BITE THE BULLET

The terminal is a living organism, breathing in a constant stream of arrivals and exhaling a river of departures. The air itself feels alive, thick with the scent of jet fuel, stale coffee, and the faint, sweet perfume of a thousand different people all in one place. The sound is a cacophony, a symphony of chaos. The hiss of automatic doors, the percussive rattle of rolling suitcase wheels on polished concrete, the garbled, disembodied voice of a gate announcement echoing from the cavernous ceiling. It’s a wall of noise, but for Ryan, it’s all just static.

He’s been standing here for thirty-seven minutes. Not that he’s counting.

Thirty-seven unnecessary minutes, a buffer he told himself was for unforeseen traffic, for potential construction, for any of the thousand variables that could turn a thirty-minute drive into an hour-long crawl. The reality, the one he’s pointedly not thinking about, is that he checked the live traffic map three times before he left. He knew, with a certainty that bordered on scientific, that the drive would take exactly twenty-eight minutes. He’d left forty-five minutes before he needed to.

He stands near the arrivals barrier, a cool chrome divide that separates the waiting from the arrived. One hand is tucked into the pocket of his jacket, the other is clenched around a paper coffee cup. The cardboard is soft, sweat-dampened, and the contents have been cold for at least twenty minutes. He takes a sip anyway, the bitter, room-temperature liquid a grounding, unpleasant sensation.

People flow past him like water around a stone. A family, the father already looking weary, shepherds two children who are vibrating with a sugar-fueled energy. A businessman in a crisp suit, face illuminated by the blue light of his phone, marches purposefully toward the exit. A couple, young and entangled, laughs at a shared secret, their joy a bright, fleeting spark in the fluorescent hum. Ryan watches none of them. His gaze is fixed in a repetitive loop: up to the arrival board, then down at the dark screen of his phone, then back to the board. LANDED. 6:42 PM. The words have been there for twelve minutes.

A muscle in his jaw jumps. He shifts his weight, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. He thinks about the call. The other night. The memory is so vivid it’s almost a sensory experience. He can still feel the oppressive silence of his house, the way the shadows in the corners seemed to stretch and yawn. He remembers the weight of his phone in his hand, the slick plastic, the way his thumb had hovered over her name. He remembers the moment her face filled the screen, the way the tension in his shoulders had dissolved, an immediate, almost violent relief. A small, private smile touches his lips, unbidden. That call had been a catalyst. It hadn’t just been about release; it had been about recognition. The silence after hadn’t felt empty anymore. It had felt like a promise. Asking her to move in hadn’t been a leap; it had been a landing.

His eyes drift back to the security doors. A new stream of passengers begins to emerge, a human tide of the tired and the relieved. He scans each face, a quick, dismissive inventory. Not her. Not her. Not her, either.

The crowd continues its slow procession. A woman struggling with two oversized suitcases that look as if they might burst at the seams. A man in a pilot’s uniform, his stride tired but practiced. A group of college students, loud and boisterous, their backpacks slung haphazardly over their shoulders.

The terminal keeps moving around him, a river of humanity flowing past his stationary point.

Then—

Everything stops.

Not literally. The announcements continue to drone. The wheels keep rattling. The river of people keeps flowing. But all of it recedes, the sound fading to a dull hum, the motion blurring into an indistinct background.

Because she’s there.

Across the terminal.

Stepping through the crowd with a single carry-on rolling smoothly behind her. Her hair is pulled back in a simple style that does nothing to hide the weariness etched around her eyes. Travel-worn. Tired. And the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

The soft, diffuse light from the overhead fluorescents catches the smooth brown of her skin, making it glow. She glances down at her phone, then up, her eyes scanning the waiting crowd, searching.

Looking for him.

For one suspended, infinite second, neither of them moves. The fifty yards of polished floor between them suddenly feels impossibly short after days of feeling like an uncrossable ocean.

And when her eyes find his—

The terminal disappears.

The noise, the people, the chaotic motion, it all dissolves into nothing. There is only her. The world narrows to a single point of focus, to the woman standing across the way, looking right back at him.

And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, Ryan feels something inside him finally settle. A deep, quiet click. A key turning in a lock. He’s home.

She sees him.

And the world skids to a halt.

Not a cinematic freeze-frame, but a physical, internal one. Her momentum carries her forward another half-step before her body catches up, her fingers tightening on the cold, hard plastic of her suitcase handle. The rolling wheels stutter to a stop. The river of travelers parts around her, a current of strangers flowing past an immovable rock. For a moment, she is an island in the stream, utterly still.

Ryan doesn’t move either. He’s a fixed point across the polished expanse, a monolith of calm in the terminal’s chaos. The distance between them, a stretch of scuffed concrete, a weaving path of strangers, maybe fifty feet in total, is nothing. It’s an illusion, a triviality compared to the state lines and time zones that have separated them for days.

Still, neither rushes. They let the moment breathe, letting the reality of each other’s presence settle. Because seeing a person through a screen is a flat, two-dimensional approximation. Seeing them in the flesh is a full-body experience.

Justice looks tired. It’s etched into the faint, bruised-purple shadows beneath her eyes, earned from red-eye flights and the relentless energy of the festival. It’s in the slight slump of her shoulders, a posture that has given in to the weight of a tote bag digging into one shoulder. The oversized grey sweater she’s thrown on hangs from her frame, a soft armor against the recycled air of the cabin, a stark contrast to the sharp, tailored looks she’d worn for the panels.

And yet, she is the most beautiful thing in the entire terminal. A magnetic pull that renders every other person, every sound, every flickering light irrelevant.

Ryan feels it in his chest, a slow, deep thrum of recognition. It’s not the sharp, electric jolt of a first crush. It’s something steadier, more profound. The simple, grounding reality of her. The feeling of a compass needle finally finding true north.

Justice sees it, too. She sees the subtle shift in him, the one she’s learned to read. The public mask of controlled composure is still there, but underneath it, the tension has bled from his shoulders. His entire frame seems to soften, to settle, simply because she has materialized in his line of sight. His beard is a little fuller than the last time she saw him, a dark, dense shadow that makes his jaw look stronger. His jacket hangs open, a casual invitation. But it’s his eyes that give him away. They always do. The guarded look he wears for the world has dissolved, replaced by a deep, unwavering warmth that’s meant only for her.

A slow smile pulls at the corner of her mouth, starting small, almost hesitant, then blooming into something real, something that reaches her eyes and makes them sparkle.

Ryan’s answering smile is a mirror image, just as subtle, just as genuine. It doesn’t break across his face; it settles there, a quiet, private thing.

Neither of them speaks. Words would be a blasphemy against this moment. The airport continues its symphony of chaos, the garbled announcements, the percussive rattle of luggage, a distant child’s cry, but it’s all just background noise. The silence between them is not empty; it’s full. It’s saturated with every late-night call, every text message, every unspoken wish sent across the miles.

Justice feels something loosen inside her chest, a knot of tension she hadn’t even realized she was carrying. The sterile loneliness of the hotel room, the performative energy of the festival, the constant, low-grade hum of travel, it all melts away under the steady warmth of his gaze.

Ryan feels it too. The hollow echo in his house, the absence that had followed him from room to room, the quiet that had felt wrong, it’s gone. Just like that. Not because of a grand gesture, but because she is here. A few feet away. Solid and real.

Finally, Ryan starts walking. His stride is unhurried, deliberate. He closes the distance without fanfare, without breaking the spell.

Justice meets him halfway, her own steps light, her suitcase rolling silently behind her.

When they stop in front of each other, the space between them feels charged, intimate. The smile on her face softens, melting into something warmer, something private and meant only for him. The scent of his cologne, a familiar mix of sandalwood and clean skin, cuts through the stale airport air, and her body responds with a deep, involuntary sigh of relief.

For a second, they just stand there, breathing the same air. His eyes drift down, a quick, appreciative glance at the suitcase handle still gripped in her hand, then back to her face.

Without a word, he reaches for it. His fingers brush against hers, a brief, warm spark of contact, and then his hand closes around the cool plastic. The gesture is simple, effortless, and natural. Like taking a weight from her is the most natural thing in the world.

Only then does he finally speak.

“Welcome back, Justice.”

His voice is smooth, measured. The public voice. The professional, controlled tone he uses in a room full of people.

But his eyes say something else entirely.

They say: There you are.

The exchange is a silent conversation. His fingers close around the cool, hard plastic of her suitcase handle, and she lets go. The transfer is effortless, a seamless passing of weight that feels less like a favor and more like a statement. Her hand falls back to her side, suddenly lighter, as he turns and falls into step beside her. The airport’s river of humanity flows around them, a current of strangers, and for a moment, they are just two people moving with it, the world completely unaware that the axis has just shifted.

For a few moments, neither of them speaks. The silence isn’t awkward; it’s a recalibration. The strange, subtle process of bridging the gap between the two-dimensional man on a screen and the three-dimensional man walking beside her. She can hear him now. Not the compressed, slightly tinny sound from a phone speaker, but the real thing. The solid, rhythmic thud of his footsteps beside hers on the polished concrete. The quiet, almost inaudible exhale that leaves him every so often. The soft rustle of his jacket when he moves. Small, insignificant things she never noticed until they were gone. Now that they’re back, they’re all she can hear.

“You surviving?” Ryan asks.

The question is light, easy, a bridge back to normal.

Justice smiles, a small, genuine curve of her lips. “Barely.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, and the sound settles warmly somewhere beneath her ribs, a familiar frequency she’s been missing. “That bad?”

“The festival was great,” she says, adjusting the strap of her tote bag. “The people part of it? Less great.”

Ryan nods immediately, a slow, understanding dip of his head. He gets it. Of course, he gets it. The constant performance. The state of being perpetually perceived. The exhaustion of being available to everyone but yourself. It’s a weight they both carry.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”

Justice glances toward him, really looks this time. The first few minutes were spent confirming he was real, solidifying the image from the screen. Now she allows herself to study him. The familiar, solid line of his shoulders. The slight crease between his brows that appears when he’s thinking. The way his beard has grown in a little fuller since she left, a dark shadow she wants to feel against her palm. The warmth of his presence, a tangible thing that occupies the space beside her, is no longer a projection but a fact.

A strange awareness settles over her. Not tension, not exactly. Just presence. The simple, profound reality of another person’s body existing near yours. Close enough to reach. Close enough to touch. Close enough that she can feel the residual warmth of him every time they brush past another traveler and instinctively move closer together.

Ryan feels it, too. The awareness. The adjustment. For days, he got used to her as a voice in his ear, a face in a rectangle. Now she’s here, matching his pace, her scent, a faint, sweet trace of the peach oil she wears, drifting in the air whenever she turns her head. It shouldn’t feel this significant. And yet, it feels like everything.

They reach a thicker section of foot traffic, a bottleneck near a bank of monitors. Instinctively, Ryan shifts closer. His hand lifts, not with hesitation, but with certainty, and settles against the small of her back. It’s a simple, brief touch. The kind of gesture nobody would look twice at. Protective. Guiding. Easy.

But the second it happens—

Both of them feel it.

Justice’s breath catches, a tiny, almost imperceptible hitch. The warmth of his palm spreads through the thin fabric of her sweater, a solid, steady anchor. Such a small point of contact. Barely anything. And yet, after days of nothing but digital signals, it lands with the force of a declaration. Like her body remembers his touch before her brain can catch up, like some part of her had been waiting for exactly this.

Ryan feels it, too. The immediate shift in her energy. The slight straightening of her posture. The subtle pause in her stride before she settles back into step beside him. Nothing dramatic. Nothing anyone else would ever catch. His eyes flick toward her for half a second, just enough to see that she felt it too.

Neither of them says anything. Neither acknowledges it. The conversation continues, the airport continues, and the crowd keeps moving. But suddenly, every step feels different. More grounded. More real. Because distance is a strange thing. Sometimes you don’t realize how much you’ve missed touching someone until the simplest gesture becomes impossible to ignore.

They make their way toward the escalators that lead down to baggage claim and the parking garage beyond. Ryan says something about the traffic, but she doesn’t fully hear the words. She’s still aware of the warmth at her back, a low-level hum beneath her skin. Still aware of him beside her. Still aware that she’s no longer alone in a sterile hotel room hundreds of miles away.

She’s here.

With him.

And as they step onto the moving metal staircase together, his hand remains at the small of her back. One second. Then another. Then just a little longer than necessary. A silent claim in the middle of a crowd. A quiet promise that this time, he’s not letting her go.

The escalator carries them down, a slow descent into the belly of the airport, leaving the bright, chaotic lights of the terminal above. With each step, the noise fades, the announcements becoming distant echoes, the cacophony of a thousand conversations blurring into an indistinct hum. The world is shrinking, and all that’s left is the space between them.

Ryan’s hand finally leaves the small of her back when they step off onto the concrete, but the absence of it is a phantom warmth, a lingering echo that Justice feels just as acutely as the touch itself. She hates that she notices, hates even more that she’s pretty sure he does, too.

They fall into step again, closer this time. The wheels of her suitcase click a soft, rhythmic beat against the polished floor as they move through the corridor toward the garage. The evening air slips in through the automatic doors ahead, cooler and cleaner, a welcome change from the recycled air she’s been breathing for days.

“So,” Ryan starts, his voice sounding different now that it isn’t competing for space. Clearer. More intimate. “You survive the final day of being a genius?”

Justice lets out a small, tired laugh. “Barely. The festival was great. The panels, the screenings, the networking… the pretending I wasn’t counting down the seconds until I could get out of that dress and order room service.”

That earns a real laugh from him, a warm, low sound that settles somewhere deep in her chest. “I saw that last interview. The one where you talked about narrative restraint.”

Of course he did. She glances over at him. “You watched that?”

“I watched all of them,” he says, his tone completely matter-of-fact, like he’s just stating that the sky is blue.

Something warm and blooming unfurls in her chest. “You didn’t have to do that, Ry.”

“I wanted to,” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “Besides, it was research. Had to see what all the hype was about.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “The hype is overrated.”

The parking garage opens around them, a world of concrete pillars and steel beams, rows of parked vehicles stretching into the distance. The sounds here are different, footsteps echoing, the distant thump of a car door, the low rumble of an engine turning over. Compared to the terminal, it feels private, like the world has finally given them a corner to themselves.

“You looked tired on the call last night,” she says softly, remembering the way his shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the quiet in his house.

Ryan huffs a quiet laugh. “I was sitting on my couch, Peach. Hard work.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Before that. When we were just… talking.” She doesn’t need to say more. He remembers it too. The quiet, the honesty, the ache of distance that had wrapped around them both.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admits, the words coming easily now, easier than they would have months ago.

Justice looks ahead, watching the rows of cars pass. “Me neither.”

There it is. Not exactly what either of them means, but close enough. The unspoken truth hanging in the cool garage air: the bed felt too big, the room too quiet, the absence of each other a physical presence.

Ryan doesn’t respond right away, just lets the silence settle, comfortable and understood. “So, you meet anybody interesting?” he asks, changing the subject with a gentleness she appreciates. “Some fancy director try to steal you away with a big speech about cinematic vision?”

Justice smiles, a real, genuine smile that finally reaches her eyes. “There was one guy who talked for forty minutes about the color grading in a movie nobody asked him about.”

Ryan groans dramatically. “Oh, one of those.”

“Definitely one of those,” she says, her laughter echoing softly off the concrete. “And then there was another who somehow managed to make every single conversation, even the one about the catering, about himself.”

“A classic,” Ryan says, shaking his head. “Hollywood’s full of ‘em.”

Their laughter fades, but the ease remains. The kind of comfortable rhythm that only happens when two people genuinely enjoy the mere act of being in each other’s presence. Ryan glances over at her, watching the way the last of the travel tension is finally leaving her shoulders, and for a second, he forgets to look away.

Justice catches him, of course, she does. A small, knowing smile tugs at her lips. “You really came this early, didn’t you?”

There it is. The question.

Ryan looks ahead immediately, a little too quickly, a little too casually. “I was already here. In the area.” The answer is immediate, effortless, and completely unconvincing.

Justice lets the silence hang for exactly three seconds before she bursts out laughing. A real, warm, knowing laugh that’s even better in person than it was through the phone. “You absolutely were not.”

“I was,” he insists, but the corner of his mouth is already betraying him.

“You checked the flight tracker, didn’t you?” she presses, her voice full of playful accusation.

“No.”

“You checked it more than once, didn’t you?”

Ryan exhales, a long, dramatic sigh of defeat. The corner of his mouth finally gives him away, curving into a smile he can’t hide. “Maybe.”

Justice’s laughter fills the garage again, and it’s the best sound he’s heard all day.

For a moment, they just walk, side by side, through the quiet concrete maze. Toward the vehicle waiting several rows ahead. Toward home. And neither of them says the thing sitting just beneath the conversation, the thing that’s been there since she stepped off the plane, that they missed each other. Terribly. But they don’t have to say it. Not yet. It’s already written in every glance, every smile, every step they take beside one another.

The SUV comes into view a few rows ahead, a sleek black shape under the harsh fluorescent lights of the garage. It’s clean, polished, and familiar. Ryan clicks the key fob in his pocket, and the headlights flash once, a brief, bright greeting in the concrete maze.

Neither of them speaks as they approach. The conversation that carried them through the garage begins to settle naturally, the words fading into something quieter, something slower. The closer they get to the vehicle, the more aware they become of the fact that they’re finally alone. Not completely, not yet, but close.

Ryan reaches the rear hatch first. Without thinking, he takes the tote bag from her shoulder. Justice lets him, the gesture so automatic, so ingrained now, that neither of them acknowledges it. He opens the hatch and begins loading her things inside. The suitcase first, a soft thud as he sets it down. Then the tote. Then the smaller carry-on she’d been dragging.

Justice stands beside him while he works, watching. Not because she needs to, but because she hasn’t had the chance to really look at him yet. Not the way she wants to. Not with people constantly moving around them, not with the airport traffic flowing past. Now she can. The overhead garage lights cast pale bands of light across his shoulders, highlighting the clean lines of his jacket. She studies the precise, clean lines of his braids, remembering the feel of them between her fingers, the way they’d looked fanned out on her pillow. Her eyes trace the shape of his hands as he handles her luggage, the strength in his fingers, the way they’d gripped her hips, the way they’d held her face. A wave of heat, sharp and visceral, washes over her. It’s a memory so potent it’s almost tangible.

Ryan closes the hatch. The sound echoes softly through the garage. When he turns around, he catches her staring. Justice doesn’t look away. Neither does he. For a second, neither moves. Just looking. Again. The same way they did in the terminal, only now there’s less distance, less noise, less distraction. A slow smile touches Ryan’s mouth. “What’s that look for?”

Justice shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about it. “I haven’t seen you in almost a week.”

His eyes soften immediately, like the reminder lands somewhere deep. “Was only five days.”

“Five days too long,” the words leave her before she can stop them.

Ryan’s smile grows slightly, not teasing, not smug, just pleased. And something about that expression makes her stomach tighten pleasantly. “Come on,” he says quietly. He opens the passenger door for her.

Justice shakes her head, a familiar, playful protest. “You know I can open my own door.”

“I know.”

“Then why you keep doing it?”

Ryan waits until she’s settled inside before answering, because of course he does. “Because I want to.” Simple. Final. No room for argument.

Justice rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling when she does it. The door closes behind her with a solid thump, and the outside world disappears instantly. Silence. Not complete silence, but the muted, protected kind. The interior smells faintly like leather, like Ryan’s cologne, like… home. A strange realization, considering it isn’t technically her home. Not yet.

Ryan walks around the front of the vehicle. A few seconds later, the driver’s door opens, then closes. And suddenly—it’s just them. No airport. No crowds. No strangers. No announcements. No interruptions. Just Ryan. Just Justice. The first truly private moment they’ve had since she left.

Ryan settles into his seat. His hands rest briefly on the steering wheel, then nowhere, then back again, like even he isn’t entirely sure what to do with himself now that he finally has her here. Justice notices immediately, just as she notices everything. The same way he notices everything about her.

For a few seconds, neither speaks. The silence isn’t awkward; it’s almost the opposite. Too full. Too meaningful. Ryan finally starts the engine. The low hum fills the cabin, the dashboard lights glowing softly in the dim garage. But neither of them makes any move to leave. The vehicle remains parked, idling, waiting.

Justice turns slightly toward him, really toward him, the angle letting her study his face properly now. Something immediately feels wrong. Not bad, just different. Her eyes narrow slightly.

Ryan notices. “What?”

She continues staring. “What happened to your glasses?”

That catches him off guard. A quiet laugh leaves him. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“I’m serious,” she insists, her eyes moving across his face again. “You always got your glasses on.”

Ryan reaches up automatically, touching the bridge of his nose like he’s only now realizing they’re missing. “They’re at the house.”

Justice shakes her head. “I knew something looked different.”

His laugh comes easier this time, warmer. And suddenly the tension eases just enough for both of them to breathe. She studies him for another second, the memory of his face hovering over hers, his breath hot against her skin, flooding her senses. She lifts her hand. Without thinking, without asking, her fingertips brush lightly against his beard. Just once. A soft stroke along his jaw. The touch is brief, innocent, barely there. Yet Ryan goes completely still. The air shifts. Not dramatically, just enough. Justice notices that too. Her hand lingers for half a second, then drops.

Ryan’s eyes remain on her, quiet, steady. The same look from the airport, the same look from the phone calls, only stronger now because she’s actually here. Neither of them speaks. Neither of them needs to. The distance is finally gone. Not reduced, not softened. Gone.

Ryan looks down briefly, then reaches across the center console. His hand finds hers resting against the seat. No hesitation. No flourish. No dramatic moment. He simply takes it, fingers sliding between hers naturally, comfortably, like that’s where they belong.

Justice looks down at their hands, then back at him. Ryan doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. His thumb brushes once across her knuckles, slow, absentminded, affectionate. And for the first time since she boarded the plane days ago, everything inside her settles. No airport. No hotel room. No phone screen. No miles. Just this. His hand holding hers. The quiet hum of the engine. The soft rise and fall of their breathing. And the unmistakable feeling that the distance is finally over.

Neither of them lets go.

The engine hums softly beneath them, a low, steady thrum that feels more like a heartbeat than machinery. The dashboard glows in low amber light, casting soft shadows across their faces. Outside, the parking garage exists in muted fragments, distant footsteps, an occasional car door closing somewhere far away, tires rolling across concrete. But inside the SUV, there is only this. Only them.

Ryan’s hand remains wrapped around hers. His thumb continues its slow path across her knuckles. Once. Then again. Absentminded. Like he’s reassuring himself she’s actually here. Justice watches him for a moment. The quiet stretches. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Full. The kind of silence that only exists between two people who have already said the important things. They just haven’t said them face-to-face yet.

Ryan stares ahead through the windshield. His jaw shifts slightly. Like he’s thinking. Like he’s deciding something. Then he exhales. Slow. Deep. And when he finally speaks, his voice is lower than it’s been all afternoon. Softer. Private. “Missed you, Peach.”

The nickname settles between them. Simple. Three words. One nickname. And somehow it hits harder than everything else. Because it’s the first time he’s called her that since she got back. The first time, the public version of him finally disappears. No more “Justice.” No more careful distance. No more airport voice. Just him. Her Ry. The man who called her from an empty house because he couldn’t stand the quiet. The man who watched every festival interview. The man who asked her to move in.

Justice feels herself soften instantly. Her eyes drop briefly to their joined hands. Then back to him. The corners of her mouth lift. Small. Tender. There and gone again. “I missed you too.” The admission comes easier than she expected. Maybe because pretending otherwise would be ridiculous. Maybe because after that phone call, there isn’t much left to hide.

Ryan turns toward her fully now. Really looking at her. Not stealing glances. Not pretending. Just looking. The way he always does when they’re alone. Like she’s the only thing worth paying attention to. Justice feels warmth crawl up her neck. Familiar. Dangerous. Comforting. All at once. A quiet laugh escapes her.

“What?” Ryan asks.

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It is.”

His smile appears slowly. That smile. The one she only gets when they’re alone. The one that always feels earned.

For a moment, neither speaks. They simply sit there. Looking. Breathing. Existing in the same space again. And suddenly every memory from that FaceTime call comes rushing back. Not the specifics. Not the details. The feeling. The ache. The vulnerability. The way they had stared at each other afterward. The way neither wanted to hang up. The way he’d asked her to come home. The way she’d realized she wanted to. The memory of his voice, low and rough, commanding her through the screen, the phantom sensation of her own fingers moving where his should have been, the sight of him losing control just from looking at her, it all floods her senses, a hot, potent wave that leaves her breathless.

Ryan’s gaze drops briefly to her mouth. Then returns to her eyes. The air changes. Again. Subtle. But undeniable. She lifts her hand. The one he isn’t holding. Her fingers find his jaw. The familiar texture of his beard was beneath her fingertips.

Ryan closes his eyes for half a second. Leaning into the touch without thinking. The gesture is so instinctive it nearly steals her breath. When his eyes open again, they’re softer. Warmer. Closer somehow.

“Hi,” she says quietly.

A laugh leaves him. Low. Disbelieving. “Hi.” The word shouldn’t feel intimate. Somehow it does.

Justice smiles. Ryan stares at her for another second. Then another. Neither of them moving away. Neither of them rushing. When he finally leans in, it happens slowly. Giving her every opportunity to stop him. She doesn’t. Not even a little.

Their foreheads brush first. A familiar pause. A shared breath. Then his lips find hers. Soft. Gentle. Nothing desperate about it. Not at first. Just relief. The simple, overwhelming relief of no longer being separated by a screen. Justice’s eyes close immediately. Her fingers slide into the hair at the back of his head, holding him there, keeping him close. The kiss deepens naturally. Neither pushing. Neither leading. Just meeting. Finding each other again.

Everything they’ve carried all week seems to pour into it. The missed conversations. The lonely nights. The quiet apartments. The hotel room. The empty house. The FaceTime call. The longing. The certainty. All of it. Ryan’s hand leaves hers only to settle against her cheek. Careful. Steady. Like she’s something precious. Like he’s still amazed she’s sitting here.

The kiss breaks eventually. Only because breathing becomes necessary. Neither moves far. Their foreheads remain together. Eyes still closed. Sharing the same air. The same space. The same moment. When Ryan finally opens his eyes, she is right there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss again. Close enough that the distance feels impossible to remember.

Ryan finally shifts the car into drive, the motion smooth and deliberate. The SUV glides out of the parking spot, the low beams cutting a clean path through the dimly lit garage. The silence that follows isn’t empty; it’s settled, filled with the weight of the kiss, the lingering warmth of their hands still finding each other in the space between the seats.

They emerge from the concrete cavern into the Oakland night. The city unfolds around them, a familiar landscape painted in new light. Streetlights smear past in streaks of gold and white, blurring at the edges of her vision. Justice watches, her head resting back against the cool leather of the seat. The city feels different from this side of the window. Not a backdrop. Not a setting. A context. Their context.

She sees the corner bodega they’d stopped at once, late at night, for ice cream and a conversation about sound design. She sees the marquee of the independent theater where they’d watched a black-and-white film, his arm a steady weight around her shoulders. Each landmark is a memory, a stitch in the tapestry of what they’ve become. The hum of the tires on the asphalt is a low, constant rhythm, a soundtrack to the quiet intimacy blooming in the car’s cabin.

Ryan’s hand rests on her thigh, a warm, heavy presence that’s both grounding and possessive. His thumb traces slow, idle patterns against the fabric of her trousers. He isn’t rushing. He’s letting the city, the drive, the moment, settle.

After a few minutes, his voice breaks the quiet, low and steady. “You hungry?”

Justice turns her head from the window, the city lights reflected in her eyes. She looks at his profile, the clean line of his jaw illuminated by the dashboard’s soft glow. “No. I’m good.” Her voice is soft, a little tired, but clear. “Just want to get back.”

He nods, his eyes still on the road. “Yeah. Me too.”

Another silence settles, but this one feels different. It’s less about the relief of reunion and more about the space that’s been carved out for the future. He’s the one to fill it.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he says.

The words are simple. Direct. No preamble. No cushioning. He’s not asking anymore. He’s stating. He’s telling her where he is, making sure she knows the foundation he laid on that phone call hasn’t shifted.

Justice takes a deep breath, just slightly. She places her hand over his on her thigh, her fingers lacing with his. She squeezes gently. “I know,” she says. And she does. She feels it in the way he drives, the way he touches her, the way he looks at her when he thinks she’s not paying attention.

He glances at her, a quick, searching look, before his attention returns to the road. “I meant what I said, Justice. About the house. About you being there. It’s not… It’s not a temporary thing for me.”

The vulnerability in his voice, the quiet certainty, settles deep in her chest. She knows he needs to say it. She knows he needs her to hear it, not just through a phone screen, but here, in the space between them, with the city passing by outside.

She leans her head against the seat, turning to face him more fully. “Ryan,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “We’ll talk about it. I promise. We’ll talk about all of it when I’m not… like this.” She gestures vaguely at herself, at the travel weariness, at the emotional whiplash of the last week. “But right now? I just got off a plane. I just want to be with you. I just want to relax. Can we just… have tonight?”

He looks at her again, and the tension in his shoulders eases. He sees what she’s offering: not a rejection, but a postponement. Not a no, but a not yet. He sees the exhaustion in her eyes, the need for quiet, for comfort, for the simple act of being together without the weight of logistics and life-altering decisions.

His thumb strokes her hand. “Yeah,” he says, the word a quiet exhale. “Yeah, we can have tonight.”

The rest of the drive is spent in a comfortable, easy silence. The conversation is over, but the understanding deepens. They pass Lake Merritt, the water dark and still under the night sky, reflecting the city’s glow like a spilled galaxy. They turn onto his street, lined with old, graceful trees. The SUV slows, pulling into the smooth, circular driveway of his house. The lights are on, spilling warm, welcoming light onto the stone walkway.

He cuts the engine. The sudden quiet feels final, like they’ve arrived not just at a destination, but at the beginning of something real. He turns to her, his eyes soft in the dim light. “Welcome home, Peaches.”

He cuts the engine. The sudden quiet feels final, like they’ve arrived not just at a destination, but at the beginning of something real. He turns to her, his eyes soft in the dim light. “Welcome home, Peaches.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and true. The front door opens, and the familiar scent of his space, leather, cedar, and the faint, clean smell of rain-washed air from the open windows, wraps around her. It’s the same scent she remembered from the file, from the memory of his empty house. But this time, it’s not hollow. It’s waiting.

He carries her bags inside, setting her suitcase by the door where a pair of her heels had once been left, a silent, elegant rebellion against his neatness. The space feels different now. The silence isn’t a void; it’s a canvas. The high ceilings don’t echo with loneliness; they breathe with possibility. This is the place that felt empty without her, and now, as she stands in the center of the living room, she feels it filling up around her, room by room.

Ryan doesn’t hover. He gives her space to re-acclimate, but his eyes follow her. They track her as she drifts toward the kitchen, her fingers trailing along the cool granite of the island where she’d once sat, swinging her legs. He watches as she pauses by the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the dark, sleeping garden. He watches the way her shoulders relax, the way the tension of the last five days seems to melt away, replaced by a quiet, settling peace.

She turns around slowly, and he’s there. Leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, just watching her. Not because he’s worried she’ll leave. Not because he’s checking on her. Because she’s finally here. And for the first time in days, the house feels right again. It feels whole.

A slow, knowing smile touches her lips. Without a word, he pushes off the doorframe and walks toward her. His movements are fluid, purposeful. He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of her. Then, in one smooth, effortless motion, he bends his knees and sweeps her up into his arms.

Justice lets out a small, surprised gasp, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. She’s not light, but he holds her like she weighs nothing, like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever carried. He walks them through the house, past the living room, down the short hallway, and into the sunroom.

It’s her favorite room. A space of glass and warm wood, dominated by a deep, comfortable couch that faces sliding doors opening out to a balcony overlooking the city lights. This is where she writes when she’s here, where she thinks, where she feels most herself.

He lowers her onto the couch, following her down, settling his body over hers, his weight a comforting, grounding pressure. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. He arranges them both, pulling her back against his chest, his arms wrapping around her, tucking her securely against him. They lie there, tangled together, watching the sky outside the glass doors begin to soften, bleeding from deep indigo into the soft, hazy purples and pinks of a setting sun.

The city glitters below them, a carpet of distant stars. The warmth of his body seeps into hers, the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart a soothing percussion against her back. His fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along her arm. Justice’s eyes grow heavy, the exhaustion of the week finally catching up with her, but it’s a gentle pull, not a frantic one. It’s the pull of safety, of home.

Her breathing deepens, slows, until it matches his. The last rays of sunlight disappear, leaving the room bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the city. Her eyes drift closed. And in the quiet of the sunroom, held securely in his arms, Justice falls asleep. Not in a hotel room. Not alone. But home.

The June heat in Bed-Stuy clung to everything like a second skin—sticky, oppressive, and smelling of asphalt melting under a relentless sun. Inside their third-floor walk-up on Jefferson Avenue, the ancient window unit AC wheezed and rattled, fighting a losing battle against the humidity that made the air feel thick enough to drink.

Erik stood in the narrow kitchen, his bare feet cool against the cracked linoleum as he poured two glasses of iced tea. The ice clinked against the glass, a sharp counterpoint to the muffled bass from a passing car outside. He’d only been in Brooklyn three months, a transplant from Oakland who’d traded West Coast sunshine for East Coast grit, but this apartment already felt more like home than any place he’d lived since leaving the military.

From the living room, Zoya’s laughter erupted, rich and unrestrained, the kind of sound that made strangers turn their heads on the street. Erik leaned against the doorframe, watching as she arranged the game pieces on their coffee table, her movements fluid and confident even in the sweltering heat. She wore cutoff shorts that revealed the smooth, dark expanse of her thighs and a thin tank top that clung to her curves with every subtle shift of her body. Her hair was piled high in a messy bun, loose tendrils escaping to frame her face, glistening with sweat.

“You gonna stand there staring at my ass all day, or you gonna bring me my tea?” Zoya asked without turning around, her voice laced with amusement. She had this sixth sense about him, an awareness of his presence that both intrigued and unsettled Erik.

Erik smirked, pushing off the doorframe. “Just admiring the view before you beat me at Monopoly again and start gloating for the next week.”

Zoya finally turned, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “First of all, it’s not gloating if it’s deserved. Second of all, you’re the one who keeps landing on Boardwalk with my hotels on it. That’s not my fault.”

She accepted the glass from him, her fingers brushing against his. He watched as she brought the glass to her full lips, tilting her head back slightly, her throat working as she swallowed. A bead of condensation traced a path down the glass, mirroring the sweat that trickled between her breasts.

Their friendship had formed quickly after he’d answered her roommate ad on Facebook Marketplace; something about his no-nonsense attitude and her unfiltered humor had clicked immediately. They fell into an easy rhythm of shared meals, Netflix binges, and increasingly competitive board game nights to determine who was stuck with dish duty. The shit-talking was legendary, their pranks escalating in creativity and audacity with each passing month.

But lately, something had changed. Erik found himself watching Zoya when she wasn’t paying attention, the way she bit her lip when concentrating, how her hips swayed when she danced in the kitchen while cooking, the soft sighs she made in her sleep that carried through the thin walls of their apartment. He told himself it was just his military training kicking in, his hyper-observant nature cataloging details about the person he shared space with.

Yet when he caught himself lingering outside her door one night, drawn by the soft sounds of her humming as she got ready for bed, he’d had to admit it was something more. Something that made his chest tighten, and his breath catch in his throat.

“You cheating bastard,” Zoya accused, pulling him from his thoughts. She pointed a finger at the board game box. “I know you stole that Park Place card last week when I went to the bathroom.”

Erik raised his hands in mock surrender. “A soldier never admits defeat, and he certainly doesn’t cheat at board games.”

“Soldier, my ass,” she shot back, though her grin gave away her amusement. “You’re just a sore loser who can’t handle that I’m superior at everything.”

“Everything?” Erik challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Zoya’s eyes darkened slightly, her smile turning knowing. “Everything that matters.”

The air between them thickened with unspoken possibilities, the game pieces forgotten on the coffee table. Erik’s gaze dropped to her mouth, watching as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. His military discipline, usually so ironclad, felt paper-thin in the face of whatever this was developing between them.

“Game on,” he said, his voice lower than before.

Zoya’s answering smile was both a challenge and an invitation. “Game on, nigga.”

As they settled into their usual positions on opposite ends of the couch, Erik couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight was different. That the easy friendship they’d cultivated was evolving into something more complex, more dangerous. Something that made him want to push boundaries, to see just how far he could go before one of them broke.

And as Zoya rolled the dice with a triumphant grin, completely unaware of the thoughts running through his mind, Erik made a silent promise to himself: he would stop watching. He would stop lingering outside her door, stop cataloging her every move, stop imagining what it would feel like to touch her.

But even as he made the promise, he knew it was a lie. Because watching Zoya had become his favorite part of the day, and he wasn’t nearly strong enough to give it up.

The Monopoly board between them was a battlefield of colorful currency and plastic monuments, a testament to three hours of escalating warfare. Empty bottles of Corona sat like fallen soldiers, their lime wedges shriveled and brown at the bottom of the glasses. The air in the living room had grown thick with the scent of warm beer and the sweet, cloying smell of Zoya's strawberry vape, which she puffed on between turns with intentional provocative slowness.

“Look at you,” Zoya taunted, leaning forward to stack her money. The movement caused the thin fabric of her tank top to pull taut across her breasts, and Erik’s eyes tracked the curve before he could stop himself. “All that military strategy and you’re still getting your ass handed to you by a girl from the Bronx.”

Erik snorted, reaching for his beer. “First of all, you’re not just ‘a girl from the Bronx.’ You’re a fucking capitalist tyrant in training. Second of all, the night ain’t over.” He took a long swallow, the cold liquid doing nothing to quell the heat building in his gut. It wasn't just the alcohol; it was her. It was always her.

Zoya rolled her eyes, a playful smirk dancing on her lips as she took another drag from her vape. The vapor curled around her face like a halo before dissipating. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game. And don’t be salty just ‘cause I own every single property on this board that actually matters.” She gestured with a dismissive wave of her hand, her bracelets clinking together.

He watched, mesmerized, as she absentmindedly twirled a stray strand of her hair around her index finger. It was a nervous habit she had, one he’d cataloged weeks ago. But tonight, in the golden glow of their thrift-store floor lamp, the simple gesture seemed impossibly intimate. He imagined what it would feel like to have those fingers, that hair, tangled in his own.

“Your turn, Navy man,” she said, her voice softer now, the sharp edges of teasing blunted by the tequila they’d switched to an hour ago. She was tipsy, her usual vibrant energy mellowed into something warmer, more pliable. Her guard was down, and Erik found himself leaning into the space she’d inadvertently created.

He forced his attention back to the board, his token—the little top hat—landing ignominiously on yet another of her properties. “Boardwalk. With a hotel. Of course.” He tossed the dice onto the table, the clatter unnaturally loud in the quiet room. “You rigged this shit. I know you did.”

Zoya’s laughter was a low, throaty rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and up Erik’s spine. “I ain’t have to rig nothing. You just suck at this game.” She leaned back against the couch cushions, her body arching slightly, and Erik’s mouth went dry. She stretched her arms above her head, a lazy, cat-like movement that made her tank top ride up, exposing a slice of soft, mocha skin just above the waistband of her shorts. He saw the faint stretch marks there, silvery lines that mapped stories he suddenly found himself desperate to read.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured, her eyes half-lidded as she lowered her arms. She didn’t sound angry. She sounded… pleased.

Erik felt a flush creep up his neck. “Just admiring your victory dance,” he recovered, his voice rougher than he intended. “Must be nice.”

“Oh, it is.” She took another sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving his over the rim of her glass. The air crackled between them, the unspoken thing that had been simmering for months now bubbling just beneath the surface. The playful shit-talking had evaporated, replaced by a charged silence that felt both dangerous and inevitable.

He paid out his last remaining bills, the colorful Monopoly money feeling like pathetic confetti in his hands. “That’s it. I’m broke. You win, you capitalist vulture.”

Zoya whooped, a sound of triumph. She shot to her feet, doing a little victory dance that involved a lot of hip-rolling and hand-waving. It was ridiculous and captivating. “That means dishes for a week!” she sang, pointing a finger at him. “And you’re buying pizza on Friday. And I get to pick the movie.”

Erik just watched her, a slow smile spreading across his face. He didn’t care about the damn dishes. He didn’t care about the pizza or the movie. All he could see was the way the lamplight caught the moisture on her lips, the joyful flush on her cheeks, the unbridled joy in her eyes. He was completely caught, and he knew it.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, standing up. His own movements felt stiff. “Dishes. Whatever.” He started gathering the empty bottles and glasses, his hands brushing against hers as she helped. The contact was electric, which shot straight up his arm.

“Erik?” Zoya’s voice was quiet, close. He turned to find her right behind him, looking up at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. Her earlier boisterousness had vanished, replaced by something softer, more questioning.

“Yeah?” he breathed, his heart hammering against his ribs.

She opened her mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. A small, almost shy smile touched her lips. “Nothing. Just… good game.”

She turned and walked toward her room, leaving him standing in the middle of the living room surrounded by the debris of their game night. He listened to the soft pad of her footsteps, the click of her door closing. The apartment fell silent, save for the relentless hum of the air conditioner.

Erik stood there for a long moment, the empty bottles in his hands, the scent of her strawberry vape still hanging in the air. He knew he should go to the kitchen, start the mountain of dishes he’d earned. But his feet felt rooted to the spot. All he could think about was the look in her eyes just now, the way she’d said his name. He was completely distracted, too caught up in the memory of her to remember he was supposed to be on dish duty.

Zoya closed her bedroom door, the click of the latch sounding final in the sudden quiet. She didn’t turn on the main light, instead letting the soft glow from her salt lamp cast warm, pinkish shadows across the room. She leaned against the door for a moment, her heart beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The air in here felt different, charged with the energy that had been building between them all night.

She knew Erik was still out there, probably gathering the bottles and glasses. She knew he’d linger in the living room for a bit, and then, inevitably, he’d find an excuse to walk down the narrow hallway toward the kitchen. And he’d pause by her door. He always did.

Zoya had known for weeks. At first, she’d thought she was imagining things, a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision as she drifted off to sleep. But then it became a pattern. The soft creak of the floorboards just outside her room, the subtle shift in the air pressure as the hallway light was blocked for a moment. She’d started leaving her door slightly ajar, just a sliver, testing a theory.

She’d lie there, in the dark, her eyes barely open, just low enough to create the illusion of deep sleep. And she’d watch him. A tall, silent silhouette against the faint light from the living room. He never stayed long, just a minute or two, watching her breathe. She’d wondered what he was thinking, what he saw when he looked at her sleeping form. The thought sent a shiver through her, a mix of vulnerability and a thrilling, forbidden power.

Her fascination had become mutual. She’d started watching him, too. It began innocently enough, needing to borrow a charger, forgetting to tell him something before she left for work. But then she’d gotten bolder. She’d timed her movements, learning his schedule. She knew he took long, hot showers after his workouts, the steam billowing out from under the bathroom door that connected directly to his bedroom.

One afternoon, she’d crept down the hall when she knew he was in the shower. The door to his room was unlocked. She’d slipped inside, her heart pounding, the air thick with the scent of his soap and something uniquely him. And through the cracked bathroom door, she’d seen him.

The image was seared into her memory. Water cascading over the sculpted planes of his back, the powerful muscles of his shoulders and arms flexing as he ran his hands over his fade. He’d turned, and she’d seen his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the powerful thighs. And then, everything else. He was magnificent, a perfect specimen of a man, and the raw, unguarded sight of him had made her mouth go dry and a heat pool low in her belly.

Since that day, he was all she could think about when she was alone in her bed at night. Her hands would drift down her body, her eyes closed as she replayed the image of him, imagining what it would feel like to have those hands, that mouth, all of him, focused entirely on her.

And now, tonight, the game was over. The pretense felt flimsy, ready to shatter. She could hear him moving in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes, the running of the faucet. She gave him ten minutes, long enough to get started but not long enough to get too invested in the chore. Then, she made her move.

Zoya slipped out of her shorts and tank top, pulling on a thin, oversized t-shirt that barely covered the tops of her thighs. She didn’t bother with panties. She lay back on her bed, the cool sheets a contrast to the heat of her skin. She closed her eyes, her breathing slow and even, and waited.

It didn’t take long. The familiar soft creak of the floorboards. The subtle shift in the light. He was there.

The dishes could wait. Erik stood at the sink, the water running over his hands, but his mind was miles away, down the short hallway and behind that slightly ajar bedroom door. He’d only meant to pass by, to grab a dishtowel from the linen closet at the end of the hall. But then he’d heard it. A soft, breathy sound, barely audible over the rattle of the air conditioner. Not a cry of distress. Something else entirely.

His feet moved of their own accord, silent on the old floorboards. He told himself to stop, to turn back to the kitchen, to finish his goddamn chores. But his discipline that governed every other aspect of his life had evaporated, replaced by a raw, primal curiosity. He paused, his body hidden in the shadows of the hallway, and peered through the sliver of open space.

