got some stashed away, only for family."

"And I'm guessing that's the same for bud, too?" You asked with crossed arms, and Sammie nodded.

"Yea', but you're a girl, I doubt you have trouble findin' somebody who let you face a blunt or two." Sammie shrugged, which earned a jab to the side from Pearline, he quickly reassured he was only kidding.

But you knew there was some truth to within his joke. You're a pretty girl - and most of these men at the party were thirsty just to be in your presence.

"Well I ain't gonna hover over ya'll all night, I'm gonna find Smoke - I need a shot," you said but before you left you took one last gaze at Pearline, her brown eyes gazing back at you knowingly. "Make sure he don't come nowhere near me - let me know if you see him..."

"Mhm, don't worry about it." She replied.

Pushing through the crowd your eyes scanned multiple faces, trying to find the older twin within all the commotion. Couples grind against each other, oldheads getting drunk off of beers, and multiple friend groups huddled up. Some playing cards while others shared neighborhood gossip. The backyard was packed and you were thankful that there were trees around, creating multiple shady spots to cool off when needed. Noticing a familiar face leaning against a tree you slyly walked over towards him, a soft smile clinging onto your plump lips.

"Ah! If it isn't lil' big brother!" You shouted slightly over the blaring music, making Smoke snap his head towards you. Chewing on a toothpick that rested in his mouth he dipped his head towards you in respect. Smoke looked so different than the last time you saw him, he was taller and he had a stronger built. Smoke was never a scrawny man - but you could tell that he's been in the gym as his thick biceps flex with each movements of his arms.

"Whatssup," Smoke said as a sliver of a smile danced on his lips. He gave you a side hug, squeezing your shoulder slightly before letting go of you. "How you been?"

"Been better, hangin' in there, you know how it is. But whatssup with you? The big city got too small for ya'll?" You asked, you were nosy and you were unsuccessfully dry begging some information on Stack - and it seemed like Smoke could tell your intentions. Yes, you didn't want to be around Stack - and yes, you despise that man. But you also still have some love for him, even if it pained you to admit that. He held you down through some of your darkest hours; during those days were you didn't have the strength to get out of bed. Sticking to guy code and loyalty to his little brother, Smoke wouldn't spill anything to you and he shrugged his shoulders.

"Somethin' like that." He muttered as his brown eyes flicked towards the crowd quickly, making sure that people wouldn't get too rowdy in his backyard.

"Mhm, still tightlipped as ever," you sighed, resting your hands on your hips. "Sammie told me to talk to you about getting some liquor - ya'll got tequila?"

"Light or dark?"

"Dark - you already know I don't drink that light shit." You answered. Smoke tilted his head towards his home, pulling the toothpick out of his mouth as he muttered - he didn't want the party patrons getting the idea of raiding his liquor cabinet. Or worse; pestering him to spare a bottle or two.

"Inside, pass the kitchen, turn on your left. Should see a cabinet with what you lookin for." Smoke quickly replied, his deep southern accent cutting through the loud bass of the music playing.

"Thanks, Smoke."

"Don't let nobody know where you got it from and keep them outta my house. Bad enough these folks trashin' my backyard."

You gave Smoke a wide and toothy smile - some of your teeth were covered in gold caps, they weren't permanents like Smoke's or Stack's - but you would always wear them when 'special' occasions happened. And besides Stack gifted them to you on your birthday; one of the gems that adorned your gold teeth was your birthstone.

Weaving through the dancing crowd your shoulders brushing against distant relatives and strangers you would see around the neighborhood. The sweet barbeque smoke curled into the thick summer air - the smell of cooked meat, spices, and vegetables cutting through the scent of sweat, weed smoke, and spilled beer. Passing through a group that huddled around a small folding table the sound of glass bottles clinking against each other and cheers made you smile.

Today was a good day, you loved being around such good vibrations.

Stepping up onto the cracked slab of the concrete patio, your hands yanked open the sticky glass sliding door that separated the backyard chaos and the calm empty house. The air inside of the home was cooler - quieter, and the shadows from the sun setting crept across the wooden floors. With a grunt you slide the door closed and the muffling bass of the music was still heard through the thick walls. Smoke's home smelled like strong incense, lemon scented cleaner, sage, and fresh linen.

Annie had definitely been here prior.

Moving with purpose now, the sound of your sneakers squeaking against the wooden floor revibrated through you and your eyes scanned for the liquor cabinet - following the directions Smoke gave you. Turning the corner your irises were met with a large brown cabinet that was filled to the brim with all sorts of spirits and drinks. Making a brisk track towards it your hand ghosted over the handle, pulling open the glass door and reaching in to grab the bottle of tequila. Reposado - your favorite.

The bottle was full and the glass was slightly cold under your warm hands, with a sigh of victory you turned on your heel to make your way back outside. But then you paused. Standing in the small hallway of the home your eyes lingered on the golden sunrays that pooled onto the floor, the front door of the home was open, only the thin mesh of the screen door was holding back the bugs and summer air from entering. You knew Smoke wouldn't be the type to just let his front door wide open - even if him and half of the men in this party weren't lacking any 'peacekeepers', you're sure it would bother him if someone he didn't know would stumble into his home causing trouble.