The sight hit him like a physical blow. Zoya was on her bed, bathed in the warm, reddish glow of that damn salt lamp she loved. She wore one of his old t-shirts, the fabric bunched up around her waist, leaving her completely exposed from the hips down. Her legs were slightly parted, one knee bent, and her eyes were closed, her head thrown back against the pillows.

Shock, hot and immediate, jolted through him. This was Zoya. His roommate. His friend. The woman who stole his Monopoly money and left her wet towels on his bathroom floor because she swore his water got hotter than the water in the main bathroom. He should back away. He should cough, or knock, or do something to announce his presence and give her the privacy he was so flagrantly violating.

But he couldn't move. He was frozen, captivated, as her hand began to move. It drifted down her stomach, her fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path over the soft skin of her belly. He watched, mesmerized, as she slid lower, through the neat curls of her pubic hair. He heard a soft gasp escape her lips, and the sound went straight to his dick.

This was wrong. So fucking wrong. Every fiber of his being, every lesson in honor and respect he’d ever learned, screamed at him to leave. But his feet were nailed to the floor. His eyes were locked on her, on the intimate scene unfolding just feet away from him.

Her fingers began to move, slow circles at first. Erik’s Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He could see everything. The soft pink of her folds, glistening in the dim light as she grew wetter. He watched as her other hand joined the first, using her fingers to hold herself open, giving him an unobstructed view of the most private part of her. It was a deliberate act, a silent invitation that made his head spin.

Her confidence started showing out. Every roll of her hips got slower, dirtier, like she knew exactly what she was doing. The room felt thick with it. A soft moan slipped from her lips, then another one, louder this time, making something low and dangerous twist in Erik’s gut.

“Fuck…”

His jaw tightened. He was hard as a motherfucker. The pressure behind his jeans was damn near distracting, throbbing with every sound she made. He shifted his stance, trying to ease some of the ache, but it didn’t do shit. If anything, it made it worse. His hand dropped instinctively, gripping at himself through the denim, cursing under his breath. This was a bad idea. He knew it. Knew he should’ve walked away the second he realized what was happening.

But he couldn’t. Couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop listening. Couldn’t stop imagining.

Every nerve in his body felt lit up, tension winding tighter and tighter inside him until he thought he might snap. The hallway suddenly felt too small, too hot, the distance between him and that room feeling both miles long and nowhere near long enough. Erik dragged a hand down his face.

“Goddamn, Zoya…” he muttered, his voice rough as gravel.

And still, he stayed exactly where he was. Watching. Stuck. Like a nigga who’d forgotten how to leave.

Shit. He was straight up a Peeping Tom now, some creep-ass nigga hiding in the dark while the woman he couldn't stop thinking about touched herself just a few feet away. He made himself a promise, right there in the shadows. This was it. Last time. Tonight was the night he'd cut this shit out. He'd go back to his room, lock the fucking door, and never pull this stunt again.

Then she slid a finger inside herself.

And just like that, his whole world went fucking tunnel vision. All he could see was that finger disappearing into her slick, wet heat, then sliding back out, shining with her juices. She added another one, her back arching off the bed as she started fucking herself for real. Her breaths turned into ragged-ass pants, her movements getting faster, more desperate. The only sound in his ears was the wet, sloppy noise of her fingers pumping in and out of her pussy.

He was completely gone. Hypnotized. His mind was running wild, picturing what it would feel like to be buried in her instead of her own damn fingers, to feel her walls clamping down on him when she came. He could almost taste her on his tongue, could smell the sweet scent of her pussy filling his head, making his dick throb so hard he thought he might bust a nut right there in his jeans.

He could see she was close. Her body was tense, from a pleasure waiting to be released. Her fingers moved faster, her thumb circling her clit as she pumped herself. Her moans were constant now, a desperate, beautiful music that made his own body ache with need.

Just as he thought she was about to tip over the edge, she stopped.

Her movements stilled, her body frozen in mid-arch. For a heart-stopping moment, she lay there, panting. Then, slowly, she turned her head.

Her eyes, dark and knowing, found his through the darkness of the hallway. She wasn’t surprised. She wasn’t angry. She looked… triumphant.

A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. She held his gaze, her hand still resting between her legs, and spoke, her voice husky with desire and thick with challenge.

“You gonna stand there watching all night,” she asked, “or are you gonna come eat?”

The words just hung there, a challenge dripping from her lips. For a hot second, Erik didn't move, still stuck in the shadows of the hallway. His heart was beating like a damn drum against his ribs, some primal shit telling him to go, to take. But that other part of him, the part that was all about watching and waiting, held him back. He wanted to see her lose it. He wanted to see the exact moment she broke, right before he ever laid a finger on her.

Slowly, he pushed off the doorframe and stepped into her room. His eyes never left hers. The dim light cut across his face, showing the raw hunger in his gaze.

"I ain't done watching yet," he said, his voice a low, rough growl that made Zoya's whole body vibrate.

A slow, wicked grin spread across her lips. She got it. This wasn't just about him wanting to fuck her; this was about him owning the moment, about seeing it all go down before he got in the game. That was Erik, always a nigga who had to be in charge, even when he was just watching.

She watched him cross the room, but he didn't go to the bed. He went to that beat-up armchair in the corner, the one usually buried under a mountain of her clothes. He calmly pushed the laundry onto the floor and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He looked relaxed, but his whole body was tight. He didn't make a move to take his clothes off, to get closer. He just sat. And he watched.

The power switched up. Zoya wasn't just putting on a show anymore; she was running this shit. And she was gonna give him a performance he'd never forget.

Her eyes locked on his as her hand went back to work. Her moves were slower now, more on purpose. She wasn't just trying to cum; she was showing him how it was done. She spread her legs wider for him to see everything. Her fingers slid through her slick folds, getting wet before she started circling her clit again.

"You like what you see, E?" she breathed, her voice a soft tease.

He didn't answer with words. His eyes dropped to where her hand was moving, and his own hand came down to rest on the hard bulge pushing against his jeans. He didn't try to hide it. He palmed his dick, the thick shape of it clear through the denim. The sight of him touching himself while he watched her sent a fresh wave of heat straight through Zoya's body.

Her fingers moved faster, her hips starting to rock again. She kept her eyes on him, watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his chest moved up and down with his heavy breathing. The room was filled with the soft, wet sounds of her fingers and their shared, ragged breaths.

"You like watching me touch myself?" she asked, her voice breaking on a moan. "You like knowing I was thinking about you all those nights you were standing outside my door?"

Erik's hand tightened on his dick, a low groan rumbling in his chest. He was completely lost, all that control burned away by the sight of her. All that holding back was gone, leaving nothing but raw, fucking need.

Zoya could feel her orgasm building again, stronger this time, powered by his intense stare. She slid two fingers back inside herself, pumping them in and out to the rhythm of her own heart. Her thumb pressed against her clit, sending shocks of pleasure through her whole body.

“Fuck, Zoya,” he rasped, sounding like the words got dragged straight outta his chest. His eyes stayed locked on her, dark and heavy, like he was trying to memorize every second of her.

That was all it took. The way he was looking at her. The way he said her name. The way every ounce of his attention was fixed on her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.

“Shit—”

The curse broke from her lips before she could stop it. Her head fell back, her body going taut as the feeling crashed through her. It hit hard, rolling through her in wave after wave until she couldn’t do nothing but ride it out. Her whole body trembled, legs shaking, chest heaving as she gasped for air.

For a few seconds, everything else disappeared. The room. The apartment. The city outside. All of it. There was only the rush tearing through her and the man sitting across from her watching like he’d been starving for the sight.

When it finally started to ease, she dropped back against the pillows, breathing hard, trying to pull herself together while Erik’s gaze never left her for a single damn second.

Through it all, she kept her eyes on Erik, watching as he palmed himself. He didn't look away, not for a second, his gaze locked on the sight of her falling apart, just for him.

The room felt heavy as hell after that. Thick with heat, tension, and all the shit neither one of them had been saying for months. Zoya was stretched across the bed, still catching her breath, her chest rising and falling while she stared at him. Not shy. Not embarrassed.

Waiting.

Erik pushed himself up from the chair slowly, like he wasn't in a rush, even though every muscle in his body was tight with need. The scrape of denim sounded loud in the quiet room. He reached behind his neck, grabbed his shirt, and peeled it off in one smooth motion.

"Damn," Zoya breathed.

The sight of him would've made anybody stop and stare.

Dark skin stretched over hard muscle. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Deep scars cut across his chest like old stories he never bothered explaining. He looked dangerous standing there. Like trouble wrapped in flesh.

And he knew it. His eyes never left hers as he crossed the room. Slow. Like a predator that already knew the hunt was over. He stopped at the edge of the bed. Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. Zoya spread her legs wider. The look that flashed across Erik's face nearly made her shiver. His hands slid over her thighs, rough palms gripping firmly.

"Been driving me fucking crazy," he muttered. His voice was low. The kind of voice that settled right between a woman's legs. For a second, he just looked at her. Taking his time. Studying her. Like he'd spent months imagining this exact moment, and now that he finally had it, he wasn't about to rush.

"Look at you," he said, shaking his head. "Got me out here acting stupid."

Zoya laughed softly.

"Nigga, you been acting stupid."

"Yeah?"

"Standing outside my door."

A grin tugged at his mouth.

"Maybe."

"Maybe my ass."

His laugh rumbled deep in his chest. The tension cracked for a second. Then his eyes dropped again. And the room got hot all over. Real hot. The kind of heat that made it hard to think straight. Hard to remember why either one of them had spent months pretending there wasn't something between them.

Erik looked back up. Their eyes locked. Neither looked away. Not this time. Not anymore. The game was over. And both of them knew it.

He lowered his head, and for a moment, he just looked. His gaze was intense, focused, like he was studying every fucking detail of her. Then he leaned in and inhaled deeply, a low sound rumbling in his chest.

"Smell so fucking good," he muttered, his voice muffled against her skin.

And then he feasted.

There was no slow build-up, no gentle teasing. Erik went straight for the kill like he was storming a goddamn beach. His tongue flattened against her, a wide, wet stroke that split her folds open and sent a violent jolt of electricity straight up her spine. He groaned as he tasted her, a deep, guttural sound of pure fucking satisfaction, like a man who’d been crawling through the desert for days and just found an oasis. He wasn't just tasting her; he was drinking her in, his whole body tensing with the sheer, overwhelming flavor of her. It was filthy, it was the kind of wet, messy, desperate shit that made your toes curl, and your eyes roll back in your head.

"Fuck," Zoya gasped, her hands flying to his head as she began riding his face. "Erik..."

He didn't answer. He just ate. His tongue was a fucking weapon, a blade of pure muscle and heat, and he wielded that shit like he was born to do it. He licked her from the dripping, hungry mouth of her entrance all the way up to the hard, pulsing knot of her clit, his movements so sure, so confident, it was like he'd mapped this territory in his goddamn dreams. He wasn't just tasting her; he was devouring her, consuming her like she was the last meal on death row and he was a man making peace with his god. He ate like her pussy was the only thing that could save him, his mouth a wet, filthy paradise, his groans a bassline to the nasty symphony he was conducting between her legs.

He wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked, hard. Zoya's legs shot out, locking around his head in a vice-like grip, pulling him impossibly deeper. A sharp cry tore from her throat as her thighs clamped down on his ears, muffling the sound. It was too much, too intense, a pleasure that bordered on pain, but she didn't want him to stop. She wanted more. She wanted to drown in it. Her heels dug into his back, a silent, desperate command to never, ever let go.

"Right there, E, right there," she panted, her hips grinding against his face. "Don't you fucking stop."

Erik answered her with a growl, a deep, resonant vibration that bloomed from her clit and spread through her entire being like a shockwave, constellations bursting behind her closed eyelids. But he denied her the thickness of his fingers. Instead, he withdrew his mouth just enough to whisper against her slick, swollen flesh, "Nah. Wanna taste all of you."

Then his tongue became the instrument of her undoing.

It was a slow invasion at first. He pressed the firm, slick muscle against her entrance, a teasing promise before he pushed inside, a deep, languid stroke that filled her in a way that was both intimate and shockingly raw. He set a rhythm, a sensual, unhurried tempo that was the opposite of frantic. It was a deep, worshipful fucking, his tongue curling and stroking her inner walls, exploring every sensitive ridge of her very essence. Her breath hitched, her body arching into the exquisite, filling pressure.

Just as she began to crest that first gentle wave, he retreated. Before she could mourn the loss, his mouth was back on her clit, this time with a soft, suctioning pull that was less about force and more about devotion. He drew the sensitive pearl between his lips, his tongue lavishing it with slow, lazy circles that were somehow more devastating than the frantic pace before. The pleasure was different now, deeper, richer, a slow burn instead of a flash fire.

He repeated the cycle, again and again. He would feast on her with deep, tongue-fucking thrusts that built her tension to a breaking point, only to withdraw and worship her clit with a patient, licking adoration that soothed and tormented in equal measure. It was a beautiful dance, a sensual push and pull that drove her to the brink of madness and then cradled her there. He was no longer just eating her; he was speaking a language with his mouth, a dialect of pure sensation, and he was telling her everything he'd never said out loud.

The room was filled with the filthy, wet sounds of him eating her pussy, the sounds of her moans and his groans, the sounds of their shared, desperate need. 

He was a sniper, and her clit was his target. Every flick of his tongue was precise, calculated to drive her closer and closer to the edge. He watched her face, his dark eyes intense and focused, reading her every reaction, adjusting his technique to push her higher and higher.

"You gonna cum for me, Zoya?" he demanded, his voice a low, rough command against her skin. "You gonna soak my fucking face?"

The combination of his filthy mouth and his expert technique sent her hurtling over the edge. Her orgasm crashed over her, harder and more intense than the first. It was the dual assault, the relentless, deep fucking of his tongue, and the friction of his neatly trimmed beard against the hypersensitive skin of her inner thighs and folds. That coarse, masculine scrape was a brand of pleasure all its own, a rough counterpoint to the slick, demanding muscle of his mouth that pushes her over the edge. Her entire body convulsed. Her pussy clenched around his tongue, a messy pulsing as wave after wave of pleasure leaked out of her, each one more intense than the last. She cried out his name, the sound breaking, ragged and raw, as she rode out the intense, mind-blowing release.

Erik didn't stop. He kept licking, kept sucking, drawing out her orgasm until she was a trembling, whimpering mess. He lapped up every drop of her cum, his tongue cleaning her pussy with a devotion that was both tender and possessive.

When she finally collapsed back against the pillows, her body limp and spent, Erik lifted his head. His face was glistening with her wetness, his lips swollen and red. He looked up at her, his eyes dark and filled with a satisfaction that was both terrifying and incredibly sexy.

The clock on the nightstand read 8:17 PM, a time that usually signaled the beginning of their wind-down routine, not the start of an expedition. But their fridge was a barren wasteland of takeout containers and a lone, sad-looking lime. Erik, ever the pragmatist, had declared it time for a late-night grocery run.

Syn, however, was in no mood for pragmatism. She was perched on the edge of the bed, watching him pull on a hoodie, a mischievous glint in her eyes that he knew all too well. She’d dressed for the occasion, if the occasion was "causing a public scene." Her black horror movie sweater was a soft, oversized tribute to Chucky, the killer doll’s maniacal grin plastered across her chest. Paired with some high-waisted black knitted lounge shorts that hugged the generous curve of her ass and left a tantalizing sliver of her midriff bare, she was a perfect, terrifying combination of cute and sinful.

“You ready?” he asked, turning from the closet, his keys jingling in his hand.

She bounced up from the bed, a spring in her step. “Born ready,” she chirped, sauntering over to him. She didn’t just walk; she performed. Her hips swayed with an exaggerated roll, a hypnotic rhythm that was designed to pull his focus. She stopped in front of him, tilting her head back to look up, her expression the picture of innocence. “Let’s go get some groceries, big boy.”

Erik narrowed his eyes, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. He knew that look. He knew that tone. He was in for a long night.

The grocery store was a sterile, fluorescent-lit wasteland, the aisles vast and mostly deserted. Erik grabbed a cart, his movements those of a man on a mission. He had a list. He had a plan. Syn, strolling alongside him, had neither.

Her game began in the produce section, the most phallic-friendly aisle in the store. She drifted away from him, her fingers trailing over the misted greens, until she found the perfect starting point. She picked up a particularly large, thick English cucumber, holding it up to the light with a critical eye, turning it over in her hands like a connoisseur.

“Erik, baby, come here a sec,” she called out, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet space.

He sighed, pushing the cart toward her. “What, Syn?”

“What do you think?” she asked, holding the cucumber up for his inspection. “Too big? Or just the right size for a beginner?” She gave him a sly, innocent look over the top of her glasses, which she’d worn for maximum dramatic effect.

Erik’s jaw tightened. “Syn, put that down.”

“Just asking for a friend,” she giggled, setting it down only to pick up an even thicker, more intimidating zucchini. “Okay, never mind. This one’s definitely a pro. Might need to work my way up to this.” She tapped it thoughtfully against her chin, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You are not workin’ your way up to no damn zucchini,” he growled, his voice a low warning.

She just laughed, completely undeterred. Her final stop was the cantaloupes. She stopped in front of them, hefting two in her hands, her fingers sinking into the flesh. “You know, they say you’re supposed to squeeze ‘em to check for freshness.” She looked at Erik, then back at the melons in her hands, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “These feel a little… firm. What do you think?”

“Syn, stop playin’,” he gritted out, his hands gripping the handle of the cart tightly. “You tryna get us put out?”

“Put that damn cucumber down,” he added, pointing a finger at her, his expression a mixture of exasperation and barely suppressed lust.

She just winked, popping the melons back into their bin and sashaying away, her hips swaying to a silent beat. Erik watched her go, letting out a long, slow breath. He was in so much trouble. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that this was only the beginning.

Erik managed to survive the produce section, though not without his dignity taking a few hits. He was trying to regain control, steering the cart toward the more mundane aisles, canned goods, pasta, rice, places he hoped were safe from Syn’s unique brand of commentary. He was wrong.

The dairy aisle was her next stage. She lingered in front of the refrigerated section, her eyes scanning the shelves with a predatory focus. Erik watched her, a sense of dread creeping up his spine. She bypassed the milk and eggs, her hand reaching for a can of Reddi-wip. She shook it, the soft rattle-rattle a sound of pure, unadulterated trouble.

“You know,” she said, her voice a casual, conversational purr, “we’re almost out of this at home. We should stock up.” She looked over at him, her eyes wide and feigning innocence. “Never know when you’ll need a little… topping.”

Before he could respond, she popped the cap and sprayed a small, perfect white dab onto her index finger. She brought the finger to her lips, her eyes locked on his the entire time. She slowly, deliberately licked it off, her tongue swirling around the digit with a practiced, sensual grace that made his dick twitch. She closed her eyes, letting out a soft, exaggerated moan of pleasure that was entirely for his benefit.

“Mmm,” she hummed. “So good.”

“Syn,” he warned, his voice a low, strained growl. “Put that back.”

“What?” she asked, her eyes flying open in mock surprise. “I’m just quality-testing. Can’t be buying no stale whipped cream, can we?” She sprayed another dollop, this time onto the tip of her nose, and looked at him cross-eyed. “Boop.”

He had to physically turn away, his hand running over his face as he fought a losing battle against the grin threatening to break through. He was a man. He was only flesh and blood.

He thought he was safe when they reached the bakery aisle. It was just bread. How could she possibly make bread dirty? He underestimated her. He severely underestimated her.

She stopped in front of the baguettes, a whole rack of long, golden-brown phalluses just waiting to be weaponized. She picked one up, holding it like a royal scepter, her expression one of deep, scholarly contemplation.

“I’ve always had a thing for French,” she said, her voice dripping with so much innuendo it was practically dripping onto the floor. She ran her hand suggestively down the length of the bread, her fingers stroking the crusty exterior. “It’s so… long.”

She looked at him, a wicked, triumphant gleam in her eyes. “And you know what they say about French men… they know how to… rise to the occasion.”

That was it. That was the final straw. The last thread of his composure snapped.

With a low, dangerous growl that was more theatrical than truly threatening, Erik closed the distance between them in three long, dramatic strides. He snatched the baguette out of her hand with the flair of a Broadway villain and tossed it back into the bin with a loud, clattering thump that made the lone, elderly woman examining a carton of oat milk at the far end of the aisle jump and clutch her chest.

“That’s IT,” he announced to the entire store, his voice a booming, overly dramatic rumble. He grabbed her arm, his grip firm but more playful than punishing. “You are DONE. Game over. The Syn Show is officially cancelled for the evening.”

Syn, however, was not done. She was just getting warmed up. She burst into a fit of giggles, stumbling along as he began to drag her down the aisle. “Wait, wait! I didn’t even get to the part about the sourdough being so… sour!” she wheezed, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

“I swear to God, Syn,” he grumbled, trying to maintain his furious facade but failing miserably as a grin twitched at the corner of his mouth. “You are the most frustrating, most irritating, most—”

“Most brilliant woman you’ve ever met?” she supplied, batting her eyelashes at him as he pulled her toward the front of the store.

He stopped, turning to face her, his expression a comical mixture of exasperation and pure, unadulterated lust. “No. The most annoying and corny. You’re lucky I love you, ‘cause I’m about two seconds away from bendin’ you over this checkout counter and givin’ you something to really laugh about.”

“Promises, promises,” she teased, her voice a low, seductive purr.

He didn't say another word. He just grabbed her hand, his grip firm and unyielding, and started pulling her toward the front of the store. Syn was laughing, stumbling along behind him, thrilled that she had finally broke him. The abandoned grocery cart, left at a crooked angle in the middle of the bakery aisle, was a silent testament to her victory.

Their journey through the store was a blur of fluorescent lights and linoleum. The few other shoppers they passed, a tired-looking couple debating the merits of frozen pizza, a stock boy listlessly restocking a shelf of canned tomatoes, looked up at the sound of their hurried footsteps and Syn's unrestrained giggles. They were a spectacle, a whirlwind of desperate energy and unrestrained laughter, a story unfolding in real-time for an audience of bored strangers.

Erik bypassed the checkout entirely, ignoring the confused look from the bored-looking cashier who was methodically scanning a customer's items at the far end. He made a beeline for the public restrooms at the front of the store, his focus singular, his intention clear.

He stopped at the corner, his body shielding her from view as he did a quick, furtive scan of the area. The coast was clear. He pushed open the door to the men's room, pulling her in behind him.

The bathroom was, surprisingly, not the grimy, tile-and-grime nightmare she’d been expecting. It was clean, almost sterile, with polished chrome fixtures and floors that were recently mopped, the air thick with the sharp, antiseptic scent of industrial lemon soap. There were three stalls, each with a heavy, dark green door, their surfaces marred by the occasional scuff mark but otherwise clean. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed, casting a cold, unforgiving light on the scene.

He didn't hesitate. He pulled her into the last stall, the one furthest from the door, and slammed the lock home. The small space was immediately filled with the scent of industrial soap and their own ragged, excited breathing. The world outside the stall faded away, the sounds of the store, the beep of the checkout scanner, the distant rumble of a shopping cart, muted and distant. It was just the two of them, in a small, sterile box, about to do something very, very dirty.

The moment the lock clicked, the playful energy that had propelled them through the store morphed into something raw and desperate. There was no time for words, no need for them. The tension of the last hour, the teasing, the innuendos, had built to a fever pitch, and this was the only possible release.

He didn't kiss her. He didn't even look at her. He just moved. His hands were on her shorts, tugging them down over her hips with a rough, urgent impatience. They pooled around her ankles, and she kicked them away, her hands already fumbling with the strings of his sweats. He pushed his pants and briefs down just enough to free his dick, which sprang up, thick, hard, and already leaking with anticipation.

He lifted her, his hands gripping her ass, her back slamming against the cool, hard surface of the stall door. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, holding on for dear life. He guided himself to her entrance, and with a single, powerful thrust, he was inside her.

It was a desperate, needy fuck, a frantic release of all the tension she’d been building all night. He clamped a hand over her mouth, his palm pressing against her lips, muffling her cries as he pounded into her, the stall door rattling with every powerful thrust. The sounds were lewd, a wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin, a symphony of filth that was swallowed by the hum of the fluorescent lights.

In the stall next to them, a man named David was having a much less exciting evening. He was sitting on the toilet, one AirPod in, scrolling through his phone, trying to escape the sound of his wife’s voice nagging him about the brand of tuna he’d bought. He had his dick in his hand, watching a low-budget porno, the tinny, over-enthusiastic moans a poor substitute for the real thing.

That’s when he heard it. A soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump from the stall next to him. He paused his video, his curiosity piqued. It was followed by a soft, muffled cry, a sound that was definitely not coming from his phone. He pulled his earbud out, his head cocked to the side. The sounds were unmistakable. The wet, slick slide of flesh, the muffled whimper of a woman, the low, guttural growl of a man.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. This was way better than porn.

He quietly slid off the toilet, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement. He pulled his phone out and switched to the camera app. He got down on his hands and knees, his movements slow and deliberate, and slid his phone under the divider wall, the lens pointed up at the source of the action.

The screen was a chaotic, blurry mess at first, but he managed to angle it just right. And what he saw made his dick twitch with renewed interest. He had a perfect, upward shot of the action. He could see the thick, dark length of the man’s dick, glistening with the woman’s juices as it pistoned in and out of her. He could see the creamy white slickness of her arousal coating his shaft. He could see the way her ass clenched with every thrust, the way her thighs trembled. It was raw, it was real, and it was the hottest thing he had ever seen.

He was so captivated, so lost in the moment, that he forgot to be careful. He was trying to get a better shot, to zoom in on the action, when his thumb slipped. He accidentally hit the shutter button.

Click.

The sound was soft, but in the small, enclosed space of the bathroom, it was as loud as a gunshot.

The thump-thump-thump stopped.

Erik froze mid-thrust, his body rigid, his head snapping up. Syn’s blood ran cold, her eyes wide with horror. They both slowly turned their heads toward the divider wall between the stalls, their faces masks of disbelief and dawning realization.

David's heart leaped into his throat. Shit! He fumbled with his phone, his fingers clumsy with panic. He quickly pulled it back under the stall, his hands shaking as he tried to pull up his pants. Erik heard a soft rustling, the frantic sound of a zipper, and then the stall door next to him opening and closing. A moment later, the main bathroom door opened and closed, leaving them in a stunned, horrified silence.

The shock killed the mood instantly. Erik slowly set her down, his face a mask of disbelief and fury. They quickly straightened their clothes, the reality of what just happened crashing down on them. They’d been caught. Recorded.

They waited a full five minutes, listening for any sign of return, their hearts pounding in their chests, before daring to unlock the stall and sneak out. They abandoned the cart and the groceries and practically ran out of the store, not looking back, the weight of their unknown audience hanging heavy in the air between them.

Confessions Restaurant & Lounge pulses with booming 808 basslines of UGK, Z-Ro & Trae Tha Truth. Thick Southern drawl in every Dirty South lyric that matched the crowd moving below. Brown skin, dark skin, copper skin, deep mahogany skin caught the strobe lights and threw it back in flashes. Gold hoops swung. Rings glimmered. Fresh lineups, silk presses, locs, curls, braids, and fades moved through the sea of black people like art in motion. Everywhere you looked, somebody was laughing. Heads tipped back. Hands slapped shoulders. You could see girls huddled and gossiping while sipping vibrant drinks that snuck up on them like a chill. Bodies packed the main floor, women in lace jumpsuits, tight dresses, skirts that barely covered ass, stilettos and platforms. Men wearing sneakers straight out the box, all the jewelry in their collection, grills gleaming like rainbows. Women twerked low to the southern beats while men watched from the edges with drinks in hand. 

Up in the private VIP section, separated by velvet ropes and a low glass partition that let the noise in but kept the space exclusive. Plush black leather couches lined the walls, low tables scattered with bottles of top-shelf liquor and ashtrays holding half-smoked blunts. 

Stack sat back in the center couch, one arm draped along the backrest, black shirt open at the collar to show the gold chains layered against his brown skin. His tailored pants fit sharp over his athletic frame, expensive loafers planted wide, rings catching the colored lights every time he lifted his glass. 

She sat right beside him, thigh pressed against his. Her dress clung like it was painted on, short enough to show the length of her legs and cut low to frame the curve of her chest, the fabric shimmering. She held her posture straight, shoulders back, chin lifted just enough to project that ice-queen distance she wore like armor. Her eyes stayed sharp, scanning the room with cool assessment, and every time Stack leaned in, she answered with clipped words or a raised brow that dared him to push further. 

Stack watched her for a long moment, the mischievous glint in his deep brown eyes narrowing as he read the attitude rolling off her. His honeyed, Mississippi drawl came low, meant only for her ear over the thump of the music. 

“You been runnin’ that mouth all night like you forgot where you at. Like you forgot who put you in this section, who decides how long you stay.” His free hand rested on her knee, fingers pressing just firm enough to remind her of the grip he could tighten. “You know who you belong to. You know what happens if you keep givin’ me that look, like you too good for a reminder.” 

She shifted in her seat slightly but didn’t pull away, her expression staying composed even as the tension between them rose. Stack’s thumb traced a slow line along her skin, his gaze dropping briefly to the way her dress rode up before lifting back to her face. 

“Keep it up and I’ma put you right where you need to be. On your knees in this booth…throat open while the music covers every sound you make…you think that attitude protects you out there but in here…it just tells me how bad you want the correction.” 

His voice always stayed smooth, flirtatious on the surface but edged with the control he wielded so easily. It made her pulse quicken despite the cool mask she kept in place. 

Stack fixed her with that sharp, amused stare. 

“Why the fuck you show up if you can’t stand me?” 

She crossed her arms, her posture stiff and eyes darting to the crowd beyond them. “I came for the music. That’s all.” 

He chuckled low at first, then let it roll out fuller, shaking his head like she’d told the best joke he’d heard all night. 

“Nah. Don’t play that. You knew I’d be here. So what’s the real reason?”

“Drop it,” she whispered, turning her shoulder slightly away. 

Stack leaned in closer, his gold chains catching the colored lights. His lips brushed her cheek, nose pressed against her hair, taking a sniff. 

“I don’t like being ignored. You hear me? Answer the question.” 

She stayed quiet, jaw tight, refusing to meet his gaze even as the tension pulled tighter between them. Her eyes flicked down for a split second, catching the thick outline pressing against his pants, heavy and obvious. She snapped her focus back up fast, but not fast enough. 

Stack caught the glance, his lips curving into a slow grin. He chuckled, the sound warm and knowing. 

“What you lookin’ at?” 

She shifted her weight, voice flat. “You know what I’m looking at.” 

Stack reached out without hesitation, catching her wrist and guiding her hand straight to the fat bulge in his pants. Her palm landed against the heat and solid weight of it, fingers brushing the shape through the fabric. She rolled her eyes hard, pulling her usual ice back into place like armor, expression bored and distant even as her hand stayed where he put it. 

Stack watched her face the whole time, reading every flicker she tried to hide. 

“Yeah, I see you. Actin’ like you don’t care, but your hand ain’t moving.” His voice dropped lower, rough around the edges with that familiar taunt. “You gon’ keep playing games or you gon’ get on your knees and suck this dick?” 

The question hung between them just like that fat dick twitching hard beneath her hand, a sudden pulse that made the thick shaft jump against her fingers. Heat radiated through the fabric, intense and alive, the warmth seeping into her skin like it was trying to brand her. She could feel every detail—the fat girth stretching the material taut, the way it throbbed with a steady pulse that matched the bass from the club floor, the subtle ridge along the underside that hinted at its veined length. It was solid, unyielding, and growing firmer by the second under her touch, the warmth building until it felt almost feverish. 

She bit down on her lower lip, teeth sinking in to trap the moan that threatened to slip out. Her body betrayed her even as she kept her expression locked in that icy mask, eyes narrowed and jaw set like she was above all this. But her mouth watered anyway, saliva pooling at the thought of wrapping around that big dick, and her clit thumped insistently between her thighs, a dull ache that pulsed in time with the twitch she felt in her palm. Defiance kept her spine straight and her shoulders squared, but the way her fingers curled just slightly against the bulge gave her away, pressing in to feel more of that thick, warm weight. 

Stack’s eyes never left her face, noticing the way her breath hitched despite her best efforts. 

“That’s what I thought.” Stack whispered, shifting his hips just enough to grind the print harder into her hand.

Stack didn’t wait for an answer. His free hand went to his pants, unzipping with a quick pull that freed the heavy length of his dick. It sprang out thick and dark, the fat head glistening with a bead of precum, veins pulsing along the shaft. She couldn’t tear her eyes from it, the sight locking her in place even as her fingers stayed pressed against the warm skin now exposed. 

Stack laughed low, the sound rumbling from his chest as he caught the way her gaze locked on, wide and hungry despite the stubborn set of her jaw. 

“Look at that face,” he taunted, voice thick with amusement and that Mississippi drawl. “Eyes all big like you ain’t never seen a dick this size before. You actin’ like you too good but your mouth’s damn near droolin’. Go on, admit it…that look says you want every inch down your throat.” 

Stack’s hips thrusted upward, positioning that fat dick straight up so it stood rigid against his stomach, the full weight of his balls hanging heavy and tight below. It twitched visibly, the shaft bobbing with each rush of blood, the warmth radiating off it in waves that she felt even from inches away. The head flared dark and slick, a thick vein running the underside that throbbed in time with the southern bass. 

Her defiance cracked right there. She gave in with a sharp breath, sliding down to her knees without another word, dress bunched at her waist, bare ass resting on her heels. Her hands reached to grip his thighs as her lips parted. The heat hit her first when she leaned in, that feverish warmth from his skin making her clit throb harder between her legs. 

Stack’s dick stood heavy and rigid in front of her face, a network of raised veins pulsing along its length. The fat head flared wide, shiny with a bead of precum that stretched into a thin string when she leaned in. Her mouth watered openly now, tongue flicking out to taste the tip before her lips parted and stretched around the broad crown, struggling to take the girth as she sank down. Saliva welled up fast, coating the upper half of his shaft in a glossy sheen that caught the strobe lights every time she bobbed. 

Stack’s hand rested on the back of her head, rings heavy against her hair. He let her work for a few strokes, watching her cheeks hollow and her throat flex. Then, he gave a short push that forced another inch inside. 

“That mouth tryin’, ain’t it?” He said, voice low and taunting. “You call that sucking, baby? Feel like you just holding it.” 

 She tried to take more, jaw aching, but he tightened his grip and eased her back until the head remained between her lips like she was sucking on a lollipop. A wet pop sounded when he pulled free completely. His dick swayed, slick and heavy, the veins standing out darker now from the suction. Stack tapped his fat head against her cheek twice, leaving wet marks and sticky trails of pre cum.

“Nah. Lick it proper first. Base to tip. Slow. Show me you want it.” 

Her tongue dragged along the underside, tracing every ridge and vein, saliva dripping from her chin onto her cleavage. Stack watched with half-lidded eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted, dimple peeking. When she reached the head and swirled her tongue around it, he let her suck the tip again for a moment before yanking her off once more.

“Greedy. You ain’t earned the whole thing yet.” 

Stack gripped the base with one hand, angling the thick length so the head brushed her parted lips but stayed just out of reach. She leaned forward; he leaned back an inch, keeping the distance. 

“Uh-uh. Ask nice. Tell me what that mouth is good for.” 

Her answer came out hoarse, “for sucking this big dick.”

Stack rewarded her with a single swallow thrust that barely stretched her lips before withdrawing again. Spit trailed from her lower lip to the head of his dick. 

“That’s better,” he said, feeding her another inch, then two, until her nose nearly brushed his trimmed hair. 

He held her there, feeling her throat flutter around the fat intrusion, then pulled her off completely. His dick glistened from root to tip, strands of spit connecting her mouth to the head. Stack slapped it lightly against her tongue, the weight of it making a soft pat-pat sound. 

“Breathe. Then try again. And don’t stop until I say.” 

She dove back in, lips sliding down the veined girth with more determination, spit bubbling at the corners of her mouth. Stack’s fingers tightened in her hair, guiding her but never letting her set the pace herself. Every few strokes he would ease her back, denying her the deeper reach she chased, his voice smooth and cutting above her. 

“Still half-assing it. Open that throat or I’ll do it for you.” 

That fat head popped free again, shiny and swollen, and he dragged it across her lips in a slow tease before letting her have it once more. She slid back down on him, lips straining wide around the broad crown, but Stack’s fingers tightened in her hair and he gave a low chuckle that held no warmth. 

“Nah. I don’t want that pretty dick sucking either. You hear me?” He yanked her off with a wet pop, dick swinging heavy and slick, thickness coated in ropes of spit that dripped from the tip down to the base where veins stood out dark and pulsing. His fat length twitched, shiny and obscene, Stack slapping it on her tongue again. 

“Open wider. Get nasty wit’ it. I want spit running down my balls, not this tidy little bob you think pass for sucking.” 

Stack fed that wide tip back between her lips but only halfway, holding her there while she sucked softly, then pulled free once more so his entire veined girth glistened and swayed in her face in a hypnotic dance. Her chin was shiny, drool sliding down her neck. Stack angled his dick so the head brushed her cheek, leaving a wet smear. 

“Look at that. You tryna keep it cute? Fuck that. Slobber on it like the greedy slut you is.” 

Stack pushed her face lower, making her tongue drag along the underside where a thick vein pulsed against her taste buds, then let her suck the tip again only to deny her the rest. Every time she tried to sink deeper he eased back, the fat crown popping free shiny and swollen, strings of spit connecting her mouth to his dick. 

“That’s right. Make a mess. I want it dripping off my shit ‘fore I even think ‘bout letting you choke on the whole thing.” His free hand stroked the base once, slow, showing her the full heavy length before tapping it against her parted lips. “Breathe through your nose and get sloppy. Or I’ll just fuck that throat myself.”

She stopped fighting the urge and let it happen, drool spilling freely from the corners of her mouth as she worked her tongue along every inch he allowed. Spit coated the full length of his dick, thick strands stretching and snapping each time she pulled back for air. Wet trails ran down her throat and soaked the neckline of her dress. Stack watched with a satisfied smirk, his grip in her hair firm. 

“There it is,” he said, voice low and approving in that mocking way he had. “Look how quick you got it. All I had to do was tell you once and now you making a proper mess. Easy, ain’t it?” He let her sink a little deeper on her own, the head of his dick nudging the back of her throat before he eased her off again. “Follow directions and this shit get simple. No need for all that fuckin’ attitude you walked in wit’. Just open up and slobber like I said.”  

Her tongue dragged heavy and wet under his shaft, spit bubbling at the corners as she tried to take more without being told. Stack chuckled, tapping his slick head against her lips before sliding it back in halfway.

“Yeah, just like that. See how much better it feels when you stop pretending? You can act like you run shit out there, but right here you follow every word, makes my job easy too.” 

His fat crown pressed deeper while spit poured down over his balls. The wet sounds filled the VIP space, louder than the muffled bass from the club floor. Stack’s free hand rested on her jaw, thumb stroking the slick skin as he held her in place for a moment. 

“Keep going exactly like that. No fancy tricks just the nasty shit I asked for. You do that and we both get what we want.” 

She kept at it without hesitation, her mouth working steadily over every inch he gave her. Spit ran in heavy streams down his thick dick and over his heavy balls, soaking the front of his pants where they hung open. Her tongue pressed flat and eager, dragging wet and thorough each time she pulled back before sinking forward again. No resistance left in the way she moved, just the steady rhythm he had set for her. 

“You really can’t stand me, huh? Always got that look like you wanna slap the smirk off my face. But here you are again, lips stretched around my dick like it’s the only thing that shuts you up. Every single time you swear this the last…you end up on your knees. Can’t leave it alone, can you?” 

He rocked his hips forward once, testing how deep she would take it on her own. She did, throat working around the head without pulling away. More spit bubbled out and dropped onto the floor between his feet. Stack laughed, thumb brushing the corner of her stretched mouth. 

“Look at this mess you making. All ‘cause you can’t stay away from what you claim to hate. I tell you to get sloppy and you do it like it’s second nature. Follow every word I give you, even when you glaring at me with those sharp eyes. You hate how easy it is. Hate that you keep coming back for more of this.” 

The club music thumped somewhere beyond the VIP curtain, but in here it was only the sound of her wet lips and his voice laying out every contradiction. 

“You walk ‘round like nobody can touch you, but the second I tell you to open up you turn into this. Can’t stand me, yet you can’t stop sucking me off every chance you get. Makes me wonder what you’d do if I told you to stop right now. Bet you’d keep goin’ anyway, just to prove you can walk away whenever you want. We both know better.” 

Stack rose to his full height, glass in hand, the ice clinking as he took a slow sip. He looked down at her on her knees, eyes locked on the way her lips stayed wrapped around him. 

“No hands,” Stack commanded. “Just that mouth. Work it like you mean it. All jaws, no shortcuts.” 

She adjusted without a word, hands dropping to her sides. Her jaw flexed as she pushed forward, taking more of him in one steady glide. She moved like she knew exactly how to angle it, cheeks hollowing on each pull, tongue pressing hard along the underside with every stroke. 

Stack watched her, drink still in one hand while the other rested at his side. 

“That’s it. Suck that dick like the pro you are when nobody’s watching. Look at you, throat working overtime. You act like you hate my guts when we in public but in here you swallow every gahdamn inch of this dick like it’s your favorite meal.” 

Stack rocked his hips once, testing her rhythm, and she took it deeper without pulling back. More spit spilled over her bottom lip and ran down his balls. Stack chuckled, low and rough. 

“Admit it. You love this big dick. Say it while you got it stuffed in your mouth. Tell me how much you love choking on it every time you swear you done wit’ me.” 

She refused to give him that satisfaction with words but her jaw worked harder, the wet sounds filling the space between them. Stack took another sip, eyes never leaving her face. 

“Come on. I wanna hear it. You can’t leave this alone ‘cause you love how it fills your throat. You love gettin’ bullied while you drool all over it. Say the words.” Her pace stayed relentless, lips stretched tight. Stack tilted his head, voice turning sharper. “That’s my mean girl, keep going. Admit everything. How you can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout this dick even when you give me attitude. Say it loud enough so I know you mean it.” 

Stack held still, letting her drive the motion, watching every bob of her head and every flex of her throat as she worked him deeper. The club noise stayed muffled beyond the curtain while he sipped again, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. 

“Good girl. Now keep that mouth moving and tell me the rest. How bad you need it. How you hate yourself for loving every second of this.” 

Stack yanked his dick free from her throat, gripping the base and started smacking the heavy length across her face. Each slap landed with a wet thud, the head dragging over her cheek, across her lips, up to her forehead, leaving shiny streaks behind. He did it slow at first, then faster. Her eyes watered but she kept them open, staring up at him. 

“I can’t fucking stand you,” she rasped, voice thick and broken from how deep she’d been taking him. “But I love it. I love all of it. This big dick, the way it stretches my throat, how you make me kneel and take it. I love choking on every inch even when I swear I hate you.” 

Stack let out a low chuckle, the sound dark and amused. He slapped his dick harder against her cheek, then dragged it down to smack her chin. 

“Look at this pathetic face. Sayin’ you can’t stand me while my dick all over it. You love it so much you drooling just from the words. Go on, keep talkin’. Tell me how bad you need this dick you claim to hate.” 

He kept the pace going, smacking the thick shaft over her nose and lips, the wet slaps echoing in the VIP section. Spit flew with each strike. Her expression stayed wrecked, mouth open, tongue half out like she couldn’t help chasing it. 

“That’s right,” he mocked, voice smooth even as he bullied her with his dick. “Admit it all. You sneak around just to get treated like this. Can’t get enough of how I make you feel like nothin’ but a hole for me to use. Say it louder.” 

She swallowed, throat working, and kept going between the hits.

“I love this big dick more than anything. I love how you make me do this, how you don’t let me use my hands, how you laugh at me while I beg for it. I hate you but I can’t stop wanting every second of it.” 

Stack grinned, dimples flashing, and gave one final slap across both cheeks with his tip girth before pressing the head against her lips again. 

“Good. Now open up and prove it.” 

She proved it right away. Her lips parted wide and she took him back in, sucking hard and sloppy like she was desperate for some prize at the end. Her tongue worked the underside in fast strokes while she bobbed her head, cheeks sunken with every pull. Spit ran down her chin and dripped onto her dress as she pushed deeper, taking more of him without any hesitation.

Stack felt his dick swell thicker in her mouth, the head pulsing against her tongue as he got closer. He groaned low and gripped her hair tighter. 

“You want my nut that bad, huh? Look at you workin’ for it. Tell me where you want it. How bad you need it.” 

She pulled off just enough to speak, voice hoarse and frantic between licks. 

“And want it so bad, Stack. Give me that nut. I want it all over my face, down my throat, anywhere you say. I need it more than anything right now. Please, just cum for me.” 

Stack chuckled again, mocking and low. “Hold still then. Grab my glass and don’t spill a drop.” 

She reached up with one shaking hand and took the glass from him, holding it steady while he planted both palms on her head. Stack drove forward, fucking her throat in hard, steady thrusts. His hips snapped towards her face as he chased his release, using her mouth like it was made for exactly this. 

Stack’s body tensed hard, his hips jerking forward one last time before he yanked his dick free from her throat with a wet pop. Thick ropes of cum erupted from the swollen head, the first heavy spurt landing across her cheek and splattering up toward her eye in a hot, sticky line. More followed in powerful pulses, each one shooting out in long, creamy strands that painted her face white. His load was massive, costing her skin in heavy globs that dripped down her jaw and onto the neckline of her dress. 

His face twisted in raw pleasure, brows furrowed deep, full lips parted around a guttural groan that built into a low, drawn-out moan. His deep brown eyes narrowed to slits, lashes fluttering as his chest heaved, the veins in his neck standing out while he emptied himself with a stutter of his hips. Stack aimed the next burst lower, letting the cum land directly on her wiggling tongue as she held it out for him, the warm fluid pooling there in a thick puddle before overflowing down her chin. 

“Fuck, that’s it.” He rasped, voice thick and taunting even as his dick twitched through the last shots. “Look at all that nut on your pretty face. You earned every drop, didn’t you?” 

She didn’t pull away, instead leaning in to suck the remaining cum from his still-hard length. Her lips sealing around the head and milking him clean with slow, tight pulls until nothing more came out. Stack watched her with a smirk, his hand still tangled in her hair as he praised her through the taunts.

“Good girl, swallowing what you can and wearing the rest like a badge. Such a nasty little slut for me, huh? Bet you love feeling it cool on your skin.” 

She rolled her eyes at him from her knees, the gesture full of attitude even with his cum streaking her face. Stack burst out laughing, the sound rich and amused as he tilted her chin higher with one finger. 

The Saint Compound didn't sit on the edge of Blackstone; it swallowed the horizon. Hundreds of acres of raw Texas power, rolling under skies that bled gold at dusk and turned silver under a hunter's moon. Ancient oaks, older than the state's pride, lined the private roads, their branches forming a cathedral canopy over the pristine asphalt. Horses, the color of night and champagne, roamed behind fences white as bone. Security gates, more art than obstacle, stood silent sentinel at every entrance. This wasn't just old money. This was an old dynasty wrapped around a new world power.

In Blackstone, the Saints were mythology. Whispered about over bourbon in country clubs and cursed under the breath of politicians who owed them favors. Jeremiah Saint was called a genius, a predator, a visionary, a tyrant. The truth, as it usually was, sat somewhere in the messy, compelling middle.

By the time Erik Stevens came screaming into the world, Jeremiah’s empire was a continent-spanning beast. Oil darkening the sands of West Texas, glass towers piercing the skies of New York and LA, security firms whispering in the ears of CEOs and dictators, shipping lanes humming with his cargo. The Saint name wasn't just a name; it was a key. It opened doors that were meant to stay locked.

And for all his sins, for all the complicated, sprawling nature of his personal life, one truth was unshakable: Jeremiah loved his sons. With a terrifying, absolute devotion.

The compound was the proof. Each mother had her own villa, a sanctuary of privacy and comfort. Jeremiah never demanded they be friends, but he’d burn the world down before he allowed anyone to disrespect them. The boys grew up like a pack of wolves raised by different she-wolves in the same sprawling den. They were Saints, every last one of them. But as they grew into men, they made a choice. A quiet, powerful act of rebellion and gratitude. They took their mothers' names. Moore. Jordan. Creed. Montag. Stevens. It was their way of honoring the women who raised them while carving out their own identities outside their father's colossal shadow.

Mornings started before the sun, the air cool and thick with the scent of dew and hay. Horseback riding that taught balance and nerve. Conditioning drills on the lawn that pushed young lungs to the limit. Martial arts in the dojo that taught a body how to be a weapon. Jeremiah believed softness bred weakness, but he was no monster. He knew discipline without love created something far worse: a void. So the Saint boys were fed a steady diet of both. The belt and the hug. The lecture and the laugh.

The twins, Elijah and Elias Moore, were a beautiful, charismatic catastrophe. Inseparable, two halves of the same chaotic soul, always running a scam, always laughing at a joke only they understood, always ready to fight or fuck their way out of, or into, any situation.

Michael Jordan moved with the unnerving stillness of a panther. Even as a kid, he watched more than he spoke, his dark eyes taking in everything, filing it away. He carried a silence that made adults fidget.

Donnie Creed was the heart. All passion and fierce loyalty, the brother who would throw the first punch to protect your honor and then stay up all night talking you through the fallout.

And Guy… Guy was the prince. The baby. Every woman on the compound doted on him. Every brother taught him something different, protected him, spoiled him rotten. Even Jeremiah’s iron resolve softened around the youngest.

But Erik… Erik was different.

Jeremiah saw it in him early. A chilling echo of himself. At ten, Erik could silence a room full of rowdy cousins not by yelling, but by simply stopping whatever he was doing and looking at them. At twelve, he had a temper so deep and cold it never needed to erupt; he’d simply shut down, and the chill that came off him was more effective than any tantrum. At fourteen, the ex-Marines Jeremiah hired for security found themselves unconsciously standing straighter when Erik walked past, their hands instinctively checking their uniforms. He didn't just watch people; he dissected them. He studied their tells, their weaknesses, their desires, like they were textbooks and he had a test to ace.

He never fidgeted. Never panicked. Never spoke just to hear his own voice. And when the brothers fought—and they fought, with the ferocity of a pack of wolves—Erik didn't need to raise his voice. He’d just state a quiet, brutal truth, and the argument would die. People followed him. Not because they had to. Because they were supposed to.

Jeremiah saw in Erik the purest distillation of his own will. Which was the most dangerous thing a father could see in a son.

"That boy gon' either be a king or a goddamn problem," Jeremiah muttered one evening, watching sixteen-year-old Erik dismantle another boy in the sparring ring, his movements economical, terrifyingly precise.

His mother, Lisa, overheard him from the porch swing. She was a woman of few words and immense strength, an Oakland native who had never been fully tamed by Texas. "Maybe both," she said, not looking up from her book.

A slow, dangerous smile spread across Jeremiah's face. "Exactly."

The summer Erik turned eighteen, the compound threw a party that felt less like a celebration and more like a coronation. Black SUVs choked the private roads. Music thumped from hidden speakers, a bass-heavy pulse that vibrated through the soles of your shoes. Politicians, athletes, oil barons, models, socialites—they all came. The Saints didn't just have money; they had gravity.

Erik spent the night moving through it all like a ghost, nursing a glass of whiskey older than he was, his expression one of polite boredom. Girls tried to flirt. Rich kids tried to impress him with tales of their fathers' yachts. People laughed too loudly in Jeremiah's presence, hoping the proximity to power was contagious.

Near midnight, Jeremiah found him on the back patio, overlooking the dark expanse of the ranch.

"Bored?" Jeremiah asked, his voice a low rumble.

Erik took a slow sip of his whiskey. "A little."

Jeremiah chuckled, a sound like gravel. "Good. Means you ain't easily impressed." He adjusted the cuff of his black silk shirt and nodded toward the driveway. "Come ride with me."

Erik figured they were heading to Houston, to one of Jeremiah's clubs, where the beautiful and the desperate came to worship at the altar of excess. Instead, Jeremiah drove them deeper into the heart of Blackstone. The town looked different after midnight. Warm light pooled on the sidewalks, country bars still hummed with life, and the 24-hour diner radiated a sleepy, comfortable glow. It looked peaceful. Ordinary.

But Jeremiah didn't stop downtown. He drove toward the old rail district, where century-old brick buildings huddled under dim amber streetlights. The black Mercedes finally slid to a stop beside an unmarked building tucked between a jazz lounge and a private cigar bar. No sign. No crowd. Just a single black door under a single gold light.

"This it?" Erik asked, a frown touching his lips.

Jeremiah's smile was faint. "This is where powerful people come to stop pretending."

He opened the door, and the moment Erik stepped inside, the air changed. It wasn't a club. It was a sanctuary. A temple. Dark wood, low gold lighting, velvet that drank the light, and the smooth, intelligent hum of a Neo Soul soundtrack. Nobody stumbled. Nobody screamed. Nobody performed. Everything was intentional. The air itself felt… disciplined.

Beautiful women moved through the space in silk and leather and diamonds. Powerful men stood beside them, some radiating dominance, others radiating a quiet, willing surrender. And nobody, nobody looked ashamed. They looked… comfortable. Confident. Trusting.

Erik saw a woman in a red dress kneeling calmly beside a man smoking a cigar as he discussed oil futures. She wasn't humiliated. She was devoted. He saw another Dom adjust his sub's collar with a tenderness that was more intimate than a kiss. He saw a woman in Louboutins whispering something in a man's ear, and he nodded, his entire being focused on her command.

"What you think?" Jeremiah asked, his voice low.

Erik took his time, his eyes cataloging every detail. "It's calmer than I expected."

"Most people misunderstand dominance," Jeremiah said, leading him deeper. People nodded at Jeremiah, their respect clear, their posture relaxed. This wasn't a place of fear.

They stopped at a private balcony overlooking the main floor. "Sit." Erik did. Below them, a scene unfolded. A woman, tall and elegant, the kind who probably ate CEOs for breakfast, stood in the center of the room. Here, though, she looked… soft. Vulnerable, but not weak.

A Dom approached her. No aggression. No posturing. Just presence. He spoke too quietly for Erik to hear, but the woman's body answered immediately. Her breathing changed. Her shoulders relaxed. Her eyes locked onto him like he was the only gravity in the room. The Dom didn't even touch her. He just looked at her. And slowly, gracefully, she lowered to her knees.

Erik leaned forward, his knuckles tightening on the balcony railing.

"Real dominance ain't violence, Erik," Jeremiah's voice was a low, certain hum beside him. "Ain't screaming. Ain't fear. Ain't control through pain. Most men wanna dominate 'cause they weak. 'Cause they insecure. They confuse power with force."

Below, the Dom reached out, his fingers gently brushing the woman's hair. The intimacy of the gesture was more powerful than any overt act.

"But real power?" Jeremiah continued, his gaze fixed on the scene below. "Real power is making somebody feel safe enough to surrender."

Something heavy and profound settled in Erik's chest. It was recognition. A hidden part of himself, a part he hadn't known existed, was suddenly waking up.

Jeremiah finally looked at him, his eyes piercing. "You are never given submission, Erik. You earn it."

The words landed with the weight of a prophecy. He never forgot them. Not at Parris Island. Not in the halls of MIT. Not while building his empire in Oakland. Not years later, when people in the darkest, most exclusive clubs in the world would kneel for a man known only as King.

Because that night, watching the Dom guide that powerful woman with nothing but his voice, his presence, and the unshakable certainty of his will, Erik understood.

Power wasn't force.

Power was certainty.

Present Day.

The black Range Rover purred through the gates of the Saint Compound just after sunset, the tires crunching on the familiar gravel. Erik sat behind the wheel, a man carved from sharper stone now. The all-black suit was a second skin, the watch on his wrist a piece of functional art. The Marines had weaponized him. MIT had honed him. Oakland had crowned him. But Blackstone… Blackstone had made him.

The gates swung open, swallowing the truck. And King finally came home.

The first thing Erik noticed about Blackstone, after all these years, was that the town still smelled the same. Rain-soaked cedar and fresh dirt after a late-afternoon shower. The ghost of cigarette smoke clinging to the doorframes of old country bars. Expensive perfume, a fleeting, floral poison, left behind by wealthy women slipping back into the black SUVs that prowled downtown like sleek, pantherine predators.

Blackstone had always been a contradiction wrapped in a Southern drawl. A luxury town playing dress-up in a small town’s clothes. Here, billionaires whose net worth could fund small countries bought rounds for ranchers whose families had worked this land for generations at SandStorm. Old money families, their pedigrees longer than the Texas constitution, sat in pews beside tattooed fighters and oil executives who smelled like diesel and ambition. Private jets whispered down onto private airstrips twenty minutes outside of town while old men still sat on cracked vinyl stools outside the local diner, arguing about the Cowboys and cattle prices like the rest of the world hadn't gone and gotten itself complicated.

Blackstone moved slow on purpose. It was part of its power. A quiet, unshakeable confidence that no amount of new money could buy.

Erik drove the black Range Rover through downtown, the warm evening lights painting strobes across the dashboard. One tattooed hand rested loosely against the steering wheel, his knuckles a landscape of old scars and new ink. His windows were down, a deliberate choice. He wanted to feel the thick, humid air, wanted to hear the country music drifting from a nearby bar, the thumping bass a counterpoint to the cicadas. He watched groups of locals move between bars and restaurants, a uniform of denim, boots, diamonds, and the easy confidence of people who belonged.

Couples laughed, loose-limbed and happy, spilling onto the sidewalk. Waitresses carried trays overflowing with longnecks, the bottles sweating in the heat, navigating the chaos with practiced ease beneath glowing neon signs that promised cold beer and good times. A pair of older ranchers sat outside the diner, their chairs tipped back against the brick wall, arguing about football loud enough for half the block to hear their passionate, profanity-laced opinions.

Nothing in Blackstone ever looked rushed. The town wore its age and its secrets like a comfortable old coat.

But Erik knew better. Blackstone was a creature of deep, still waters. It hid things. Always had. Money. Secrets. Affairs. Politics. Power. And submission. Most outsiders only saw charming storefronts and Southern hospitality. They never saw what lived beneath the surface, in the velvet-drenched dark.

His phone buzzed against the center console, a sharp, insistent vibration.

ELIAS: Quit drivin’ slow old man. Stevie gon’ kill everybody if you late.

A second text immediately followed, a testament to the twins’ inability to communicate as separate entities.

ELIJAH: Also Donnie cried already.

Then another, from Elias, of course.

ELIAS: Like A LOT.

The corner of Erik’s mouth twitched, a near-smile. Some things never changed. The twins were still incapable of acting like grown men, their communication a chaotic, tag-team effort of insults and affection.

Another message popped up.

GUY: Bring cigars.

Then:

MIKE: Ignore him.

Then immediately after, Guy again, his petulance a palpable force even through text:

GUY: Mind your business light skin Luther Vandross.

Erik shook his head slowly, a faint, exasperated sigh escaping his lips. Idiots. Every last one of them. And somehow, the realization of their enduring, infuriating idiocy loosened something inside his chest, a knot he hadn't realized he was carrying.

Oakland rarely felt warm anymore. Successful? Yes. Powerful? Absolutely. But warm? No. His life in California was a fortress of calculated moves. It revolved around contracts that ran into the millions, private security operations in geopolitical hotspots, wealthy clients with paranoid delusions, politicians with dirty secrets, celebrities who needed protecting from their own fame, dangerous men pretending to be respectable, and respectable men pretending not to be dangerous. Everything there felt transactional. A series of inputs and outputs.

Blackstone still felt personal.

He finally turned toward the newer side of town, where Donnie’s estate sat several miles beyond the original Saint Compound. The Creed property looked different from Jeremiah’s sprawling kingdom. Still massive. Still expensive. Still absurdly luxurious. But warmer. Less intimidating. The ranch house sat beneath the fading sunset, the light glowing gold through massive windows that overlooked acres of land. White fences cut clean lines across the property. Security moved discreetly around the perimeter, their presence felt but not seen, while a collection of luxury vehicles that looked like a car show lined the circular driveway.

Laughter drifted from somewhere inside, a sound that was both familiar and foreign.

Family.

Erik parked the Rover, the engine ticking as it cooled. He stepped out into the thick Texas heat, which wrapped around him like a heavy, wet blanket. He adjusted the cuffs of his black shirt, a gesture of automatic precision, before walking toward the front entrance, six-foot-three of calm intimidation moving through the evening like he owned it. Which, in some ways, he did.

The front doors swung open before he could raise a hand to knock.

"Elijah cheated," Elias announced immediately, his face a mask of theatrical betrayal.

Erik walked straight past him, not breaking stride.

"You been lyin' since birth," Elijah's calm voice answered from somewhere deeper inside the house.

"I'm serious."

"You accuse everybody of cheating when you lose."

"'Cause y'all be cheatin'."

The familiar, chaotic energy of his brothers almost made him laugh. Almost.

The inside of Donnie and Stevie’s home smelled like a complicated, beautiful perfume: high-end candles, the sharp bite of expensive liquor, the rich aroma of catered food, and the clean, powdery scent of newborn baby lotion. Soft neo soul played through hidden speakers, the music a smooth, soulful counterpoint to the controlled chaos of family members crowded into nearly every room.

The house felt lived in. Real. Warm blankets were thrown haphazardly across expensive leather couches. A mountain of baby gifts was stacked near the staircase. Half-finished drinks sat abandoned on marble tables because conversations kept pulling people away. And right in the center of all of it stood Donnie Creed, looking exhausted, emotional, and completely transformed. Fatherhood looked insane on him. A good kind of insane.

Donnie spotted Erik immediately, a tired grin breaking across his face. "There go this bitter-ass nigga," he muttered before pulling Erik into a rough, one-armed hug that smelled like baby powder and sleep deprivation.

Erik hugged him back firmly, a brief, solid press of brotherhood. "You look tired."

"'Cause I ain't slept in three damn days."

"Good."

Donnie rolled his eyes, but the grin didn't fade. "Missed you too."

Before Erik could answer, another body slammed into him with the force of a small cannonball. Guy. Youngest as always. Loudest as always.

"Aye, King finally came home!"

Erik shoved him lightly away, a practiced move. "You still talk too much."

"And you still ugly."

"That all you got?"

"Give me ten minutes."

Laughter broke around them instantly, a warm, infectious wave. The energy inside the house felt alive. Warm. Easy. The kind of atmosphere impossible to fake.

Michael appeared next, calmer than the others as usual, dressed in an expensive cream-colored sweater that probably cost more than the average monthly mortgage, gold jewelry catching the soft light like he was his own constellation. "Good flight?" Michael asked, his voice low and smooth.

Erik nodded once. "How's Oakland?"

"Busy."

Michael smirked slightly, a subtle, knowing curve of his lips. "You hate everybody there yet?"

"Mostly."

"That's healthy."

"It keeps me motivated."

Michael laughed quietly, a soft, genuine sound.

Across the room, Elijah and Elias argued loudly over whether babies could recognize voices in the womb, their debate a nonsensical mix of pseudo-science and pure bullshit. Stevie sat curled carefully into one corner of the oversized sectional, looking like a queen on her throne, holding a tiny pink bundle against her chest.

The moment Erik saw the baby, the entire room softened somehow, the noise and energy dialing down a notch. Diamond Saint Creed. Tiny. Wrapped in pale pink blankets. Peacefully asleep against Stevie's chest while Stevie looked simultaneously exhausted and happier than anybody Erik had ever seen. Motherhood looked different on Stevie. Not softer. Sharper somehow. Like she'd found another level of herself she hadn't known existed.

Donnie noticed where Erik's attention had landed. "Scared to hold her?" Donnie asked immediately, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Erik looked unimpressed. "I was in the Marines."

"Yeah, but she's scarier."

"That's fair."

Stevie burst out laughing softly, the sound warm and rich. "Y'all gon' stop actin' like my child a mob boss."

"She is a Creed and a Saint," Elijah muttered, his voice dead serious.

Elias nodded seriously beside him. "That baby definitely gon' commit tax fraud eventually."

"Why would you put that on a newborn?" Stevie asked, her voice a mix of exasperation and amusement.

"'Cause greatness takes sacrifice."

The room exploded again. From the edge of the mayhem, a tall, lanky woman who looked like a model with a chaotic grin nearly spilled her drink laughing. Lonny. Leaning against the wall, shaking his head with an air of long-suffering amusement, was Kobe, a sharply dressed, proud Jamaican-American lawyer whose expression screamed: "I'm surrounded by idiots." They were Stevie's people, her honorary brother and sister, a constant presence in her life and, by extension, Donnie's.

Even Michael cracked a real, honest-to-God smile.

Erik shook his head slowly. Idiots. Every last one of them. And somehow, the realization made something heavy in his chest loosen slightly. He hadn't realized how long it had been since all the brothers were together like this. No business meetings. No funerals. No obligations. Just family.

Then Donnie finally stepped forward carefully, his hands outstretched. "Hold your niece."

Erik blinked once. "You trust me with that?"

"Not particularly."

"Then why ask?"

"'Cause it's funny."

Stevie rolled her eyes while carefully standing. "Move," she muttered toward Donnie.

Donnie instantly obeyed.

That made Erik smirk. Interesting.

Stevie approached slowly, her movements deliberate, before placing the tiny, warm bundle into Erik’s tattooed arms. The entire room went quiet. Seeing Erik Stevens holding a newborn felt like watching a wolf gently carry a piece of stained glass. It was unnatural. Beautiful, but deeply, fundamentally unnatural.

Erik looked down.

And immediately froze.

Diamond yawned softly in her sleep, a tiny, perfect O of a mouth. Her fingers flexed against the pink blanket. Her little face scrunched slightly beneath the warm fabric. Something inside Erik’s chest shifted unexpectedly, a seismic event. Tiny. Warm. Completely defenseless. And holding her felt like holding the entire world, and all its vulnerabilities, in the palm of his hand.

The strongest men in the room collectively melted.

"Oh nah," Guy whispered dramatically.

"Elijah look," Elias muttered.

"He got soft eyes."

"Take a picture."

"Already did."

"Delete it," Erik said calmly, his voice a low threat.

Neither twin listened.

"You holdin' her like she a grenade," Michael observed, his dry humor cutting through the tension.

"She tiny as hell."

"That's how babies work," Stevie answered, a fond smile on her face.

Diamond stretched slightly in her sleep before instinctively gripping one of Erik’s fingers, her tiny hand a perfect, miniature replica of a future fighter's.

The entire room lost their minds.

"OH HE DONE FOR NOW," Guy yelled, pointing.

"That baby got him emotionally compromised."

"Delete all pictures immediately," Erik muttered, his voice dangerously low.

"You got tears in your eyes?" Elijah asked, squinting.

"Say another word."

"Definitely emotional."

Just then, Jeremiah Saint entered the house. And somehow, the room shifted instantly. Not because people feared him. Because presence is recognized presence. Jeremiah walked inside wearing dark slacks, a black button-up rolled neatly at the sleeves, and enough quiet authority to silence entire rooms without effort. Age had silvered parts of his beard now, but somehow the older man only looked sharper because of it, a blade honed by time.

Power sat naturally on Jeremiah Saint. Always had. But the moment he saw the baby in Erik’s arms, every hard edge in the man disappeared.

"Well damn," Jeremiah muttered softly, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely showed.

The entire family watched as one of the most feared businessmen in the country walked toward the couch looking almost… emotional.

Donnie grinned immediately. "There goes Grandpa."

"Watch your mouth."

"You literally are one."

Jeremiah ignored him completely. His attention stayed fixed on Diamond. "That my grandbaby?" he asked quietly.

Stevie smiled warmly. "That's your grandbaby."

Jeremiah looked genuinely overwhelmed for half a second. Then Donnie, being Donnie, had to ruin it.

"You cryin'?"

"Shut the hell up."

"You definitely cryin'."

"I'll slap the shit out you in front of your child."

The room erupted again. Even Erik laughed quietly this time, a real, rumbling sound from deep in his chest.

Jeremiah eventually took Diamond carefully into his arms with surprising gentleness. The entire atmosphere softened while watching him. Because despite all Jeremiah’s power… despite the rumors… despite the wealth… despite Sinners… despite the complicated family structure… he genuinely loved his family. And that truth sat at the center of everything.

Jeremiah looked down at Diamond for a long moment before quietly muttering, "She got the Saint stare already."

"That baby three days old," Michael answered.

"And already judging people."

"Probably inherited that from Erik," Guy added.

"Everybody inherits problems from Erik," Elias muttered.

Erik ignored all of them. Mostly because he was still watching Jeremiah, seeing the man his brothers knew, not the legend the world feared.

A few minutes later, the front doors opened again, a new wave of energy sweeping into the house. "WHERE IS  MY GRANDBABY?"

Stevie groaned immediately. "My parents."

Two older Black retirees swept into the house carrying designer luggage, cruise ship tans, and enough energy to overwhelm everybody instantly. Stevie’s mother hugged her dramatically. "Oh my God, look at you," she cried.

"I literally just saw you two weeks ago."

"And now you got a baby!"

Stevie’s father immediately approached Jeremiah, his hand outstretched. "You the granddad?"

Jeremiah nodded once. "You the other granddad?"

"That's right."

The two older men stared at each other briefly before shaking hands. Something about it felt like billion-dollar diplomacy.

"You smoke cigars?" Stevie's father asked.

"Sometimes."

"Oh yeah, we definitely finna get along."

Meanwhile, Donnie’s mother, Everly, entered behind them, smiling warmly while carrying enough gifts to spoil the child through adolescence. "My baby had a baby," she whispered emotionally.

"Oh Lord," Donnie muttered. "Here she go."

His mother immediately grabbed his face. "You somebody daddy now."

"Please stop sayin' it like that."

"I remember when you used to eat crayons."

"That information ain't necessary tonight."

"It absolutely is."

Within twenty minutes, the entire house dissolved into complete, beautiful family chaos. People passed Diamond around carefully. The brothers argued over who she resembled. Stevie threatened violence if anybody woke the baby. Jeremiah silently bought something expensive online after holding her for five minutes. Kobe and Lonny debated whether Donnie would become overprotective. Guy already started planning matching miniature designer outfits.

"She not wearin' Gucci at six months old," Donnie argued.

"Yes she is," Guy answered.

"That baby gon' have better credit than everybody in this room," Elijah added.

"And probably more emotional maturity too," a new voice answered from the kitchen entrance.

Erik looked up immediately.

That's when he saw her.

Stella Davis.

She stepped into the kitchen carrying a bottle of wine beneath one arm while Kobe followed behind her, still arguing loudly about Houston nightlife and terrible DJs.

"Your music taste is genuinely concerning," Stella said, her voice a low, husky drawl.

"My playlists got range."

"Your playlists sound like somebody's emotionally confused uncle made them."

Lonny nearly folded over laughing from where she stood, filming clips on her phone. "That was disrespectful," Kobe muttered.

"It was accurate."

Then Stella looked up.

And saw Erik.

The pause barely lasted a second. But Erik noticed it. Not because she recognized him with star-struck awe. Because she assessed him. Carefully. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, swept over him from his polished boots to his controlled expression. The same way he assessed everybody. It wasn't a challenge. It was a calculation. And it was the first time all night someone had looked at him without a layer of performance, fear, or familial obligation.

Interesting.

Stevie immediately sat up straighter on the couch. "Oh right," she said quickly, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Y'all never met." She pointed toward Stella. "Erik, this is Stella Davis. Kyri's cousin and one of my best friends." Then toward him. "Stella, this Erik Stevens. Another one of Donnie's brothers."

Stella Pov

I stepped forward, extending my hand, forcing a practiced, polite smile onto my face. The one I used for clients and annoying investors. "It's nice to finally meet you," I said, my voice smooth, controlled.

Erik Stevens looked at my hand. He looked at my face. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and they assessed me with a quick, unnerving efficiency that made me feel like I was being scanned for threats. He didn't smile. He didn't offer any pleasantries. He just took my hand, his grip firm, dry, and brief. A perfunctory shake. A business transaction.

"Stella," he said. My name. Nothing more. Just my name, spoken in a low, calm voice that was somehow more intimate than a whisper. Then he let go. The introduction was over. Short. Sweet. And utterly dismissive.

A hot flash of irritation, sharp and unwelcome, shot through me. I was used to men trying too hard. I was used to charm, to compliments, to the subtle dance of flirtation and power. I was not used to being… processed and filed away.

I felt a warm presence beside me, and Lonny leaned in, her long, model-esque frame brushing against my arm. She brought her lips close to my ear, her voice a conspiratorial whisper that only I could hear over the din of the family.

"Damn," she murmured, her eyes dancing with mischief. "I've seen friendlier-looking tombstones. Girl, he looks like he fucks with a spreadsheet."

I almost choked on a laugh, turning my head slightly to hide my smile. "Shut up," I whispered back.

"No, I'm serious," Lonny insisted, her gaze flicking back to Erik, who had already turned his attention back to the baby as if our interaction had never happened. "He's got that whole 'I'm emotionally unavailable, and my suit costs more than your car' vibe. Stuck up. Bet he's a nightmare in bed. All control and no soul."

I knew Lonny was just being protective, just being her chaotic, hilarious self. But as I looked back at Erik, at the rigid set of his shoulders and the way he held his niece with a terrifying gentleness, a part of me wondered. Lonny was probably right. He was probably exactly the type of controlling, domineering man I'd spent my entire adult life avoiding.

So why, I thought, my body was humming with that low, electric current, did a small, reckless part of me want to find out?

The first three days bled into one another, a collage of sensory overload. The Creed house, once a monument to Donnie’s solitary success, had been invaded. It was now a living, breathing organism, pulsing with a chaotic rhythm that felt both jarring and deeply, strangely right.

Music from different speakers clashed in a symphony of genres. The sharp, clean scent of expensive whiskey mingled with the sweet, milky smell of baby formula. Arguments erupted and died out with the speed of summer thunderstorms, punctuated by the sudden, piercing cry of a newborn and the immediate, frantic shushing that followed. Dominoes slammed against wooden tables with the crack of a sniper rifle, followed by groans and triumphant laughter. The house had transformed into a vortex of controlled chaos, and somehow, everybody was thriving.

The Saint brothers had spent years as satellites orbiting different suns in different galaxies. Oakland's tech-fueled intensity. New Orleans' humid, hedonistic nights. Atlanta's sprawling ambition. New York's concrete jungle. Miami's glittering excess. Different lives, different empires, different women. But being back together under the same Texas sky shifted something ancient and primal inside all of them. It felt like muscle memory. Like coming home.

Mornings were a loud, messy affair. Elijah and Elias argued over the merits of scrambled versus over-easy eggs with the gravity of a UN summit. Guy played music entirely too loud and entirely too early, his phone a portable nightclub. Michael drank coffee that probably cost more than my weekly grocery bill while pretending to be a stone monolith, though his eyes tracked every conversation. And Donnie… Donnie moved through his own home like a beautiful zombie, his huge frame hunched slightly as he carried Diamond against his chest, her tiny body a warm, living anchor.

And Stevie? Stevie ruled the entire operation from whichever plush surface she’d claimed as her throne. With a single look, she could quell an argument, summon a bottle, or command one of the most powerful men in the country to fetch her a glass of water. Nobody questioned it. Not even Jeremiah. Especially not Jeremiah.

Erik mostly observed. That was his element. He watched. He listened. He calculated. The ranch settled his nerves in a way Oakland no longer could. In California, everything was sharp, violent, fast. A city running on a high-octane mixture of ambition and paranoia. But Blackstone moved deliberately. The mornings smelled like coffee and cedarwood. The nights smelled like whiskey and rain. The air itself felt slower. Still dangerous, but quieter about it.

By the fourth day, Erik noticed something else. Stella Davis was suddenly everywhere. Not intentionally, he didn't think. She was just… there. A constant, sharp-edged presence. She sat beside Stevie during breakfast, her laptop open, a whirlwind of organization as she catalogued an avalanche of baby gifts. She argued with Kobe in the kitchen, her voice rising and falling in passionate, articulate waves as she edited an article on the socioeconomic impact of luxury tourism. She lounged across the outdoor patio, a pair of oversized glasses perched on her nose, lost in historical archives about old Texas oil dynasties. She seemed to know everybody in town already, her phone a constant source of information and connection.

And she talked. Constantly. Not loudly, but sharply. Like every sentence was crafted to carry teeth. Which explained why she irritated me almost instantly.

"You always stare at people like you're conducting an interrogation?" Her voice cut through his focus, pulling him away from the security report on his tablet.

He glanced up. She sat across the massive dining table, a vision of casual elegance in a silk headscarf twisted around her intricate braids. The oversized glasses made her look intelligent. And a little bit dangerous.

"You always ask unnecessary questions?" he answered, my voice flat.

"See?" she said, pointing a manicured finger at him.

"See what?"

"That right there." She gestured again, more dramatically this time. "That robotic assassin thing you do. You answer a question with another question, deflect, and maintain eye contact just long enough to be intimidating. It's a whole technique."

From the kitchen island, Guy let out a loud cackle. "I told y'all this man talks like a disappointed CEO about to lay off half his staff."

"I am a CEO," Erik said, his voice devoid of humor.

"Exactly," Guy shot back.

Michael looked up from his ridiculously expensive coffee, a rare smirk playing on his lips. "Honestly, she kinda got you figured out already."

Erik ignored them both, turning his attention back to his tablet. But he was aware of her. Erik noticed her glances afterward. Quick, little flicks of her eyes. Observant. Careful. Like she was trying to piece him together from a distance. That irritated him more than it should have. Because he understood attention. understood how people reacted to him. Fear. Attraction. Curiosity. Submission. He knew how to handle all of it.

But Stella? Stella acted like she was trying to solve him. And he hated feeling analyzed. Especially by a woman whose mouth made him want to argue just to keep hearing her talk.

Stella POV

I hated how noticeable he was. That was the fundamental problem. Some men demanded attention loudly. They entered rooms performing masculinity like a poorly rehearsed play. Too much cologne. Too much ego. Too much talking. They were noisy.

Erik Stevens was the opposite. He was silent. And somehow, that made him impossible not to notice. He moved through rooms with a quiet confidence, a gravitational pull that made space naturally adjust itself around him. People lowered their voices when he spoke, not out of fear, but out of a desire to hear. People listened when he gave instructions, not because he was a tyrant, but because his words carried the weight of certainty. People watched him constantly, even when they were pretending not to.

Including me. Which was deeply, profoundly irritating.

I was sitting outside on the back patio, trying to edit notes for an article on the migration patterns of the ultra-wealthy, while the Saint brothers argued somewhere behind me near the pool. Blackstone had become a national case study, a town where billionaires went to buy a piece of perceived authenticity. They wanted land. Tradition. Exclusivity disguised as simplicity. Blackstone sold all three with a charming, lethal efficiency.

But my attention kept drifting. Specifically, toward the man standing shirtless near the outdoor grill. Which honestly felt like a betrayal of my feminist principles.

Erik leaned against the stone counter, listening to Donnie explain some convoluted ranch expansion project while absently sipping bourbon from a heavy crystal tumbler. The tattoos across his chest and arms weren't the random, chaotic ink of a man making bad decisions. They were military. Precise. Structured. Artwork with a purpose. Everything about him looked controlled. Even relaxed, he carried himself like he expected problems to happen, like his body never fully powered down. He was a weapon resting in a velvet-lined case.

I hated how attractive that was.

Lonny dropped dramatically into the chair beside me, her long legs sprawling out. "You keep staring at that man like you either wanna fight him or climb him like a human sequoia," she whispered, her voice a conspiratorial hiss.

I nearly choked on my iced tea. "Shut up."

"No, seriously. Which one is it? Fight or fuck?"

"Neither."

Lonny stared at me, her expression a perfect blend of skepticism and amusement. Then she looked toward Erik. Then back at me. "That's a lie from the deepest, hottest pits of hell."

I rolled my eyes, forcing my gaze back to my laptop screen. "He's annoying."

"You like annoying men."

"I absolutely do not."

"Baby, your dating history is a graveyard of charming, difficult, emotionally unavailable men who talked a big game and couldn't find a clitoris with a GPS and a search party." She paused, letting that sink in. "Unfortunately… she had a point.

I sighed. "He acts like he personally owns the very concept of oxygen and is deeply disappointed in how everyone else is using it."

"And you hate that because…?"

"Because nobody should be that calm all the time. It's suspicious. It's like he's a robot in a very expensive skin suit, and I'm just waiting for him to malfunction."

Lonny grinned, a wicked, knowing thing. "Mmm. You wanna see him lose composure. You wanna be the one to make him."

I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Because honestly? Maybe I did.

Dinner that night devolved into beautiful, loud chaos. Jeremiah insisted on cooking, a decision that resulted in Elijah somehow managing to burn garlic bread to a charcoal crisp. Guy tried teaching Diamond how to recognize designer logos by holding her tiny hand up to a tablet screen. Stevie threatened actual homicide twice.

And Erik spent most of the evening silently watching me argue with Kobe about the ethics of modern journalism.

"I'm just saying that luxury culture directly impacts political policy, whether people want to admit it or not," I explained, stabbing the air with my fork for emphasis. "These aren't just consumers; they're donors. They're influencers. Their lifestyles create a ripple effect that shapes legislation."

"No, what you're saying is that rich people have convinced themselves that buying an overpriced, scented candle is the same thing as activism," Kobe shot back, his Jamaican accent thick with righteous indignation. "It's virtue-signaling with a credit card."

"Both things can be true," I countered. "The system can be exploitative and the people within it can be genuinely trying to effect change, even if they're doing it clumsily."

"That sentence alone irritated me spiritually," Kobe said, throwing his hands up in defeat.

Laughter erupted around the table. Erik, from his seat at the head, just sipped his bourbon, his expression unreadable.

Then I looked directly at him. "You've been staring at me for twenty minutes. Either say something or stop, it's distracting."

Every single conversation at the table stopped. Guy whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Oh, this finna be good."

Erik remained perfectly calm, his gaze steady. "You exaggerate."

"Do I?" I challenged, leaning forward slightly.

"Yes."

"Interesting," I said, leaning back slowly, a small, triumphant smile playing on my lips. "What's interesting is that you answer questions like you're billing people by the hour. Every word is a calculated expense. No wasted syllables."

Michael almost spit out his drink laughing. Even Jeremiah, the patriarch himself, allowed a small, approving smirk to touch his lips.

Erik watched me carefully, his dark eyes giving nothing away. "You always this combative?"

"Only when people act emotionally unavailable on purpose. It's a defense mechanism, and I find it intellectually lazy."

Guy slapped the table so hard the silverware jumped.

Donnie laughed so hard he nearly woke the baby, who was sleeping peacefully in a bassinet beside him.

I should have been satisfied. I should have felt victorious. But as I looked at Erik, I saw something flicker in his eyes. Not anger. Not irritation. Something else. Interest. And I realized, with a jolt, that I enjoyed it. Far too much.

Two days later, the entire group descended on downtown Blackstone. The town came alive at night, the warm glow from storefront windows bleeding onto the sidewalks. Country music drifted through the humid air, a twangy, familiar soundtrack. Luxury cars with dark-tinted windows were parked haphazardly beside mud-splattered F-150s. Money and Southern culture mixed here in a way that shouldn't have worked but did, a strange, compelling alchemy.

SandStorm was buzzing when we walked inside. The bar smelled like beer, expensive perfume, worn leather, and rain-soaked denim. Locals laughed loudly beneath the neon signs of beer brands while a live band played a cover of a classic country song near the back stage.

Everybody knew the Saint brothers immediately. Heads turned. People called out greetings. Bartenders shouted welcomes over the noise.

But I noticed something interesting. Erik never performed. He acknowledged people with polite nods and firm handshakes, his words minimal. He didn't need to be the loudest person in the room. His presence was enough. Control. Always control.

The group settled into a large private section near the back. Whiskey flowed immediately. Guy flirted with half the bar, his charm a disarming, chaotic weapon. Elijah and Elias got into a heated but good-natured argument with a group of locals over some obscure football statistic. Michael disappeared briefly with a woman wearing diamonds the size of small planets and a smile that said she knew exactly what she was doing.

And Erik? Erik ended up sitting beside me. Accidentally. Or maybe not. I honestly couldn't tell.

"You hate crowds?" I asked, swirling the amber liquid in my glass.

"No."

"You look like you do. Like you're scanning for exits and threats."

"You analyze people professionally or recreationally?" he countered, turning his head to look at me.

I smirked. "Both."

He studied me for a long moment. The live music reflected softly against my gold jewelry while laughter and country music filled the room around us. Beautiful. Sharp. Difficult. His type. Which was unfortunate. Because difficult women tended to become dangerous obsessions. And Erik Stevens had spent years mastering control.

The problem with me was simple. I made him want to lose it.

The night air in Blackstone was thick and heavy, clinging to the skin like a damp silk shirt. It smelled of rain-soaked earth, cheap beer, expensive perfume, and the faint, metallic tang of anticipation. SandStorm wasn't just a bar; it was an ecosystem. A place where old money and new money, cowboys and CEOs, locals and legends all came to collide under the low-slung rafters. Live country music, all twangy guitar and heartbreak vocals, spilled from a corner stage, weaving through the low rumble of a hundred conversations and the sharp crack of pool balls breaking.

Inside, the brothers had carved out their own territory. A sprawling booth near the back, draped in worn leather and bathed in the warm, honeyed glow of neon signs advertising beer brands long extinct. It was a corner of controlled chaos, an island of masculine energy in the sea of the bar's revelry. Donnie, the guest of honor, sat slumped slightly against the worn vinyl, a fresh-faced father still adjusting to the gravity of his new title. A half-empty glass of top-shelf bourbon sat untouched in front of him, the condensation a tear tracing a path down the heavy crystal. The adrenaline of fatherhood, the sleepless nights, the sheer, overwhelming love—it had all settled into a quiet, bone-deep weariness that no amount of championship glory had ever prepared him for.

Elijah, ever the picture of effortless cool, leaned back in the booth, one arm draped along the top, his dark eyes scanning the room with a predator's calm assessment. He sipped his whiskey, his movements economical, precise. Beside him, Elias was a study in barely contained energy, his knee bouncing under the table, a wicked grin playing on his lips as he heckled a poor soul at the nearby dartboard. Michael, a silent monolith, simply watched, his gaze fixed on the swirling amber liquid in his glass, a quiet storm brewing behind his eyes. And Guy, youngest and most chaotic, was already holding court, his laughter booming over the music as he spun a tall tale for a rapt audience of wide-eyed locals.

For a moment, they were just kids again. Scattered across different cities, different lives, different empires, but here, in the sticky, sweet air of their hometown, they were just the Saint brothers. The weight of their respective worlds—of Oakland's tech-fueled intensity, of New Orleans' humid nights, of New York's concrete jungle—seemed to lift, replaced by the familiar, comforting rhythm of their shared history.

"Damn," Guy said, finally turning his attention back to the booth, his eyes bright with mischief. "I still can't believe you're a dad, Donnie. You look all… responsible. It's unsettling."

Donnie managed a tired smile, rubbing a hand over his face. "Feelin' it too."

Elijah took a slow sip of his whiskey, his gaze finding Donnie's. "We owe you an apology, little brother."

Donnie frowned, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "For what?"

"The wedding," Elijah said, his voice low, serious. "All of us. We should've been there. In person."

A wave of warmth, of genuine, unburdened affection, washed over Donnie. He shook his head, a small, genuine smile finally reaching his eyes. "Y'all were there. I saw every one of you ugly mugs on that Zoom screen. Looked like a police lineup of disappointed billionaires."

Elias snorted, slapping the table. "Don't lie. You know we looked good."

"We did," Michael chimed in, his voice a low, quiet rumble that was surprisingly effective at silencing the table. "But it wasn't the same."

Donnie's smile softened. He looked around the booth at the men who were his foundation, his rivals, his constants. "It's alright. For real. I get it. Life's… life. You were there in spirit. That's what mattered."

"Still," Elijah pressed, his eyes holding a weight of regret that was rare for him. "Family's supposed to be there for the big moments. We missed yours."

The sincerity in the room was thick, a heavy blanket. Donnie cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a lump form there. "Aight, aight, enough of this sentimental bullshit before I start cryin' and ruin my reputation." He took a sip of his bourbon, the smooth burn a welcome distraction. "How'd you meet her anyway? Stevie. You never really told us the whole story. Just… bam. You're engaged to a blonde art gallery owner who looks like she could kill a man with her bare hands and make it look like a performance piece," said Elias

The brothers leaned in, a unified front of masculine curiosity. This was the story they needed to hear. Not the polished, public narrative, but the gritty, messy, real truth.

Donnie stared into his glass, the amber liquid a swirling universe of memories. The bar noise faded into a dull hum, the music becoming a distant soundtrack to the past. "It wasn't… clean," he began, his voice low, rough. "It was the opposite of clean."

He told them everything. He laid it bare, stripping away the layers of pride and shame until only the raw, ugly truth remained. He told them about Kyri. About the slow, creeping rot of their relationship, the distance that had grown between them like a tumor. He told them about coming home early, about the scent of vanilla and unfamiliar cologne, about the closed laptop and the panicked look in her eyes. He told them about the "open relationship," the carefully worded rules that felt less like freedom and more like a polite, drawn-out execution of their shared life.

"Heard her in her office," Donnie said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Moanin'. Laughin'. With some other dude. On the phone. In our house." He didn't look at his brothers, couldn't bear to see the pity in their eyes. "Felt like my whole world just… collapsed. Like I was standin' on solid ground and it just turned to liquid."

He told them about the emptiness that followed, about the long nights in his office, about the sterile, impersonal hotel rooms that became his only refuge. He told them about the bar, about seeing Kyri with another man, about the public humiliation that had been a final, brutal nail in the coffin of his pride.

"And then there was Stevie," he said, a flicker of something—warmth, maybe, or reverence—in his voice. "She just… saw me. Saw right through all the bullshit. The 'Adonis Creed' brand. The billionaire. The champion. She saw the tired, lonely man underneath and wasn't scared of him."