Walking towards the open door in an attempt to close it shut, your legs turned into jelly and your heart raced as if you just got done running a marathon. Across the small stretch of dead grass on the front lawn and cracked pavement on the side walk, your irises lingered onto him.

Stack.

He sat lazily in the diver seat of the light brown lowrider, it's rims obnoxiously gaudy, they were gold and it seemed like wheels could barely fit the body of the car. The engine was off but he sat with the car door wide open, surrounded by some guys you met in passing through the neighborhood - his friends. Laughing too loud their words exchanged between each other were sharp and quick witted, yet long and casual like summer itself.

Stack was shining in gold like always, but now you've noticed he adorned more accessories than the last time you saw him. Multiple golden chains rested around his neck, gold glistening from the sunlight as he adjusted his watch that wrapped around his wrist, and the bright red color gem stones shined within the rings that he wore.

Smoke wore some jewelry too. Three chains - one of them was a Jesus piece - a watch and golden teeth just on the side of his mouth. His jewelry wasn't extravagant but anyone with a good eye could tell it was expensive. But Stack? He looked as if he was a pharaoh - the he himself was made out of gold.

A red tee balled up in Stack's lap, revealing his strong biceps and arms, the white tank top clung onto his skin and the soft cotton only accentuated his muscles even more. You remember those long winter nights of running your hands over his hard chest, feeling each and ever dip and valley of the muscles on his body. How your lips would kiss his abs, trailing down lower and lower...

He looked good.

All you could do was just watch and stare, the tequila bottle hanging loosely in your hands, dangerously close to dropping the glass bottle. Your reservations about seeing him melted away, you wanted to open the door and call out his name - to see if he still felt the same way about you. But then the memories of him ghosting you, ignoring any and all attempts of you reaching out to him; and the fact that he had another girl on the side made the butterflies in your stomach turn sickening.

With a bitter chuckle to yourself, you turned on your heel and made your way back towards the party.

This night will interesting to say the least.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

A few hours passed and the sky melted into a deep burnt orange color as the sun dipped behind the multiple rooftops, disappearing from the sky in due time. The orange and scorching glow washed over the multiple brown bodies that danced on the makeshift dancefloor, red plastic cups and sweat-slicked skin shined brightly within the summer afternoon.

The party didn't slow though - it only grew louder, brighter, more alive as more people showed up. You were feeling good - no, you were feeling great. The multiple shots of tequila you shared with Pearline pushed away all the negative emotions you felt hours prior, not to mention the sun that nipped at your skin made you a little bit sun-drunk. The burn of the liquor grounded you - and you were laughing again - joking with Pearline as you both swatting away dudes who couldn't get the hint that ya'll weren't interested.

You told Pearline that you saw Stack earlier and she asked if you wanted to leave - she reassured that she'd leave with you without complaints - but you told her it was fine, as long as Stack kept his distance you'd gladly stay.

"He's not gonna mess with you, sis. I got you" Pearline whispered in your ear with a supportive smile dancing on her lips. You nodded your head as you reached for the juice - using it as a chaser to kill the bite from the tequila shots. Both of you sat side by side on cheap plastic chairs, your knees touching against hers. Sammie who was once standing besides Pearline now stood in front of the patio, he was DJing now and your eyes would flick between Pearline and Sammie as she shouted cheers.

They were cute together, like lovesick school kids.

Sammie was in the zone, his head nodding with the thunderous beat and skillful fingers glide across the board, and the bass from the chopped and screwed beat rippled through the joyous crowd. Your smile widen now, showing of the golden grills that adorn your teeth, and your body relaxed into the rhythm and for a moment you almost forgot about Stack.

Almost.

Your eyes noticed the backdoor sliding open and there he was in all of his glory.

Stack.

He was wearing that same balled up red Nike shirt from earlier, shielding the white cotton tank, but you could see the soft fabric peaking through the collar and under the chains around his neck. He moved with purpose as he stepped down the concrete slab; making his way towards the party. That same easy going smile that you use to worship danced across his handsome face, gold teeth catching the light of the ember sunset. He dapped up Sammie, whispering something in the younger cousin's ear, which made him shake his head with a small laughter escaping his lips. And his focus was placed on the DJ board again.

Stack dapped up the people who were brave enough to say hello, he was like a magnet that pulled people's attention towards him without even trying. And even though the sun heat rays beat down on you - an oppressive chill ran cold through your body as he went deeper into the party - towards you.

The tequila and juice twisted within your stomach and your breathing became rapid - you weren't the type of get sick off of liquor - you can handle your drink. But seeing Stack, the heat, and the unfortunate decision of taking a few shots without eating first made you dizzy. Pearline noticed your once mellow mood turning sour and without a word she placed a calming touch on your thigh. Your eyes met with hers briefly and she whispered affirmations in your ear - telling you to take a deep breath and that you both could leave now.

You told her it was okay between long breathes, but your jaw was clenched tight and your hands gripped onto the plastic arm rest of the chair, your leg bouncing with rapid successions. Her hand didn't leave your skin as she handed you a cold bottle of water - and you chugged the bottle as if you've haven't drank anything in days.

Brown familiar irises flicked towards you and your eyes widen like saucers, as if you saw a ghost. Stack noticed you; of course he did. He could pick you out any crowd like it was nothing - like it was second nature to him. His smile curled up in a mischievous grin, but that smile wasn't full of an apology nor regret of hurting you so bad - but instead his golden grin was laced with nothing but cockiness that use to send butterflies to your core, making your heart race with desire and need.

It still did.

With a tilt of his head, Stack signaled you to come over to him, as if nothing problematic happened between the two of you - as if he never left you high and dry. You didn't move, you barely even flinched and you broke eye contact with him, your gaze lingering on the card game that was happening behind you. Slim was chattering away about how folks just don't know how to play the game. The biting warmth of the tequila was now replaced with a cold sting in your heart, you hope that Stack would cut his losses and leave you alone.

But that wasn't him, he never gave up.

Leaning off of the wooden fence he casual shuffled through the dancing crowd, people stepped out of his way without him even uttering a single word while his eyes were still trained on you. He reached you and Pearline within seconds.

She stood up from the chair, her hands resting on her hips as she spoke: "Uh, uh. Not tonight, boy."

But Stack was barely moved by her warning as his smirk only grew. Raising his hands up in a playful display of innocence his dark eyes flicked between you and Pearline who shielded you from his sultry gaze.

"Relax," Stack casually said as he placed his hands to sides, his head lulling back to see your expressions at hearing his voice. "I ain't here to start no drama. This a party, I just wanted to know if ya'll enjoyin' it, that's all."

But he was only met with silence from you and Pearline. You were still sitting in the plastic chair, your arms crossed over your chest as Stack's intense gaze never left your body. You wore a baby blue color tube top with dark acid washed shorts that stopped just above the curve of your ass, and your white Nike cortez with blue accents kicked at the small patch of dirt.

Your eyes refuse to even look at him.

"Damn, baby. You still mad at me?" Stack chuckled out with a knowing glint in his eyes - he was loving the tension between the two of you, even as toxic as it sounded - he liked when you were pissed off, it made him feel wanted and desired. It also didn't hurt that the make up sex would be more tender the angrier he made you.

You replied with a short irritated grunt and leered at him, giving off the vibe of 'don't test me', and your body stayed stock still in the chair. A small laugh escaped Stack's plump lips, he knew he was getting under your skin - and he soaked up each and every annoyed sigh you sent his way.

Stack's intense gaze pulled away from you and landed on Slim who slammed down a playing card on the plastic table. The older man was complaining about the new age music that was popular today.

"Slim, whatssup with you, unc?" Stack called out, which made Slim's face lit up. They both dapped each other up as the older man reclaimed his seat.

"Nothin' much, just tellin' these cats about some real music. None of that 'bitches and hoes' nonsense ya'll be listing to," Slim then took a sip from his flask, his face twisting at the bitter taste of liquor hitting his lips. "What happen to lovin' a woman, cherishin' her - takin' her out and bein' tender on her. Nowadays I wonder if ya'll actually love these queens."

"Look man; I ain't got love for these hoes, the only thing I love is pussy and money - ain't nobody tryna hear all that mushy shit tonight." Stack laughed, which earn a roar of chuckles from the men that were playing cards with Slim - some of them even dapped up Stack at his statement. Slim shook his head and waved his hand towards Stack, as if shooing him away.

But his harsh words stung at your heart and the burning sensations of tears nipped at your eyes, Pearline noticed this but before she could comfort you - you pushed yourself out of the chair, the legs of it scrapped against the concrete, silencing the laughter between the men. You raced towards the crowd as you made your way to Smoke's house. Multiple eyes followed you pushing through the dancefloor. Pearline glared at Stack and something within the man tinged with remorse.

He finally realized that you were hurt and that this wasn't a game anymore.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The house was empty and the tequila in your veins burned with heartbreak and rage. Your legs rushed down the hallway and with hasty movements you flung open the bathroom door, slamming it loudly behind you. Cold tile met the burning skin of your back as your hands shielded your face, your breath hitching within your throat until it finally snapped like a rubber band.

Tears spilled freely from your eyes, slipping pass the cracks between your fingers as your body shook with each wail. With trembling lips your mind raced. You thought that you could handle it, that seeing him wouldn't wound you. But hearing Stack talk as if nothing mattered, as if he wasn't even affected by your presence made you feel hollow inside. He didn't just leave - he thrown you away. And that shit cuts deep, it felt like a knife hit your gut from his casual actions towards you.

A knock cut through your cries as your head throb with an ache, inhaling the sharp cold bathroom air your fingers wiped away the smeared makeup on your face due to the tears.