He told them about her gallery, about her sharp wit and her sharper tongue. About the way she challenged him, pushed him, refused to let him shrink. He told them about Sinners, his voice dropping even lower, the confession a secret shared only in the sanctity of the booth.

"Sinners?" Elias repeated, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and illicit curiosity. "Our Sinners?"

"The one and only," Donnie confirmed. "She took me there. Said she saw things in me. A darkness. A need for control I was tryin' to bury." He looked up, his eyes meeting his brothers', a silent, shared understanding passing between them. "She was right. I was so busy tryin' to be the man I thought I was supposed to be, I forgot who I actually was."

The confession hung in the air, a raw, vulnerable truth. The Saint brothers were no strangers to the world of dominance and submission. It was in their blood, a part of their inheritance, a language they all spoke fluently, though with different dialects. Elijah was a master of psychological control, his dominance a quiet, suffocating pressure. Elias was a whirlwind of chaotic energy, his style raw, unpredictable, and intensely physical. Michael was a cold, calculating architect of obedience. Guy was a playful, bratty tease who reveled in pushing boundaries until he got the reaction he craved. They were all Doms, each in their own unique, potent way.

"You're all different kinds of Doms," Donnie continued, his voice gaining strength as he embraced the truth. "And I never… I never was interested. Not really. All my energy, all my focus, was on winning my next title. On Kyri. On building the empire. I didn't have time for… that."

He paused, a small, sad smile touching his lips. "Even after Stevie… after we found each other, after Diamond was born… we haven't really gone back. Not all the way." He looked at his brothers, his eyes clear, honest. "It's been… light. Just between us. A little bit of the old power play. A little bit of… structure. It helps. It reminds us. But it's not like it was before. Not yet."

The weight of his confession settled over the table, a profound, intimate truth that bound them together. They understood. They understood the need for control, the release of surrender, the profound connection that could only be found in the shadows. And they understood the love that had grown from it, a love that was as real and as powerful as any they had ever known.

"Damn, Donnie," Elijah said, his voice low, thick with an emotion he rarely showed. He reached across the table, his large hand resting on Donnie's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity, of respect. "You found a queen."

Donnie looked at his brother's hand, then back at his face, a genuine, unburdened smile finally breaking through. "Yeah," he said, his voice thick with a gratitude so deep it was almost painful. "Yeah, I did."

Inside, the bar was a writhing, sweating organism. The music was louder, the bodies closer, the air thick with the electric charge of a Saturday night in full swing. Stella, Kobe, and Lonny had claimed a small table near the dance floor, a strategic position that offered both a clear view of the room and a quick escape route if needed.

Stella was on her third tequila soda, the lime a bright, cheerful slash of green against the clear glass. She was trying to listen to Kobe's passionate, slightly tipsy rant about the gentrification of Blackstone's historic district; she really was. But her attention, like a moth to a particularly dangerous, intoxicating flame, kept drifting.

Towards the back patio.

Towards him.

Erik Stevens stood leaning against the rough-hewn wooden railing, a solitary figure of impenetrable calm against the chaotic backdrop of the bar. The dim, moody lighting seemed to seek him out, carving shadows across the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the intense, unreadable focus in his dark eyes. He held a bottle of some imported beer, but he wasn't drinking. He was just… watching. Observing. His gaze swept the room with a slow, deliberate precision, a predator cataloging the movements of the herd. He didn't perform. He didn't posture. He simply existed, and the world seemed to bend around him, adjusting itself to his quiet, undeniable gravity.

"He's doing it again," Lonny said, her voice a low, conspiratorial whisper that cut through Kobe's monologue. She nudged Stella's foot under the table with the pointy toe of her stiletto.

Stella didn't take her eyes off him. "Doing what?"

"Staring at you like you're something to solve," Kobe said, abandoning his rant mid-sentence. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his expression a mixture of amusement and genuine curiosity. "It's intense. And a little bit creepy. But mostly intense."

Stella finally tore her gaze away, a flicker of irritation warring with a much more dangerous, much more unwelcome flicker of… something else. "He's not staring at me. He's just… brooding. It's his default setting."

"Mm-hmm," Lonny hummed, taking a deliberate sip of her margarita. "And you're just 'observing the local socio-political dynamics through the lens of nightlife.' That's what you told me you were doing when you were checking out his ass five minutes ago."

Stella felt a hot blush creep up her neck, a betrayal she immediately tried to squelch with a sharp glare at her friend. "I was observing the crowd dynamics. He just happened to be in the line of sight."

Kobe snorted. "Girl, please. The only dynamic you're observing is the one between his broad shoulders and that perfectly fitted t-shirt. You've been undressing him with your eyes since we walked in here."

It was true, and that was the most infuriating part. She was. She couldn't help it. There was something about him, a quiet, coiled power that was more compelling than any loud, boisterous display of masculinity. He was a storm contained, a volcano dormant, and she found herself desperately, foolishly curious about what it would take to make him erupt.

"You should go talk to him," Kobe urged, a wicked glint in his eye. "Ask him about his feelings. I bet that would go over well."

Stella rolled her eyes, but the idea, as ridiculous as it was, had a certain appeal. "And say what? 'Excuse me, Mr. Stevens, I couldn't help but notice your intense, serial-killer-like vibe. Could you elaborate on your emotional state?'"

Lonny cackled, a loud, uninhibited sound that drew a few curious glances. "Yes! Exactly! See? You're a natural at this."

But before Stella could formulate a suitably scathing retort, Erik moved. He pushed off the railing, his movements fluid, economical, and started making his way through the crowd. He didn't push or shove. He simply moved, and the crowd parted for him, a silent, subconscious acknowledgment of his presence. And he was heading… directly towards their table.

Stella's heart did a strange, clumsy little flip-flop against her ribs. She straightened up in her chair, her shoulders back, her chin lifted, a silent, instinctual preparation for battle. Or something else. Something she refused to name.

He stopped beside their table, his large frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow their small corner of the bar. The scent of him—clean, expensive, with a faint, almost imperceptible hint of something metallic, like ozone after a lightning strike—washed over her.

"Ladies," he said, his voice a low, quiet rumble that vibrated through the floor and up the legs of her chair. It was a simple greeting, but it landed with the weight of a royal decree. His gaze swept over them, a quick, dismissive assessment, before landing, and holding, on Stella.

"Erik," Stella said, her voice cool, calm, a stark contrast to the frantic hummingbird beat of her pulse. She arched a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Slumming it with the common folk tonight?"

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, so fleeting it might have been a trick of the light. "Just observing," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "Like you."

The words hung in the air between them, a direct, unspoken acknowledgment of the silent game they'd been playing for weeks. The stolen glances, the lingering looks, the careful, calculated avoidance. He knew. Of course, he knew.

"Observing what, exactly?" Stella challenged, leaning forward slightly, her elbows resting on the table, a classic power pose. "The tragic decline of modern country music? Or the alarming number of people who think cowboy boots are appropriate footwear for dancing?"

Erik's eyes darkened, a flicker of something—amusement? annoyance?—in their depths. He took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze never wavering. "I was observing the dynamics," he said, echoing her earlier excuse with a dry, deliberate precision. "The power plays. The subtle negotiations. The unspoken hierarchies." He paused, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. "It's… educational."

The air between them crackled, thick with unspoken words and a dangerous, simmering tension. It was a battle of wits, a psychological chess match played out under the strobing lights of a honky-tonk bar. And Stella, to her own immense frustration, was enjoying it. She enjoyed the challenge, the intellectual sparring, the way he seemed to see right through her carefully constructed armor.

"Is that what you call it?" she shot back, her voice a low, purring challenge. "I call it people getting drunk and making bad decisions."

"Same thing," Erik said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a near-smile. "Just with a better vocabulary."

He held her gaze for a long, charged moment, a silent, intimate conversation happening in the space between them. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, he pushed off the table. "Ladies," he said again, his voice a low, dismissive rumble. And then he was gone, melting back into the crowd, leaving Stella staring after him, her heart hammering against her ribs, her skin tingling with a dangerous, electric current.

Kobe let out a long, low whistle. "Damn, Stella. The air in here just got about a thousand degrees. Y'all need to get a room. Or a fight cage. I'm not sure which."

Stella finally let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her body feeling strangely loose, boneless. She picked up her tequila soda, her hand unsteady. "Shut up," she said, but her voice lacked its usual sharp edge. Because she knew Kobe was right. The air hadn't just gotten hot. It had gotten dangerous. And a part of her, a part she hated and craved in equal measure, couldn't wait to see what would happen next.

Erik Pov

The air in the Creed family ranch house was too thick. Too full of warmth, laughter, and the lingering, sweet scent of baby powder. It was a good thing. The best thing. But it was a good thing I was no longer built to breathe. Two days. I’d lasted two days of family meals, of holding my niece while my brothers looked on with a strange softening in their eyes, of Stevie’s knowing glances and Stella’s sharp, cutting presence that felt like a constant, low-grade electric shock against my skin. I needed out. I needed the silence. I needed the familiar, controlled chaos of my own world.

My truck ate up the miles between the sprawling, sun-drenched perfection of the Saint Compound and the hidden, velvet-drenched heart of Blackstone. The drive was a slow exhale, a gradual shedding of the familial skin that never quite fit anymore. By the time I turned onto the unmarked dirt road that led to Sinners, the tension in my shoulders had begun to uncoil, replaced by the low, familiar hum of anticipation.

Sinners didn't announce itself. It hid. A fortress of discretion tucked beneath the shell of a luxury hotel that had seen better, more glamorous decades. I parked in my designated spot, the engine ticking as it cooled, and took a moment. Just to breathe. To recalibrate. Here, I wasn't Jeremiah's son. I wasn't Donnie's big brother. I wasn't the uncle to a perfect little girl. Here, I was just Erik. Or, as they knew me, King.

The heavy, unmarked black door swung open silently, admitting me into a world that smelled of old leather, expensive whiskey, and the faint, clean scent of ozone. The air was cool, a deliberate contrast to the humid Texas night outside. The lighting was a masterclass in seduction, all deep, moody shadows and pools of soft, golden light that clung to the dark wood and polished brass like a lover. A live jazz trio played somewhere in the distance, the music a sophisticated, smoky serpent winding its way through the low murmur of conversations and the occasional, sharp cry that was part pleasure, part pain.

Julian, a mountain of a man in a suit that probably cost more than most people's cars, nodded at me from his post near the entrance. His face was a mask of professional neutrality, but his eyes held a flicker of respect. "King. Welcome back."

"Julian," I acknowledged, my voice a low rumble. I didn't break my stride. This was my rhythm. My church.

Newcomers were funneled into a discreet alcove off the main hall, where they were presented with the sacred texts. The Non-Disclosure Agreement. It wasn't just a formality; it was a rite of passage. A thick, heavy document printed on cream-colored paper, its language dense and absolute. It promised that what happened in Sinners stayed in Sinners, bound by legal, financial, and social consequences so severe they functioned as a modern-day blood oath. Watching them sign, their faces a mixture of nerves and illicit excitement, was a reminder of the power of this place. The power of secrets. To join Sinner, you couldn't just be anyone; you had to have a minimum of 10 million net worth, and on top of that, you had to pay a fee of 20 million. If you didn't meet the qualifications, the only way you could join was to be invited by a current member.

The staff moved through the club like silent, elegant shadows. The waiters were male and female, all different sizes, dressed in crisp, black trousers or some type of fishnet lingerie, barefoot, and nothing else. Their torsos were oiled, their bodies on display as they carried trays of champagne and cocktails with a fluid, practiced grace. They were living art, part of the scenery, a silent, willing testament to the club's ethos of worship and desire. They were background, but they were a background that demanded to be looked at, a constant, subtle reminder of the power dynamics at play.

I made my way through the main floor, nodding to a few familiar faces—a judge from Houston, a tech CEO from Austin, an oil heiress who was infamous for her love of public humiliation. I wasn't here to socialize. I was here to decompress. To find a temporary, willing vessel for the darkness that coiled in my gut, a place to pour out the control I had to clamp down so hard on in the outside world. I found my usual booth, a secluded corner of velvet and shadow that offered a perfect vantage point of the entire room, and ordered a Macallan 18. The ritual was soothing. The burn of the Scotch, the weight of the glass in my hand, the familiar, controlled chaos of the room spreading out before me. This was my peace. This was my escape.

And then the music changed.

The smooth jazz faded out, replaced by a low, pulsing electronic beat that was more primal, more visceral. The lights in the main hall dimmed further, focusing on the raised stage at the far end of the room. A single, stark spotlight cut through the darkness, illuminating the empty, polished wood. It was Auction Night. The most exclusive, most dangerous, most intoxicating event on the Sinners calendar. I usually avoided it. It was too public, too performative for my taste. I preferred my acquisitions to be private, negotiated in the quiet intimacy of a room, not won like a prize at a county fair. I leaned back, content to watch the spectacle, a detached observer of the theater of desire.

The first submissive was a man, tall and lean, his body coiled with nervous energy. He was sold to a stern-faced woman in a power suit for a price that could have funded a small country. I watched, my mind already drifting, already cataloging the potential partners for the night. A redhead with defiant eyes. A man with the posture of a soldier. The usual suspects.

And then she walked on stage.

The world stopped.

The low hum of conversation, the pulsing beat of the music, the scent of leather and whiskey—it all vanished. There was only the spotlight. And her.

Stella.

My entire nervous system seized. A jolt of shock, hot and violent, shot through me, followed by an immediate, crushing wave of… something else. Something that felt dangerously like ruin.

She was a vision. A contradiction. A revelation. Her thick, shoulder-length hair, usually pulled back in a messy, defiant bun that screamed "I don't care," was now loose. It tumbled around her shoulders in soft, glossy waves, a dark, unruly halo that framed her face in a way that was both elegant and wild. Her body, which I knew to be lightly curved, was poured into a simple, floor-length gown of the deepest ocean blue silk. It wasn't tight. It wasn't revealing. It was worse. It clung to every dip and swell, a liquid caress that hinted at the soft, generous curves beneath, promising a warmth and a yield that was in direct opposition to the sharp, angular woman I thought I knew.

But it was the collar that broke me.

It wasn't leather. It wasn't metal. It was a band of black velvet, soft and deceptively delicate, fastened with a single, small diamond clasp that rested in the hollow of her throat. It was a mark of ownership. A symbol of surrender. And on her, it was the most erotic, most dangerous, most devastatingly beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was the key to a lock I never knew existed. It was the answer to a question I never knew to ask.

She stood there, not nervous, not shy, but… still. A profound, almost unnerving stillness. Her head was bowed slightly, her gaze fixed on the floor, her posture one of perfect, practiced submission. Her hands were clasped loosely behind her back, pushing her shoulders forward, offering the delicate line of her throat. This wasn't the Stella from SandStorm. This wasn't my sister-in-law's best friend. This wasn't the sharp-tongued journalist who could flay a man with a single sentence. This wasn't the woman who looked at me with a challenge in her eyes.

This was the woman underneath.

The woman who craved control. The woman who found freedom in surrender. The woman who wore a collar like it was a crown.

And in that moment, watching her stand there, a willing sacrifice of desire, I understood. Everything. The constant bickering, the intellectual sparring, the charged, volatile energy that crackled between us—it wasn't animosity. It was foreplay. It was a desperate, unconscious dance between two opposite poles, a Dom and a sub who didn't realize they were speaking the same language.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs, leaving me breathless, shaken to my very foundation. I had spent weeks, months, years, building walls around myself, creating a fortress of control to protect the world from the darkness inside me. And she had been chipping away at it, not with a sledgehammer, but with the sharp, persistent tap of her wit, her defiance, her unspoken challenge. And all this time, she wasn't trying to tear me down. She was trying to get in.

My grip on the tumbler in my hand tightened. The ice rattled, the only sound in the sudden, roaring silence of my own mind. The world I knew, the carefully constructed reality of King Erik Stevens, the dominant, the controlled, the untouchable, had just been irrevocably shattered.

Because I saw her. I saw the real Stella.

The auctioneer, a man known only as The Maestro, was a master of ceremony. Dressed in an immaculate white tuxedo, his voice was a smooth, cultured purr that coaxed desire from the shadows. "And now, for our final offering of the evening," he began, his voice carrying through the suddenly hushed room. "A jewel of rare fire and spirit. For those who appreciate a challenge wrapped in silk. We present 'Nyx.'"

The name was a perfect fit. The goddess of the night. A creature of shadow and mystery. Stella stood under the single, hot spotlight, a statue carved from deep chocolate and longing. She could feel the weight of dozens of gazes on her, a physical pressure that should have felt threatening but instead felt like a benediction. This was her truth. The secret she kept buried under layers of sarcasm and sharp intellect. Here, in the heart of Sinners, she didn't have to be the witty, untouchable journalist. Here, she could just be. She could surrender. And the thought of it, of being chosen, of being commanded by someone worthy, sent a shiver of anticipation through her.

"We will open the bidding at one hundred thousand," The Maestro announced.

The numbers started to fly, a rapid-fire volley of wealth and desire. A portly oil magnate from Dallas, his face flushed with exertion, opened with a confident bid. "Two hundred thousand!"

A sleek, silver-haired woman, a notorious Domme from the East Coast, countered without missing a beat. "Three hundred fifty."

Stella kept her eyes downcast, her focus on the polished wood of the stage, but she was listening. Her body was a finely tuned instrument, and every bid was a note, every voice a different timbre. She was searching for a resonance. A frequency that matched her own. The oil man was all bluster and ego. The woman was cold, clinical. There was a bid from a young tech billionaire, his voice cracking with nervous excitement, and another from a Saudi prince, his bid delivered with a lazy, entitled flick of his wrist. They were all just noise. A cacophony of hollow power.

The bidding climbed past a million. The crowd thinned, the pretenders falling away, leaving only the serious contenders. The room grew tense, the air thick with the raw, primal energy of the hunt. The silver-haired woman and the Saudi prince were locked in a battle, their bids rising in sharp, aggressive increments.

"One point five million," the woman purred, her eyes glinting.

"Two million," the prince countered, a smug smile playing on his lips. It was a power move, a bid designed to end the game.

A hush fell over the room. Two million was a statement. It was a number that separated the truly powerful from the merely rich. The Maestro's gaze swept the room, looking for any other takers. "Two million. Going once. Going twice—"

"Two point one million."

The voice that cut through the silence was different. It wasn't loud. It wasn't aggressive. It was calm. Infuriatingly, dangerously calm. It was a voice that didn't need to shout to command a room. It was a voice of absolute, unshakable authority. Stella's breath hitched, a flicker of recognition sparking in the back of her mind, but she dismissed it. It couldn't be. It was impossible. She focused on the feeling the voice evoked—a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the floorboards, through the soles of her bare feet, up her spine, settling deep in her core. It was a voice that promised control, that promised a depth of understanding that went far beyond the physical. It was the voice she had been waiting for.

The silver-haired woman shot a furious glare in the direction of the bid, but she couldn't see the bidder from her position. She hesitated, then shook her head. The prince, however, was not so easily deterred. His pride was wounded.

"Two point three," he snapped, his voice tight with annoyance.

"Two point five," the calm voice returned immediately, without a moment's hesitation. It was a dismissal. A casual, effortless swatting away of a fly.

The room was electric. Everyone was craning their necks, trying to identify the mystery bidder. The one who had entered the game so late and was playing with such terrifying confidence. Stella's heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic, desperate drumbeat. Who is he? The question consumed her. This was no longer just an auction. It was a search. A desperate, silent plea for the owner of that voice to be the one.

The prince was visibly angry now, his composure shattered. He stood up, his face a mask of fury. "Three million!" he spat, the number a final, desperate act of defiance.

The room held its breath. Three million. It was an obscene amount of money. An act of pure, egotistical madness. The Maestro looked towards the source of the calm voice, a question in his eyes. There was a long, agonizing pause. A silence so complete it felt like a vacuum. Stella felt a wave of despair. It was over. She'd be sold to the angry prince, a prize in a game of wounded pride. It wasn't what she wanted. It wasn't what she needed.

And then the voice came again, soft, clear, and utterly devastating.

"Three point eight million."

A collective gasp rippled through the room. It wasn't just a bid. It was a psychological masterpiece. He hadn't just beaten the prince; he had humiliated him. He'd bid an amount that was impossibly, absurdly high, but still less than the prince's final, frantic offer. It was a statement that said, I could go higher, but you're not even worth my time. It was a display of power so absolute, so casual, it was breathtaking.

The prince stood frozen for a moment, his face a mottled red, before sinking back into his seat, utterly defeated. The Maestro, a look of professional admiration on his face, didn't even bother with the formalities. He simply looked towards the victor and raised his gavel.

"Sold. To the gentleman in the corner."

A second spotlight, sharp and unforgiving, sliced through the darkness, pinning the winner in its beam. It swung across the room, past the tables of shocked onlookers, past the defeated faces of the other bidders, and came to rest on a booth in the far, shadowed corner.

Stella's head came up, her eyes drawn to the light as if by an invisible string. Her heart stopped. Her lungs refused to draw breath. The world threatening to explode, the polished wood of the stage, the heat of the spotlight, the murmur of the crowd—it all dissolved into a meaningless, distant hum.

Sitting there, bathed in the stark, white glare, was Erik.

King, the dominant, untouchable god of Sinners. His face was a mask of cold, emotionless stone. His dark eyes, eyes she had spent weeks challenging, weeks fighting, weeks secretly wanting, were locked on hers. There was no triumph in his expression. No smug satisfaction. There was only a deep, terrifying stillness. A look of absolute, unshakeable certainty. He hadn't just won an auction. He hadn't just bought a night of her submission.

He had just claimed her soul.

The shock was a physical blow, a violent, seismic event that shattered her composure into a million pieces. The sarcastic mask, the sharp tongue, the carefully constructed armor of wit and intelligence—it was all gone. Stripped away in an instant, leaving her raw, exposed, and utterly undone. He knew. He had seen her. He had seen her. And he had just spent a fortune to prove it.

Their eyes locked across the crowded room, a silent, charged current of shock, fury, and a terrifying, undeniable thrill passing between them. The world didn't just change. It ended. And a new, more dangerous, more intoxicating one had just begun.

The walk through the hushed, opulent halls of Sinners was a silent, charged procession. Erik's hand was a firm, warm manacle around hers, his grip unyielding, a silent, undeniable claim. Stella didn't fight it. She couldn't. Her body was moving on autopilot, her mind a chaotic, frantic whirlwind of shock, fury, and a terrifying, exhilarating current of want. The world felt surreal, dreamlike, the faces of the other patrons blurring into meaningless smudges as he led her out of the velvet-drenched darkness and into the cool, sharp night air.

He didn't speak as he guided her to his truck. He didn't have to. The silence between them was heavier than any words, a thick thing that crackled with a thousand unspoken questions and a single, undeniable answer. He opened the passenger door for her, a gesture of old-world chivalry that was so at odds with the act of possession he had just committed in the auction house that it made her head spin. She slid onto the cool leather seat, the scent of him—clean, expensive, and undeniably sweet,  filling the small space. He closed the door with a soft, definitive click, the sound sealing her fate.

He moved around the front of the truck, his long, powerful strides eating up the distance, before settling into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life with a low growl that vibrated through the frame of the truck and straight into her bones. He didn't pull away immediately, his hands resting on the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the dark, empty road ahead. The silence stretched, taut, coiled, a snake waiting to strike.

Stella finally broke it, her voice a sharp, brittle thing in the quiet cab. "So," she began, her tone laced with a desperate attempt at nonchalance. "Three million dollars." She turned her head to look at him, a challenge in her eyes, a last, desperate attempt to regain some semblance of control. "You really paid three million dollars for some pussy?"

Erik didn't flinch. He didn't even turn his head. He just let out a low chuckle, a sound that was more terrifying than any display of anger. It was the sound of a man who was completely in control that he found her attempt to provoke him amusing. "No," he said, his voice a low, calm rumble that vibrated through her entire being. He finally turned his head, his dark eyes finding hers in the dim glow of the dashboard. "I paid three million dollars for your pussy. There's a difference."

And just like that, the fight went out of her. His words weren't crude. They weren't boastful. They were a statement of fact. A declaration of intent so specific, so personal, it stripped away the last of her defenses. He wasn't buying a night with a random submissive. He was buying her. And the terrifying, thrilling truth was, a part of her had always belonged to him.

The drive was a blur. Stella didn't see the landscape, didn't register the turns as they left the familiar roads of Blackstone behind and wound their way deeper into the sprawling, isolated Texas hill country. She was too lost in the storm raging inside her, the battle between the woman who was horrified by his audacity and the submissive who was trembling with anticipation.

When they finally turned off the main road and onto a private, gated drive, Stella's curiosity began to peek through the haze of her shock. The house that emerged from the darkness was not what she expected. It wasn't a sprawling ranch or an ostentatious mansion. It was a masterpiece of mid-century modern architecture, all clean lines, floor-to-ceiling glass, and a seamless integration with the surrounding landscape. It was sleek, sophisticated, and breathtakingly private. A fortress of solitude and style, a physical manifestation of the man sitting next to her.

He led her inside, the door unlocking with a soft, electronic chime. The interior was even more stunning. A symphony of warm woods, polished concrete, and minimalist furniture, all bathed in the soft, ambient light of a high-tech smart home system. It was beautiful. It was perfect. And it was intimately him.

He didn't give her a tour. He simply led her to a sprawling, low-slung sectional sofa in the great room, a wall of glass behind them offering a breathtaking view of the star-drenched sky. He gestured for her to sit, and she did, her body sinking into the plush, expensive fabric. He sat opposite her, not too close, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that the air between them was thick with an almost unbearable tension.

"We need to negotiate," he said, his voice calm, business-like. As if they were discussing a business deal, not the complete and utter surrender of her will.

Stella took a deep breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "Okay," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "Let's negotiate. How long does three million dollars buy you?"

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "It buys you one night, but it buys me an internity," he said, his voice a low, deliberate purr. "But we can renegotiate in the morning."

Stella couldn't help it. A small, genuine laugh escaped her, a sound of disbelief. "You're unbelievable."

"I'm thorough," he corrected, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Now. Limits. What are your hard nos?"

The shift in tone was instantaneous, a slide from playful banter to the serious, technical business of desire. Stella felt a thrill of fear and excitement course through her. This was it. The moment of truth. "I'm... pretty open," she began, her voice softer now, more hesitant. "I like spankings. I don't mind being tied up. I'm an exhibitionist. And a voyeur." She paused, gathering her courage. "And I... I like praise."

Erik listened, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes absorbing every word. He nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgment of her confession. "Good," he said, his voice a low, approving rumble that sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. "And what are you not into?"

Stella shook her head. "There isn't much," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "No scat. No blood play. Nothing that causes permanent harm." She looked at him, her eyes wide, vulnerable. "Other than that... I'm yours to explore."

The words hung in the air between them, a sacred, terrifying vow. Erik's gaze intensified, a flicker of something dark and possessive in his depths. "And my preferences?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "I believe in structure. I believe in consequences. And I believe in acts of service." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked on hers. "After a punishment, I will serve you. Care for you. To show me that you understand why you were being corrected." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over her. "And I like to provide for what's mine. I get off on it. You will have a black card. You will buy whatever you want. Whatever you need. Your pleasure is my pleasure. Your comfort is my command. Do you understand?"

This wasn't just about sex. This wasn't just about power. This was about devotion. About a level of possession and care that was so absolute, so all-consuming, it was terrifying. And she wanted it. She wanted it with a desperation that burned away all her fear, all her doubt, all her resistance.

"Yes," she breathed, the word a surrender, a prayer. "I understand."

Erik nodded, a slow, satisfied smile finally gracing his lips. He stood up, holding out a hand to her. "Good," he said, his voice a low, dominant purr that vibrated through her entire being. "Then let's begin."

The one night became a weekend. The weekend became a week. The week bled into a month, then two, then three. The three million dollars, once a staggering, obscene price for a single night of submission, had become a down payment on a new reality. A reality built on ritual, obedience, and the terrifying, intoxicating thrill of surrender.

It started small. Text messages. Not the casual, flirty banter of a new relationship, but commands. Discreet, undeniable orders that slipped into her daily life like a secret code.

Wear the red panties today.

I want a picture of you standing in your office in nothing but your bra and panties before your first meeting.

Erik Stevens sent: $50,000.

At first, Stella saw them as a game. A thrilling, dangerous game of cat and mouse that she, with her sharp wit and defiant spirit, was determined to win. She'd follow the instructions, but with her own little twist. She'd send the picture, but with a sarcastic caption. She'd wear the red panties, but make sure a hint of lace was visible just to provoke him. But his response was always the same: a quiet, unnerving calm that was more disarming than any anger. He never rose to the bait. He simply noted her minor rebellion and filed it away, a patient predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Their public dynamic remained a carefully constructed façade. At family dinners, in the halls of her office, they were the same. Bickering, arguing, their words like sharp, little daggers designed to keep everyone at a comfortable distance. "Must you always be so contrarian, Erik?" she'd snap over a plate of Stevie's fried chicken. "Must you always be so desperate for attention, Stella?" he'd retort, his voice a low, dismissive murmur that never failed to make her blood boil. It was their armor. Their shield. The only way they knew how to interact in the light of day.

But in the dark, in the sacred, silent space of his mid-century fortress, she was someone else entirely. She was his.

The first time he truly disciplined her, it was for something small. She'd rolled her eyes at him during a family dinner, a quick, subtle gesture that no one else would have noticed, but he did. He didn't say anything then. He just gave her a look, a quiet, chillingly calm look that promised retribution. That night, when they were alone, he led her to the living room, the wall of glass showing off the vast, empty darkness of the Texas sky.

"Knees," he'd said, his voice a low, quiet command.

She'd hesitated for a fraction of a second, the last ember of her public defiance flickering in her chest. But then she saw his eyes, the dark, unwavering certainty in them, and she sank to her knees on the plush wool rug, her body trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

"You rolled your eyes at me," he said, his voice calm. "That's disrespect. You know the rules."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words feeling inadequate, clumsy.

"No, you're not," he corrected gently. "Not yet. But you will be."

He didn't yell. He didn't rage. He simply sat on the edge of the sofa, his hand resting on his thigh, and explained. He explained why respect was important. He explained why obedience was the foundation of their trust. He explained why her small act of rebellion was not just a challenge to his authority, but a betrayal of the surrender she had promised. His words were a scalpel, precise, controlled, cutting through her defenses with a terrifying ease. And then, he delivered the punishment. Not a violent, angry spanking, but a series of firm, deliberate smacks to her clothed bottom, each one a punctuation mark in his lesson of control. It stung, but it was the psychological impact that truly broke her. The quiet, undeniable assertion of his will.

Afterwards, as promised, came the act of service. He helped her to her feet, his touch gentle, reverent. He led her to the bathroom, where he ran a warm bath, scented with lavender and coconut. He washed her hair, his strong fingers massaging her scalp with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes. He wrapped her in a thick, fluffy robe and carried her back to the living room, where he laid her on the sofa and fed her squares of dark chocolate, his dark eyes watching her every move.

And then, he said the words. The words that would become her addiction.

"Good girl."

It wasn't just praise. It was a benediction. A seal of approval. A confirmation that she had done well, that she had pleased him. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not her career, not her reputation, not her sharp, sarcastic tongue. All that mattered was the deep, profound, soul-shattering relief of his approval.

And that was when the terror set in.

Because she started craving it. Craving his approval like a drug. She found herself thinking about his commands during her meetings, replaying his lessons in her head as she lay in bed at night. She started to see the world through his eyes, to understand the quiet, powerful beauty of structure, of discipline, of surrender. The bickering, the arguments, the constant need to be right—it all started to feel like a pointless, exhausting performance. A hollow charade compared to the profound, soul-deep peace she found in his arms.

He was obsessed with teaching her. Not just the physical acts of submission, but the emotional ones. He taught her to be still, to quiet the constant, anxious chatter in her mind. He taught her to trust, to believe that he would catch her when she fell, that he would protect her, that he would cherish the parts of her she was most afraid to show. He taught her that surrender wasn't weakness, but the ultimate form of strength. That in giving up control, she was gaining a freedom more profound than anything she had ever known.

And she was learning. She was unlearning years of fiercely guarded independence, of a carefully constructed identity built on being the smartest, the sharpest, the most untouchable person in the room. And in its place, a new identity was emerging. One that was softer, more vulnerable, and infinitely more powerful.

One night, weeks into their arrangement, she stood before him, naked, her body bathed in the soft glow of the floor-to-ceiling windows. She had just completed a series of tasks he had assigned her—organizing his home office, preparing a specific meal, and presenting herself to him for inspection—all without a single word of complaint or a hint of her old sarcasm.

He circled her slowly, his gaze a physical touch, assessing, approving. He stopped in front of her, his dark eyes searching hers. "Tell me what you're feeling," he commanded, his voice a low, quiet rumble.

She took a shaky breath, the words catching in her throat. "I... I feel... calm," she whispered, the confession feeling like a betrayal of her old self. "I feel... safe. And... and I want to make you proud."

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, a rare, beautiful sight that never failed to steal her breath. He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin with a tenderness that made her heart ache. "You do, Stella," he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur. "You make me so proud."

And just like that, she was ruined. The last of her resistance, the last of her fear, crumbled into dust. She was his. Completely. Irrevocably. And the most terrifying part of all was that she had never been happier.

Erik pov

The silence in my house was different now. It used to be a comfort, a shield, a space where I could retreat from the world and simply be. Now, it was a void. An absence that was only filled when she was here. When Stella was here, the silence wasn't empty; it was charged, heavy with the unspoken language of dominance and surrender, a quiet symphony of ritual and obedience. But when she was gone, it was just… quiet. And I found I didn't like the quiet nearly as much as I used to.

I was standing in my office, a room of glass and steel that looked out over the rugged, untamed beauty of the Texas hill country. On my desk was a contract from a new client, a tech billionaire in Silicon Valley who was willing to pay my company, Stevens Global, a small fortune to secure his digital assets. It was a routine, multimillion-dollar deal, the kind that used to require my full, undivided attention. Today, I couldn't focus. My mind kept drifting back to her. To the way she looked when she knelt before me, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of fear and trust. To the way she said my name, King, a soft, breathless whisper that was both a question and an answer. To the way her body responded to my touch, a perfect instrument that I was slowly learning to play.

My phone buzzed, pulling me from my thoughts. It was Elijah. I answered, putting it on speaker.

"Smoke," I said, my voice a low rumble.

"Erik," he shot back, his tone relaxed, but with an undercurrent of his usual sharp perception. "You still holed up in that glass box of yours?"

"It's a house, Elijah. And it's not a box. It's a masterpiece of mid-century modern architecture."

"Whatever you say, little brother," he said, a familiar, teasing warmth in his voice. "Listen, I'm calling about that situation in Oakland. The port security contract. The board is getting antsy. They want to meet with you. In person."

I let out a slow breath, the familiar weight of my other life settling back onto my shoulders. Stevens Global wasn't just a hobby. It was an empire I had built from the ground up, a legitimate, highly successful enterprise that provided a very expensive, very effective cover for my less... conventional work. "Tell them I'll be there next week."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "You good, man?" Elijah asked, his voice softer now, more concerned. "You sound... distant."

"I'm fine," I said, my voice flat, a clear dismissal.

"Alright," he said, letting it go. He knew better than to push. "Just... be careful out there. They still call you 'King' in Oakland, you know. But kings can be overthrown."

"I'm not a king, Elijah. I'm a businessman. And I don't get overthrown. I acquire."

I hung up the phone, the conversation leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. He was right, though. They did call me King. Not just in Oakland, but in New York, in London, in Tokyo. In every city where power was a currency and control was a commodity, my name was whispered with a mixture of fear and respect. I had built my reputation on a foundation of precision, discipline, and an almost unnerving emotional detachment. I was the man you called when you needed a problem solved, when you needed a secret kept, when you needed a rival neutralized. I was the best because I didn't let feelings get in the way. I was the best because I was cold.

My mind drifted back to New York. To Pillow Princess.

Sinners was home. It was intimate, familiar, a warm, Southern embrace of shared secrets and unspoken desires. But Pillow Princess... Pillow Princess was a different beast. It was elite, decadent, a cathedral of high-end kink where the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the desperate, hungry need of the rich and powerful. I had spent years there after MIT, a young man with too much money, too much intelligence, and a deep, gnawing emptiness I couldn't name. Pillow Princess was where I had honed my craft, where I had learned to wield psychological dominance like a surgeon's scalpel, where I had perfected the art of emotional restraint.

I had a reputation there. I never raised my voice. I never lost my temper. I never got emotionally attached. I would find a submissive, usually a bored socialite or a power-hungry CEO, and I would take them apart. Piece by piece. I would learn their deepest fears, their most secret desires, their every weakness. And then I would use that knowledge to break them, to reshape them into a perfect, pliant reflection of my will. It was a game. A thrilling, dangerous, and ultimately empty game. And I was the undisputed champion. They called me King there, too. But it was a different kind of king. A king of shadows, of fleeting pleasures, of temporary surrender. A king who was always, fundamentally, alone.

I walked out of my office and into the great room. Stella was there, curled up on the sofa, a book open in her lap. She was wearing one of my t-shirts, the soft, worn cotton a stark contrast to the elegant, sophisticated woman she presented to the world. She looked up at me, her dark eyes soft, welcoming. And in that moment, the carefully constructed walls of my past began to crumble.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice a gentle inquiry that cut through my defenses with an ease that was both terrifying and intoxicating.

"Nothing," I said, my voice a rough, automatic denial. I sat down opposite her, my body tense, coiled.

She closed her book, her full attention on me. "Don't lie to me, Erik," she said, her voice firm, but not unkind. "You're a million miles away. What were you thinking about?"

I looked at her, at the woman who had seen through my mask, who had surrendered to my control and, in doing so, had somehow managed to take control of me. And I felt a wave of something I hadn't felt in years. Loneliness. A deep, profound, soul-crushing loneliness that I had buried under layers of discipline and dominance, a loneliness that had been festering in the dark, empty corners of my soul for so long I had forgotten it was there.

"I was thinking about New York," I said, the words feeling heavy, foreign on my tongue.

"Pillow Princess," she said. It wasn't a question. She knew. Of course, she knew.

I nodded, my gaze fixed on the wall of glass, on the vast, empty darkness outside. "I was... different there. Colder."

"I know," she said, her voice soft. "They call you 'King' there, too."

I turned to look at her, a flicker of surprise in my eyes. "How did you know that?"

She gave me a small, sad smile. "I'm a journalist, Erik. It's my job to know things. And I know about you. About your reputation. About the man you are in the boardrooms and the backrooms of the most exclusive clubs in the world. The man who doesn't feel. The man who doesn't care."

Her words were a mirror, reflecting a version of myself I had spent a lifetime cultivating. A version of myself that I wasn't sure was real anymore. "And what do you think?" I asked, my voice a low, dangerous growl. "Do you think that's who I am?"

She shook her head, her dark eyes shining with a fierce, unwavering certainty. "No," she said, her voice a soft, steady whisper. "I think that's the mask you wear. I think the man they call 'King' is a lonely, haunted man who is desperate for someone to see the real him. The man underneath."

And in that moment, she did. She saw me. She saw the cold, calculating Dominant, the ruthless businessman, the haunted Marine. But she also saw the lonely little boy who grew up in a house full of brothers, but always felt like he was on the outside. She saw the man who craved control because he was terrified of his own chaos. She saw the King, and she saw the man who was terrified of his own crown.

And it was the most exhilarating, most devastatingly intimate moment of my life. Because for the first time in a long, long time, I didn't feel alone. And that was more dangerous than any enemy, any threat, any challenge I had ever faced.

The air in my house had been thick with unspoken promises for a month. Every command, every ritual, every act of service had been a step on a path, a deliberate, calculated journey towards a single, inevitable destination. Tonight, we would arrive.

Stella stood before me in my bedroom, the space bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the smart home system. She was wearing a simple, black silk robe, her dark, glossy hair tumbling around her shoulders, her body a masterpiece of soft, generous curves that I had spent weeks learning with my hands, my eyes, my voice. She was trembling, but it wasn't the tremble of fear. It was the tremble of anticipation. Of a thoroughbred at the starting gate, ready for the race of her life.

"Are you ready?" I asked, my voice a low, calm rumble that belied the storm raging in my own chest.

She nodded, her dark eyes wide, fixed on mine. "Yes, King," she whispered, the words a surrender, a vow.

I didn't waste any more time. I closed the distance between us, my hands cupping her face, my thumbs stroking her soft, warm skin. I looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of doubt. There was none. There was only trust. A deep, unwavering trust that was both a gift and a responsibility.

I kissed her. A deep, demanding kiss that was a promise of everything to come. I plundered her mouth, my tongue tangling with hers, my hands sliding down her body, pulling her flush against me, feeling the soft curves of her press against the hard, unyielding lines of my own. She melted against me, a soft, willing sacrifice, her hands tangling in my hair, her body arching into mine, a silent, desperate plea for more.

I led her to the bed, a sprawling, low-slung platform of dark wood and crisp, white linen. I undid the belt of her robe, my hands steady, deliberate, and pushed it from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet in a whisper of silk. She was naked. Exposed. Vulnerable. And she had never been more beautiful.

I laid her down on the bed, my body covering hers, my weight a welcome, possessive pressure. I didn't rush. I took my time, exploring every inch of her with my hands, my mouth, my tongue. I learned the taste of her skin, the texture of her nipples, the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thighs. I teased her, tormented her, pushed her to the edge of sanity and back, my every move a deliberate, calculated act of domination. I was teaching her body a new language, a language of pleasure and pain, of control and surrender, of my will and her desire.

And she was a perfect student. Her body responded to my touch with an instinctual, unthinking grace, her soft moans and whimpers a symphony of surrender that fueled my own desire. She was wet, ready, a slick, welcoming heat that was a silent invitation to take what was mine.

And then, I was inside her.

I entered her slowly, savoring the tight, slick heat of her, the way her body stretched to accommodate me, the soft moans that escaped her lips as I filled her. I stilled for a moment, letting her body learn the shape of me, the feel of me. And then, I began to move.

I started slow, a deep, steady rhythm that was a physical manifestation of my control. I was fucking her, but I was also marking her, imprinting myself on her very soul. Every thrust was a declaration of ownership, every withdrawal a promise of return. I watched her face, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure, her body arching up to meet me, a desperate, hungry need for more.

I picked up the pace, my movements becoming harder, faster, more demanding. I was no longer holding back. I was giving her all of me, the untamed power, the dark, dominant hunger, the possessive, all-consuming need that I had kept locked away for so long. I was fucking her with a singular, focused intensity, my body a piston, my mind a blank slate of sensation.

And she took it. She took everything I gave her and begged for more. I could feel her building, her muscles tensing, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her body tightening around me like a velvet fist. I was close, so close, but I held back, my own discipline a fortress against the tidal wave of my own release. I wanted to see her fall. I wanted to be the one to push her over the edge.

"Look at me," I commanded, my voice a low, guttural growl.

Her eyes fluttered open, dazed, unfocused, but they found mine. And in that moment, I saw it. The complete, soul-shattering surrender. The trust. The vulnerability. The love.

I slammed into her, one last, brutal, possessive thrust, and she shattered. Her body was a violent, beautiful storm of pleasure that ripped a scream from her throat, a scream that was part pain, part ecstasy, part pure release. And then, she started to cry.

Not soft, gentle tears. Hard, racking sobs that shook her entire body, her face buried in my chest, her hot tears soaking my skin.

I froze. My body, which had been a finely tuned machine of dominance and desire, seized up. I pulled out of her, my mind a blank, panicked void. I had broken things. I had hurt people. I had ended lives with a cold, detached efficiency. But I had never made a woman cry. Not like this. Not from pleasure. It was a failure. A catastrophic, unforgivable failure of control.

"What's wrong?" I asked, my voice rough, awkward. "Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head, her face still buried in my chest, her body still wracked with sobs. "No," she choked out, her voice a muffled, broken thing. "You didn't hurt me."

"Then why are you crying?" I asked, my frustration mounting, my carefully constructed facade of control crumbling into dust. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to fix this. This was a weakness, a vulnerability I didn't know how to handle, and it terrified me.

She finally looked up at me, her face a mess of tears and mascara, her dark eyes swimming with a storm of emotions I couldn't begin to decipher. "Because I hate you," she sobbed, the words a sharp, vicious blow that landed with the force of a physical punch. "I hate how easy it is. I hate how much I want this. I hate how much I want you. I spent my whole life building walls, being the smart one, the strong one, the one who didn't need anyone. And you just... you just walked in and tore it all down. You made me weak. And I hate you for it."

And just like that, I understood. It wasn't about pain. It wasn't about pleasure. It was about control. Her control. The one thing she valued more than anything. And I had taken it from her. Not by force, but by surrender. She had given it to me freely, willingly, and the ease with which she had done it, the depth of her surrender, had shattered her. It had shown her a part of herself she didn't know existed, a part of herself that was soft, and vulnerable, and desperate to be claimed. And she hated me for being the one to show her.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to fix this. So I did the only thing I could think of. I pulled her into my arms, my body a clumsy, awkward shield, and I held her. I held her while she cried, her hot tears a brand against my skin, her body a trembling, fragile thing in my arms. I had claimed her body, but in that moment, she had claimed my soul. And I had no idea how to get it back.