"Yea', you can come in." You whispered out, you assumed that Pearline was on the other side of the door - it made sense because only close friends of the twins were allowed to enter the vacant house. The sound of the door creaking open sent a wave of embarrassment through you.

But it wasn't Pearline your eyes were meet with.

It was Stack.

Stepping inside of the small bathroom he quietly closed the door behind him. His expression was different from the charming smile he wore prior to making you cry, all the jokes and cocky aura melted away like ice under the heat of the Mississippi sun. Guilt tugged Stack's face as he looked over your tear stained cheeks, your mascara running and your cherry red lipgloss slightly smeared from your hands pressing closely to your face.

"I-I didn't know you were cryin'." Stack muttered softly, his body leaning on the door and his brown eyes refusing to leave your shaking form. You didn't reply to him and you bit your lip, the gold teeth in your mouth slightly jabbing against the plump skin on your bottom lip. Glaring at Stack through glossy eyes you shook your head - you were growing tired of his antics.

"Hey, I didn't come in here to hurt you I just--"

"But you did hurt me, Stack! You did!" You shouted, cutting him off from his rambling. Your arms were crossed around yourself in an attempt to self soothe the anxiety that was threatening to spill over. Silence fell over the two of you and his eyes soften at your words.

"You left me like I wasn't shit. No goodbyes, not even a fuckin' breakup call! A-And then I find out you cheated on me with some bitch who lives in the suburbs," you shook your head as a pained smile danced across your lips, and with teary eyes you continued. "And now you show up and act like nothin' happened between us - you're such a joke, Stack."

Stack looked down as his hands rested in the pockets of his pants, guilt crashing into him like waves in a tsunami. He felt like shit hearing those words escape from your mouth - but those words were the truth - the bitter truth. He wasn't a good boyfriend to you; yes he took care of you, he praised you, and he adored you - but good to you? That wasn't the case. He treated you like a random fling even though the feelings he felt about you were so much more intense.

"I'm a coward," Stack mumbled. "I-I just didn't know how to be with you and still become the man I wanted to be."

"Oh, boo-hoo! You ain't even try!" You snapped as your voice cracked with each word you cried out, you hated how hurt you sounded and how raw you felt. Stack didn't flinch at your words and with a roll of his shoulders he spoke again, his southern accent curling around your ears like music.

"I was scared, I thought if I left without tellin', you'd realize that I'm no good - that you'll move on to someone better," he stepped closer towards you and the feeling of his shirt lightly grazing the exposed skin of your crossed arms. "But when I came back in town; I asked about you, and I was happy to know that you were still here - that maybe I could start over and fix this shit."

The air between you two were thicker now, more intense, and you couldn't take your eyes off of Stack.

You didn't want to.

"I never stopped thinkin' about you," he whispered low. "Even when I tried to, you were always on my mind when I left, I damn near felt lost without you."

"Then why you actin' like I never meant anything to you?"

Stack's lips twitched and his expression looked like he was scanning his scattered thoughts, as if trying to find the right words to say. His large and calloused hand reached out slowly, hovering over your arms, unsure if he could touch you without you swatting his hand away.

"Because if I admit to myself just how much you mean to me; then I woulda had to realize that I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me too..."

A tight lump formed in your throat at his words, you wanted to scream in his face, to push him out the bathroom and tell him to leave you alone - forever.

But you didn't.

You just stared at him as your chest heaved with shallow breaths. You hated him, you loved him, you missed him, and you never wanted to see him again. Your hands moved as if they had a mind of their own and you rested them on his broad shoulders, the feeling of the soft fabric under your fingers sent shockwaves and aching desire towards your core. Stack was the man that ruined you - but he was also the same one who built you up when no one would have.

Stack shuttered out a sigh of relief under your touch, as if feeling your hand press against his tense muscles was all he needed. His strong arms wrapped around your waist tightly, pulling your frame towards his, and his forehead rested on your bare shoulder. The party that was just outside of the door was muffled by the heavy breathing that escaped both of your lungs.

Leaving his head from the crook of your neck - both of your eyes clashed with each other - neither one of you breaking the intense gaze. And with a passing second your lips met his, the kiss was soft as if your bodies were trying to get reacquainted with each other, and his strong hands raced over your backside - clinging onto you as if you'd disappear from his touch.

The once soft kiss grew deeper - more hungry. And your fingers interlocked behind his head, the cold feeling of the multiple chains he wore grazed your knuckles. Tears still clung onto your long lashes as Stack cupped your face in his hand, both of your tongues fighting and dancing against each other. The taste of weed and alcohol filled your mouth as his bit your lip, begging you if he could go further pass just kissing.

You knew that you shouldn't do this; he hadn't earn to touch you like this again, he hadn't fix the broken heart that he shattered brutally, and he hadn't changed enough to re-enter your life as if he never left. But your heart, so tender and pure, still remembered those nights were he held you close. Making love to you and touching you places where only he knew that made you shiver in ecstasy.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you, Stack."

"I know, baby. But lemme show you how much I missed you."

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

You and Stack slipped through the dark and quiet home like ghosts, his strong hands held your waist flush against his body as he guided you through the dark hallways of his older brother's house. The wooden floorboards creaked and groan beneath your feet with each step you both took. Stack's lips brushed the soft skin of your shoulder, placing tender kisses up your neck - just stopping below your ear.

You could feel his growing bulge pressing against your ass as his steady and firm hands grasp at your waist, a shiver of delight rushed through your body as memories of him fucking you made the ache between your thighs grow in anticipation. You grinded your self onto Stack which only made him quicken the pace through the house.

Your pulsed quicken under his open mouth and you could feel him smiling against your skin, cutting through the neat living room, you and Stack reached the guest bedroom. With careful hands he slowly turned the knob and his head lulling back to make sure no one saw the two of you sneaking inside of the bedroom. When the coast was clear - you both shuffled into the room. His arm still wrapped around your waist and quiet click was heard, he locked the door making sure no one would interrupt the two of you.

The once burnt orange of the evening sunset had faded away; now the blue shadows of nighttime crept into the dark room, the silver moonlight pooling across the empty bed and you turned on your heel, crashing your lips against his and his hands squeezing your ass. You gasp at the feeling of his ring slightly scraping against the skin of your ass, which made him deepen the kiss again. Your hands tightly gripped his shirt within your fist, pulling him closer until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed.

Stack adjusted his body weight as he hovered over you, making sure that he wouldn't crush you underneath him, and the sound of his jewelry clinking against each other made your head spin. You bit his lip as he pulled away from the kiss, which earned a low hiss from him. You smiled lazily as his knowing hands traced over the hem of your shorts, his fingers tracing small shapes over the denim pockets until they landed on the button.

You began to kick your shoes off as Stack unbutton your shorts, your lip tugged between your teeth as you watched his movements. The sound of the zipper becoming undone made a wave of arousal clung at your already soaking pussy and your hips slightly bucked forward as Stack slowly pulled your shorts off, leaning on your forearms you raised your hips - helping him slip off the denim on your body.

All you wore now was your tube top, cotton panties with a small bow at the waistband, and white cotton socks. He reached for your shirt but you swatted his hands away from the thin fabric.

"If I take a piece of clothing off it's only fair that you do too." You whispered, showing off the golden grills that Stack gifted you years ago. Seeing your already beautiful smile made his heart flutter - but the sight of you with golden capped teeth made his already stiffening member grow even harder - the man was straining against his pants.

With nimble fingers Stack pulled off his shirt along with the tight beater that clung onto his hard muscles, he was shirtless now and his multiple chains glistened under the moonlight - the diamonds danced against his brown skin and it looked as if he himself was glowing. Laying on his back you straddled him and your hands steered his towards your top, his chestnut colored irises lit up when he felt your breast through your shirt.

"When you get your titties pierced?" He asked as he pinched the sensitive buds on your chest, making you grind your soaking core against his jeans, you could feel his dick twitch within his pants as you continue to rock your hips.

"A couple of weeks after you left; I wanted somethin' different."

"Fuck, baby. Lemme see 'em." Stack requested as both of your hands slipped off the blue top over your head. A small giggle escaped your lips at the sight of his face; his mouth went slack and his eyes were glued to your half nude body. His calloused hands raced across your skin and the sound of him kicking off his sneakers made you look back and with strong arms he pulled himself towards the headboard of the bed with you still sitting on his lap.

Once situated his hands cupped your breast and his thumbs slowly rolled over the pierced buds, slightly pressing down on the silver jewelry that adorn your chest, a shiver ran up your spine as you moaned out his name. You nipples were already sensitive, but after getting them pierced that sensitivity doubled, and you were practically shaking within Stack's arms.

With one hand he pinched your nipple, the sharp yet pleasurable sensation zapped through your body and straight to your aching pussy, his free hand held onto your hip as he lowered his head and latched his mouth onto your breast. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked your nipple, his teeth slightly pulling at the jewelry. Your nails dug into his strong shoulders as you threw your head back, encouraging words fell from your lips as you begged him to keep going and how good you were already feeling.

Stack hummed against your chest and your hand lovely stroked his hair carefully as to not mess up his waves. His tongue swirled your nipple as he helped you grind yourself on his hard dick, he still had his pants on as his hips bucked into you. With a wet pop, he release your breast from his mouth, biting his lip when your eyes connected again.

"You're too damn sexy, baby. I need to taste her. It's been too long and I know she misses me..." Stack whispered against your chest. He would always refer to your pussy as 'she' or 'her' when he got in this mood.

And you loved it.

"Feel how much she missed you, baby." You said into his open mouth as your hand guided his towards your wet sex, you still wore your panties but that didn't stop Stack from rubbing small circles on your clothed clit while his ring finger pressed against your entrance through the thin fabric. You humped against his hand which made a chuckle fall from his hips, his eyes trained on the movements of your hips against hand.