The silence after the storm felt worse than the storm itself.

Stella noticed it immediately. The shift. Not in Erik. In herself.

Because after that night in his bed, after the walls broke, after the tears, after the terrifying intimacy of letting somebody see every ugly, vulnerable piece of her, she stopped feeling steady. And Stella Davis valued steadiness more than almost anything. For years she had built herself carefully. Successful. Sharp.Independent. Emotionally self-contained. Even in submission, Stella liked believing she still maintained some invisible level of control. But Erik? Erik made her feel consumed. And that terrified her. So she pulled away. Not dramatically. Not cruelly. Just slowly.

A delayed text here. An excuse there. A canceled evening because of work. A sudden increase in late-night deadlines. Erik noticed every single change immediately. Of course he did. He noticed everything. But he didn’t call her out on it. Not at first. That somehow made it worse. Because he simply watched. Quietly. Carefully. Like a predator studying an injury.

Stella POV

The scent of lavender face mask and expensive Merlot filled the air, a familiar, comforting perfume of friendship. I was curled into one corner of the massive sectional sofa at Donnie and Stevie's place, the plush cushions a poor substitute for the solid, grounding presence I was trying so hard to forget. On the other side, Stevie sat cross-legged, looking like a goddess in silk pajamas and fuzzy socks, her expression a perfect blend of concern and utter disbelief. In the nearby bassinet, Diamond, the tiny, perfect center of their universe, slept on, oblivious to the psychological collapse of her godmother.

"You know this is insane, right?" Stevie said, her voice cutting through my wine-induced haze.

I just nodded, swirling the deep red liquid in my glass. "I know."

Stevie stared at me, then blinked slowly, then pointed a perfectly manicured finger directly at my face. "Wait. Hold on. Start over." She sat bolt upright, the movement so dramatic it made Diamond stir. "You are telling me... my brother-in-law bought your pussy for three million dollars?"

I choked on my sip of wine, sputtering and coughing as the alcohol went down the wrong pipe. "Stevie!"

"No, because I need clarification." She looked genuinely distressed, as if this were a matter of national security. "Like was this a Groupon situation or—"

"Oh my God," I wheezed, wiping my eyes.

Stevie collapsed into a fit of laughter so hard she had to grab a throw pillow to keep from falling over. "I knew that man was insane," she wheezed, tears of mirth streaming down her cheeks. "Rich serial killer vibes. I BEEN saying it."

I buried my face in a pillow, my shoulders shaking with a mixture of embarrassment and reluctant laughter. "He is not a serial killer."

"Baby he absolutely look like he know how to dissolve a body professionally," she insisted, her laughter subsiding into occasional hiccups.

"Stevie."

"You cannot tell me a six-foot-three emotionally unavailable billionaire who stares at people like he's calculating bone density doesn't have at least one offshore torture dungeon."

I couldn't help but laugh, a real, genuine laugh that felt like a crack in the ice around my heart. Because honestly? She wasn't entirely wrong.

Her expression finally softened, the humor in her eyes replaced by a deep, unwavering concern. "But seriously," she said quietly, her voice gentle. "You okay?"

That question hit harder than I expected. It was a simple question, but it felt like a key turning in a lock I hadn't even realized was there. I stared down into my wine glass, at the deep, swirling red, for a long moment.

"I think I'm losing my mind a little," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper.

The room quieted. Outside the ranch windows, rain began to roll slowly against the dark Texas night, a soft, rhythmic percussion. Diamond made a tiny, sleepy noise from her bassinet, a soft sigh of innocence. And suddenly the entire moment felt unbearably intimate, a sacred space where the truth could finally be spoken.

"I knew I was submissive already," I admitted, my voice gaining a little strength. "You know that. Sinners wasn't new for me. The lifestyle wasn't new. But Erik..." I exhaled shakily, the memory of him a physical ache in my chest. "Erik is different."

Stevie listened carefully, her whole being focused on me. No judgment. No interruption. Just understanding. It was one of the things I loved most about her.

"How?" she prompted gently.

I laughed, a soft, bitter sound. "That's the problem. I don't even know how to explain it." I rubbed my hands together, a nervous habit I couldn't seem to break. "It's not just sex. It's not even really about control anymore. It's like... he sees me too clearly."

Stevie nodded slowly. "That man notices everything."

"Exactly!" I pointed at her, a surge of vindication washing over me. "It's unsettling. I hate it."

"And he's calm all the time which somehow makes him scarier."

"And when he looks at me it feels like he already knows what I'm gonna say before I say it."

I groaned dramatically, flopping back against the cushions. "I feel psychologically compromised."

Stevie burst out laughing again, a bright, happy sound that filled the room. "Compromised is CRAZY."

"I'm serious!"

"No baby I know. I just—" She shook her head, a look of wonder on her face. "I cannot believe out of all the men in Texas, you ended up in a BDSM relationship with ERIK."

"Neither can I."

"That's like accidentally dating Batman if Batman had unresolved childhood trauma and a private military company."

I laughed so hard that wine nearly came out of my nose. "Please stop talking."

"No because now I'm thinking about the auction and it's taking me OUT." She sat up straighter, her eyes wide with mischief. "Wait wait wait. So when he bid three million dollars... what was his face like?"

I immediately froze. Because I remembered. Perfectly. The spotlight. The silence. The terrifying, unshakeable calm in Erik's eyes. Like the outcome had already been decided before the auction even started. Like he wasn't bidding on a prize, but simply claiming what was already his.

"Calm," I admitted quietly.

She stared at me for another long moment, her playful expression slowly fading, replaced by a deep, knowing look. Finally, she sighed. "Okay. Real question."

I looked up, my heart suddenly pounding in my chest.

"Do you love him?"

And there it was. The question I had spent weeks avoiding. The question that had been chasing me through the dark, empty halls of my own mind. The room suddenly felt too warm. Too small. Too honest.

I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Because the answer sat inside my chest like a loaded gun, heavy and dangerous and terrifying.

Stevie noticed immediately. "Oh no," she whispered dramatically, her eyes wide. "Oh bitch you DOWN BAD."

I groaned loudly before throwing a pillow directly at her face. "Shut up."

Stevie laughed, catching the pillow with ease. "Nah this serious. You got that look."

"What look?"

"The 'I accidentally fell in love with a rich emotionally constipated Dom who probably listens to sad Beethoven alone in the dark' look."

I covered my face again, a fresh wave of mortification washing over me. Because unfortunately? Again. Not entirely inaccurate.

But the worst part wasn't loving Erik. The worst part was realizing how badly he could hurt me if he wanted to. And for the first time in my adult life... I genuinely wasn't sure I could survive him leaving.

That realization terrified me enough to run. So I did.

The next week, Stella agreed to meet another Dom. His name was Adrian. Forty-two. Handsome in a polished, expensive kind of way. Confident. Experienced. Respected inside Sinners.

Safe. That was the important part. Adrian felt safe. Not because he was weak. Because he didn't matter. And Stella hated herself slightly for thinking that.

The upscale rooftop lounge in downtown Houston glowed beneath soft amber lighting while smooth jazz drifted quietly through hidden speakers. The city lights twinkled below, a beautiful, distant galaxy. Adrian smiled warmly across the table, his teeth white and perfect, his eyes a kind, forgettable shade of brown.

"So Stevie tells me you're a journalist?" he asked, his voice a smooth, pleasant baritone.

"Unfortunately," Stella answered, forcing a smile.

He laughed politely. Everything about him was polite. Measured. Smooth. Easy. And Stella immediately realized the problem.

He wasn't Erik. He didn't look at her like he could read her thoughts. He didn't challenge her. He didn't unsettle her. He didn't make her nervous. He didn't make her feel anything dangerous at all.

Which should have been comforting. Instead it made her restless.

Adrian leaned back slightly, his gaze perceptive. "You seem distracted," he observed gently.

Damn.

"Sorry," Stella admitted, taking a sip of her cocktail. "Long week."

Adrian studied her quietly for a moment, his expression kind. "You seeing somebody?"

The question made her stomach tighten instantly, a visceral, physical reaction. "It's... complicated."

"Usually means yes." She laughed softly, a hollow, brittle sound. "That obvious?"

"Little bit." Stella looked down at her drink, at the lime wedge floating on the surface. Then she sighed. "I think I ruined myself for normal people." Adrian smiled slightly, a sad, understanding smile. "Normal's overrated."

Maybe.

But Erik wasn't merely abnormal. Erik felt catastrophic. And the truly terrible part? A piece of her still wanted to go back.

Erik POV

I knew the second she started pulling away. Most people thought emotional distance was subtle.

It wasn't. Not when you paid attention. The rhythm changed first. Her texts became delayed. Her tone became careful. She stopped reaching for me instinctively. She stopped lingering after conversations. She stopped looking at me the same way. Everybody else would've missed it.

I didn't. I noticed every fucking second. And it was making me insane. Not publicly. Never publicly.

Outwardly, I remained calm. Controlled. Professional. Inside? Inside I was becoming something ugly.

Because the second I learned Stella was seeing another Dom, something vicious woke up inside my chest. Possessiveness. Jealousy. Not the childish kind. Something colder. More dangerous. The thought of another man touching her made my jaw lock so hard it physically hurt. The thought of another Dom hearing her submit, seeing her surrender, nearly sent me through a wall.

I hated it. Hated how emotional it made me. Hated how irrational it felt. Hated how powerless it was. Because love? Love was vulnerability. And vulnerability got people killed. I learned that lesson years ago. But Stella kept dragging emotions out of me like she was digging bullets out of flesh.

I stood in my kitchen, staring at a glass of Macallan 18 I hadn't touched, the amber liquid a perfect, still reflection of the storm raging inside me. The silence of the house was a physical weight, pressing in on me, reminding me of her absence. And then my security system chimed, a cheerful, intrusive sound that shattered the quiet.

Then came the sound of loud, boisterous voices, and the distinct thud of a duffel bag hitting the floor.

"Why the hell does your house feel like a Bond villain lives here?"

Guy.

Of course.

A second later, Elijah, Elias, Michael, and Donnie walked into my house, a chaotic, uninvited invasion of my solitude. They were carrying liquor bottles and entirely too much curiosity, their presence a loud, disruptive force in the carefully curated stillness of my world.

"We come in peace," Elias announced, holding up a bottle of top-shelf tequila like a trophy.

"That's a lie," Michael answered calmly, his eyes already assessing me, his quiet gaze missing nothing.

Donnie pointed directly at me, his expression a mixture of brotherly concern and pure exasperation. "Aight what wrong with you?"

I stared at them, a muscle twitching in my jaw. "Nothing."

Five separate expressions immediately called bullshit.

Guy walked past me toward the kitchen, his movements a fluid, chaotic dance. "Nah cause you been acting weird all week."

"You moodier than usual," Elijah added, leaning against the counter, his sharp eyes missing nothing.

"And that's saying something," Elias finished, already rummaging through my cabinets for glasses.

Michael sat calmly on one of the barstools, his posture relaxed but his gaze intense. "You look like you're planning a murder."

"I'm not planning a murder."

"Yet," Guy muttered while opening my refrigerator.

I exhaled slowly, a long, controlled breath. This was exactly why I normally avoided emotional conversations. My brothers never let anything go.

Donnie leaned against the counter, studying me carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then his eyes widened in dawning realization. "This about Stella?"

Silence.

Everybody immediately reacted.

"OH." Guy looked genuinely delighted, a wide, mischievous grin spreading across his face.

"I knew it," Elias whispered loudly, clutching his chest dramatically.

Michael blinked slowly. "Interesting."

I regretted allowing them inside immediately. "It's complicated," I muttered, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.

"Complicated usually means somebody in love," Elijah answered calmly, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

I shot him a look. He just smirked back. Traitor.

Donnie folded his arms across his chest, his expression serious. "Talk."

I stayed silent for several seconds, the weight of their collective gaze pressing down on me. Then finally, I sat down heavily against the kitchen island, the fight draining out of me. "She pulled away," I admitted, the words feeling like a defeat.

The room quieted immediately. Because none of them had probably ever heard me say anything remotely emotional before. Guy looked horrified. "Oh my God. Erik caught feelings."

"Shut up."

"No this historic."

Michael took a slow sip of the whiskey Guy had poured for him. "Continue."

I rubbed one hand across my jaw, the rough scrape of my stubble a grounding sensation. Then, finally said the words I never planned on telling another living soul. "I bought her at Sinners."

Complete silence.

Then:

"YOU WHAT?"

Guy nearly fell off the stool, his eyes wide with disbelief. Elias looked seconds away from cardiac arrest, his mouth agape. Donnie blinked repeatedly, as if trying to process the information. Michael simply stared, his expression unreadable.

Elijah burst into laughter first. Actual laughter. Deep. Uncontrolled. A rare, beautiful sound that was, at this particular moment, incredibly annoying.

I glared at him. "You finished?"

"No," he answered honestly, still laughing. "I really don't think I am."

Donnie pointed at me aggressively, his finger an inch from my nose. "You bought STEVIE'S BEST FRIEND at a Sinners auction?!"

"Correct."

"How much?"

I stayed silent. That silence answered everything.

Guy screamed, a high-pitched, theatrical sound of pure joy. "IT WAS A STUPID AMOUNT WASN'T IT?"

"Knowing you, you're probably the one who broke the record. Three million?" Michael guessed calmly.

I looked at him. Michael sighed. "Jesus Christ."

"Actually, three point eight," I corrected.

The entire kitchen exploded. Guy physically slid down the cabinet, laughing so hard he was crying. Elias grabbed his chest dramatically. "THIS MAN SPENT ALMOST FOUR MILLION DOLLARS ON COOCHIE."

"Elias," Elijah warned through his own laughter.

"No, because this is genuinely insane behavior."

Donnie looked emotionally exhausted, running a hand over his face. "I can't even judge you because my relationship started at Sinners too, but DAMN ERIK."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, a headache forming behind my eyes. "Can everybody stop saying it like that?"

"Like what?" Guy asked innocently, finally getting up off the floor.

"Like I purchased livestock."

Michael looked thoughtful. "Technically—"

"Michael."

"I'm just saying the economics behind this situation are fascinating."

Despite myself, I laughed quietly. A real laugh. The kind I rarely allow anymore. The kind that felt foreign and strange in my own throat. The room softened slightly afterward. Because underneath the jokes, the brothers understood something important. This wasn't casual for me. And that realization made all of them take the situation more seriously.

Donnie eventually sat beside me, his expression serious. "You love her?"

There it was again. That damn question. I stared down at the marble countertop for a long moment, at the cool, unyielding surface. Then finally answered honestly.

"Yeah."

The word felt heavier than any confession I'd ever made. It felt like a surrender. A defeat. A victory.

The room went completely still. Even Guy stopped joking. Because Erik Stevens did not love people easily. And when he did? It became dangerous.

Elijah studied me quietly, his laughter gone, his expression now serious. "That's why you spiraling."

I nodded once. "I don't know how to do this."

The admission felt raw. Uncomfortable. Too honest.

Michael leaned back slightly, his gaze calm and analytical. "You know how to control situations," he said calmly. "You don't know how to survive not controlling them."

That hit harder than expected. Because it was true. Love required uncertainty. Trust. Patience. Vulnerability. And I had spent my entire adult life building myself into somebody untouchable. A fortress of discipline and control.

But Stella?

Stella touched everything. And for the first time in years... I was terrified. Not of losing control. Of losing her.

The silence in his house after his brothers left was different. It wasn't the peaceful solitude he craved; it was an echoing, accusatory void. Every word they’d said ricocheted through the cavernous rooms. You love her. You don't know how to survive not controlling them. You're spiraling. They were right. All of them. And Erik Stevens hated being wrong almost as much as he hated feeling powerless.

Her house wasn't hard to find. Not for a man with his resources. A simple digital search, a cross-reference with property records, a quick bypass of her building's laughably inadequate security system. He didn't use a key. He didn't pick a lock. He simply walked in, a ghost in the machine, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft, final sound that sealed his fate.

Her townhouse was a reflection of her: elegant, curated, warm. It smelled of her—sandalwood, vanilla, and the faint, clean scent of her skin. It was a space filled with books and art, a place that lived and breathed. And it was the last place on earth he should be. But he was done with logic. He was done with restraint. Elijah’s words echoed in his mind, a simple, brutal truth: Go get what’s yours.

She was his.

He moved through her house like a ghost, a silent, heavy weight in the familiar space. He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to. The moonlight, filtering through the large windows, cast a soft, ethereal glow, turning her home into a landscape of silver and shadow.

He started in the living room, his steps silent on the hardwood floors. He ran a finger along the spine of a book on her shelf, a well-worn copy of a Toni Morrison novel. He could almost feel the warmth of her hands, the ghost of her touch. He moved to the kitchen, the cool, clean space a testament to her order. He saw the coffee mug in the sink, a smear of lipstick on the rim, a small, intimate detail that made his chest ache.

And then he went to her bedroom.

The air was thicker here, more personal, more intoxicating. It was saturated with her scent, a potent cocktail of sandalwood, vanilla, and the faint, clean scent of her skin that had been haunting his dreams. Her bed was unmade, the sheets a tangled mess of silk and cotton, a chaotic landscape that was a stark contrast to the pristine, military-tight corners of his own. He could see the indentation of her head on the pillow, a small, perfect hollow that was a silent invitation.

He walked to her dresser. He opened the top drawer. It was filled with her lingerie, a collection of delicate lace and soft silk in a riot of colors. He picked up a pair of black lace panties, the fabric a whisper in his hand. He brought them to his face, inhaling deeply. The scent was overwhelming, a direct, intimate hit of her essence that made his head spin, his body harden with a sudden, desperate need. It was a violation. A transgression. And he couldn't stop himself. He pocketed them, the small, delicate fabric a secret, a prize, a promise.

He explored the rest of her room, his eyes taking in every detail. The stack of books on her nightstand. The painting on the wall was a chaotic, abstract splash of color that was a reflection of her own vibrant, complex personality. The photograph on her dresser, a picture of her and Stevie, their arms wrapped around each other, their faces bright with laughter. He was an intruder, a trespasser in her most sacred space, and the knowledge of it was a bitter, thrilling taste in his mouth.

Finally, he retreated to the living room. He sat in the armchair, a piece of modern, angular furniture that was a stark contrast to the soft, plush sofa. He sat in the dark, his body still, his senses on high alert, a predator waiting for his prey. He could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the clock on the wall, and the distant wail of a siren. He could smell her on the fabric of the chair, a scent that was both a comfort and a torment. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the lace, a small, intimate connection to the woman who had turned his world upside down. And he waited.

He was losing his mind. The thought was a cold, hard fact. He, a man who prided himself on control, on discipline, on emotional detachment, was undone. Undone by a woman with soft eyes, a woman who had surrendered to him so completely that she had somehow managed to take all his power. He hated it. He hated how much he needed her. He hated the gnawing, desperate ache in his chest that was a constant, painful reminder of his own vulnerability. He was terrified. Not of an enemy, not of a threat, but of a feeling. Of love. Of the devastating, all-consuming power it had over him.

He heard her key in the lock, and his entire body went rigid. The front door opened, spilling a slice of warm, yellow light into the dark hallway. He could hear her sigh, a soft, weary sound that made his heart clench. He could hear the rustle of her coat, the soft thud of her bag hitting the floor. She flipped a switch, and the living room was flooded with light.

And then she saw him.

She froze, her hand still on the light switch, her body a statue of shock. Her eyes, wide and dark, locked on his, a silent, terrified question passing between them.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she breathed, her voice a shaky whisper that was a mixture of fear and fury.

Erik didn't move. He just sat there, a dark, imposing figure in her bright, welcoming living room, a king in an unfamiliar court. "You've been avoiding me," he said, his voice a low, calm rumble that was more terrifying than any shout.

Stella's shock quickly morphed into anger, a familiar, protective armor. She dropped her bag and crossed her arms over her chest, a defiant, challenging pose. "I've been busy," she shot back, her voice gaining strength. "And even if I was, what gives you the right to break into my house?"

"The right?" he said, a humorless smile touching his lips. He finally stood up, his tall, powerful frame a looming, intimidating presence. "The right is that you're mine. The right is that you don't get to just walk away. The right is that you belong to me."

The words were a blow, a sharp, possessive declaration that stole the air from her lungs. "I don't belong to anyone," she said, her voice shaking with a rage that was only partially directed at him. The rest was directed at herself. At the part of her that thrilled at his words, that craved his possession.

"Don't you?" he challenged, taking a slow step towards her. "Then why have you been hiding? Why have you been seeing other men? Why does the thought of you touching another man make me want to burn this whole city to the ground?"

The confrontation was a storm, a clash of wills and emotions that had been simmering for weeks. "You're insane," she spat, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Maybe," he admitted, his voice dropping, the raw, unvarnished truth of his own vulnerability showing through. "Maybe I am. Because I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can't think. All I can do is wonder where you are, who you're with, and if you're thinking about me. I spent three point eight million dollars to buy a single night of your time, and I would spend every dollar I have to buy another. I would burn down everything I've built just to feel you in my arms again, for you to call me your King."

He was in front of her now, his body close, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and breathtaking. He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek, his touch a brand. "You want to know why I'm here, Stella? I'm here because I'm terrified. I'm terrified of needing you this much. I'm terrified of how much power you have over me. I control everything, everyone. But I can't control this. I can't control you. And it's killing me."

The confession was a surrender. A complete, total, devastating surrender of his own. And it was the most intimate, most vulnerable thing she had ever seen. She saw the man beneath the King. The lonely, haunted man who was desperate for someone to see him, to understand him, to love him. And in that moment, she knew. There was no more running. There was no more hiding.

The confession hung in the air between them, a raw, vulnerable truth that was both a surrender and a challenge. Stella stared at him, her heart a frantic, desperate drumbeat against her ribs. She saw the man beneath the King. The lonely, haunted man who was desperate for someone to see him, to understand him, to love him. And for a moment, she wanted to give in. She wanted to fall into his arms and let him wash away all her fear, all her doubt, all her confusion.

But then, a familiar fire sparked in her chest. The fire of defiance. The fire of self-preservation. She had spent years building her walls, and she wasn't ready to tear them all down just because he had decided to show up and confess his feelings.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words a broken, heartfelt apology. "I was scared. I am scared. How much I want this. Of how much I need you."

"Then stop running," he commanded, his voice a low, dominant tone that was a direct, tempting pull on her soul. "Stop fighting me. Stop fighting us."

Stella looked at him, a slow, defiant smile playing on her lips. It was a fragile thing, but it was there. "Or what?" she challenged, her voice a low, purring tease. "You'll break into my house again? Leave a threatening note on my pillow? Maybe steal another pair of my panties?"

A flicker of surprise and amusement crossed his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the black lace panties he had taken earlier, holding them up by a single finger like a trophy. "These?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "I wasn't stealing them. I was collecting evidence of a crime."

Stella couldn't help it. A small, genuine laugh escaped her, a sound of disbelief and pure, unadulterated joy. "A crime? What crime? The crime of making the great Erik Stevens fall in love?"

He didn't deny it. He just stood there, a dark, imposing figure, his eyes burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and breathtaking. "The crime of leaving," he said, his voice a low, guttural growl. "The crime of making me think I could live without you."

The laughter died in her throat, replaced by a wave of emotion so powerful it almost brought her to her knees. She looked at him, really looked at him, at the raw, unvarnished vulnerability in his eyes, at the desperate, possessive love that was pouring off him in waves. And she knew. There was no more running. There was no more hiding.

"Okay," she breathed, the word a surrender, a vow. "Okay."

"Good," he said, his eyes darkening with a familiar, possessive fire. "Now, you need to be punished."

A thrill of fear and excitement shot through her. "For what?" she challenged, her voice a low, playful tease. "For being scared? Or for making you admit you spent three point eight million dollars on a single night and accidentally caught feelings?"

He closed the distance between them in a single, powerful stride. He wrapped his hand around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a possessive, dominant gesture that made her whole body tremble with anticipation. "For leaving your King," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through her entire being. "For making me come looking for you. For making me feel." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath a hot, possessive caress. "And don't worry, baby. I'm going to get my three point eight million's worth. And then some."

Before she could react, he moved. His hands were on her, a blur of motion, a dance of dominance and desire. He stripped her with a ruthless efficiency, her clothes falling away like discarded armor. He spun her around, his hands on her wrists, pulling them above her head. He produced a pair of steel handcuffs from his pocket, the cold metal a shocking, thrilling contrast to her warm, flushed skin. He didn't cuff her to the bedpost. He led her, naked and shivering, to the large window that overlooked the quiet, tree-lined street. He cuffed her to the thick, wooden curtain rod above her head, her body stretched, exposed, vulnerable. The cool glass of the window pressed against her breasts, a shocking, thrilling contrast to the heat of her skin. The streetlights cast a soft glow on her body, a silent, public display of her private surrender.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr that vibrated through her entire being. "All this fire, all this fight. And now you're just a beautiful, bratty little thing, cuffed to a window for all the world to see. Maybe this will teach you to think twice before you run from your King again."

He stood back for a moment, his gaze a physical touch, a slow assessment of his prize. Then, with an unhurried motion, he reached down and grabbed the hem of his own shirt. He pulled it over his head, tossing it aside, revealing the hard, sculpted landscape of his chest and abdomen. The moonlight caught the sharp lines of his muscles, the faint, silvery scars that were a testament to a war he had lived. He was a work of art, a beautiful predator, and the sight of his reflection in the window made her mouth go dry, her body ache with a desperate, hungry need.

He approached her again, his movements slow. He reached out, his fingers sliding down her spine, his touch a feather-light tease that made her gasp. He found her nipple, already hard and pebbled from the cold glass and the heat of his gaze, and he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. He pinched it, a sharp, sudden sting that made her cry out, a sound that was part pain, part pleasure.

"You like that, don't you?" he murmured, his voice a low, intimate whisper against her ear as his bare chest sandwiched her between the window and him. "You like the pain. You like the pleasure. You like the way I make you feel."

He moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention, the same slow torture. He was teaching her a lesson, a lesson in control, a lesson in surrender. He was reminding her who was in charge, who owned her body, her pleasure, her soul.

Then he stepped back, and she heard the soft, swishing sound of a paddle. It wasn't a heavy, intimidating paddle. It was a small, leather paddle, designed for a different kind of punishment. A more intimate kind.

"Count," he commanded.

The first slap was a sharp, stinging smack against her ass, a quick, biting pain that made her gasp. "One," she breathed, her voice shaky.

The second was harder, a sharp, delicious sting that made her body arch. "Two."

He continued, a steady, rhythmic rhythm of pain and pleasure, each smack a punctuation mark in his lesson of control. He was talking to her, his voice a low, dominant murmur that was a constant, thrilling torment.

"Look at you," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "All this fight, all this fire. And for what? To end up here, cuffed to a window, your ass purple and hot, begging for more."

"You're a brat, Stella," he continued, his voice a low, dominant murmur that was a constant, thrilling torment. "A beautiful, stubborn, mouthy brat. And you need to be tamed."

He brought the paddle down again, a sharp, stinging smack that made her cry out. "Four."

"I might have to have a bondage room built for you," he mused, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "A special place, just for you. A place where I can keep you in line. A place where I can remind you of your place. A place where I can fuck you until you remember your place."

The words were a blow, a sharp, possessive declaration that stole the air from her lungs. She lost count, lost in the sensation, lost in the overwhelming, all-consuming pleasure of his dominance. Her body was on fire, every nerve ending screaming for more. She was dripping, a slick, welcoming heat that was a silent invitation to take what was his. And he knew it.

When he was done, her ass was a warm, glowing purple under her beautiful ass, a brand of his possession. He uncuffed her slowly. The soft metallic click sounded louder than it should have in the quiet room, like the ending of one thing and the beginning of another. Stella’s arms fell weakly to her sides, trembling from strain and adrenaline, her body still humming from the sharp sting of the paddle, from the emotional violence of everything they’d just ripped open between them. Her breathing was uneven, fragile little inhales that fluttered against the thick silence.

Erik rubbed gently at the angry marks left behind by the cuffs, his large hands unexpectedly careful. “Easy,” he murmured. The word held none of the hard-edged authority from before. No punishment. No correction. Only care. And somehow that was far more dangerous.

He gathered her into his arms without effort, lifting her against his chest as though she weighed nothing at all. Stella curled instinctively into him, her cheek pressed against the hard plane of his shoulder while he carried her through the darkened house. The moonlight spilling through the bedroom windows painted silver across his skin, turning the tattoos stretched over his shoulders into something ancient and mythic. Like scripture written onto a warrior’s body.

He laid her onto the bed with impossible gentleness. Not like a Dom placing a submissive. Like a man handling something sacred. For a long moment, he just looked at her. And Stella felt it everywhere. Not lust. Not ownership. Reverence.

The anger that had fueled him down the hall had dissolved into something softer now, something vast and terrifying and unbearably intimate. It sat in his eyes when he touched her thighs apart. It sat in the careful restraint of his hands. It sat in the way he looked at her like she was simultaneously his greatest weakness and the only thing keeping him alive.

“You still with me?” he asked quietly. The question undid her a little. Because Erik Stevens—the man who commanded boardrooms and bent entire rooms to his will with silence alone—was asking. Checking. Giving her room to choose him again. “Yes,” she whispered.

His hand slid slowly up the inside of her thigh, fingertips featherlight, almost thoughtful. Stella shivered hard beneath him. “Good,” he said softly. “My good girl.” The praise wrapped around her ribs like velvet. Erik lowered himself between her legs, broad shoulders settling against the mattress while his gaze stayed fixed on hers. He didn’t rush. Didn’t devour. Didn’t take. He worshipped.

Like a man kneeling at the altar of something holy. “Look at me,” he murmured again, voice low and warm as whiskey against bare skin. “Don’t hide from me now.” Stella’s breath trembled. He kissed the inside of her thigh first. Then the other. Slowly. Deliberately. Each touch felt less like seduction and more like poetry translated through skin.

His hands spread over her hips possessively, thumbs brushing soft circles against her trembling flesh while his eyes stayed locked on hers, dark and endless and devastatingly present. “There she is,” he whispered. “That’s my girl.” The tenderness in his voice nearly hurt. Because Erik wasn’t detached anymore. Wasn’t hiding behind control. He was fully here with her.

Emotionally naked in a way that probably terrified him more than violence ever could. “You know what you are?” he asked softly. Stella shook her head once against the pillow. A faint smile ghosted across his mouth. “You’re the only place my mind’s ever quiet.” The confession landed like a prayer.

His mouth finally found her, and Stella’s entire body arched instantly, a broken sound escaping her throat. Erik exhaled softly against her skin, almost pleased, almost reverent, like he’d uncovered something precious beneath layers of stone.

“There she is,” he praised again. “God, you’re beautiful like this.” He moved with patience. Like the ocean wearing down cliffs. Like rain soaking slowly into dry earth. Nothing frantic. Nothing selfish. His touch unraveled her thread by thread, his mouth and hands working together with devastating precision while his praise wrapped around her like silk ribbons, tightening gently around her ribs.

“So responsive,” he murmured against her skin. “You open up for me so beautifully.” Stella’s fingers twisted helplessly into the sheets. Every nerve ending in her body felt illuminated. Seen. Loved. His hand slid upward, fingertips brushing along her stomach, her ribs, her chest, grounding her while his mouth continued its slow destruction.

“You don’t have to fight me all the time,” he said quietly between kisses against her thigh. “You know that, right?” Stella’s breathing stuttered. “I know,” she whispered weakly.

“I’m not trying to cage you.” His voice turned rougher then, honesty scraping against every word. “I’m trying to hold you gently enough that you stop thinking you have to survive everything alone, WE have to survive alone.”

Tears burned unexpectedly behind her eyes. Because that was the thing about Erik.

Underneath all the dominance and control and terrifying certainty, he loved like a man standing in the middle of a fire with both hands open. His mouth moved against her again, deeper this time, and Stella cried out softly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it. He watched her constantly, like he was memorizing every expression, every sound, every tremble.

Not consuming her. Studying her. Adoring her. “Good girl,” he whispered as her thighs shook around his shoulders. “That’s it. Let me take care of you.” And she let him. God, she let him.

The pleasure built slowly, beautifully, until it no longer felt physical at all. It felt emotional. Spiritual. Like every wall inside her was being dissolved carefully by hand. Erik’s praise became softer the closer she got. “My queen.” “So sweet for me.” “You trust me so well.”

The words hit harder than his hands ever could. And when she finally shattered, it felt like the tide pulling the moon down with it. Her body broke apart beneath him in helpless waves, trembling violently while he held her through every second of it, never looking away, never letting her drift alone through the storm.

“That’s it,” he whispered against her skin while she cried softly from the intensity. “Beautiful girl. Let it happen.” He stayed there until her breathing slowed. Until her shaking eased. Then he crawled upward slowly, covering her body with his own warmth. When he entered her, it wasn’t rough. Wasn’t punishment. It felt like coming home.

Both of them exhaled sharply at the same time, foreheads falling together while the world outside the room disappeared completely. Erik closed his eyes briefly, jaw tightening like the intimacy physically hurt him.

Because this, this was far more terrifying than sex. This was love without armor.

He moved slowly inside her, deep steady strokes that felt less like possession and more like devotion. Every movement carried intention behind it, emotion behind it, years of loneliness collapsing inward. Stella cupped his face gently. And the look in Erik’s eyes nearly destroyed her. Raw. Unprotected. Hungry in a way that had nothing to do with sex.

“I don’t know how to do this halfway,” he admitted quietly against her mouth. “I don’t know how to want someone a normal amount.”

Stella’s chest tightened painfully. “You don’t have to,” she whispered back.

His forehead pressed against hers while he breathed shakily for a second, like he was holding himself together by sheer force. “You scare me,” he confessed. The honesty in his voice was catastrophic.

“Why?”

“Because loving you feels like handing someone the knife and trusting they won’t use it.” His gaze stayed locked on hers, dark and unbearably honest. “And I’ve never trusted anybody that much before.” Stella kissed him softly then. Not to quiet him. To meet him there. To tell him she understood.

His movements lost rhythm after that, becoming deeper, more emotional, less controlled. Every thrust felt like a confession his mouth didn’t know how to make. Mine. Stay. Please. Love me back. When they finally fell apart together, it didn’t feel explosive. It felt sacred. Like two lonely people finally setting their weapons down.

The morning light was a soft, golden blanket, spilling through the windows of Erik’s truck and warming the leather seats. The air was thick with a comfortable silence, a quiet intimacy that was more profound than any conversation. Stella sat in the passenger seat, her body humming with a deep, bone-deep satisfaction. She was wearing a black plaid shirt of his that was tucked into a pair of bell-bottom jeans, the soft, worn cotton a familiar, comforting weight against her skin. Her hair was a messy halo on her head, and she felt a delicious, pleasant ache in muscles she hadn't used in years. She felt… claimed. And she had never felt more beautiful.

Erik drove with his usual focused intensity, his hands steady on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the road. But there was a softness to him, a relaxation in his shoulders that she had never seen before. He wasn't just the King. He was her King. And the knowledge of it was a powerful, intoxicating thing.

He reached over, his hand finding hers, his fingers lacing through hers in a gesture that was both possessive and tender. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The simple, quiet act of holding her hand in the bright light of day was a declaration. A promise. A public acknowledgment of the private world they had built together.

They pulled up to the Creed ranch, the sprawling, sun-drenched property a bustling hub of family life. The moment they walked in, they were the center of attention. It wasn't a loud, obvious thing. It was a subtle, collective shift in the room's energy. All eyes, for a fleeting moment, were on them.

Stevie was at the kitchen island, a spatula in her hand, a fierce, protective glint in her eyes. She was watching them, her gaze a laser beam, mainly focused on Erik. It wasn't a hostile glare, but a silent, unmistakable warning. I see you. I know what you're about. And if you hurt her, I'll end you. Erik met her gaze without flinching, a slow, respectful nod of acknowledgment passing between them. He understood. He respected it. He would expect nothing less from a woman who loved Stella as fiercely as he did.

The brothers were gathered around the large, wooden table, a chaotic, masculine energy that filled the room. Donnie, Elias, Guy, Michael, and Elijah. They were all watching, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and a deep, brotherly understanding. They didn't question their relationship. They didn't pry. They just… accepted it. It was as if they had been waiting for this, as if they had known all along that this was where Erik was headed, that this was the woman who could finally tame the storm inside him.

Erik pulled out Stella's chair, a small, old-fashioned gesture of chivalry that was so at odds with the dark, dominant man he was in the bedroom that it made her heart flutter. He sat beside her, his body a warm, solid presence beside her. He didn't just sit there. He engaged. He listened to Donnie's story about Diamond's latest middle-of-the-night meltdown, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. He chuckled at Guy's latest ridiculous tale, his deep, rumbling laugh a rare, beautiful sound. He was present. He was a part of the family. And he was bringing her with him.

But it was the small, quiet things that truly told the story. The way he would reach out and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his touch a gentle, possessive caress. The way he would hand her a cup of coffee, his fingers brushing against hers, a silent, intimate connection. The way he would look at her, his dark eyes softening with a warmth, a tenderness that was for her and her alone.

Jeremiah, the patriarch of the family, the man who had shaped them all, had been watching from the head of the table, his sharp, perceptive eyes missing nothing. He saw the way Erik looked at Stella, the way he touched her, the way he had softened, just a little, just enough. He saw the way Stella looked at Erik, the trust, the love, the quiet, unwavering devotion in her eyes. He saw the way she balanced him, the way she grounded him, the way she had managed to do what no one else had been able to do: make the King vulnerable.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across Jeremiah's face. He had always been hardest on Erik, always pushing him, always demanding more, because he had seen the most potential in him. He had always worried about his darkness, his emotional distance, his tendency to retreat into the cold, lonely fortress of his own making. But now, looking at them, he saw a future. He saw a partnership. He saw a love that was strong enough to withstand any storm. He saw that Erik had finally found someone who could handle his fire, someone who could match his intensity, someone who could love him not despite his darkness, but because of it.

He had found someone capable of balancing him. And for the first time in a long, long time, Jeremiah wasn't worried about his son. He was proud.

The year unfolded like a map, each new destination a pinprick of light marking the territory of their shared world. It wasn't a whirlwind romance; it was a slow, deliberate immersion, a careful weaving of two separate lives into a single, intricate tapestry. The foundation, built on the raw, volcanic soil of Blackstone, proved to be unshakable.

Their first trip was to Oakland. It was a test, a deliberate step out of the controlled, intimate bubble of their Texas home and into the sprawling, complex world of Erik Stevens, the CEO. Stevens Global wasn't just an office; it was a sleek, glass-and-steel monolith that pierced the sky, a physical manifestation of his ambition, his intellect, and his power. He didn't just give her a tour. He gave her the keys.

He walked her through the halls, his hand a low, possessive weight on the small of her back, introducing her not as his girlfriend, not as his submissive, but as his partner. "This is Stella Davis," he'd say to a board member, his voice calm, but his eyes holding a fierce, protective fire. "She's here to review our security protocols. Her input is now mandatory." He wasn't asking for permission. He was stating a fact. He was showing her, and everyone else, that she wasn't just a guest in his world. She was a part of its governance.

In the evenings, they'd retreat to his penthouse, a minimalist masterpiece that overlooked the glittering, chaotic sprawl of the bay. It was there, in the quiet solitude of his private space, that she saw the man behind the King. He'd cook for her, he'd talk about his work, not as a conqueror, but as a strategist, a problem-solver, a man who was driven by a need to build, to create, to impose order on a world of chaos. And she'd listen, her sharp, journalistic mind asking questions, challenging his assumptions, offering perspectives he hadn't considered. She wasn't beneath him. She was beside him, a sounding board, a confidante, a partner in every sense of the word.

The most significant test was Lisa.

Erik's mother was a woman of quiet strength and profound grace, a retired professor whose love for her son was as fierce as it was complicated. She had watched him build his fortress, had seen the walls go up, brick by brick, and had worried about the lonely, haunted boy who still lived inside the man.

They met for lunch at a small, quiet café in Berkeley. The air was thick with a nervous, unspoken tension. Lisa was polite, but her gaze was sharp, her perceptive eyes missing nothing. She saw the way Erik looked at Stella, the way he relaxed in her presence, the way his hand instinctively found hers under the table. She saw the way Stella looked at Erik, not with awe or fear, but with a deep, unwavering understanding.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Stella," Lisa said, her voice a calm, measured melody. "Erik doesn't bring many people to meet me."

"Probably because he's afraid you'll scare them away with your terrifying intellect," Stella replied, a small, playful smile touching her lips.

Lisa laughed, a genuine, warm sound that broke the tension. "And you're not scared?"

"I'm a journalist," Stella said, her voice confident. "I'm not scared of anything. Especially not the truth."

And in that moment, Lisa knew. She saw the fire, the intelligence, the quiet strength in Stella. She saw the woman who could see past the King, past the billionaire, past the Dominant, and love the man. She saw the woman who could balance her son. And she smiled, a real, genuine, deeply relieved smile. "Welcome to the family, dear," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "It's about time."

Their final destination was New York. The city was a different kind of beast, a sprawling, decadent jungle of ambition and desire. And at its heart was Pillow Princess. He didn't warn her. He didn't prepare her. He simply took her there, a silent, confident test of their trust.

The club was everything he had described and more. Elite, decadent, a cathedral of high-end kink where the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the desperate, hungry need of the rich and powerful. As they walked through the main room, a hush fell over the crowd. People recognized him. They remembered King. But they didn't see the cold, calculating Dominant of old. They saw something else. They saw a man with a woman on his arm, a woman who wasn't cowering behind him, but walking beside him, her head held high, her gaze a calm, steady challenge. He led her to a private booth, a secluded corner of velvet and shadow that offered a perfect view of the entire room. "This is where I learned," he said, his voice a low, intimate murmur. "This is where I became King."

She looked around, her eyes taking in the scene, the beautiful, desperate people, the raw display of power and desire. She saw a younger Erik, a man who was lost, lonely, searching for control in a world that felt chaotic and unmoored. She saw the man he used to be, and she felt a surge of love, of protectiveness, of a deep, profound understanding.

"He was a lonely boy," she said, her voice a soft, gentle whisper.

Erik looked at her, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and breathtaking. "He was," he admitted, his voice a low confession. "But he's not alone anymore."

The New York air was a sharp, electric shock to the system, a constant, thrumming energy that was a stark contrast to the warm, lazy breeze of Blackstone. A year had passed, a year of growth, of change, of building a life that was a perfect, intricate blend of his world and hers. Erik had moved the headquarters of Stevens Global to a gleaming new tower in Manhattan, a decision that had been met with a mixture of shock and awe in the business world. But for him, it was simple. His life was here now. His heart was here now.

Stella had flourished. She had started a blog, a sharp, witty, and deeply insightful exploration of power dynamics, sexuality, and modern relationships. It had started as a creative outlet, a way to process the profound, life-altering changes in her own life. But it had quickly grown, attracting a massive, devoted following who were captivated by her intelligence, her honesty, and her unflinching willingness to tackle taboo subjects. She was no longer just Erik's submissive. She was a queen in her own right, a voice of authority in a world she had once only observed from the shadows.

And Pillow Princess had become their sanctuary. After the initial shock, Stella had fallen in love with the place. She saw it not as a den of iniquity, but as a refuge, a place where people could explore their truest selves without judgment. The regulars, the jaded, elite clientele who had once whispered about the cold, untouchable King, had embraced her. They saw the way she softened him, the way she challenged him, the way she held his attention. They had nicknamed them the King and Queen, a title that was both a playful tease and a mark of genuine respect. Stella had even made friends with other subs, a small, tight-knit group of women who saw her as one of their own, sharing secrets, tips, and techniques, which Stella, ever the diligent student, would secretly practice, much to Erik's delighted surprise.

Tonight was their anniversary. One year since the night he had broken into her house, the night he had laid his soul bare, the night they had truly begun. He had been quiet all day, a mysterious, knowing smile playing on his lips, a secret that he was keeping close to his chest.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice a playful, curious murmur as he led her out of their penthouse, a silk blindfold a soft, decadent barrier against her sight.

"It's a surprise," he said, "Just trust me."

She did. Implicitly. She could feel the familiar, cool, hushed air of the private elevator, the soft, distant thrum of the city below. She could hear the familiar, muffled sounds of the club, the low, seductive music, the soft murmur of conversations. She knew where they were. A thrill of excitement, of sweet, sensual memory, washed over her.

He led her through the club, his hand a firm, possessive guide. She could feel the eyes on them, the familiar, respectful gazes of the regulars. She could hear the soft, appreciative whispers. "The King and Queen."

He stopped, and she could feel the shift in the air, the subtle change in the space. They were in a private room. She could hear the soft, familiar voices of their family. Stevie's warm, welcoming laugh. Donnie's low, rumbling chuckle. The distinct, chaotic cadence of her brothers.

Erik stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, his body a warm, solid presence. "Are you ready, my Queen?" he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear.

She nodded, her heart a frantic, excited drumbeat against her ribs.

He slowly, carefully, removed the blindfold.

The room was bathed in a soft, golden glow, a private, intimate space that was a perfect reflection of their journey. And it was filled with the people they loved. Stevie and Donnie, their faces a mask of happy tears. Elijah, his sharp, perceptive eyes shining with pride. Elias had a wide, genuine grin on his face. Michael, a calm, approving nod. Guy had a look of joy that only an 8-year-old on Christmas could have. And Jeremiah and Lisa, an expression of a mixture of deep, profound love and a quiet satisfaction.

But it was the center of the room that truly stole her breath. It was a replica of the stage at Sinners, but smaller, more intimate. And in the center of the stage, bathed in a single, soft spotlight, was a pedestal. And on the pedestal was a collar.

It wasn't the black velvet collar from the auction. It was a masterpiece. A band of white gold, encrusted with a single, flawless, canary yellow diamond. It was a crown. A vow. A promise.

Erik took her hand, his gaze a locked, intimate connection that was a universe of unspoken emotions. He led her to the stage, their family a silent, reverent audience.

He knelt.

The King knelt before his Queen.

He looked up at her, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and breathtaking. "A year ago, I bought you at an auction," he began, his voice a low, emotional murmur that was a raw confession. "I thought I was buying a night of submission. I thought I was buying control. But I was wrong. I was buying my future. I was buying my heart. I was buying my soul." He reached up, his hand cupping her cheek, his touch a gentle, reverent caress. "You are not just my submissive, Stella. You are my partner. You are my equal. You are the woman beside the King. You are the calm in my storm, the light in my darkness, the love I never knew I was searching for."

He picked up the collar, the white gold a stark, beautiful contrast to his dark skin. "This is not a symbol of ownership. It's a symbol of devotion. A promise. A vow. A vow to love you, to cherish you, to protect you, to honor you, for the rest of my days."

He looked up at her, his dark eyes shining with a love so profound, so pure, it took her breath away. "Stella Davis," he said, his voice a low, dominant growl that was a prayer, a plea, a promise. "Will you marry me?"

Tears streamed down her face, a hot, happy cascade of pure, unadulterated joy. She looked at him, at the man who had seen her, claimed her, loved her, and she knew. There was only one answer.

"Yes," she breathed, the word a surrender, a vow, a promise. "Yes, my King."

He slid the collar around her neck, the cool, smooth metal a perfect, beautiful weight. It wasn't a mark of submission. It was a mark of their love. A symbol of their journey. A testament to the woman beside the King.

And as their family erupted in a chorus of cheers and applause, as he stood up and pulled her into his arms, his lips claiming hers in a deep, possessive kiss, she knew. This was not just a proposal. It was a coronation. And she was his Queen. Now and forever.

Nine months later.

The air in Blackstone was thick with the scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass, a sweet, intoxicating perfume that spoke of home, of history, of things that were meant to last. The Saint Compound was alive, buzzing with a chaotic, joyful energy that was a perfect reflection of the family it housed. Today, it wasn't just a home. It was a kingdom. And a king was about to claim his queen.

Stella stood in front of the full-length mirror in the master suite, a room that had once belonged to Jeremiah's first wife, a woman whose grace and strength still lingered in the air like a faint, ghostly perfume. Her hair was a sleek, straight curtain of black silk, parted perfectly down the middle, a style that was both elegant and severe. It was Stevie's handiwork, of course. Her best friend had spent the better part of an hour wrestling with the natural waves and curls, her eyes welling with tears every time she looked at her.

"I can't believe you're marrying my brother-in-law," Stevie had sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "The rich serial killer with the torture dungeon."

"He's not a serial killer, Stevie," Stella had laughed, her voice a soft, happy sound. "Whatever," Stevie had waved a dismissive hand. "He's your serial killer now. And I'm so happy I could vomit."

Now, looking at her reflection, Stella felt a surge of pure, unadulterated joy. She was wearing a dress of her own design, a sleek, simple sheath of ivory silk that clung to her curves in a way that was both modest and deeply sensual. It was a perfect reflection of her: sharp, elegant, and unapologetically herself.

A small, excited giggle drew her attention. Diamond, no longer a tiny, helpless infant, but a bright, beautiful almost-two-year-old with her father's eyes and her mother's smile, was toddling towards her, her little arms outstretched. Stella scooped her up, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek, the sweet, baby scent a comforting, familiar anchor in the midst of the happy chaos.

Downstairs, the Saint brothers were gathered. They were a formidable sight, a sea of dark suits, sharp jawlines, and a shared, unspoken language that was a testament to their bond. Donnie was beaming, his face a mask of paternal pride. Elijah and Elias were a chaotic, comedic duo, their low, teasing banter a constant, familiar soundtrack to family gatherings. Guy was already on his third glass of champagne, his energy a bright, infectious spark. And Michael… Michael was just watching, his quiet, observant gaze taking everything in, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips.

Erik stood apart from them, a solitary, powerful figure. He wasn't nervous. He wasn't anxious. He was… still. A quiet, profound stillness that was a testament to his absolute certainty. He was where he was meant to be. He was about to marry the woman he was meant to be with. The rest was just noise.

The ceremony was held under the ancient, sprawling oak tree at the center of the compound, a place that had witnessed a hundred years of the Saint family history. The sun was a warm, golden blanket, the air was filled with the soft, sweet music of a string quartet, and the world felt like it was holding its breath.

And then she appeared.

She didn't have a father to walk her down the aisle. She didn't need one. She walked alone, her head held high, her steps a slow, deliberate rhythm that was a testament to her own strength, her own journey. And as she walked towards him, Erik felt a shift in his world. A final, perfect click into place.

He met her at the end of the aisle, his hands reaching for hers, his dark eyes burning with a love so profound, so pure, it took her breath away. The vows were a private, intimate exchange, a whispered conversation between two souls who had found their other half.

"I vow to be your partner, your equal, your queen," Stella said, her voice a clear, steady melody.

"I vow to be your King, your protector, your home," Erik replied, his voice a low, dominant growl that was a promise, a plea, a prayer.

And as he slid the ring onto her finger, a simple, elegant band of platinum to match the white gold collar that was now a permanent, beautiful part of her life, the world erupted in a chorus of cheers and applause. He pulled her into his arms as a lone tear slid down his cheek, his lips claiming hers in a deep, possessive kiss, a seal on their vow, a coronation for their love.

Later that evening, as the party was in full swing, the Saint brothers found themselves gathered together on the porch, a quiet, conspiratorial huddle in the midst of the joyful chaos. They watched as Erik and Stella danced, a slow, intimate sway that was a universe of unspoken emotions, their bodies a perfect, seamless fit.

"Look at him," Elijah murmured, his voice a low, proud rumble. "The King of Sinners, tamed by a queen."

"He's not tamed," Donnie corrected, a soft, knowing smile on his face. "He's balanced."

"Whatever," Elias chimed in, his voice a playful, teasing murmur. "He's just 3.8 million dollars whipped."

They all laughed, a deep, brotherly sound that was a perfect reflection of their bond. They were kings, every last one of them. Kings of their own worlds, kings of their own destinies. And tonight, they were finally home.

Michael watched them all, his quiet, observant gaze taking in the scene. He saw the joy, the love, the profound sense of belonging. He saw his brothers, happy, settled, at peace. And a part of him, a part he had kept locked away for a long, long time, began to stir. A part that wondered what it would be like to have that. To have a queen of his own.

As if sensing his thoughts, his father, Jeremiah, appeared at his side, his expression a mixture of pride and understanding. "Your time will come, son," he said, his voice a low, reassuring murmur. "Every king needs his queen."

Michael just nodded, his gaze still fixed on the happy couple, a slow, thoughtful smile playing on his lips. The King of Sinners had found his queen. And the other kings were finally home. But the story, as they all knew, was far from over.

Bunny let the door shut behind her with a quiet click. She pulled up the smile she had spent years perfecting, the one that reached her eyes just far enough to be convincing without costing her anything real, and she moved toward the vanity to set down her small kit. "Evenin', sir," she replied, voice sweet as honeysuckle draped over a fence post in July. "You get yourself settled alright?"

"Settled?" He laughed, the sound was disgustingly wet and blunt. "I been waitin' damn near twenty minutes."

"I apologize for that, sir." She turned subtly, sizing the client up again in the mirror's reflection while she appeared to be checking her hair. She took notice of the way his body tilted just slightly to the left when he tried to sit straighter. The way his hand reached for the bedpost to steady himself without seeming to realize he had done it. The glassy, navigating-through-fog quality of his stare. Bunny had been in this business long enough to know that a drunk man in a room with a woman he had paid for was a man operating without a leash, and a man without a leash was a dangerous creature.

She angled herself toward the door by a few degrees. Just enough to escape if needed. "Sir," she said, keeping her voice sweet and calm, "I just want to make sure you feelin' alright before we get started. You seem like you might've had yourself a full night already and I wouldn't want—"

The remainder of her sentence was cut off because the drunken man moved without warning. He lurched to his feet, knocking the small side table with his hip and sending its single glass of water spinning off the edge to shatter against the floor. His face had turned a particular shade of red that lived between embarrassment and fury, and his jaw worked like he was chewing something bitter before he could get the words out.

"Useless bitch," he spat. The syllables fell out of him ugly and hard. "Think I paid to have some whore tell me I done had too much to drink? Think I need you lookin' down at me? I'll kill you, you hear me?!? I'll put my hands ‘round ya' neck and I'll—"

His arm swung mid rant, but Bunny was already moving.

She dropped her chin to her chest and turned her body so the arc of his open palm caught nothing but air, and in the same motion her right hand went up to her hair. The blade she kept there was small, barely two inches of steel with a handle thin enough to disappear between two curling papers. It was something she had carried since she was nineteen years old and had learned in the most painful way possible that a pretty face and a small curvy frame were not assets in every room. Her fingers found it without hesitation, but with the calm surety of someone who had practiced the motion until it lived in her muscles instead of her mind.

She drew it in the same breath she stepped to his left side, and when she came back up, she sliced him across the cheekbone in one clean swipe.

The sound he made wasn’t quite a scream and not quite a word. It lived somewhere between the two, high and stunned. The moment he was sliced, his hand flew to his face as the blood welled immediately, vivid and dark, running between his fingers and dripping onto the collar he had loosened two buttons down. He staggered back into the bedpost as his eyes went wide, and suddenly he was brutally sober.

"Help!" The plea tore out of him then, ragged and furious. "HELP! She cut me! This wicked bitch cut my damn FACE!"

Bunny stood quietly like a marble statue with the blade still in her hand. Her chest moved in controlled, shallow breaths as her heartbeat threw itself against her ribs like a prisoner testing the walls, but her face… her face was completely still. Still like a woman who had survived more than enough dangerous rooms, and this was no different. She didn’t bother running or crying, instead she watched the blood run down his cheek and she waited.

Two seconds passed and the door swung open before the echo of his second shout had finished bouncing off the walls.

They filled the frame the way they always filled every frame they walked through, shoulder to shoulder, the both of them constructed from the same Mississippi clay and hardened by the same Jim Crow fire. Stack came through first, his jacket slightly disheveled as if he was in the middle of something… or someone, signature gold tooth catching the lamplight as his coffee brown eyes swept the room in three seconds flat. Smoke followed a half step behind, and his gaze went to the blood first, then to Bunny, then to the blade still loose in her fingers, and in that order he read the whole story without a single word being spoken.

The two of them looked at each other and it lasted less than a millisecond. They shared a sacred twin language, and there was no need to speak out loud when they could discuss everything necessary through a simple glance. There was no need for none of the vowels and consonants that other men required. Stack's chin lifted two degrees. Smoke's jaw shifted once to the right. That was all.

Smoke marched over to the bleeding man and grabbed him by the back of the collar with one hand. The client sputtered, grabbing at Smoke's wrist, voice rising again into something wheedling and enraged all at once, but Smoke wasn't listening. He was already moving, already dragging the man toward the door with that flat, unblinking quiet that was a hundred times more frightening than any raised voice.

Stack waited until the door swung shut behind his brother and then he turned to Bunny. He looked at her the way he looked at a ledger he needed to balance, thorough, patient, and giving nothing away in his expression. His hands found his jacket pockets and he stood with the loose posture of a man who had all the time left in the world. "Tell me what happened," he said.

Bunny's fingers curled tighter around the blade before she caught herself and lowered it. "He was drunk when I walked in," she explained, and her voice came out steadier than she had expected, considering. "Not just a couple of drinks. He was drownin’ in it. I called it out because I wasn't about to start a session with a man who could barely hold his head upright and when I did…" She nodded toward the door. "He called me out my name, said he was gonna kill me, and he swung. I moved… And I cut him."

Stack said nothing for a moment as his tongue rolled against the inside of his cheek. He looked at the blood on the floor where the man had been standing, then at the broken water glass, then at Bunny's face. "You ain't in trouble," he said finally, his Mississippi drawl coating every syllable like a second skin. "But I need you to hear me on this." He pulled one hand from his pocket and pointed a single finger at her. "Next time a client get rowdy, stupid, or liquored past the point of sense, you don't reach for that blade. You call for one of us. That's what we here for. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

He held her gaze a moment longer, making sure the instruction had gone somewhere it would stay, and then he nodded once. "Go on, wash up an get you some rest." He turned for the door, then paused with his hand on the frame, not looking back. "You did real good, not fallin' apart. Just... next time… let us handle the mess."

The door closed again, and Bunny stood alone in the room with the broken glass and the ruined sheets and the small blade still warm from her grip, and she exhaled for what felt like the first time in several minutes.

Out behind the brothel, the alley smelled of ash cans and summer.

Smoke walked the man through the rear exit with the same grip he used to drag him out of the room. He deposited him against the back wall, the man's knees finally gave out forcing him to slide down the brick and land in a graceless heap on the ground, one hand still pressed to his sliced cheek, blood threading between his fingers and dripping off his chin.

Smoke stood over him. His hands went to his jacket, straightening it once, and then settled at his sides. He looked down at the man like he was a disgruntled God figuring out what type of punishment to inflict.

The man looked up at him and found whatever he needed in Smoke's expression to start talking. "She attacked me," his drunkenness slipping out of his voice now that fear had come in to replace it. "That bitch came in there and she just… she had a knife. She cut my face. You need to do somethin’ about that. I paid good money for a civil hour and instead I get—"

"You said… you was gon' kill her."

The man blinked. "I was angry, I didn't—"

"Called her out her name twice in my presence."

The man's mouth opened and closed.

Smoke crouched down until his eyes were level with the man's, and in that position he looked less like a man and more like a demon ready to indulge in his bloodlust. His voice hadn't changed. It never changed. It held that same smooth, unshifted cadence through every conversation regardless of what the conversation was about. "Ion’ know exactly what went on in that room yet," he said. "But I want you to understand somethin'. That part don't fuckin’ matter to me. What matter to me is that you walked into my house, disrespected somethin' that belong to me, an then you done put ya' voice on her in a way that reminded her she needed a blade." He paused, letting that sit. "I don't take kindly to that."

His hand moved to his jacket, fingers parting the lapel, and the grip of his pistol caught the thin light of the alley moon.

The man's eyes went very wide. His injured hand came up, palm out, his whole body pressing back against the brick like he could dissolve into it. "Wait, wait, wait, I'll pay double, I'll pay whatever you—"

The hammer drew back with a soft, final click that cut the man's sentence clean off.

Smoke looked at him with those coal-flat eyes and the man fell silent as a stone thrown into deep water. No more words. Just the ragged labor of his own breathing and the thin, continuous sound of his blood hitting the ground.

Footsteps came down the alley behind Smoke and he didn’t bother turning around because he didn't need to. There was only one set of feet in the world that sounded like that.

Stack came up beside him, his hands loose at his sides, gold tooth catching the moon when he tilted his head down at the man on the ground. He took in the full picture. The gun. The blood. The look on Smoke's face. Then he took in a breath, slow and satisfied, and began to speak.

He told Smoke everything. The condition the man had come in. The things he had said when Bunny called it out. The swing that didn't land. The blade that did. When he finished, Stack was quiet for a moment, and then he reached into the interior pocket of his jacket and produced a knife with a blade four times the size of whatever Bunny had been carrying. He turned it once in his fingers, the steel catching and releasing the light in alternating flashes, and he smiled. It was the crooked smile, the one that reached his eyes and meant he was genuinely pleased about something.

"Lemme’ talk to him first," Stack said. "I ain't had a good conversation in a minute."

Smoke looked at his brother and then he looked at the man on the ground, who was now visibly shaking, tears cutting through the blood on his cheek without any prompting at all. Smoke stood from his crouch, straightened his jacket once more, and stepped to the side. He put his pistol back without a word, folded his hands behind his back, and watched.

Stack crouched in his place, knife resting easy between two fingers, his face open and joyful in the particular way that meant the worst thing imaginable was coming next. "How you doin', friend?" he asked, accent thick as summer mud, voice warm as a lit match. "Tell me somethin'. You ever have somebody look after you real good, put you somewhere soft an warm an safe, an you go an spit in they face for it? You ever do that?"

The man couldn’t answer.

Stack tilted his head and grinned like a Cheshire Cat. "Naw, naw, take ya' time. I got all night."

The alley didn’t hear from that man again after that. Not in any language that would've made sense to a person passing on the street.

A month passed by and it had the audacity to feel like three.

Bunny sat on the edge of her bed in the room the twins had given her and pulled a brush through her texturized hair for the fourth time that evening. She counted the strokes the way she had been taught to count them since childhood, one and two and three and four, because there was nothing else to count and the act of counting kept her hands busy and her hands being busy kept her from acknowledging a particular restlessness that had been living under her skin for the better part of two weeks.

The room she was stationed in was nice. That was the first thing she had thought when Stack walked her to it, one week after the incident, with his hand at the small of her back and a short instruction to make herself comfortable. She had expected a small, utilitarian thing, the kind of space a working doll got assigned on the upper floor with a shared bath down the hall and a window that faced the brick wall of the building next door. What she got was a room with curtains. Actual curtains, silk ones that pooled at the floor and caught the last of the day's light in a way that turned the whole space the color of a candle flame. A vanity with a proper oval mirror. A wardrobe that had been stocked before she arrived with dresses and wrappers and nightgowns of a quality that made her catch her breath the first time she opened its doors, fabrics so fine they slipped through her fingers like water. On the small table beside her bed, a covered dish of food arrived three times a day whether she asked for it or not. Things she hadn't tasted since she was a little girl sitting in her grandmother's kitchen, sweet potato pie with a crust that shattered her taste buds like stained glass, braised oxtail over white rice, pound cake soaked in lemon syrup that left a sweetness on the roof of her mouth for hours.

She was being treated like a woman of some standing… And it was driving her absolutely out of her mind.

Bunny set the hairbrush down and looked at herself in the vanity mirror with an assessing expression she reserved for private moments like these. She was thirty-four years old. She had curves that grown men wrote embarrassing letters about and women studied with something too complicated to be called jealousy and too honest to be called admiration. She had hands that knew how to work, thighs that knew how to hold, a mouth that had never once left a client feeling cheated, and a reputation in three separate cities that had always, always been built by her own effort, her own body, her own particular genius for the kind of pleasure that made a man feel like he was the most important thing in the room. She hadn’t come to this brothel to be kept like a flower in a glass case. She had come because she heard that the Moore twins ran the most lucrative operation north of the Mason Dixon and she wanted in on it. She wanted to work.

The bath she had taken earlier still clung to her skin in the form of the vanilla oil she had worked into her arms and her neck, and the nightgown the wardrobe had produced tonight was deep gold that made her brown skin glow like something lit from within. She looked breathtakingly beautiful, yet she felt like a caged thing in beautiful wrappings.

After looking herself over one more time in the mirror, she stood and made a silent decision as she made her way to the kitchen.

The brothel at midnight had a particular quality to it, a quietness that fell somewhere between a sleeping house and a thinking one. The downstairs jazz had stopped three hours ago. The girls were either asleep or occupied, and the hallways that had been warm and perfumed with commerce earlier in the evening were now cool and dim, lit by the occasional wall sconce that’s wick had been turned down low. Bunny moved through the brothel on her bare feet, the gold nightgown sighing against her legs with every step, and she told herself she was just going for a peach before confronting the twins. There was always a bowl of peaches in the kitchen. She had discovered this on her second day and found it oddly comforting that someone in this house thought fresh fruit was important enough to replenish daily.

She pushed open the kitchen door and the room was drenched in darkness. That was the first thing. The second thing was that it wasn’t empty.

As Bunny's eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, eventually she was able to see there was a woman sitting at the long kitchen table in the dark eating cornbread.

Bunny stood in the doorway with her hand still on the door and looked at the mystery woman as she took her in piece by piece. Height first, even sitting, the woman had somewhat of a long-limbed frame that telegraphed itself. Bunny guessed that she was maybe five foot eight or nine if she stood. Her skin was deep, even brown like good molasses in a jar, paired with hair that fell straight and unadorned down past her shoulders, jet black, the color of ink before it dries. And to finish it off, she had a face that did a thing Bunny had only seen faces do in paintings, not the kind hung in houses like this one, but the kind in old churches where the artists tried to put something holy and something frightening in the same expression at the same time. The mystery woman looked young feature wise as if she hadn’t yet turned twenty-two, but her eyes… her eyes were something else entirely.

Bunny wasn’t a woman who was scared easily. She had lived too much, seen too much, and cut too many men across the face to give fear the kind of real estate it wanted in her mind. But those violet eyes made something ancient crawl up the back of her neck, not unpleasant, just… aware. Like stepping into a room and understanding that whatever was in it had been there since before the house was built.

The woman looked up from her cornbread and regarded Bunny with an expression of complete composure, as though being found eating cold food alone in a dark kitchen of a brothel in the middle of the night was exactly where she was expected to be.

"You Rosalie," the woman said. It wasn't a question.

Bunny blinked. "How'd you—"

"You look like a Rosalie." She broke off another piece of cornbread, unhurried about it. "I'm Josephine. Everybody an they mama call me Josie."

Bunny stepped into the kitchen and let the door drift shut behind her. "I go by Bunny," she said, and then, because she couldn't help herself, "why are you sittin' in the dark?"

Josie ignored the question with such thoroughness that it was almost artful. She tilted her head at Bunny and asked, "They call you Bunny 'cause you can bounce on a dick 'til a man start beggin' for his mama?"

The initial response that leaped to Bunny's lips was something ladylike and deflective. What came out instead was a flustered, sputtering exhale, as her cheeks went warm and her hand raised halfway to her mouth before she caught it. She cleared her throat. "That's… yes," she admitted. "That's… um… exactly why."

The corner of Josie's mouth moved in something that could've been a smile if it committed to itself. She pushed the plate of cornbread forward by an inch, the gesture of a woman sharing without making much of it. "Have some."

Bunny looked at the cornbread. It was ice cold and hard as a rock. She could see the waxy surface on it that cornbread got when it had been sitting awhile. She was fond of cornbread. She was not fond of that. She moved instead to the bowl on the counter and lifted a peach, testing its weight in her palm before biting into it, and she hummed as the juice ran down her chin warm and sweet.

She stood there eating the peach and watching Josie, and Josie let herself be watched for a time, eating her cold cornbread with equanimity, apparently perfectly at peace with the scrutiny. But Bunny was staring and she knew it and the reason she was staring was the thing she couldn't pin down, the thing that sat off-center about this woman the way a picture sits off-center on a wall. She wasn’t dressed like any of the other dolls Bunny had met in the past month. No lace, no slip, nothing that mirrored the nature of this house and its business. She wore a plain white blouse tucked into a flowy dark skirt with her feet bare on the kitchen floor. She looked like a woman who had stepped in from another dimension entirely and simply hadn't gotten around to leaving.

Bunny had met all the other dolls in the house during her first week. She was certain of that. This woman had not been among them.

Josie took another bite of her cornbread and looked at Bunny the way Bunny had been looking at her, with that clear, still assessment that took nothing personally and missed nothing either. "How you likin' it here?" she asked. "Smoke and Stack pretty decent owners, far as that kind of thing go."

The word owners sat in Bunny's mouth for a moment before she swallowed it. "I wouldn't know yet," she reluctantly admitted. "I had one client, one incident, and since then they've had me locked up in a room like I'm made of porcelain and they're afraid I'll chip." She took another bite of peach. "I haven't worked a single real night. I came here to make money. Instead I've been eatin' pie and watchin' the curtains move."

Josie's eyes sharpened the way a fire sharpens when you give it more air. "Which one claimed you?" she quipped.

Bunny frowned her brows in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"Which twin? Smoke or Stack? Elijah or Elias? Which one claimed you as his doll?"

The frown deepened. "Neither of them," Bunny said slowly, like she was working out whether that was the right answer even as she gave it. "When I arrived they walked me through the rules, explained how the percentages worked, showed me the floor. Neither of them said anything about… claiming."

Now it was Josie’s turn to be confused as she stopped eating and placed her cornbread very gently on the plate in front of her. She looked at Bunny with the full force of those ancient alien lavender eyes and she was quiet for a stretched-out moment that had weight to it. Then she leaned forward and without a word of warning she took Bunny's face between both her hands and squeezed her cheeks together, compressing Bunny's lips into a surprised, rounded 'O'.

"You are thee cutest thing," Josie cooed, with the slightly awed sincerity of someone who had just found a very small, very charming animal in an unexpected location.

Bunny's eyes went wide above her squished cheeks. She made a sound that was supposed to be a protest and emerged as something closer to a muffled quack.

Josie released her with an unrushed giggle and settled back in her chair as though that had been a perfectly reasonable thing to do. "Alright," she said. "Let me explain how this house works."

Bunny smoothed her cheeks with her palms and fixed Josie with a look that she reserved for people who had just done something she didn't have the vocabulary to address properly. Then she sighed, finished the peach, and sat down.

Josie explained the rules of the house with a questionable amount of knowledge that Bunny would inquire about later. When a doll went through something the way Bunny had gone through something, they were taken off the floor. Not longer than a week, typically. No clients, no housework, just time to let the body and the mind settle back into themselves without being asked to perform. After that period, whichever twin had claimed that particular doll would take her through a retraining week. A proper retraining. Not punishment, not because she had done something wrong, but because the mind needed to be walked back through safety the same way the body needed to be walked back through strength after a sickness. The twins were a great many things, Josie explained, and some of those things weren’t things that would be listed in a church bulletin, but they weren’t complete monsters and wouldn't send a shaken woman back to work before she was ready. That wasn’t morality for morality's sake. It was also just bad business, and they were nothing if not precise businessmen.

Bunny absorbed this. Processed it. Turned it over. And then arrived at the part that had been sitting sideways in her chest since the question first got asked.

"It's been a month," she said.

Josie looked at her dumbfounded like she didn’t hear her correctly.

"It's been a month," Bunny said again. "The incident was a month ago. Nobody took me through any retraining. Nobody said anythin’ about when I'd go back to work. And you're telling me that the reason for that is…"

She could see it in Josie's expression before she said it, like she was about to deliver news that amused her to the highest degree.

"Either you one of the special ones," Josie said, the childish grin breaking through now, unconstrained, like a schoolgirl who had been holding it in for the last five minutes, "or you somehow so boring that both of them forgot you exist entirely."

Bunny straightened up in her chair. "I am not boring," she said.

"I didn't say you were."

"You implied it."

"I offered it as a possibility."

"It is not a fuckin’ possibility." Bunny's chin came up and her voice took on the tone of a woman defending something she had built with a considerable effort over many years. Before she had walked through the Moore brothers' doors she had left three separate establishments because she had outgrown them. She had a clientele that wrote letters to find out where she had gone. She had a reputation that didn’t include the word boring in any language. "I done made grown ass men cry," she said. "Not from pain… From gratitude."

Josie held up one hand in a gesture of peace, her playful grin not moving an inch. "Alright, alright. I believe you. I apologize." She folded her hands on the table. "The other explanation, then, is that they both want to claim you and neither one of them know how to go about it without steppin’ on the other's toes."

Bunny's chair scraped back half an inch. "Both of them?"

"It's rare," Josie whispered, as if she was saying too much too soon. "In the whole time this house been runnin’ there've only been two dolls that both of them claimed at once. Just two. The second one is named Buttercup. She handles their books and investments. She’s been both of theirs for many moons." A pause, thoughtful and private. "The first one…" She picked up her cornbread again and looked at it, not at Bunny. "Well..."

The silence that lingered behind that one word forced Bunny to really look at Josie's profile. She took in the serenity of it, the complete and settled comfort with which this woman occupied any space she entered, including dark kitchens in the middle of the night. The way she didn't need to finish the sentence because the sentence was already obvious to anyone paying attention.

"Hypothetically," Bunny said carefully.

Josie's mouth curved with mischief. "Hypothetically..."

"If a woman found herself in that position. Both of them. At once. How would she… manage that?"

Josie was quiet for a moment, chewing her cornbread, looking somewhere past Bunny's shoulder as though consulting a memory that lived in the middle distance. "Hypothetically," she repeated, "such a woman would need to learn how not to get frostbitten by an avalanche of coldness." A pause. "While also not burnin’ up in a lake of uncontrolled fire." Another pause, this one carrying a slightly different weight, the weight of something remembered in the body as much as the mind. "And on top of all that, she would need to learn how to take two men at the same time without tearin’ in half."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"That's… useful information," Bunny said finally.

"I thought you'd think so."

They sat for another minute, the two of them, in the warm dark kitchen with the peach bowl on the counter and the plate of cold cornbread between them, and something passed between them that couldn’t be labeled as friendship yet but was the thing that comes just before it, a recognition, a sense of shared understanding arrived at by different roads.

A few more comforting minutes passed and then Bunny stood. She pulled the gold nightgown straight across her hips and ran one hand through the freshly brushed waterfall of her hair and looked at Josie with the expression of a woman who had made up her mind about something and had no further interest in deliberating. "Hypothetically, if I wanted to speak with them tonight... you know where they are?"

"Their office," Josie said. "End of the hall. Door on the left." She reached for the last piece of frosty cornbread. "Knock four times when you get there. Even count, same rhythm. That's how they know it's a doll behind the door and not somebody they need to put a bullet in."

Bunny's eyes widened slightly. "Good to know."

"One more thing," Josie said, without looking up, the words landing easy as a stone dropped into still water, "whoever open that door? Look him dead in the eye when you tell him what you want. Don't let him take the silence from you first. They'll stand in a quiet room and wait you out 'til you forget what you came for. Don't let him." She broke off a bite of cornbread. "Now go."

The hallway to their office was dim and long as the floorboards under her bare feet held the warmth of the day's heat, soaked up and slowly releasing into the night. She walked it with her chin level and her footsteps quiet, the vanilla oil on her skin mixing with the faint residual perfume that lived in all the walls of this house. At the far end of the hall, beneath the last sconce, a door sat closed and faintly rimmed with the amber line of lamplight from beneath it.

She stopped in front of it. Pressed her palm flat against the wood for one second. Then she knocked. Four times. Even. The same rhythm. Just as Josie had instructed.

On the other side of the door, the office breathed with the quietness of two men working in a comfortable parallel. The desk was spread with ledgers and cash in organized columns, the ashtray on its corner nursed a half-finished cigarette that had gone cold, and the lamp threw a yellow circle of warmth across the arithmetic of their operations. Stack stood at the desk's far edge, jacket off, suspenders down, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, one hand moving down a column of figures with the end of a pencil. Smoke sat on the lounge couch along the near wall, his own jacket folded beside him, a glass of brown liquor balanced on the arm of the cushion, his eyes moving across a folded sheet of paper he had been reading for the third time.

Four knocks came through the door.

Even. Measured.

Both men went still.

Stack's pencil stopped and his eyes lifted from the ledger to find his brother's face across the room. Smoke had already set the paper down. His hand had already moved to the glass, lifting it, not drinking from it, just holding it in the idle way of a man whose other hand needed to be free. His eyes were steady on the door.

The four-count knock meant a doll. Both of them knew that. The problem was that only two dolls in their entire operation knew that particular code, and neither of those two women were supposed to be within three city blocks of this brothel for another three days.

Smoke set the glass down very carefully on the side table before standing and crossing the room to the door. His shoulder holster rode against his undershirt as he pulled his pistol free in one clean motion before turning the knob and pulling the office door open.

Bunny stood in the hallway nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The lamplight from inside the office hit her caramel brown skin from the side and the effect of this wasn't something Smoke had originally budgeted for. She was soft, luminous, small, and entirely the kind of woman that a man had to consciously remind himself to look away from, all of that deep-curved, warm-skinned, doe-eyed beauty arranged in the specific way that made the gold fabric laced over her body look like it had been commissioned for her personally. She blinked up at him. Her eyes were the color of good rum and they caught the light and held it, and for one unguarded half second the hardness in his face did something complicated before it arranged itself back into its usual flat composure.

Smoke held the pistol at his side. His face settled back into the expression of a man who was conducting business regardless of the hour. His eyes moved over her once, the way he surveyed any situation that required assessment before a response. "Why," he said, voice smooth and level as a road built to last, his Mississippi roots dragging slow and warm beneath every word, "is you at my door knockin' four times?"

Bunny didn’t flinch as she looked him in the eye exactly as Josie had instructed and she held the look steady. "Because," she said, "I am tired of being treated like I'm made of glass." She let a breath pass as she remembered who she was speaking to. "... Sir."

Smoke looked at her for a long minute. He ran his mind back, sorting through the preceding month like how a man sorts through a drawer looking for something he put down without thinking. The girl on the floor. The drunk client. The blade. Stack handling her, him handling the client. The decision to move her to the room across from theirs. Then the weeks had continued to happen, the operation had continued to require their attention, and somewhere in the middle of all of that, the particular task of walking her back through had gotten caught in the gap between what he assumed Stack had handled and what Stack apparently assumed he had handled.

He let the exhale come through his nose, small and contained. Then he stepped back from the door and nodded once towards the interior of the room. "Come in."

Bunny wasn’t a woman that needed to be instructed twice as she came in.

Smoke shut the door behind her and walked back to the couch, settling into it with the glass of liquor retrieved from the side table. His eyes stayed on her as she took in the office, the desk and its columns, Stack still standing at the far edge of it now with his arms folded. Smoke's gaze moved from her face to his brother's and he said, with the absolute calm of a man stating a mathematical fact, "You done forgot to recommission ya' doll."

Stack's expression moved toward as expression of confusion that was also slightly offended at the framing. "Fuck you mean my doll?" he quipped. "Thought she was yours."

"I moved her to the room 'cross the hall," Smoke said. "I was leavin' the rest to you."

"Nobody told me that."

"I ain't gotta tell you everythin’, Elias. Use ya' brain."

Stack unfolded his arms and planted both hands flat on the desk. "My brain was operatin' under the assumption that the woman sittin' over in that room with the good curtains was your doll that you was handlin' in ya' own time, Elijah. Had I known she was mine to recommission I would've had her back on the floor four weeks ago."

"She been over there four an a half weeks."

"Four an a half weeks then. My point stands, muthafucka."

"Ya' point is that you wasn't payin' attention—"

"My point is that you could've opened ya' mouth like a grown ass man an said the words 'Elias, go handle Bunny' an I would've gone an handled Bunny, but instead you sittin’ over there on that couch drinkin' ya' liquor an assumin' I was gon' read ya' mind—"

"I don't need you readin' my mind, I need you payin' attention to what's happenin' in this house—"

"Stupid bitch, I pay more attention to what happens in this house than you do, I just ain't also expected to be a fuckin' mind reader on top of everythin’ else—"

"Language, Elias.” Smoke said.

"Now I need to read ya' mind an watch my mouth?"

"We got a doll present. Tighten up." Smoke's eyes cut to Bunny for one brief moment that carried the tiniest edge of an apology.

Bunny had been watching this exchange with the expression of a woman who was simultaneously relieved that Josie was right and also annoyed that Josie was right. She looked at the ceiling for one moment, gathering something, and then she looked at Stack directly.

"I didn't come here to listen to y'all argue about whose doll I am," she cut in. The words came out clean and direct, and beneath them ran a current of something real, something stored up across four weeks in a pretty room with silk curtains and three meals a day that she hadn’t earned. "I came here because I am a woman who been working since I was old enough to understand that money you make yourself is the only kind that belongs to you in full." She let that settle for a moment. 

Before she had walked through their door she had left three establishments because she outgrew them. Before that, back when she was Rosalie and not Bunny, she hadn't been permitted to own so much as the dress on her back. That life was behind her and it would stay behind her as long as she had a body to work with and the sense God gave her to use it. "I appreciate the food," she said. "I appreciate the nightgowns and the curtains and the sweetness. I do. But I am not a woman who takes without giving back, and I am not going to sit in that room one more week eating indulging in things I ain't earn. I want to work."

The office held the sound of that for a brief second.

Stack analyzed her from top to bottom. The annoyance from the argument with his twin had drained off his face entirely, replaced by something more attentive and interesting. He possessed the look of a man who had been watching something he wanted for some time and had just been reminded of it. His gaze moved down the gold nightgown with the focused assessment of a man reviewing an investment he had forgotten to manage and was now reconsidering with renewed and comprehensive interest.

He came around the desk, crossed the office floor, and closed the distance between them until his chest was close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him. His hands came up. His fingers settled first at the hollow of her throat, light and acquainting themselves with the shape of her, feeling the small flutter there she couldn't suppress, feeling the way she swallowed. Then they traveled with thorough patience across her collarbones, over the generous swell of her chest through the nightgown's thin fabric. She was built lavishly, heavy and warm everywhere in a way that made his hands slow down and pay attention, and he let them linger there, cataloguing her, until her breathing changed and she tried to hide the change but couldn't.

His hands continued their inventory, moving down the soft plush landscape of her stomach, the deep inward curve of her waist, spreading wide across the full round geography of her hips. He took his time with her hips. He spent what felt like an extended amount of time mapping them, as though committing their particular architecture to some private record he intended to revisit at a later date. Then one hand swept low and around, and he brought his palm down hard and flat across the full magnificent curve of her backside with a crack that split the quiet of the office like a starting pistol.

The sound rang off the walls, the bookcase, the glass in the lamp, everything. Bunny's gasp tore out of her before she had the opportunity to make any decisions about it, sharp and bright, her body moving without consulting her brain, tilting forward into the impact and then backward away from it, settling finally against Stack's chest in a way that was involuntary enough to be entirely honest.

Stack felt her melt against him and his exhale came out long and satisfied. His arm wrapped around her from behind, pulling her flush against the front of him, and he bent his mouth to the curve of her ear. "I'm gon’ be the one runnin' ya' retrainin' tonight." He pressed his mouth closer to her ear, words dropping to a rough near-whisper. "An dependin' on how that go… I might need to keep you locked away from everybody else for another month… Really take my time so ya' body don't ever forget who it belong to."

The sound Bunny made was small, strangled, and entirely against her will.

He reached for the thin strap at her shoulder and slid it down. The other strap followed. He peeled the gold nightgown from her slowly, letting it whisper down her curves until it pooled at her feet in a gilded ring, and what was left standing in the middle of their office was every generous, luminous, full inch of Bunny without a single layer between her skin and the lamplight. The lamp threw amber across the swell of her hips, the deep curve of her waist, the heavy softness of her breasts, the deep brown warmth of her, and the office became immediately a different kind of room.

Stack stepped back and bit down on his bottom lip as he took in her goddess figure. Then, with the easy authority of a man in his own house, he waltzed over to the couch where Smoke sat and dropped down beside his brother. He plucked the liquor glass from Smoke's hand, drained what remained, and reached for the refill trolley at the couch's edge. Smoke didn’t argue with his twin. He simply shifted his weight to accommodate Stack’s presence and locked his eyes on Bunny.

Two men on the same couch. Side by side. Undershirts and slacks, loafers, the warm lamplight running along the defined lines of their arms where the fabric ended, the undeniable press of their interest visible in the material of their trousers. Stack poured a fresh glass and settled into the cushion. Smoke took Bunny in from head to foot with that flat, complete attention that gave nothing away and missed nothing. The air in the room had changed and pressed heavily on all their shoulders.

Stack leaned forward, elbows to his knees, glass hanging loose in his fingers. "Show me," he said, "why you worth the trouble of retrainin' when you already cost me a dead white man, two dry cleaning bills, a shovel we had to replace after breakin' it diggin' that peckerwoods grave, plus four an a half weeks of room an board an meals that even my top earners don't see on a regular Tuesday." He settled back into the cushion. "All that, an you ain't brought us a single dollar. So show me what you got, Bunny."

Bunny stood naked in the center of their office and looked at both of them. She took one breath. Then she walked to Smoke.

She came to stand directly before him and held his gaze and placed one knee on the cushion beside his thigh and then the other, straddling his lap with the practiced ease of a woman who had made herself at home in more difficult situations than this. She could feel him beneath her already, the dense, insistent hardness of him through his slacks, and the discovery sent something bold climbing up her spine and into her shoulders. She rolled her hips, one slow and complete rotation, felt him twitch beneath her, and did it again. She leaned forward and put her mouth to the side of his neck, the warm brown skin above his collar, and kissed him there. Felt his jaw tighten. Kissed across his collarbone, the gap where his undershirt opened at the throat. She found his earlobe with her teeth, caught it just barely, and felt the exhale that came out of him, contained and controlled, the only version of a sound he was willing to give her yet.

She pulled back and looked at Stack over her shoulder. "I can't promise I won't cause more trouble with your clients," she said, her hips still moving against Smoke's in that slow, measured grind. "That ain’t a promise I can keep. But I am an investment." She felt Smoke's hand settle on her hip, heavy and certain, the grip of a man who was claiming something without announcing he's done it. "And you'd be foolish men to let me go."

Then she climbed off Smoke's lap and moved to Stack.

She settled herself across his thighs before he had quite finished processing the intention, and his hands came up instinctively, finding her hips, and she moved against him the way she had moved against his brother, with that same frank, unhurried competence, rolling her hips in grinding rolls that had him fully hard inside his slacks under a minute. She kissed along his jaw, the corner of his mouth, found his throat and bit softly at it and felt him grip her harder. She turned her mouth to his ear. "Well?" she said quietly.

Stack's answer was both hands sliding down to fill themselves with the full, heavy weight of her backside, squeezing with the proprietary thoroughness of a man claiming something he had decided belongs to him and only him.

From the other side of couch, Smoke reached forward and caught the back of her hair in his fist. Not rough, not gentle, just completely unambiguous, pulling her head back until she was looking up at him from Stack's lap with her neck at a stretched and exposed angle. Smoke looked down at her, his eyes never leaving her face. "Who," he said, each word its own complete and unhurried thing, "taught you that knock?"

"Josie," Bunny replied quickly.

The quality of the silence that followed was specific. She felt Stack go still beneath her. She saw something shift in Smoke's expression, not much, just a recalibration of a single degree. "Josie," he repeated. Flat.

"She was in the kitchen," Bunny continued. "Just now. I spoke with her before I came down here."

Smoke's eyes moved to Stack's face. Stack's eyes moved back. That language again, the one that needed no words. Whatever moved between them in that half second was mutual and resolved by the time it was done.

Smoke released her hair. He stood, adjusted the set of his shoulder holster with one practiced motion, and looked at Bunny. "Come," he said.

Stack stood from the couch with Bunny still in his arms, lifting her from his lap without any apparent effort, her weight absorbed into his frame as a matter of course. He carried her out of the office. Smoke walked ahead through the dim corridor, his footsteps quiet on the floorboards, and they moved as a unit through the darkness of the second floor until they reached the kitchen.

Smoke pushed the door open.

Bunny looked into the kitchen from over Stack's shoulder.

The room was empty.

The room wasn't just vacant as if someone had just stepped out, the room was suddenly empty in a way that was wrong. Profoundly, specifically wrong. The chair at the table sat at the exact angle it had been in when she first sat down across from Josie, as though no one had adjusted it at all, as though no one had ever pulled it out to sit in it. The plate of cornbread was gone without a trace, not in the washtub, not on the counter, not anywhere. Simply absent from the room as if it was never there. The peach bowl sat exactly where it always sat. The lamplight came through the window at its usual angle and landed on a kitchen that offered no evidence whatsoever that a woman with ancient eyes had been sitting in it not even twenty minutes ago.

Bunny stared. The hair on her arms rose.

"She was right there," she said, and her voice had climbed half a register before she noticed. "She was sittin' right there at that table. She had cornbread on a plate, cold cornbread, she had it on a plate right there in front that chair, she offered some to me and I took a peach instead. She squeezed my cheeks." Bunny's hand rose and touched her own face at the memory of it, the very real and physical memory of Josie's palms pressing her cheeks together. "She was a real person who was in this room. She had feet. I heard her feet on the floor when she shifted her chair. That ain't somethin' I imagined." She heard her own voice rising once more and made herself stop. Swallowed down her confusion and looked from the empty table, to the empty chair, to the empty counter where a plate had been sitting less than a few minutes ago. The wrongness of the empty kitchen pressed against her like a cold hand. 

"Where'd she go," she whispered, and this time her voice came out quieter, stripped of its former certainty, with something underneath it that was very close to fear. "The hallway is one hallway. I walked the whole length of it to get to your office. I would have seen her. I would have passed her. Where'd she—"

"I believe you."