"Take these off, they gettin' in the way." He stated, which you gladly did, listening to his demand without a second thought. Leaning on his back against the soft blanket of the bed your breast pressed firmly onto his hard and well trained muscles on his chest. Your hips rising off of his body as you slide your panties off, kicking the soaked fabric off of your legs.

With a quick peck on the lips, Stack guided you to climb higher, your exposed pussy now in view as your hands rested on the headboard. Stack rested his head on the many pillows within the bed and his warm breath against your thigh made you tremble in anticipation. Lowering your hips with his hands, you were now sitting on his face, and his tongue flatten against your clit. Rolling your hips you began to ride his face, his tongue lazily yet full of expertise swiped across your aching entrance.

The tip of his tongue circled your clit and the rough feeling of his grills rubbing against the sensitive bud as he raced his tongue across your sex made you shiver. Stack's strong hands held onto your hips as he guided them against the movements of his tongue, with a vice grip you held onto the wooden headboard, and your eyes gazed down at the man. His brown eyes looked up at you, soaking up all of the curves on your body and the sweet taste of your pussy that danced on his tongue made him roll his eyes back in pleasure.

"Ugh, fuck!" You groaned out as your hips bucked against his face. Stack's lips wrapped around your clit, sucking on the sensitive bud and the overbearing sensation made you lean forward; resting your cheek on the headboard. You chanted out Stack's name - his actual name - as if it was a holy hymn. Hearing his name roll sweetly off of your tongue made Stack's head spin, and with strong arms he held onto your waist, leaning himself over.

You let out a small yelp in surprise as your once steady grip on the headboard disappeared - now replaced with soft bedsheets. Your body weight rested on your shoulders and your legs were up in the air, Stack's arms were wrapped around your torso, pulling you close to his muscular chest. Working over your core Stack slowly slipped his middle finger inside you and the feeling of his rings grazing your clit earned a giggle of pleasure from you.

With precise movements Stack moved his hand, pressing his finger in and out of your pussy as his lips kissed your inner thigh, and the feeling of his mustache tickled at your skin. Your hands rested on the bedsheets, gripping the fabric within your fist. Stack added another finger in, the wet sounds of your pussy echoed through the room, and the slick sounds only made him speed up his movements.

Stack's fingers were now fully inside of you, his ring and middle finger filling you up as they skillfully worked over your core. High pitched moans fell from your lips as your feet fluttered from the pleasure, and the familiar intense feeling swarmed towards your core. Stack pulled his mouth away from your pussy as his fingers began fucking into you. He whispered promises to you that you know he'd never keep, but in this moment you believed every word he spoke - lapping up those lies as if they were dipped in honey.

Within an instant a wave of euphoria crashed into you and a loud cry of pleasure escaped your lungs. Your body trembled within his vice grip, trying it's best to regulate itself from experiencing coming so hard on his thick fingers.

"Mhm, just like that, baby." Stack praised with a cocky smile plastered on his handsome face, his fingers continued to thrust into your sensitive core, which earned a cry from overstimulation from you. Your hands clung onto his forearms in an attempt to slow the pace of his fingers, taking the hint he slowly pulled them out of you, and with a playful slap against your pussy - he released you from his tight grasp - your body laying limp on the bed as he stood up.

Catching your breath your eyes danced over Stack's toned body, his hands unbuckling his belt, slipping off his jeans and boxers in one swift movement freeing himself. Stack was big, and each time he would fuck you after a fight, you'd walk with a limp the next day. His thick and heavy member twitched with anticipation of fucking you again after all these years. Stack's mind would wonder towards your body when he would touch himself or decided to fuck some random woman he would entertain during those grueling years in Chicago.

But his hands weren't yours and those women weren't you.

Pumping himself with his hand Stack flipped you over onto your stomach, pulling you close to him so your lower half dangled off the edge of the bed. You looked over your shoulder as you watched Stack's face twist with pleasure as he slowly entered you.

"Fuck..." He groaned out as his hands held onto your hips. The feeling of your pussy squeezing around him almost made him come right then and there, he was convinced that you both were made for each other - you were the only woman who could have that kind of effect on his body by just entering. Pushing himself all the way in, he paused his hips, savoring the feeling of you, and also helping you adjust yourself to him. You were so tight and so wet, he could stay in your pussy for hours if you let him.

"C'mon, Elias..." You begged as you began rocking your hips, urging the man to fuck you, which he gladly did. High pitched grunts fell from your lips with each thrust he made and the arch in your back became to much to support by yourself, his strong arms pushed you flush against the bed while holding your waist to keep your back arched against his powerful thrust of his hips. Your legs turned into jelly as they shook underneath you and your feet barely touched the ground - you were practically standing on the tips of your toes.

"Keep fucking me, keep fucking me!" You begged out between moans, Stack was rendered to only grunts and groans, but that didn't stop him from replying to you - in his own way of course. With a swift smack he landed a sharp slap against the plush skin of your ass, making you hiss out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. He continued fucking into you, smacking your ass, and holding your waist in a vice grip.