Smoke's voice arrived quietly and cut through everything else like a lamp lit in a dark room. He stepped next to Stack and reached out, taking her chin between his fingers, tilting her face toward him with a gentleness that wasn’t his usual mode and was therefore more effective than almost anything else he could’ve done. His eyes moved across her face, reading whatever he found there with that same thorough attention, and then he said it again without elaboration or apology. "I believe you. You saw her. You spoke to her. It's 'ight." He held her gaze until the climbing quality went out of her breathing, until her eyes settled from startled back to present. His thumb moved once along her jaw, the lightest possible contact, and then he released her chin and looked at Stack over her head. 

The look between them lasted one second and carried something private in it, something that had history in it, some understanding of Josie that they shared between themselves and weren’t presently sharing with Bunny. "Need to put a leash on that woman," Smoke grumbled, with the flat certainty of someone adding an item to a list.

"You an me both, nigga," Stack said, quietly.

Smoke turned from the kitchen. He didn’t go back towards their office, instead he went the other direction, toward the room at the far end of the hall, and Stack followed with Bunny still in his arms, carrying her away from the empty kitchen and the empty chair and the cold and inexplicable absence of a woman who had been sitting in it minutes ago eating cold cornbread like she owned the place.

The room at the end of the hall was broad and purposeful. A wide bed sat at its center on a dark mahogany frame, the headboard tall and unadorned. White linens, clean. A single lamp burning low in the corner, its flame turned down until the light came out warm and intimate. This was a simple room designed for one thing and one thing only, retraining a doll that didn’t need to be disciplined. 

Stack deposited Bunny in the center of the bed with more chivalry than intended. He straightened up and looked at her sprawled across the white linens, her moisturized brown skin drinking the lamplight the way it was built to, every curve of her catching and holding the warmth of it. He let out a small satisfied grunt before rolling his shoulders once and then bending down to kiss the inside of her knee.

The sound Bunny made started in her throat and got halfway out before she caught it, her thigh twitching under his mouth. Stack felt the twitch and registered it with the calmness of a man who had spent a considerable amount of time studying the language of women's bodies, then he returned and pressed his lips to her inner knee again. 

One kiss… two kiss… three kiss… four… Stack continued his playful worship before moving lower, or rather higher towards Bunny’s inner thigh. He was greeted with the soft warm skin there as his mouth opened against it, tongue dragging along the crease where her thigh met nothing and then meeting the next crease. He was learning the deep inner geography of her, building the path inward with a patience that was intentionally designed to make her lose her mind before he arrived at his final destination.

Her scent hit him before his mouth did and he let out a low sound against her skin that was pure appreciation. "Four an a half weeks," he said, lips moving against her inner thigh, his breath warming the space he hadn't touched yet. "You been sittin' in that pretty room unfucked all this time, huh, lil’ bunny rabbit?"

Bunny responded vocally with something that was technically a word, or at least she thought she did.

Stack chuckled to himself and then his mouth immediately found her aching bundle of nerves. He worked her the way a classically trained musician works an instrument he knows intimately. He didn’t rush his performance but instead attended to the specific truth of her responses with the kind of focused and intelligent attention that made up the difference between a man who was present and a man who was going through the motions. He learned her in the first thirty seconds, learned the particular way her hips moved when he pressed the flat of his tongue against her center, the way her thighs tried to close around his head and then caught themselves and spread wider, the way the sound she made climbed an entire octave when he tended to her clit and circled it with skilled precision.

He effortlessly brought her to the edge in under four minutes.

He knew when she was there. He had been watching for it, feeling for it in the tightening of her thighs and the change in her breathing, the way her hands had found the back of his head and were pressing down with that desperate and gnawing pressure that meant she was right there, right on the rim of it, one more motion and she would go over. He could feel her gathering herself, the coil of it pulling tight in her body and her hips tilting up to meet him.

But, because Stack was Stack, he couldn’t help himself as he pulled back and denied Bunny instant relief. She wasn’t a doll that needed to be punished, but she was still a doll under control of her master. He didn’t pull away far, just enough for his mouth to leave her core and rest against the inside of her thigh instead. He looked utterly composed as he breathed against her soaked, twitching heat while she fell apart beneath him in a different way than she had intended.

"Stack," she breathlessly whined, the word arriving with a thicker desperation than she had planned.

"Mm," he said, mouth still against her thigh.

"Please… Don't do that."

"Do what? " he asked pleasantly.

She made a frustrated sound and whined again before Stack returned to his honeysuckle feast.

He took his time getting there, moving up through the wet of her with his tongue like he was reading something he found interesting, and then he was back at her clit and the sounds coming out of her rebuilt themselves immediately, climbing again, her hips rolling, her fingers curling into the sheets. He gave her forty-five seconds this time before the edge showed up again in the ragged pacing of her breathing, and he pulled back once more. Pressed his mouth to her inner thigh. Breathed. And let her curse at him out.

"You raggedy ass nigga," she managed.

His laugh came out against her skin, warm and genuinely amused. "I done been called worse, babydoll."

At the head of the bed the mattress dipped. Bunny's eyes reopened, head turning, and Smoke leaned above her, and the sight of him was enough to make every other thought in her head exit quickly. He had shedded everything. His undershirt, slacks, holster, all of it was gone, and what was left was all of him, broad and carved and rich dark brown skin. His body looked like the map of a man who had moved through the world with physical force for a long time and had the evidence of that written in muscle and old scars. He was hard, entirely and obviously, and looking at her with those flat obsidian eyes that gave nothing away.

Smoke said nothing as he reached for the small table at the bed's edge and a cigarette appeared between his fingers, a match scratched against the bedframe with a brief bright leap of flame before it found its target. He took the first pull, held it, let the clouds of tobacco climb toward the ceiling in a long and perfectly controlled column. And then he looked down at her, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, his eyes traveling across her face with the calm, weighing assessment of a man reviewing something he may or may not be satisfied with.

"Who," he said, voice low and quiet and warm as the smoking end of something burning, "you think you talkin’ to like that in my house?"

Between her thighs, Stack's mouth had found the soft heat of her again, and the sound that tried to escape Bunny's throat was intercepted by her own determination not to give Smoke the satisfaction of an incoherent answer before she had the chance to give him a real one. "I-I didn’t mean none by it… I-I wasn’t givin’ orders," she managed.

"Mm." Smoke's eyes dropped from her face to the space just below them, where his erection jumped and throbbed directly above her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, and then his eyes came back up to hers. "You came to my office," he continued as he lazily gripped his manhood before taking another puff. "Told me what you was tired of. Told me what you wanted. Got yaself’ naked in front my brother an I, then sat in both our laps like you had the right." He exhaled smoke from the side of his mouth, away from her face. "That sound like a doll who know her place to you?"

Before she could respond, Stack's tongue distracted her by circling her clit with renewed and specific intention, as one finger pressed into her slowly, testing the heat of her… the tight grip of her. She was utterly soaked and already shaking in a finely controlled way, like how a bow shakes just before the arrow is released.

Smoke watched her face with the careful attention of a man reading a weather report. "A doll," he said, voice quieter, the edge in it sharpening enough to send shivers down her spine, "asks. She don't tell. She don't march down a hallway an knock on my door like she owed somethin'. She asks her owner. She say please. She waits." His thumb brushed her jaw, the touch light and intentional, as his eyes dropped to her mouth and then came back up. "You still ain’t proved you worth the trouble."

It didn't take much for Bunny to read between the lines as her right hand moved from the sheet and gripped Smoke’s precum dripping length. She felt the substantial weight of him against her palm and heard the slight controlled catch of his inhale as she felt him twitch against her hand. He filled her hand, dense and hot, and she stroked him from base to crown once with a grip that was firm.

She angled her head against the pillow, opened her mouth, and drew him in.

His size settled against her tongue, thick and dense, and she worked her lips around him with the exploring attention of a woman who had been told her whole career that her mouth was something extraordinary and had spent years proving it right. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked on him with an unhurried suction, her tongue mapping the underside of him on each pull, tracing the swollen vein that ran along his length, lapping at the crown when she came up before gobbling him back down again. Her free hand wrapped around his base and worked in a measured counterpoint. The combination of hand and mouth coordinated with the easy confidence of someone who had been doing this long enough that it lived in her body the way playing an instrument lives in a musician's hands had Smoke internally losing his mind.

Smoke's own hand found her hair, fingers settling among her now sweated out tresses without pressing, without directing, just resting there with a weight that communicated his full attention. The quality of his breathing changed almost immediately, each exhale coming a degree longer than it should have, each inhale a degree more controlled than usual. He brought the cigarette to his lips with his free hand and took a pull, held it, let the tobacco clouds go from the side of his mouth. The image of him above her doing that while she worked him below was the most Elijah “Smoke” Moore thing she could imagine, controlling himself with a lit cigarette while she did her damnedest to remove that control from him entirely.

For a long minute, Bunny genuinely believed she was finally in control, but then, the devious twin still situated between her thick thighs added a second finger inside her and she gasped. It only lasted a split second as her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head while she momentarily let the pleasure consume her, but that was short lived with a slight tug to her hair.

"Look at me," Smoke demanded.

She didn’t need to be told twice as she retrained her eyes back onto the owner that was in front of her.

"Mmm… good… you capable of suckin’ dick an followin’ instructions," he said softly, in a voice that had dropped below the level where it was meant to sound gentle and instead sounded much more intimate and a whole lot more dangerous. "You got somethin' to say?"

Bunny, whose mouth was still full of raw meat, slightly shook her head ‘no’ and continued servicing Smoke’s dick. Her tongue continued working the underside of him in the way that she had been complimented on in cities that were miles away from this one. She went down until the back of her throat met him and held there, breathing through her nose, feeling his fingers tighten in her hair by one degree, and then she came back up and did it again.

Smoke's exhale was long and relaxed. "Mm," he said, and it was the most honest amount of praise he had given Bunny all night.

Stack had brought her to the edge twice more in the interim, each time withdrawing with the particular cruelty of a man who is enjoying the architecture of her desperation more than he would enjoy its resolution, and she was by now a tightly wounded and thoroughly soaked little doll. Her body was operating at a level of need that had begun to make her cry a little. Not from pain or unhappiness, just from the relentless accumulation of pleasure with nowhere to go.

"Stack… Sir…" she managed, pulling off Smoke for a breath.

"Still here," Stack said, against her thigh.

"Please." The word came out stripped of all pretense. Just the word. Just the need in it, raw and uncomplicated.

Stack looked up at her along the length of her body. His mouth was wet, his eyes were bright, and he looked like a man who had been given an exceptional gift that was in no hurry to unwrap it fully. "Please what?" he asked rhetorically already knowing the answer to the question.

"Please… l-let me finish."

"Let you finish?" His voice carried genuine amusement. "Babydoll, I barley scratched the surface."

Smoke looked at the tears streaming from Bunny’s eyes. Something moved across his face, an emotion too foreign for anyone to decipher. He pulled free of her mouth with a soft sound and moved, climbing off the mattress and coming around the foot of the bed, and the sight of him moving toward Stack's position made Stack lift his head.

Smoke looked at his brother. Then he looked at the place between Bunny's thighs, the glistening, swollen, and desperately twitching evidence of the last fifteen minutes, and he looked back at Stack with an expression that was entirely final.

"Move," he said.

Stack sat up and squinted his eyes in disbelief. "S’cuse you, nigga?"

"Move," Smoke said again.

Stack's eyes narrowed. "She's my doll, Elijah."

"Yeah… well… she’s also mine," Smoke said. "I just decided."

Stack stared at him. The look on his face was the look of a mannish boy who didn’t like having to share his toys. "You can't just decide that," he complained. "That ain't how this works. You can't crawl over here in the middle of my session an claim a whole woman like you can’t go pick another damn doll—"

"Elias."

"What?!”

"I been watchin' her for a month," Smoke said, with the patience of someone explaining something obvious. "She in the room ‘cross the hall from ours. I been the one who had her moved there. I been the one who made sure her meals was right. Made sure her room was right an made sure nobody bothered her." A pause. "She mine. She also yours. Move."

Stack's jaw tightened. He looked at Bunny. Bunny looked back at him from the mattress with wide eyes, her lips still swollen, her thighs still trembling, and her expression carrying the cocky confusion of a woman who had just been claimed by two men simultaneously while lying naked in their bed and was still in the early stages of processing this information. Stack pointed at Smoke. "You owe me," he said. "You owe me big time, nigga."

"Mhm. Add it to the list," Smoke said.

Stack moved, climbing up toward the headboard with a muttered stream of commentary, and Smoke took his place between Bunny's thighs before lowering his head. He wasted no time as his mouth found her center without preamble, his tongue worked her with the focused of a man who went through life either doing something well or not at all. The sound Bunny made was enormous and immediate, her hands flying out to grip the sheets.

Smoke was vastly different from Stack in how he devoured Bunny’s pussy. Stack built her pleasure up as if he was an architect with a boundless amount of patience. Whereas Smoke treated her pleasure like a man reading a language only he knew. Every response she gave him, he immediately incorporated it into what he did next, adjusting, refining, arriving at the exact pressure and rhythm that made her thighs lock around his head and her back clear off the mattress as every coherent thought she had exited the premises.

He didn’t bother edging her since he had already clearly read what the edging had done to her. He could read the accumulated tension in every line of her body. Instead, he drove her straight to the finish line without stopping. The orgasm that finally rippled through her felt spiritual as if her soul was raptured out of her body. Her voice tore out of her open and honest, her hips grinding against his mouth as he worked her through every wave of it, his hands locked on her hips to keep her from pitching away from him.

Stack sat at the headboard watching all of this with his arms folded like a sulking child. When Smoke finally lifted his head, Stack uncrossed his arms and pointed at his brother with one finger. "My turn," he said.

"She sensitive," Smoke said, sitting back on his heels.

"I know she sensitive. That's the point."

Smoke moved aside without any urgency, and Stack replaced him between Bunny's thighs with the eagerness of a man who had been waiting for his turn at something exceptional. He looked at the convulsing center of her for a beat with something purely acquisitive in his expression, and then he put his skilled mouth back on her.

Bunny's entire body jerked backwards. The sound she made this time was considerably more desperate than the last, her hips trying to back away from the overstimulation and Stack's hands locking around them before she got anywhere.

"Stay," he murmured against her, voice vibrating right against her hypersensitive clit.

"Stack I can't, it's too much—"

"You can," he growled, and meant it, and went back to work.

Smoke let his twin have his fun as he situated himself on Bunny’s left side, and his mouth found her breast. His lips closed around her nipple and sucked on the coco nub with an intensity that sent a euphoric sensation shooting directly down her spine. His other hand flattened on her ribs, feeling the heave of her breathing, the rapid and helpless rise and fall of her chest. He worked across to her other breast with the same thorough attention, his teeth grazing just lightly enough to make her gasp, and then moan, and then grip the back of his head.

Meanwhile, Stack feasted like a starving madman. His tongue worked her pulsing and overstimulated pussy with an almost vindictive thoroughness, licking into her and circling her clit with alternating attention, building the sensation higher than it had any right to go given that she had just come apart under his brother's mouth not two minutes ago. He watched her face when he could, watched the progression of it, the way her mouth fell open, how her brows drew together, and when the tears started again fresh from the corners of her eyes, overstimulation and pleasure braided together until she couldn't separate one from the other.

When she came the second time it was different in character, wilder, less controlled, her body arching and convulsing with a force that had nothing of restraint left in it, and the flood of her against Stack's mouth was audible in the quiet room. He drank her juices down with a delighted groan while his jaw still worked her through every aftershock, refusing to stop until her thighs had gone from locked to trembling to limp and her voice had dropped from cries to the soft and utterly wrecked sound of a woman who has nothing left to give.

Thirty seconds of blissful torture occurred until Stack finally sat back. He looked at the evidence of what he had done to her with profound satisfaction, wiping his jaw with the back of his hand. He looked at Smoke. "She ready," he said.

"She definitely ready," Smoke agreed.

Smoke laid down on his back on the mattress beside Bunny, his nine inches pointing toward the ceiling. He turned his head and looked at her where she lay against the linens, trembling and thoroughly undone. His voice, when it came, was dominate and certain. "Show me," he said, "how you got ya' name, bunny rabbit. Show me why you worth the trouble."

The second Bunny heard Smoke’s request, she sat up on trembling arms. She looked at him stretched out beside her, at the full dark length of him, at the patient flatness of his expression, at the way he was simply waiting with the absolute confidence of a man who knew what was coming and secretly couldn’t wait.

She was still a little loopy from her prior orgasms but gathered up enough strength and swung her leg over him. She positioned herself above him and reached down to guide him to her entrance before sinking onto him with a long, controlled descent that pulled a sound from the back of her throat and a sound from the back of his. Both of them couldn’t help themselves responding to the stretch, the heat, and the fullness of her pussy wrapping around his length as she settled herself completely onto him. She stayed there for a second, adjusting, letting her body accommodate the considerable size of him and feeling him everywhere at once before beginning to move.

It only took three bounces for Bunny to prove to Smoke why she had earned her name. She wasn’t just a lady of the night who knew how to ride a dick until sunrise. No. She had spent years refining a specific combination of bouncing, grinding, and rolling that made men weep, beg, and reach for her like she was the only water in a desert. She worked him with her hips, rising and falling in the deep rolling motion that used every muscle she had, the sound of their bodies meeting building in the lamp-warm room, her succulent breasts moving with every stroke, her hands braced on his chest for leverage, her thighs flexing and releasing with each downward drive.

Smoke looked up at her and something happened in his face, some arrangement of his features that wasn’t quite expressionless in the way he usually was, instead something behind his eyes showed a genuine side of him that wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. His hands came to rest on her thighs, not to direct or control the pace, just to hold her, to feel what she was doing from the closest possible position.

He let her have it. He laid there beneath her and he absorbed every stroke with the stillness of a man receiving something with his full attention. His only movements were the tightening of his hands on her thighs, the slight flare of his nostrils, and the slight clenching of his jaw that betrayed how thoroughly he was feeling everything she was giving him. "That's it," he groaned, voice rough and lower than usual. "Keep goin'. Show me everythin’."

And indeed she showed him everything. She rolled her hips in her signature deep figure-eight that made her thighs burn and made men forget what city they were in. She let out a needy whine when she felt him twitch hard inside her, felt his fingers dig into her thighs and felt the sound he made rumble up from somewhere below the place where he usually kept his inner desires.

"Goddamn," Stack praised from somewhere behind her.

Bunny had nearly forgotten, in the consuming present-tense occupation of riding Smoke, that Stack was still in the room with them. She remembered now. She remembered specifically when she felt his hand press warm and flat against the small of her back, pushing her forward just slightly, changing the angle, and she felt the presence of him settling in behind her, the specific warmth of a second body entering the space, and something in her belly turned over at the knowing of what was coming next.

"Don't stop movin'," Smoke growled below her, his voice steady and laced with something that wasn’t quite command and not quite warning, something between the two that communicated that her motion was the thing keeping him from losing his composure. "Keep ya pretty eyes right here."

It was difficult, but she kept her eyes on him. She kept moving, slower now, the rhythm becoming something more rocking and less bouncing as Stack's hand remained at the small of her back and his other hand reached for something on the side table. The sound of a bottle. The sensation of something cool worked at the back entrance she hadn't been using, Stack's fingers pressed and circled with a careful, methodical preparation of a man who knew exactly how to stretch a doll without tearing her. He worked her chocolate starfish open with practiced patience, each circle and press accompanied by Smoke's hands on her hips maintaining their slow rhythm and his voice occasional and low.

"Breathe," Smoke said, one hand traveling from her hip to her stomach, palm flat and warm against her skin. "Stay with me. Just breathe."

She breathed. She kept her eyes on his and kept rolling her hips over him and breathed through Stack's fingers working behind her, opening her gradually, each moment of it accompanied by Smoke's voice and Smoke's hands and Smoke's eyes holding her in place in every sense.

After a minute of probing and preparing, Stack withdrew his fingers. The blunt pressure that replaced them was broader, and it pressed forward with the slow and inexorable patience of a man who had done this enough times to know that patience here was not optional. Bunny's motion over Smoke stuttered as the pressure built and Stack worked his way inside her. He knew better than to rush or force his way inside, instead he continued steadily forward until the stretch had gone from too much, to full, to something that rewired every nerve ending she had at the same moment and left her gripping Smoke's chest with both hands and pressing her face into his shoulder.

"There it is," Stack said from behind her, voice strained as he relished in the tightness of her asshole. "You got all of it, babydoll. You got it."

This wasn’t the first time Bunny participated in anal sex, but it was the first time she had both of her holes filled to the brim. She took both of them, fully, completely, in the most total sense of that word, and the feeling of it wasn’t something she could’ve prepared herself for no matter how plainly Josie had described it. Her body had become an instrument of pure sensation, attended to from both directions at once, filled past the point where she could distinguish between the fullness and herself.

"Move with me," Smoke ordered, and began to rock his hips upward in a slow, careful rhythm.

Stack matched it from behind, withdrawing just barely and pressing back in on the same count, the two of them falling into sync with the ease of people who have shared a frequency their entire lives. Bunny gripped Smoke's chest and held on.

Smoke's hands ran up from her hips to her waist to the curve of her sides, mapping her as she moved, grounding her with the weight and warmth of his hands when the sensation from everywhere else threatened to become too much. "Look at me," he said.

She looked at him.

"You ours," he continued. Not a question, just a statement of something that had apparently been decided and was now being confirmed. "You understand that."

"Yes," she breathed.

"Say it."

"I-I-I'm yours," she whined, and her voice cracked on the last word because Stack had adjusted behind her and found the angle that turned her thoughts entirely to static.

"Fuck," Stack hissed through his teeth. "Keep squeezin’ me like you finna cum an I'm gon' embarrass myself."

Smoke's jaw ticked. He drove his hips up sharper than he had been, once, and her forehead dropped to his chest. "Hold it," he said, one hand traveling up her spine, settling between her shoulder blades. "Don't finish yet."

Like a good little doll, Bunny obeyed even if withholding her orgasm was one of the hardest things for her to do. She held it through the next several minutes of the two of them working her from both sides with building and competing intensity. Stack's hips found a rhythm behind her that grew less restrained with each stroke, his hands gripping her waist with the force of a man holding onto something he didn’t intend to lose. Meanwhile, Smoke drove up into her pussy with a calculated and precise force that hit the same place every time and built the pressure in her body to a pitch that had no precedent in her experience.

She held back her orgasm with her fingernails deep in Smoke's bare chest and tears running freely down her face from the sheer accumulated pressure of pleasure with nowhere to go. Her body shook uncontrollably between them in continuous tremors.

"Hold it," Smoke said again, quieter this time, his hand moving from between her shoulder blades to the back of her neck, his thumb pressing at the base of her skull with a firmness that was grounding. "Hold it for me. Just a little longer."

She felt like an overfilled waterballoon on the verge of popping but she held it a little longer.

"Now," he said.

The second Smoke gave the command, Bunny let go. This orgasm made her entire body convulse between them, and the viper grip of her fluttering holes around both of them became violent and involuntary, her voice tearing out in a sound that came from a place so primal and ancient it didn’t have a name. Stack grunted hard behind her, the sound losing its edges, his rhythm breaking apart, his hips pressing deep and going still as her body worked around him without any input from her at all. Smoke's hands locked on her hips and held her through every spasm, his breath coming in controlled pulls through his nose, his jaw set, his eyes on her face.

She was still a shaking mess when they moved her.

Stack withdrew and the absence of him was its own overwhelming sensation as they repositioned her between them with fluid and efficient coordination, guiding her body into the new arrangement before she could fully process that things were changing. Her hands and knees were positioned on the mattress with Smoke now behind her. Stack was in front of her, already at the edge of the bed, his hand finding her hair, his thumb tilting her chin upward.

"Open," Stack said, his voice dragged rough by the effort of the last several minutes.

She opened. He slid into her mouth and she wrapped her thick lips around him and worked him with the full attention of a woman who had made sucking dick into an art form, her tongue pressing along his length, her cheeks hollowing with each pull. Behind her Smoke gripped her hips with both hands and pressed into her pussy from behind with a force that had nothing of restraint left in it, each thrust was deep and drove her forward into Stack so that the two of them worked her from both ends in a rhythm that had its own crude, overwhelming music.

Smoke's hand came down on the curve of her backside, a sharp slap that made Stack look over her head at his brother with raised brows.

Smoke looked back at him with an expression that communicated absolutely nothing except his full awareness of what he had just done. "She a doll. She our whore," he said casually between thrusts.

Stack's grin broke across his face, gold tooth and all. "Mm hm." His hand joined Smoke's sentiment, fisting tighter in her curls, working himself into her mouth with an authority that matched his brother's behind her. "Take it," he said, "just like that. All of it."

She took it. She took all of it, from both of them, from behind and in front. Her tears ran freely down her face again, dripped off her chin, and ran down Stack's length where he fucked into her throat. She felt another climax building from somewhere deeper than the previous ones had come from, further down, more structural, and her body told her it was coming whether she was ready or not.

Stack felt it in the change of her mouth around him. Smoke felt it in the change of her hypersensitive pussy around him. Both of them drove harder at the same time as Smoke's hand came to her hip and gripped it with the force of a man who wanted to feel the final round tightness squeeze around him. "Give it," Smoke said, rough against her.

Bunny’s body clenched and released in a rolling sequence that started at her core and moved outward, her voice was muffled around Stack’s twitching length and her thighs shook against Smoke's grip. Everything in her narrowed down to the specific and enormous fact of coming apart between these two men who had decided, right then and there, that she was theirs. Stack's hips completely lost their rhythm entirely and he groaned from deep in his chest, his hot sticky release filling her throat in long, heavy pulses, his hand in her hair tightening as he worked through every second of it. Behind her Smoke thrusted into her through the spasms of her climax with a final series of strokes that cost him the last of his control as his hips pressed flush against hers and stayed there while he finished inside her, the sound that came out of him brief and real.

The room after was silent except for breathing.

Three people in various states of collapse across the ruined white linens, the lamp still burning in the corner, the amber light still doing its only job. Bunny was laying face down in the center of the bed with no intention of moving for the foreseeable future. Stack was somewhere to her left, his hand resting on the mattress near her shoulder. Smoke stood after a moment, crossed to the washstand, and returned with a warm cloth. He cleaned her with that same focused efficiency she had heard other dolls gossip about but never experienced, his hands moved over her with the attention of a man who considered this part of the task just as important as any other.

It was Stack’s turn to move from his spot on the bed, as he waltzed over to a nearby drink cart and poured himself a fresh glass of whiskey glass, took a long sip, and exhaled with the deep satisfaction of a man at genuine peace with every decision he had made in the last several hours. He looked at Bunny where she laid against the linens, a beautiful and thoroughly claimed wreck of a woman. Then he turned to look at his brother across the room.

"She can't go back on the floor," he said.

Smoke wrung the cloth out over the basin. "Mm?"

"I'm serious, Eli. Her talent is undeniable. That thang she did with them hips is somethin' I intend to study at length for the next several weeks of my life." He took another sip. "But her control? Her control is nonexistent. She finished too many damn times in one session. You put her in a room with a payin' client who came here expectin' an hour an she gon' be done in two minutes. That man gon' feel robbed an robbed men talk… an talkin' men bad for business." He set the glass down and crossed his arms over his chest like a man presenting a logical conclusion. "Two more weeks. Minimum. We retrain her every night ‘til she can hold back a nut the way a real doll ‘posed to."

Smoke stayed quiet as he came back to the bed, sat at its edge and looked at his twin with the knowing expression he wore when Stack was making an argument he wanted to put an immediate end to. "Elias," he said.

Stack looked at him.

"Drink ya' whiskey an shut the fuck up."

Stack sucked his teeth but he kept his eyes on Bunny.

Bunny turned her face against the pillow and looked at both of them from the comfortable horizontal vantage point of a woman who had been thoroughly wrecked. Smoke, quiet at the bed's edge, let his hand come to rest at her ankle. Stack, whiskey back in hand and gold tooth gleaming was already building his next argument with the enthusiasm of a man who was looking forward to the next two weeks considerably more than he is letting on.

"Two weeks," she mumbled underneath her breath, to the ceiling.

Stack pointed at her with excitement. "See! She gets it. That’s a good lil’ bunny rabbit."

"But the food stays the same," she added.

The room went quiet for a moment. 

Then Stack started laughing, full and genuine, the sound rolling through the room and finding all the corners. This time he pointed at Smoke with the glass. "Eli," he said, "I like her."

"I know," Smoke replied as he kept his hand on her ankle. “I know…” 

.

.

.

.

.

Author’s Note: Wowzers! See I ammmmm capable of writing the twins as civilized deviants… *cough* So… um… how about that Josie?? 😏

Nobody:

Bunny:

The soundstage was already alive before the sun fully settled over the city.

It wasn't a single noise but a symphony of them, a chaotic organism breathing in the pre-dawn chill. Voices ricocheted off the cavernous warehouse walls in overlapping layers—sharp, clipped commands from assistant directors, bursts of laughter from grips dragging thick coils of cable across the concrete floor, the constant static crackle of walkie-talkies bleeding into every corner like a nervous system. Floodlights burned hot and unforgiving overhead, washing the constructed streetscape in a sterile, artificial daylight that made every dust mote dance. Crew members moved like schools of fish, weaving around one another with a practiced, almost violent urgency. Somewhere near the makeshift wardrobe village, a metal screech of racks on concrete cut through the din. Makeup artists, faces etched with concentration, hovered near monitors, their brushes still moving as actors, half-dressed and half-awake, rehearsed lines between takes.

Chaos.

Controlled chaos.

And right in the eye of the hurricane, Riley moved like she belonged to a different rhythm entirely.

“Camera team needs updated blocking before lunch.”

“I already sent it.”

“Producer wants revised timing on scene six.”

“It’s on your email, marked urgent.”

“Background holding is backed up into the west lot.”

“Tell transportation to reroute through the cargo bay. I already cleared it.”

Every answer came before the problem fully landed, a preemptive strike of pure efficiency.

Headset pressed snugly against one ear, a clipboard tucked like a shield against her chest, her phone a persistent, vibrating hum in her back pocket, Riley flowed through the set without ever looking overwhelmed. Her voice stayed calm, a low, steady alto that somehow rose above the rising tide of panic, even when everybody else’s started climbing in volume. She stepped around thick cables like they were sleeping serpents, ducked under humming lighting rigs, and shifted between departments like water flowing through cracks no one else could see.

Ryan noticed her the second he stepped onto set.

Not because she was trying to be noticed.

That was the problem.

She never tried.

He stood near the bank of monitors, a coffee cup growing cold in his hand, his eyes scanning the controlled bedlam while a small gaggle of crew members gathered around him, waiting for direction. But every few seconds, his attention drifted back toward her automatically, a magnetic pull he couldn’t seem to fight.

The way her jeans hugged the generous curve of her hips when she leaned over the production table, her spine a graceful arc of concentration.

The way she absently pushed a thick braid back from her face, tucking it behind her ear while balancing a phone between her shoulder and her ear, her profile sharp and determined against the harsh light.

The soft, accidental brush of her fingers against his shoulder when she stepped beside him to update him on a schedule shift, a touch that was both professional and electric.

“Rain delay got pushed back another hour,” she said smoothly, her gaze still fixed on the clipboard in her hand. “If we move scene twelve before lunch, you’ll still make your day. I already flagged the new pages for crafty.”

Ryan looked at her then.

Really looked at her.

Her skin, bare of any heavy foundation, practically glowed under the unforgiving production lighting, a rich, warm tone that made the harsh fluorescents seem soft. No makeup besides a slick of gloss on her full lips and the dark, delicate fan of her lashes, but somehow she still looked better, more real, more captivating than half the actresses wandering around set in full costume. Calm. Focused. Untouchable.

And that voice.

Even through the wall of noise, through crew members yelling over each other and radios constantly squawking, her voice always cut through clean.

Steady.

Grounding.

Ryan swallowed slowly, the motion feeling thick and deliberate, before nodding once. “Aight.”

Riley gave him a quick, sidelong glance, the corner of her mouth lifting in a faint, almost imperceptible smile before she disappeared again, already solving another issue before it fully formed, a ghost of efficiency.

Michael saw the whole thing from his throne near the makeup station.

Saw Ryan’s eyes follow her.

Saw the subtle, almost invisible tightening in his jaw.

Saw him completely miss a question a producer had just asked him, the words dissolving into the air around his head.

A slow, knowing grin spread across Michael’s face.

“Oh nah,” he laughed, the sound a low rumble as he leaned back in his canvas chair. “You keep looking at her like that, nigga, we not making schedule.”

Ryan barely looked at him, his gaze still tracking Riley’s path across the set as she talked into her headset. “Mind your business.”

Michael barked out a laugh at that, loud and sharp, drawing a few glances. “That is my business.”

Ryan finally dragged his attention away long enough to shoot him a look, but it had no real heat behind it, more like a reflex than a real rebuke.

Michael noticed that too.

Which only made this shit funnier.

Because Ryan didn’t lose focus.

Not like this.

Not ever.

But every single time Riley crossed his line of sight, something in him shifted. Small. Almost invisible. But Michael knew him too well not to catch it.

The way his shoulders tightened just a fraction.

The way his eyes lingered a second too long.

The way he went quiet for a beat after she touched him, the rhythm of his thoughts momentarily disrupted.

Michael shook his head slowly, still grinning to himself while a makeup artist dabbed at the side of his beard with translucent powder.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, just for himself. “This nigga cooked already, and it ain’t even eight in the morning.”

Across the sprawling, chaotic set, Riley pushed open the heavy door to her trailer, her arms laden with fresh call sheets, her phone already pressed to her ear as she answered another incoming call.

And Ryan watched her go the entire way.

Ryan never lost rhythm on set.

That was one of the first things Riley learned about him four years ago, a foundational truth as solid as the concrete floor of the soundstage. No matter how chaotic production became, no matter how many schedules imploded or how many studio executives hovered around demanding rewrites and miracles in the same damn breath, Ryan stayed steady. A calm voice. Clear, concise direction. Eyes always moving, always calculating three steps ahead. Even when everybody else spiraled into a panic, he remained the gravitational center, calm enough for the entire set to orbit around him without flying off into the void.

Today?

Something was off.

It started small enough that nobody else would’ve noticed it. A flicker of static in a clear signal.

Except Riley noticed everything about him.

“Ryan, you want the tighter angle on the second take or—”

“Repeat that.”

The cinematographer blinked once, a momentary glitch in his own rhythm, before repeating himself. Ryan nodded slowly, rubbing a hand across his jaw, his gaze fixed somewhere past the bank of monitors, as if searching for a point of focus that wasn't there.

A few minutes later, he asked the head of wardrobe the same question twice.

Then he forgot where they’d moved one of the camera rigs, even though he’d personally approved the change himself less than ten minutes earlier.

Little things.

But little things didn’t happen with him. Ever.

Riley stood near the video village, flipping through updated production notes while watching him carefully from the corner of her eye. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased all morning; it was a hard, knotted line that refused to yield. Every few seconds, his jaw flexed, a subtle grinding of teeth behind closed lips. His focus drifted too easily, his attention constantly snapping toward her like a compass needle to magnetic north before he caught himself and looked away again.

Or tried to.

Because every time she crossed the sprawling set, she felt his eyes on her.

Heavy.

Lingering.

Not subtle anymore.

And what made it worse was how hard he seemed to be fighting it, a silent, internal war playing out in the rigid set of his shoulders.

“Lunch got pushed back forty-five,” Riley said as she stepped beside him, handing over a revised schedule. Her fingers brushed his hand briefly during the exchange, a spark of static in the charged air.

Ryan looked down at the paper.

Then up at her.

Then stayed there a second too long.

Riley felt the pause instantly, a beat of silence stretching into something heavy and significant.

So did he.

His eyes dragged over her face slowly, deliberately, before he cleared his throat and looked back down at the schedule like he’d just remembered other people existed in the same hemisphere as him.

“Aight,” he muttered.

But his voice sounded rougher now, scraped raw.

Riley’s stomach tightened slightly, a nervous flutter, as she stepped away, the feeling of his gaze a physical weight on her back.

Behind her, Ryan watched the sway of her hips disappear around a towering lighting rig before dragging a hand down his face hard enough to pull at his beard.

Michael nearly burst out laughing.

He sat in a canvas folding chair, getting final adjustments on his costume jacket, while watching Ryan unravel in real time like this was the most entertaining shit he’d seen all month.

“Damn,” Michael muttered, just loud enough for only Ryan to hear over the controlled chaos. “She got you distracted for real.”

Ryan ignored him completely.

Or tried to.

“Wardrobe good?” Ryan asked suddenly, his eyes still fixed somewhere across the set, tracking Riley’s movement even as he spoke the wrong name.

Michael stared at him for a solid second.

Then grinned wider, a predator scenting blood in the water.

“Nigga, you just asked me that.”

Ryan finally looked over, his gaze sharp, annoyed.

Michael looked delighted.

“Oh, you gone bad.”

Ryan exhaled sharply through his nose, a puff of frustrated air, before rubbing a hand across his mouth. “Focus on your scene.”

“I am focused,” Michael replied easily, his tone light, mocking. “You the one over here directing like you got pussy on the brain.”

Ryan shot him a look then.

A real one this time, a warning that Michael, for once, decided to heed.

Michael lifted both hands innocently. “Aight, aight.”

But he was still grinning.

Because this wasn’t normal.

Ryan was usually impossible to shake. That man could sit through sixteen-hour production days, withstand crushing studio pressure, navigate budget disasters, and cajole actors out of creative crises, all while moving through everything with the calm of a deep-sea diver. Nothing rattled him visibly.

Except Riley apparently.

And the funniest part?

Riley clearly noticed it too.

Michael caught the exact moment it clicked for her.

She was standing beside craft services, talking into her headset with her back to him, when Ryan called for a reset on a scene they’d already nailed twice. Crew members started moving immediately, a ripple of confusion passing through them, while Riley frowned slightly, her brow furrowing as confusion flashed across her face.

Ryan never wasted resets. Never.

Her eyes found him instantly across the bustling set.

He was already looking at her.

That look held for maybe two seconds too long, a silent, charged conversation, before Ryan was the one to glance away first, flexing his jaw again while he fiddled with the headset hanging around his neck.

Riley blinked slowly.

Oh.

Michael saw the realization settle over her in real time, a subtle shift in her posture, the way her shoulders straightened just a fraction.

And suddenly, she looked just as thrown off as Ryan did.

That made him laugh under his breath all over again.

Because Michael knew exactly what this was.

Ryan was trying not to think about her.

Which meant she was all he’d been thinking about all damn day.

And judging by the way Riley suddenly avoided looking directly at him afterward, her movements a little less fluid, her focus a little less sharp?

She knew it too.

Video village felt smaller when too many people packed into it at once, the air thick and humid with the heat from monitors and bodies. The noise was a physical presence—a constant, overlapping stream of voices. Producers talked over assistant directors. Somebody from wardrobe argued quietly about continuity near the back. A PA squeezed through carrying a precarious stack of coffees while another tried to update tomorrow’s call sheet, their voice lost in the din.

Ryan sat in the middle of it all, his elbows resting on his knees, one hand pressed against his mouth as footage replayed across the monitors in front of him. Usually, this part grounded him. Meetings. Playback. Problem-solving. Control. Today his focus kept slipping through his fingers like fine sand.

“Scene seven still needs approval before lunch.”

“Studio wants alternate coverage on the ending.”

“We gotta make up at least thirty minutes before wrap.”

Voices kept coming at him from every direction, but Ryan barely processed half of them. His knee bounced once under the table before he stilled it immediately, his jaw flexing hard enough to show through his beard.

Then Riley walked into the video village.

And every thought in his head scattered like startled birds.

She stepped between chairs, carrying her tablet against her chest, her headset hanging loosely around her neck now. Her fitted black top hugged her body. Her hair was pulled back halfway today, thick braids falling down her back, while smaller, softer pieces framed her face from hours of moving around set.

Ryan watched her approach before he could stop himself.

Again.

Michael sat across the cramped production space, watching the entire thing happen in real time with growing amusement. At this point, he barely cared about hiding it anymore. This shit was unbelievable.

Riley stopped beside Ryan’s chair, already scrolling through updated scheduling changes on her tablet. “We gotta swap scenes twelve and nine,” she said, leaning closer so he could see the screen over everybody talking. “Rain machine delay pushed us back another—”

Her perfume hit him instantly.

Soft.

Warm.

Dangerous.

Ryan’s eyes closed for half a second before opening again.

Fuck.

Riley leaned over him farther, one hand braced lightly against the back of his chair while she pointed at revised timing blocks on the screen.

And Ryan snapped.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just instinct.

His hand wrapped around her wrist without thinking.

Small moment.

Barely noticeable to anybody else.

But Riley froze instantly.

So did he.

The room kept moving around them, crew talking, monitors playing footage, producers arguing about budget, but suddenly all of it sounded far away, muffled underwater.

Ryan’s grip wasn’t rough.

Just firm.

Grounding.

His thumb pressed slowly against the inside of her wrist where her pulse jumped beneath his touch.

Once.

Twice.

Then stayed there too long.

Riley looked down at his hand first.

Then up at him.

And the second their eyes locked, everything changed.

Ryan’s stare was dark today. Heavy. Not the calm, observant look she was used to catching from him. This looked strained. Tight around the edges. Like he was holding something back with both hands and slowly losing his grip on it.

His voice was a low, rough murmur, meant only for her, a filthy secret shared in a crowded room. “You smell so good it’s fucking distracting.”

Riley felt her stomach flip hard enough to make her forget what she’d been saying entirely. Because Ryan never touched her like this at work. Not unconsciously. Not in front of people. And definitely not like he forgot himself for a second.

His thumb pressed against her pulse one last time before he seemed to realize where they were. But even then, he didn’t let go immediately. His gaze dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second. “All day… all I can think about is bending you over this table.”

Oh, shit. Michael’s thoughts screeched to a halt. He’d been enjoying the show, the slow burn of his best friend’s unraveling. It was comedy. It was drama. But this? This was a live broadcast of a man throwing his entire career off a cliff for a wrist grab and a whiff of perfume. He really said that shit out loud? In front of the money people? He ain’t just cooked, he’s burned the whole kitchen down and is dancing in the ashes. Michael took a slow sip of his water, trying to hide the fact that his jaw was practically on the floor.

Ryan finally released her wrist carefully, his fingers dragging slightly against her skin before pulling away completely.

Neither of them spoke for a second.

Riley swallowed once before looking back down at the tablet in her hands, but her composure had cracks in it now. Small ones. Barely visible. Still there.

“Scene nine first,” she finished quietly, her voice a little breathless. “That keeps us on schedule.”

Ryan nodded once.

Couldn’t say anything else.

Because all he could think about was the feel of her pulse jumping beneath his thumb and the way her eyes had widened, just for a second, before she got it under control.

Michael leaned back slowly in his chair, fighting the grin threatening to split his face in half.

Yeah.

Ryan was absolutely fucking finished.

The assistant director’s voice cut through the soundstage, a sharp crack of a whip that momentarily overpowered the cacophony.

“Twenty-minute reset!”

Relief moved through the crew like a wave breaking, a collective release of held breath. People scattered in every direction like tension snapping loose all at once. Grips disappeared toward side exits with cigarettes already halfway out of their pockets. Makeup artists rushed actors back toward trailers for touchups before cameras rolled again. Somebody from wardrobe sprinted past carrying three garment bags while producers immediately started arguing near craft services over revised timing. The set never really stopped moving; it just changed its frantic tempo.

Riley adjusted her headset against her ear while weaving through the chaos, already shifting mentally into damage control mode before the break had fully started.

“Scene nine reset after lunch,” she said into her radio smoothly, her voice a steady current in the turbulent sea. “Somebody get updated sides to the background before they wander off completely.”

Her phone buzzed again, another schedule update, another fire to put out. She stepped beside the production table near video village, balancing her clipboard against one hip while scanning revised timing blocks on her tablet. Her braids slipped over one shoulder as she leaned forward slightly, her lips pressed together in a line of pure concentration.

Focused.

Professional.

Completely unaware that Ryan had been staring at her for the last thirty seconds straight, his gaze a physical weight.

Michael caught it immediately from his seat in makeup.

Ryan wasn’t even pretending anymore.

The man looked hungry.

Not playful. Not flirtatious.

Hungry.

His eyes tracked every movement Riley made, the way she shifted her weight onto one leg while scrolling through schedules, the way her fitted jeans curved around her hips when she bent over the table, the soft shine of her lip gloss when she tucked the stylus between her teeth for a second while thinking. Ryan dragged a hand slowly across his beard like he was physically trying to hold himself together, a man fighting a losing battle with his own restraint.

Michael almost laughed out loud.

Goddamn.

“Yo,” Michael called casually while a stylist adjusted the collar of his costume jacket. “You hearing anything anybody saying today?”

Ryan ignored him completely.

Michael leaned back deeper into the chair, his grin spreading wider as he watched Ryan’s composure deteriorate in real time. Because Ryan wasn’t just distracted anymore; he looked irritated by it, like wanting her this badly was genuinely pissing him off.