You sure you'll have bruises later.

Leaning upwards you turned your head with your mouth open, signaling to him that you wanted a kiss. Stack's needy lips crashed into yours as your tongue danced across his, you could taste how sweet you truly were on his lips and mustache. Your golden grills bumped into his in the passionate make-out session and his heavy body was leaning flush against your sweaty back. His chest heaved shallow breaths as his hips sporadically bucked into you - feeling his hard cock inside of you twitch you knew he was close.

And so you were.

Pulling away from the sloppy kiss, the string of saliva that connected between both of your bottom lips snapped, and Stack rested his head onto your shoulder. The same familiar feeling of overbearing pleasure that needed to be alleviated came back within your abdomen, and with a loud cry you came on Stack's dick. Your eyes rolled back as your fist gripped the bedsheets below you.

"Damn, baby. W-Where you want it?"

"Inside me, baby."

And without missing a beat Stack came too, a guttural groan reverberated through his body and crashed into you. The feeling of his hard jewelry pressing into your back grounded you as you catch your breathe, and the warm feeling of his come filling you up made you smile in relief. You both paused your movements and Stack was still inside of you, rolling his shoulders he slowly pulled out of you - which made you groan from the sensation. You rested your sore body onto the bed and your cheek rested on a soft pillow. Stack smiled as he playfully patted your ass.

"Good shit, baby." He smiled which made you roll your eyes, turning your head to look away from him, trying your best to kind the lopsided smile that clung onto your lips.

"You're so annoy--" but before you could finish your statement a sharp knock was heard on the door, the handle violently jiggling between each knock.

"Stack? I know ya'll ain't in there doin' what I think ya'll doin'!" The voice of Smoke shouted behind the lock door. Stack spat out a 'shit' and quickly sat up from the bed, putting on his boxers as he wiped his face with the back of his hand that was covered in your juices. You sat up and your eyes widen in alarm as you reached for your clothes, but Stacked waved at you to stop your movements.

Unlocking the door Stack's body stood in front of the small crack, hiding your naked form. Hushed whispers were shared between the twins and you assumed that Stack was getting cursed out by his older brother and with a sharp: "Clean that fuckin' room before ya'll leave." Smoke slipped away from the door, which made Stack shout back in his usual playful tone.

"I was already gon' do that!" And he closed the door behind him, sucking his teeth as he threw himself onto the bed next to you, making you bounce a bit from his added weight on the mattress. Brown eyes stared into each other as silence now fell over the two of you. Leaning in to close the space between each other Stack ran his fingers through your hair, tucking the braid behind your ear, and the sound of his chains clinking against each other made you ease under his touch.

"I'm so tender on you, girl...I promise I'll do right by you; just give me another chance." Stack whispered, his eyes training on your features as you bit your lip. You were terrified of being hurt by him again, but you were also scared living the rest of your days without feeling his touch too. Reaching for his shoulder you pulled him closer towards you - your lips ghosting over his and you finally gave him your answer.

their attention turned back to you as smoke made his way to you, finally kissing you into the pillow your head was resting on.

he leaned in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. his hand brushes your jaw, gentle at first, then firmer, anchoring you to the moment. your heart stumbles as his mouth meets yours—slow, searching, then deeper, urgent. his lips taste like heat and want, and when he presses closer, it's as if the rest of the world falls away.

you respond without thinking, your fingers clutching his shirt, needing him nearer. the kiss burns—soft and rough all at once—leaving you breathless, undone beneath his touch.

as if on cue, while smoke kissed you, stack made his way to between your legs that he peeled open softly while gripping the flesh of your thighs for underneath your skirt. he hiked it up and kissed his way up your inner thigh, the proximity to his goal arousing him.

smoke pulled away, his hand snaking to underneath your top as he massaged your breast, his hand following your chests up-and-down movement. before you knew it, stack had pulled your underwear to the side, and you jumped when you felt his tongue lick a long, teasing stripe up your slit.

"o-oh my- what are you-!?" your cheeks heated up when you felt him smile against your cunt. you could not see him, as he was underneath your skirt, but the sensation of his warm breath on your now exposed skin had you throbbing. "you better not be messin' around under there, stack." smoke warned, which earned him another chuckle from the twin. "you'd be surprised."

smoke went back to distracting you from the overwhelming sensation of stack eating you out, pulling top down your shoulder to expose your breasts more. he leaned in once more, "may I?" and you nodded, before his lips landed on your nipple while the other one was being rolled between his finger tips.

"oh lord- my gosh! shit-" you kept cutting yourself off with your own moans, each sensation one upping the other. the feeling of smoke's warm tongue against your nipple had your back arching, aching for more.

but what you really felt was stack's eager tongue on your cunt. he was licking up and down, the tip of his tongue bumping against your clit which had your hips bucking slightly. he kissed the bud softly before diving in completely, sucking on it harshly which had you whining. then, he angled his head lower, and his tongue penetrated you slowly. you gasped, not used to the feeling of penetration.

smoke took advantage of your opened mouth and plunged two rough fingers inside it, pressing against your tongue as you instinctively sucked on them. "you feel that? you feel him making you feel good, sweetheart?" he began and you clenched around stack's tongue, making him grin.

"look at you, baby. we just began and you're already whining." he leans in to kiss your cheek, "ain't you lucky that we're the ones taking care of a sweet girl like you? huh?" you nodded eagerly, moaning around his wet fingers when you felt stack's tongue curve onto itself, grazing a spongey spot with its tip that had your eyes rolling back.

"you got a finger in?" smoke turned to stack, who pulled away from your cunt to hike your skirt up higher, completely exposing your lower body. he was sweating, you noticed. "nah, just my tongue. I'm about to put one in, though." smoke nodded, turning back to you, only to see that your eyes have already rolled back again—stack put a long finger inside, and he was unforgiving. his pace was relentless, quick and easy, slamming his palm onto your clit.

"go easy on her, yeah?" smoke instructed as he took your top off completely, exposing your chest and tummy. "just what I wanted to see..."

"it's so good! oh my- fuck, I'm-" he did not slow down one bit, even slightly speeding up just to pull more of those pretty sounds from your mouth. he felt your walls clamp down on his fingers and nodded to smoke who kissed you again, distracting all your senses.

you felt overwhelmed in the best way possible, and it's the moment you realize that, that you feel your first orgasm washing over you. it's felt intense, every muscle in your body tensing up as your mouth went slack, barely having the spirit to kiss smoke back. "thats it baby, youre doing perfect." he egged you on as your velvety walls clenched around stack's digits, coating them with cream.

your thighs, trembling, clenched around his hips, caging him in.

he kept pumping, getting progressively slower, letting you ride out your orgasm, before stopping completely when you go limp. he didn't want to overestimate you on your first time... not yet.

he allowed you to catch your breath, using that time to take your skirt off completely. you were now completely bare in front of two men who looked at you like you were the first meal they had on their table for years.

"that wasn't so bad now, was it?" stack looked at you, chuckling. you nodded sheepishly, "y-yeah.."

suddenly, smoke left your side, quickly getting replaced by stack. "here it comes, sugar." he smirked while watching his brother undo his belt, letting his pants drop. he pulled his cock out, rubbing it along your slick folds making you jump slightly. "she's so fucking wet..." he commented also absentmindedly, which had you clenching.

"you ready?" smoke asked you, and you nodded. you felt embarrassed, flustered, but you couldn't take you eyes off of the man that was about to take your virginity.

the push of his cock against your entrance knocked the wind out of you, and before you could recover, you felt two moist fingers tap against your cheek. you looked up to stack, "wanna taste yourself, baby?" you furrowed your eyebrows, "huh?" your voice being barely above a whisper. his thumb landed on your bottom lip, pulling it open softly and your followed, opening your mouth as clear saliva dripped down his mouth into yours.

the moment the drop of spit landed on your tongue, smoke had bottomed out, his tip bumping into your cervix which made you cry out. "you fully in?" stack question and smoke, lost in bliss, nodded eagerly while closing his eyes, throwing his head back. "holy fuck-" he couldn't help the buck of his hips as he grabbed onto yours, using his knees to dig into the fat of your thighs and pry them slightly more open.

"p-please-" that was the only confirmation he needed to start moving. he went back and forth, relishing in the feeling of your warm untouched walls around him. stack walked up to him and set a hand on your tower tummy, pressing down to heighten the sensation of smoke's dick inside you. you cried both of their names out, your body squirming uncontrollably.

stack other hand landed on your pussy, fingers immediately looking for your clit, rubbing it quickly when he found it. "r-right there! yes-!" you whined, as smoke's tip bumped into that one spot again.

"there?" his voice, baritone, bubbled from his chest as his body ran on pure instinct, angling your hips in a way that made him ram into your g-spot with every other thrust. you nodded, your voice simply dying down as you ran out of breath with all the moaning and whining.

stack pressed down a bit harder on your tummy, his hand making a wave motion to even out the sensation. "you like that, sugar?" "fuck- yes! I'm- I'm close- gonna-" and you barely got the opportunity to warn them before you creamed on smoke's cock again, squeezing down on his so hard he had trouble moving again. the view and sensation of you orgasming had him nearing his own high.

you whine when he pulled out of you to fist his dick, stroking himself fast enough to cum all over your tummy with some of it landing on stack's hand, squeezing around the base to ride out his high with a hiss. he moaned your name before tumbling back and plopping down onto the bed.

"s-shit... that was-" "smoke are serious right now? learn how to aim, man." he peaked at stack who was shaking his hand in the air, "some of it got on my hand! fuck," he walked out the room to grab a tissue.

smoke's arm wrapped around you as you were still catching your breath, mind still hazy from the orgasm.

"that was... amazing..." you managed to admit between breaths and he smiled.

"I know, baby."