Then, without a word to anyone, Ryan turned and walked away from video village, his strides long and purposeful. He didn't head toward his trailer or the craft services table. He pushed through the heavy door leading to the crew bathrooms, the sound of it swinging shut echoing slightly in the vast space.

Inside the stark, tiled room, the air was cool and smelled of industrial cleaner. Ryan leaned against the cold porcelain of a sink, his hands gripping the edge so hard his knuckles turned white. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, a stranger with dark, burning eyes and a jaw clenched so tight it ached. He could still smell her perfume, a phantom scent that was driving him insane.

He needed relief. A moment of violent, quiet release to take the edge off, to reset his brain so he could function. He closed his eyes, his hand moving to the button of his jeans, but the image that flashed behind his eyelids wasn't some anonymous face. It was Riley. Her mouth. Her hips. The way she looked at him.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to conjure anything else, anyone else, but it was useless. His hand stilled. He couldn't. It wouldn't work. Jerking off in a cold bathroom to the thought of her felt pathetic, a cheap substitute. It wasn't the release he wanted. It was her. He wanted to be inside her, to feel her pulse jump under his thumb again, to hear her say his name in that breathless voice. With a frustrated groan, he slammed his hand against the sink, the sound echoing in the small room. This was useless. He was useless.

When he stepped back onto set, the chaos hit him like a physical wall. Riley finally looked up from her tablet and immediately caught him staring at her again. Not glancing. Staring. Her stomach tightened instantly. There was something dangerous about him today, something barely restrained sitting behind his eyes that hadn't been there before. Or maybe it had always been there, and she was only just now seeing it clearly.

The noise around them blurred for a second.

Then—

“Riley.”

His voice wasn’t loud.

Didn’t need to be.

Low.

Rough.

Direct.

Her eyes lifted fully to his.

Ryan stood near the monitors now, one hand resting against his hip while the other hung loose at his side. Calm posture. Calm face.

But his eyes gave him away completely.

Riley swallowed once before stepping closer automatically. “What’s up?”

Ryan held her gaze for a beat too long.

Then:

“Come here.”

Not angry.

Not impatient.

Not a request either.

The words settled low in her stomach immediately.

Michael looked between both of them and nearly lost it right there in his chair.

Because Riley actually hesitated for half a second.

Not because she didn’t want to go.

Because she knew exactly why she shouldn’t.

Ryan didn’t repeat himself.

Didn’t need to.

He simply turned and started walking toward the trailers without checking whether she followed. Which somehow made it worse.

Riley stood frozen for one more second while her heartbeat started climbing hard enough to feel in her throat. Around her, crew members kept moving normally, completely unaware that the air between her and Ryan had turned electric sometime during the last hour.

Then she tucked the tablet tighter against her chest and followed him.

Michael watched her go. Watched Ryan shove both hands into his pockets like he was trying not to grab her in front of the entire crew. Watched Riley speed up slightly to keep pace beside him.

A few minutes later, Ryan re-emerged from the direction of the trailers, his face a mask of strained neutrality. He walked straight back to video village, avoiding everyone’s eyes.

Riley, however, made a beeline for Michael’s chair. She leaned in close, her voice a low, urgent whisper. “What is going on with him?”

Michael’s grin was pure, unadulterated mischief. “Who, Ry? He’s just having a day.”

“He’s not having a day, Michael,” she insisted, her eyes wide with genuine concern. “He’s… off. Is he going to make it through the day? Seriously.”

Michael leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was all teasing and no comfort. “The only way Ryan is gonna make it through this day without either fucking you on this craft services table or having a full-blown aneurysm is if you take a long lunch and give him some of that good pussy to calm his nerves.”

Riley’s mouth fell open, a shocked, silent gasp. She straightened up, her cheeks flushing, but Michael just winked at her, completely unrepentant.

Ryan walked fast when his mind was loud.

Riley learned that about him during their second year working together, somewhere between red-eye flights and fourteen-hour press junkets. When something sat too heavy in his head, his pace changed first. Longer strides. Tighter jaw. Hands buried deep in his pockets like he was physically holding himself together manually, piece by piece.

Right now?

He was moving like a man trying not to snap.

Riley followed half a step behind him through the maze of trailers and production tents, her heels clicking a soft, frantic rhythm against the sun-baked pavement while the entire set moved around them in a state of controlled disorder. The air smelled of hot metal, diesel fumes from generators, and the faint, sweet scent of craft services coffee.

“Ryan—”

A lighting tech intercepted them before they made it ten feet, a clipboard clutched in his hand. “Need you after break for camera placement approval on the rooftop shot.”

Ryan barely slowed down, his eyes fixed forward. “Mm-hm.”

That was it. A low, noncommittal grunt.

The poor man looked confused as hell, standing in their wake as Ryan kept moving, a force of nature on a single-minded track.

Riley glanced sideways at Ryan, trying to suppress the smile tugging at her lips. Normally, he’d stop. He’d ask questions. He’d pull out his own tablet and fix the issue himself with a precision that left no room for error. Today, he didn’t even pretend to care.

Another crew member, a woman from wardrobe with a garment bag slung over her shoulder, caught them near the pop-up costume department. “Yo, Coogler, wardrobe needs approval on the alternate for scene seven—”

“Later.”

Still walking.

Still not looking at anyone.

Riley’s pulse kept climbing with every long stride, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. Because this wasn’t Ryan’s behavior. Michael was the reckless one, the impulsive one, the one who touched first and thought later. Ryan was calculated. Measured. Careful.

Except his hand found her lower back the second they cleared another tight cluster of crew members huddled around a monitor.

The touch wasn’t dramatic. Barely there, just the weight of his palm through the thin fabric of her shirt. But it burned through instantly, a brand that seared her skin, a silent claim in the middle of chaos. His palm spread low against her back, guiding her around massive equipment cases and passing PAs with a quiet possessiveness that made her stomach tighten hard enough to hurt.

Riley looked up at him automatically, her breath catching in her throat.

Ryan kept his eyes forward, his profile a study in rigid control.

But his jaw flexed again, a tell-tale twitch of muscle.

“Ryan,” she said softly, trying to sound more composed than she felt, her voice barely a whisper against the din. “Where are we going?”

“Need a minute.”

His voice came out rough, scraped raw.

Low enough that nobody else would’ve caught it.

But Riley did.

And it sent a bolt of heat straight between her thighs, a sudden, dizzying rush of arousal. Because he sounded strained. Actually strained, like every word was a physical effort.

Ryan finally glanced at her while they crossed behind the wardrobe trailers, his dark eyes landing on hers for just a second before dragging down her body like he couldn’t stop himself, like his gaze was a physical thing he couldn’t rein in. He took in the curve of her hips in her jeans, the swell of her breasts beneath her fitted top, the column of her throat.

That look nearly took her knees out.

Not playful.

Not teasing.

Hungry.

“You been doing this shit on purpose today?” he asked quietly, his voice a low, accusatory rumble.

Riley blinked, her mind struggling to catch up. “Doing what?”

His hand tightened slightly against her back, his fingers pressing into her flesh, a clear, unmistakable signal. “Walking around lookin’ like that.”

The words came out flat. Honest. Almost irritated, as if her very existence was a personal affront to his composure.

Riley felt warmth crawl up her neck immediately, a flush she couldn’t control. “You serious right now?”

Ryan let out a breath through his nose that sounded dangerously close to frustration. “That's what it look like?”

The silence after that felt thick, heavy, charged with unspoken things. Crew members passed around them carrying lighting stands and garment bags, their chatter and laughter a distant soundtrack to the tension building so tightly between them it almost felt visible, a shimmering, heat-haze in the air.

Ryan’s hand slid from her back to her hip briefly as another PA squeezed past them in the narrow space. The move was too familiar. Too intimate for the middle of a workday. His thumb brushed against the curve of her hipbone, a slow, deliberate stroke.

Riley’s breath caught softly, a sharp little gasp, before she could stop it.

Ryan heard that too.

His eyes cut toward her instantly, sharp and focused. And for the first time all day, Riley saw it clearly: he was barely holding himself together. The control he wore like a second skin was fraying at the edges, the raw, hungry man underneath showing through.

That realization hit her low and hard, a punch to the gut.

Because Ryan wasn’t supposed to lose control. Not him. He was supposed to be the calm one. The grounded one. The man who watched everything, calculated every angle, before acting.

But now?

Now he looked like he wanted to drag her somewhere private and ruin every ounce of professionalism she’d managed to hold onto all morning. He looked like he wanted to erase the line between Ryan and Riley, director and assistant, until there was nothing left but raw, desperate need.

And the craziest part?

The thought turned her on so badly she almost stumbled when his hand slid back against her waist again, his grip firm, proprietary.

Ryan noticed immediately, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You good?”

Riley swallowed once before nodding too quickly, the motion jerky. “Mhm.”

A faint smirk touched the corner of his mouth, then disappeared just as fast, like a flicker of lightning. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her, and he was enjoying her unraveling as much as he was enjoying his own.

They rounded the corner behind the wardrobe trailers, away from the main stretch of set traffic. The noise softened slightly back here, muffled beneath the hum of generators and distant crew chatter. The air was cooler here, shaded by the massive metal structures.

Ryan slowed finally.

Riley thought they were heading toward his trailer, a private space where this could all either implode or explode.

Instead, he stopped near a narrow side entrance tucked between two wardrobe storage units, a nondescript metal door that led to who-knows-where. He turned to face her fully, blocking her path, his body a wall of tense muscle and simmering energy.

The look he gave her then made her entire body go warm, a slow, creeping flush that started in her chest and spread outward.

Focused.

Heavy.

Done pretending.

And Riley realized with a sharp, electric pulse between her thighs that Michael wasn’t the only dangerous one after all.

Riley assumed they were heading for his trailer, a familiar sanctuary where this tension could either be carefully defused or finally acted upon. She was already bracing herself for the click of his trailer door, the quiet privacy of his space.

Instead, his hand shot out, not to the handle of his door, but to the handle of a narrow, unmarked metal door tucked between two massive wardrobe storage units. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed her wrist, his grip firm and unyielding, and pulled her inside with him.

The door clicked shut behind them, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden, oppressive silence.

This wasn't a trailer.

This was a closet.

Cramped. Dim. Packed floor-to-ceiling with rolling racks of costumes, creating a narrow, labyrinthine aisle. The air was thick with the scent of dry-cleaned fabric, cedar, and the ghost of cologne clinging to expensive jackets. Outside, the muffled roar of the production was a distant, irrelevant world.

Ryan immediately crowded her, backing her up until her shoulders hit the cool, metal frame of a rolling rack filled with period-piece gowns. The plastic-wrapped dresses crinkled softly, a protest against the intrusion. He was in her space, all of him, his body a solid wall of heat and restrained energy that boxed her in. There was no escape. There was only him.

His eyes, dark and intense in the low light, bored into hers.

“You been distracting the fuck outta me all day.”

His voice was a low growl, stripped of all patience, all pretense. There was no teasing, no playful banter. Just need. Raw, urgent, and barely contained.

Riley’s breath hitched, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, to deflect, to deny, to regain some semblance of control, but his gaze dropped to her lips, and the words evaporated on her tongue.

“Every time you walk past me,” he continued, his voice getting rougher, his hand coming up to brace against the rack beside her head, caging her in completely. “Every time you bend over a table. Every time you push those damn braids out of your face… I see it.”

“See what?” she managed to whisper, her voice thin and shaky.

He leaned in closer, his face just inches from hers, the heat of his breath fanning across her cheek. He smelled of coffee and something uniquely him, something that made her head spin. “I see myself bending you over this rack. I see myself wrapping those braids around my fist while I fuck you from behind. I see myself making you forget every goddamn thing on that clipboard except my name.”

The filth of his words, spoken so quietly, so seriously, was a physical blow. A hot, molten wave of arousal washed over her, so intense it made her knees weak. She felt a slick rush of wetness between her thighs, her body responding with an honesty that betrayed her completely.

His other hand came up then, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle for a man who looked like he was about to come apart at the seams. “I went to the bathroom earlier, you know that? Trying to get a grip. Trying to think about anything else.” He let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Couldn’t do it. All I could think about was how you’d taste. All I could think about was how tight you’d feel.”

Riley’s head fell back against the metal rack with a soft thud, her eyes fluttering closed. This was too much. He was too much. The carefully constructed walls of their professional relationship were not just crumbling; they were being detonated from the inside out.

“Ryan…” she breathed, his name a plea, a prayer, a surrender.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a ragged, desperate thing. “Tell me to walk out of this closet and go back to being your boss. Tell me right now, Riley.”

But she couldn’t.

Because she didn’t want him to stop.

She wanted him to do every single thing he’d just said.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, filled only by the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant, muffled chaos of the set outside. And in that silence, Ryan’s control was finally, completely, shattered.

The closet felt smaller the longer he touched her.

Hotter too.

The cramped air was thick with the scent of dry-cleaned fabric, dust, cedar hangers, and Ryan’s cologne, something dark and expensive that clung to his skin even after hours under production lights. Beneath it all was sweat now. Heat. The sharp electric smell of tension finally snapping.

His mouth crashed into hers hard enough to steal the breath from her lungs. No patience left. No measured restraint. Just heat and frustration, and what had clearly been building for hours. Days. Maybe longer. The kiss was all teeth and tongue, a desperate, messy collision that tasted faintly of coffee and mint and something dangerously masculine underneath it all.

Riley gasped against his mouth as his hands gripped her hips, dragging her flush against him so she could feel exactly how affected he was. The hard, thick ridge of his dick pressed insistently against her stomach through their clothes, hot enough to make her pulse jump violently between her thighs.

The realization hit low and hard.

Ryan Coogler—

calm, composed, impossible-to-rattle Ryan—

was losing his mind over her.

And fuck if that didn’t make her wetter instantly.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her lips, voice rough and wrecked like he’d been holding those words in all day. “You got me fucked up today.”

His kisses turned sloppier after that, mouth dragging along her jaw before dropping to her throat, where he bit down just enough to force a sharp inhale from her lips. Pleasure flashed through her body immediately, hot and sudden, her knees weakening beneath her.

One of his hands shoved between them impatiently, fumbling with the button of her jeans like he was too distracted to work properly. The frustration in the movement almost made her smile if she wasn’t already too dizzy to think straight.

Ryan never fumbled.

That alone nearly drove her insane.

Plastic garment covers crackled loudly around them as his body pressed harder into hers, the sound obnoxiously sharp in the tight space. Every little noise suddenly felt amplified. Her breathing. His curses under his breath. The squeak of metal wheels beneath the costume racks shifted from the force of their bodies.

Outside, somebody laughed loudly.

Too close.

Riley’s stomach tightened instantly.

“Ryan—” she whispered, half warning, half plea.

“I know,” he rasped against her skin immediately.

But he didn’t stop.

Couldn’t.

That realization settled heavily in her chest.

He really couldn’t stop.

Ryan dropped suddenly to his knees in front of her, large hands gripping behind her thigh before lifting her leg over his shoulder in one smooth motion. Riley’s breath caught hard in her throat at the sight alone.

Jesus Christ.

The dim overhead light cut across his face just enough to sharpen everything dangerous about him, his focused stare, the slight shine of sweat across his forehead, the way his beard moved when he clenched his jaw trying to hold himself together.

He looked hungry.

His grip tightened against her thigh possessively before he leaned forward, and the first touch of his mouth against her made Riley’s head fall back against the metal rack with a sharp clang.

“Fuck—”

Ryan groaned against her immediately, low and deep like tasting her after wanting her all damn day, which almost pushed him over the edge itself.

And he didn’t tease her.

Didn’t play.

He ate her like he’d been thinking about it for hours.

Like he was angry about wanting her this badly.

His tongue flattened against her with a rough, deliberate stroke that pulled a broken sound from her throat instantly. The vibration of his groan against her body made her legs shake harder while one of his hands slid up beneath her shirt, fingers spreading across her stomach possessively like he needed to feel every reaction she gave him.

Riley could hear herself breathing now.

Short.

Shaky.

Embarrassingly loud.

And Ryan loved it.

She saw it in the way his eyes lifted to her face while his mouth worked against her relentlessly. The way his brows furrowed every time she gasped. The way his grip tightened whenever her thighs trembled around him.

Like he was finally getting exactly what he’d wanted all day.

Her fingers buried themselves into hanging costume bags beside her, plastic crackling loudly beneath her grip while pressure built hotter and tighter low in her stomach.

“Ryan…” she breathed weakly.

His response was another rough pull of his mouth that nearly made her collapse.

Then suddenly he stood again.

Breathing hard.

Chest rising sharply beneath his black shirt.

His lips glistened faintly in the dim light, beard slightly damp now, eyes darker than she’d ever seen them before.

Ryan looked gone.

Actually gone.

And Riley realized with a dizzy rush of heat that she loved seeing him like this.

Loved being the reason.

He turned her around abruptly after that, pressing her against stacked wardrobe boxes hard enough to shift them slightly beneath her hands. The cardboard scraped softly beneath her palms while costumes swayed around them from the force of his movements.

Then his mouth was on hers again.

Messy.

Deep.

Desperate.

She tasted herself on his tongue and nearly moaned from that alone.

Riley had never seen him like this before.

This version of Ryan felt stripped raw, all the quiet control he usually wore peeled away until only need remained underneath.

Ryan rested his forehead against hers briefly, both of them breathing hard in the cramped darkness while distant production noise hummed outside the closet walls.

“Couldn’t focus all damn day ‘cause of you,” he admitted quietly, voice edged with frustration. “Niggas talking to me and I’m sitting there thinking about this.”

His hand slid slowly down her waist.

“About bending you over in here.”

Heat flooded Riley instantly.

Then she heard it—

the sound of his belt.

The soft metallic clink felt louder inside the tiny space.

Ryan freed himself with visible effort, eyes squeezing shut briefly like he was trying to hold onto the last scraps of control he had left. When he guided himself against her, teasing her with slow pressure instead of immediately giving her what she wanted, Riley nearly whimpered.

Because even now—

even this far gone—

He was still trying to pace himself.

Outside the closet, footsteps passed close enough to make Riley freeze instantly.

Voices.

Crew members.

Right there.

Her eyes widened as she pushed lightly against his chest. “Ryan—”

“I know,” he repeated.

But this time, there was something reckless in the way he smiled afterward.

Something dangerous.

Then he slid into her slowly.

The stretch pulled a sharp breath from both of them at the same time.

Ryan cursed softly beneath it, forehead dropping against her shoulder while he forced himself deeper inch by inch, like he was trying not to lose it immediately.

“Fuck…” he breathed shakily. “You feel—”

He stopped himself, jaw tightening hard.

Riley could feel the tremor running through him already. The restraint. The effort it took for him not to completely lose control right there.

Then he started moving.

Slow at first.

Deep rolling movements that pressed her harder against the boxes with every stroke, cardboard scraping softly beneath her trembling hands. Each motion felt deliberate, almost punishing in its intensity, his hips dragging against hers in a way that made her stomach tighten harder every single time.

The metal rack beside them rattled softly.

Plastic garment covers swayed overhead.

Ryan’s breathing got rougher against the side of her throat.

“That what you been doing to me all day,” he muttered before his hand cracked sharply against her ass.

The sound echoed violently through the closet.

Riley jerked forward with a gasp, fingers tightening around the hanging clothes while heat bloomed instantly across her skin.

“Shit—”

Ryan groaned low under his breath, like hearing that sound from her nearly snapped the last thread holding him together.

“Walking around this set looking like that…” another hard movement against her that stole the breath from her lungs, “making me lose my fucking mind.”

Another sharp smack landed harder this time.

The sting mixed with the deep pressure of his movements until Riley genuinely couldn’t separate pleasure from tension anymore. Her entire body felt overheated, oversensitive, dangerously close to unraveling.

And outside that door—

People were still walking past completely unaware.

The world was still moving while Ryan fucked her like he’d been starving for her all damn day.

The knock at the door hit like a gunshot through the cramped closet.

“Ryan?” a muffled voice called from the other side. “You in here?”

Riley froze instantly. Every muscle in her body locked up at once, breath catching somewhere high in her chest as panic and adrenaline slammed into her system so hard it almost made her dizzy. Ryan’s reaction was immediate, a fluid, predatory motion. He didn’t pull out. He didn’t stop. He spun them both, a maneuver so swift and sure it left her breathless, pressing her front against the cool, unyielding surface of the metal door. He kicked her feet wider apart with his own, his body a solid weight pinning her there.

His hand came up immediately, covering her mouth before instinct could betray her with a sound. His palm was warm and rough against her lips, the tendons in his forearm flexing hard as he held her there. But he didn’t stop. That was the insane part.

He slowed for half a second, just enough for Riley to think maybe reality had finally caught up to him, then his hips rolled forward again, dragging a sharp inhale through his nose. The thick, swollen head of his dick dragged against her walls, which made her eyes roll back in her head.

The plastic garment covers hanging around them swayed softly from the movement, whispering against each other in the dark like they were trying to tell on them. The entire closet smelled thickly of fabric starch, cedar hangers, sweat, and sex now, humid air clinging to their skin, trapping every ragged breath between them. She could feel how wet she was, an obscene cream coated his dick.

Ryan lowered his forehead to her shoulder, eyes shut tight for one strained second, like he was fighting himself and losing badly. “Stay quiet,” he whispered against her skin, voice wrecked and low. “You can do that for me, right?”

The words should’ve grounded her. Instead, they made heat spiral violently through her stomach because he sounded gone and not controlled, not composed. Not the Ryan she knew. This Ryan was reckless. And apparently, that turned her on way more than it should have.

Outside, the PA knocked again, lighter this time. “Ryan?”

His pace picked up. Not frantic. Worse. Intentional. The kind of rhythm that builds pressure instead of releasing it. Each movement was stronger than the last, measured like he was forcing himself not to lose control completely. The door rattled softly in its frame with every deep thrust, a tiny, damning sound.

She bit hard against the center of his palm to keep quiet, the pain a welcome distraction from the overwhelming pleasure building inside her.

Ryan cursed softly under his breath at the feeling, the sound rough and wrecked. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a low, filthy taunt. “Good girl.”

The praise hit her embarrassingly hard.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a low, dangerous hum. “They right on the other side of this door, ain’t they? Right there. You feel that? Every time I push, this door moves. Just a little. You make one sound, one little gasp, they’re gonna hear you. You gonna let them hear how good I’m fucking you, Riley? Hmm?”

Riley’s response was a muffled whimper against his hand, her body trembling. Her own hand slid down her stomach, her fingers finding her clit, swollen and throbbing. She began to rub in tight, frantic circles, matching the rhythm of his hips. The dual sensation was almost too much, a dizzying spiral of pleasure that had her seeing stars.

“Yeah, you like that,” he growled, his voice thick with satisfaction as he felt her body clench around him. “Playing with that pussy while I’m in it. My greedy princess. You hear that? How wet you are? Shit… dripping all down my dick, making a mess. You hear that sound?”

She could. The slick, rhythmic sound of his dick sliding into her, a wet squelch that was loud in the quiet of the closet, a sound that was both mortifying and incredibly arousing.

Outside the closet, the PA sighed loudly enough for them to hear it through the door. “Man, where the fuck did he go…”

A second voice answered farther down the hallway. Crew chatter. Someone laughing. A radio crackling.

Ryan used the distraction to drag her tighter against him, one hand planting beside her head on the door, trapping her completely between his body and the cold metal. His breathing had turned uneven against her shoulder, hot bursts of air dampening her skin. Riley could feel how badly he was trying to hold himself together. And failing.

The realization sent another pulse of heat through her, her fingers working her clit faster.

He lifted his head just enough to look at her profile in the dim light leaking through the cracks around the door. Her lips parted beneath his hand. Eyes glassy. Braids slightly messy now from his fingers.

Beautiful.

Completely fucking him up.

“You got any idea,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself, “how hard it’s been sitting across from you all day acting normal? Smelling you. Watching you. Thinking about this exact moment. Bending you over and taking what’s mine.”

His pace sharpened again, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, more demanding. Not enough to get sloppy. Enough to make her knees weaken, to make her hand falter on her clit as pleasure, sharp and overwhelming, began to crest.

Riley grabbed blindly for balance, her free hand slapping against the metal door for support as another muffled voice passed outside. Her palm was slick with her own arousal, a damp print left on the cool metal.

Then—

Silence.

The footsteps finally started moving away.

Ryan heard it too. But instead of stopping, relief only seemed to make him worse. His shoulders dropped slightly, tension releasing from his frame all at once, and the next breath he let out sounded almost dangerous. He pulled his hand from her mouth, a thin string of saliva connecting her lips to his palm before it broke.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, more to himself than her now. “That’s what the fuck I thought.”

The silence outside lasted all of three seconds.

Then the footsteps finally started moving away down the hallway, fading gradually beneath the distant chaos of the set. Riley sagged against the metal door with a shaky exhale, her forehead pressing briefly against the cold surface as adrenaline drained from her body in uneven waves. Her entire nervous system felt lit on fire. Every nerve ending sharp. Sensitive. Alive.

Behind her, Ryan finally lost the last thread of restraint he’d been hanging onto.

His hand slid from beside her head down to her hip, fingers digging in hard enough to make her gasp. Not gentle anymore. Not careful. He dragged her back against him with a rough pull that rattled the entire door again, his breathing turning ragged against the side of her neck.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked beyond repair now. “Can’t do this shit slow anymore.”

And then he wasn’t.

The measured control disappeared completely. The next movement hit deeper, rough enough to force a broken sound from Riley’s throat before she could stop it. His hand immediately returned to her mouth, but this time it felt less about silencing her and more about grounding himself, holding onto something while he unraveled behind her. The costume racks around them shook softly with every impact now, hangers clicking together in nervous little bursts. Plastic garment covers whispered and crackled around their bodies. The cramped closet had turned unbearably warm, humid air sticking to their skin, carrying the scent of sweat, cedarwood, expensive fabric, and sex so thick Riley thought she might drown in it.

Ryan’s forehead dropped heavily between her shoulder blades for a second, his grip on her hips bruising now, fingers flexing hard every time he pulled her back against him. She could feel how close he was. Not just physically. Emotionally and mentally, Ryan didn't exist. And something about seeing Ryan, the calmest man she knew, completely fucking destroyed because of her made heat coil viciously low in her stomach.

His movements turned rougher again, harder, the rhythm no longer restrained by caution or logic. Just need.

Then—

The closet door cracked open.

A thin slice of bright hallway light cut through the darkness.

Riley’s heart nearly stopped.

Michael leaned casually against the doorframe as if he’d stumbled into the funniest thing he’d seen all week. And honestly? Maybe he had. His eyes swept over the scene slowly: Riley bent over the stacked wardrobe boxes and metal door, braids disheveled, lips swollen, jeans shoved down just enough. Ryan, behind her, wrecked, jaw clenched tight, hands locked possessively onto her hips like he’d forgotten how to let go. The entire closet smelled like sex and bad decisions.

Michael stared for exactly one beat before a huge grin spread across his face. “Ahhh,” he laughed softly, shaking his head. “This is where ya'll disappeared to.”

Riley wanted to die.

Ryan barely even looked at him. Usually, Ryan would’ve cared. Would’ve straightened up. Re-centered himself. Not now. Now he just kept going, eyes half-lidded, breathing rough as his grip tightened harder against Riley’s hips.

Michael’s eyebrows shot up slightly at that. “Well shit,” he muttered, amused as hell now.

Ryan finally glanced toward him, irritation flashing briefly across his face through the haze. “You gonna stand there talking,” he said hoarsely, “or shut the fuck up and close the door?”

Michael laughed outright at that, deep and entertained, pushing the door open just enough to slip inside before letting it click shut behind him again. The tiny closet somehow got even smaller with all three of them inside. Michael leaned back against the door, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching them with open satisfaction. Not jealous. Not impatient. Just enjoying the show.

“Go ‘head then,” he murmured casually, nodding toward Riley. “Don’t stop now.”

That did something to both of them. The moment Michael stepped into the room, it stopped being just reckless desperation between Ryan and Riley. It became them again. The three of them. The same dangerous gravity that always pulled them back together.

Riley felt it immediately. Ryan did too. His hand slid from her mouth down to her throat—not squeezing, just holding—as he buried his face against her shoulder with a low curse. “Fuck,” he breathed.

Michael watched the way Riley melted further against Ryan’s body, watched the last pieces of tension and fear dissolve into pure overwhelmed pleasure, and grinned knowingly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s our girl right there.”

Then he moved. He stepped forward, his movements fluid and confident, closing the small distance between them. He stopped right in front of Riley, his body a solid, warm presence. “C’mere, princess,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic rumble. He took her hands, which had been braced against the door, and guided them around his neck. “Hold on to me.”

Riley’s fingers tickled the hair at the nape of his neck, her grip tight as she looked up at him. This new position, bent over with her arms wrapped around Michael’s neck, arched her back, pushing her ass up at a perfect, devastating angle for Ryan.

Ryan bit his lip at the new position, at the sight of her offering herself up to him so completely. He used the leverage, his hands gripping her hips even tighter as he drove into her, deeper than before. The new angle was exquisite, a brutal, perfect glide that had her crying out softly against Michael’s chest.

“That’s it, Ry,” Michael murmured, his eyes on Ryan over Riley’s head. “Give it to her. Make her feel that shit.” He looked back down at Riley, his gaze softening, his thumb stroking her cheek. “You feel that, baby? How deep he is? He’s been thinking about this all day. Fucking you right here on set where anyone could find you.”

Ryan’s rhythm became erratic, his thrusts losing their last semblance of control. He was close. Michael could see it in the tense line of his shoulders, hear it in the ragged gasps of his breath.

“Look at me,” Michael commanded Riley softly. She lifted her head, her eyes glassy and unfocused with pleasure. He leaned in and kissed her, a deep, possessive kiss that was all tongue. “He’s about to cum, baby,” he whispered against her lips. “You gonna be a good girl and take it? You gonna let him paint this pretty ass?”

The filthy words, combined with the relentless pressure of Ryan’s dick, sent Riley spiraling. With a final, brutal thrust, Ryan pulled out with a hoarse shout. Riley felt the hot, thick ropes of his cum stripe her ass and lower back, a visceral, possessive claim that made her whole body tremble.

Before she could even process it, Michael’s hand slid down her body, his fingers finding her clit, still swollen and sensitive from her own frantic touches. He didn’t hesitate. He rubbed her clit in circles. Then he brought his other hand down in a sharp, stinging slap directly on her pussy.

The sensation was a lightning strike.

Riley’s orgasm tore through her, violent and overwhelming. A sharp, broken cry escaped her lips as her body convulsed, her legs shaking so badly she would have fallen if not for her grip on Michael’s neck and Ryan’s hands on her hips, holding her up as she came apart in their arms.

Michael held her through it, his fingers stilling on her clit as he kissed her forehead, a gentle, tender gesture in the aftermath of their shared storm. Ryan leaned against her back, his forehead resting on her spine, his breathing harsh and uneven in the sudden, ringing silence of the closet.

The silence that followed was a physical presence, thick and heavy, broken only by their ragged, uneven breaths. The air in the tiny closet was thick with the scent of their exertion, a humid, intoxicating mix of sweat, sex, and the faint, clean smell of the costumes surrounding them.

Michael was the first to move. He pushed himself off the door with a soft chuckle, his movements fluid and unhurried. He glanced at them, Riley still bent over, Ryan leaning against her, both of them looking thoroughly and beautifully wrecked.

“Aight,” he said, his voice a low, amused rumble. He reached for the door handle. “Five minutes, then y’all gotta stop fucking around and make this movie.” He slipped out, pulling the door quietly shut behind him, plunging them back into a dim, private world.

The click of the latch was a signal. Ryan’s entire body seemed to deflate, the frantic energy draining out of him. He straightened up slowly, pulling Riley with him, his hands gentle now where they had been bruising. He turned her to face him, his dark eyes soft, searching.

Riley was breathless, her legs shaky and unsteady. She leaned against him, her head on his chest, listening to the frantic but slowing beat of his heart. For a long moment, they just stood there, a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing.

Then, Ryan began to fix her. He knelt, his hands careful as he pulled her jeans back up over her hips, the denim rough against her sensitized skin. He smoothed her shirt, his palms flattening the fabric. His fingers then went to her hair, gently tucking the messy braids back into place, his touch impossibly tender. Finally, his thumb came to her swollen lips, brushing softly against them, a silent apology.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. No words were spoken. None were needed. The gesture was everything. An apology. And a promise.

Riley looked at him, at the raw vulnerability in his eyes. A slow smile touched her lips. Before Ryan could straighten up, before he could retreat into his shell of composure, she acted.

With a strength that surprised them both, she pushed him. He stumbled back a step, his legs hitting the low stool in the corner of the closet. He sat down hard, his eyes wide with surprise. Before he could say a word, Riley was on him, straddling his lap, her knees bracketing his thighs.

She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him.

It wasn't a frantic kiss. It was a deep kiss. All tongue. A slow, sensual exploration that was opposite to the frantic fucking from moments before. She rolled her hips, grinding her still-sensitive core against the hard length of him trapped in his jeans. A slow, deliberate circle that was designed to tease, to remind him of what he’d just had, of what was now his.

Ryan groaned into her mouth, his hands automatically coming to rest on her hips, his fingers digging in, but he let her lead. He let her take control.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark. She looked down at him, her expression a mixture of satisfaction and genuine concern. “You okay to go back out there?” she asked, her voice a low, husky whisper. “Or do you need more?”

A slow, real laugh rumbled in Ryan’s chest, the sound deep and relieved. He looked up at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the tension finally gone, replaced by a lazy, satisfied heat. “I’m good,” he said, his voice still rough. “But Mike might want a taste before the day is over with.”

Riley’s smile widened. She leaned in, nipping at his lower lip. “Good,” she whispered, her voice a promise. “Let him wait.”

The set swallowed them whole again.

The second Riley stepped back onto the soundstage, the world snapped back into motion around her like the last twenty minutes had never happened at all. Radios crackled nonstop, a symphony of static and clipped commands. Crew members crossed paths carrying lighting rigs and coffee trays in a carefully choreographed dance of controlled chaos. Someone in wardrobe was yelling about missing boots, their voice rising in pitch with each passing second. A PA sprinted past, shouting revised call times, their message lost in the din.

Chaos.

Normalcy.

Riley slid right back into it seamlessly, a ghost returning to the machine. Headset on. Clipboard tucked against her chest. Phone vibrating endlessly in her back pocket.

“Scene 14 moved to Stage B.”

“Lunch push got approved.”

“No, production wants the revised shot list before three.”

Her voice was calm again. Efficient. Sharp. The same composed assistant whom everyone on set trusted to keep the machine running smoothly. Like she hadn’t just been bent over a costume rack ten minutes ago. Like her lips weren’t still swollen and tingling beneath a fresh coat of gloss. Like her thighs didn’t still ache with a deep, satisfying soreness every time she walked.

Nobody noticed.

Or if they did, they were too busy drowning in production chaos to question it.

And Ryan—

Ryan was back.

Completely.

The transformation was almost terrifying. By the time he stepped into video village again, he looked composed enough to make Riley wonder if she’d hallucinated the entire closet incident. His posture was relaxed. Focused. Calm. He answered lighting questions without hesitation, adjusted blocking with precision, and gave notes to camera operators with his usual measured confidence.

Sharp again.

Grounded.

Like he’d purged the distraction straight out of his system.

Michael noticed immediately.

He leaned back in his chair beside the monitors, arms crossed loosely, as a slow grin spread across his face. “There he go,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Riley to catch.

Ryan didn’t even glance at him. Just kept watching playback footage with maddening professionalism. That somehow made it worse.

Riley tried very hard not to blush while flipping through schedule revisions nearby, focusing on the neat black and white type as if it held the secrets to the universe.

Michael caught it instantly. His grin widened. “Ohhh,” he laughed quietly, a low, teasing sound. “She embarrassed now.”

“Michael,” Riley warned without looking up from her clipboard, her voice tight.

“What?” he said, all mock innocence. “I ain’t say nothing. Just admiring your… professionalism.”

Ryan finally looked over then, his expression unreadable, but his eyes dark for half a second too long when they landed on Riley. That tiny glance alone sent heat climbing back up her neck, a slow, creeping blush she couldn’t stop.

Michael saw that too. “Nah,” he murmured, leaning back further in his chair, looking between them like he was watching a particularly interesting tennis match. “At work is crazy.”

The day continued like that. Professional on the surface. Something else entirely underneath. Every now and then, Ryan’s hand would brush Riley’s lower back while passing behind her, a touch that lingered just a fraction too long to be accidental. Michael would catch her eye from across the set and smirk like he knew exactly what she was thinking, like he could still hear the sounds from that closet echoing in his head. And Riley—Riley kept trying to act like her body didn’t react instantly to both of them now, like her heart didn’t skip a beat, like a fresh wave of arousal didn’t wash over her every time they were near.

Nobody on set realized exactly what had happened during that twenty-minute reset. Nobody noticed the way Ryan looked calmer now, like a tightly wound spring had finally been released. Nobody noticed Riley occasionally pressing her lips together like she could still feel the ghost of kisses lingering there. Nobody noticed Michael watching both of them with quiet, knowing amusement all afternoon.

To everyone else, it was just another exhausting production day.

But underneath it?

Everything had shifted again.

And it wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Because two weeks later, Ryan would leave for a three-day studio meeting in Atlanta.

Which meant it would just be Riley and Michael at the office.

Alone.

And Michael—unlike Ryan—had never been particularly good at patience.

Especially not when Riley walked into his office wearing a fitted black skirt and heels while he was already halfway through a stressful morning.

Especially not when he forgot he had a meeting scheduled in fifteen minutes.

Especially not when Riley ended up hidden underneath his desk while executives sat across from him talking budgets… and Michael had to grip the edge of his chair hard enough to keep from completely losing his composure in front of all of them.

-

Solána didn't want to be famous, hell, she barely even cared about money. All she wanted was to belong somewhere where she didn't have to fight for a seat at the table.

And after deciding she's had enough. Solána packed her bags and moved from Georgia to New York.

Brooklyn to be exact.

The four white walls to her apartment were quickly painted a light pink with some hand drawn flowers.

She bought plants to keep the place alive and even got herself a white kitty named 'Killua'

Despite how small the apartment was, the windows were big enough where she could stick her whole body out of it.

The sunlight kissed her every morning and the moonlight shined her to sleep.

Solána was happy. Content.

Her neighbors were nice. Despite what people say, not all New Yorkers are rude.

Gladys, who lived right next door, would constantly bring her home cooked meals.

Her kids were grown and had already moved out of New York so she loved being able to take care of Solána. Even though she kept assuring the woman that she can take care of herself.

She is 28 after all.

But despite it all, she was forever grateful for Gladys.

To the other side of her apartment lived Yolanda. A gorgeous 5'7 dark-skinned lawyer who always said everything with her chest. She was brutally honest but in the best way possible. Her daughter, Yonna, was a braider and the best one in Brooklyn at that.

Yolanda had invested in her daughter's business and she was able to open up a small shop right next door.

The two were like two peas in a pod.

Solána loved their dynamic. Reminded her of her and her momma.

Yolanda started taking a liking to Solána very quickly.

Well actually. A lot of people did.

Solána was as sweet as they come. She was bright and soft and had a heart so big you could practically see it poking out her chest.

She had a face so gorgeous that the gods must've came down themselves and sculpted it for her.

Her energy made both men and women fall in love with her.

Most wanted to protect her. Some wanted to ruin her.

But Solána doesn't know the type of power she possesses. She doesn't know why people just randomly buy her things.

Why men buy her flowers after just talking to her for one day.

Why women send her cases of expensive perfume.

Why old ladies want to make her food so that she's fed and well taken care of.

Why grown women take her in as if she was their child and treat her as family.

Why everyone around her seems to want to absorb her bright energy as much as possible.

She just thinks that people are nice to her because she's nice to them. Even when Solána had her bratty attitude, everyone around her just cooed and gave her what she wanted.

And as much as she loved the attention she would constantly receive, it didn’t bring home much respect. The world looked at her as some dumb spoiled little kid hiding behind her mother’s shadow.

Because she had beauty to the outside world it meant she didn’t have brains.

Solána grew up in a home where beauty was praised constantly. Her momma was gorgeous and was loud and proud about it. But just like how everyone treats Solána, they treated her momma the same.

She was looked at as nothing more than a pretty face with a sexy body and even sexier voice.

Sole was her name.

5'9 inches of pure black woman, brown glowy skin, big white teeth and even bigger hair, with a voice so powerful that the ancestor ain't have no choice but to pass it on to Solána.

Well that was the joke that Sole always told anyways.

The real reason why Sole lost her voice was because cancer made sure to swallow everything she had been kind enough to offer to the world.

But Sole preferred her reasoning over reality.

-

“Lána! Girl come open this door before I break it in!”

The half asleep woman rolled over on her cheeta print covered mattress before standing up. She did a quick stretch before yawning and slowly walking to open her front door.

“Good morning to you too Yolanda. Gosh. Why’s you bangin on my door this early in the mornin?”

Yolanda rolled her eyes and pushed past her. “Why you still sleep girl? You gotta go find you a job.”

Solána groans loudly before dropping her weight onto her bright pink couch. “I got a job already, I done told you this.”

“Workin at that old ass diner on the block ain’t no real job Solána. You need something that’s gon give you purpose.”

“Well I’m tryin but ain’t nothin stickin. What you want me to do? Force myself into another job?”

Yolanda sighs. “Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, baby. I see more for you than some stupid diner that’s barely gon pay ya bills.”

She walks over to the young woman and leans down to embrace her in a tight hug. “Just think about it Lána. What do you truly wanna do?”

She grabs her purse from the table she placed it at, before shrugging it onto her shoulder. “I gotta go to work. Here I made breakfast. Eat some.” She says handing her a plate that Solána hadn’t even noticed she brought in. “Go outside and see what you can find and we’ll catch up when I come home. Okay?”

Solána nodded and gave the woman a hug before walking her out the door and softly locking it.

Her mind was now running circles at the bright and early hours of the day.

“Well now what do I do?” She mumbled quietly to herself.

-

A few hours later Solána was dressed in blue denim low rise jeans, a pink lace corset and 6 inch baby pink heels. She grabbed her white purse and checked her curly afro and glossy lips, before grabbing her keys and walking out of her apartment.  She didn't have a clue as to where she was going but she was going to find a way to make it work.

Her heels clicked loudly as her long legs carried her through the streets of Brooklyn and down to the subway station. She grabbed the A train straight to Manhattan. Right on 34th street.

Her eyes widened at the big tall buildings and even bigger screens. She'd been here for a few months now but her excitement refused to settle. Disbelief coursing through her body at the fact that she was actually there.

Getting back on track, Solána started going around asking people if they knew of any clubs where she could possibly sing.

"Baby the only clubs I know are strip clubs. And there ain't no singing there."

"Ion know. I don't get involved in shit like that."

"Do I look like the 'job needed?' Section on a newspaper miss? Get out of my face"

"You got better luck applying for the gentlemen's club or you can do porn"

Solána groaned in frustration. She'd been going around for hours and nobody seemed to have answers for her.

Her poor feet ached and she was starving.

Deciding it was time for a break, she walked to a small hole in the wall Chinese restaurant. A loud ringing sound played as Solána entered.

"You can sit anywhere. I'll be right with you!" A woman yelled loudly from behind the counter.

The table was a dark wood but the walls were painted in a deep green. Posters were hung on the walls of different celebrities and soft music played through the speakers.

"Hello, welcome. Here's a menu for you. I'll bring you some water, okay?" The woman walked off before Solána could thank her, clearly in a rush despite the fact that the restaurant was empty.

-

After a much needed lunch break. Solána tries to come to terms with the fact that she's going to have to continue this job hunt. She looked down at her heeled feet before slowly standing up, waving a quick goodbye to the waitress and heading out the building.

Her momma ain't raise no quitter and Sole would be rolling over in her grave if she knew her daughter was working at some run down dingy diner.

Just as she stepped out the door, her body collided with another. Her hand reached behind her to steady herself as the other person grabbed onto her other arm.

"Jesus, I knew you were coming out but not that fast." Solána looks up at the gorgeous woman. Her skin tone was deep, the sweat making her glow as if she was some type of goddess.

She smelled of cocoa butter and peppermint and her hair, which was out in a gorgeous afro, added on a hint of pineapple.

"My name's Annie. And you are?"

-

Sole had always told Solána that God works in mysterious ways and that everything always happens for a reason.

If Yolanda hadn't woken her up that morning then she would've never been out in the city looking for a job, she wouldn't have stumbled in that restaurant and she would've never met Annie.

Annie so happens to run some sort of a secret Burlesque club that was tucked away in the midst of all the chaos New York has.

She had hired Solána immediately as she believed the spirits were calling her to do so. She also believed, they were the ones who guided her to walk past that restaurant.

She wasn't sure what role she was meant to play in Solána's life but she was more than ready to find out.

-

Since she started working there, Solána had brought in more people than Annie has seen in the past year since she started. All kinds of different character travel from different boroughs to come and see the one and only 'Georgia'

Her voice so beautiful you could happily die from it, with a body so perfect you'd wanna stay alive to see it.

After a few days of begging Annie to let her sing live, she had finally agreed. Pulling out her song book and immediately heading straight to the band to rehearse before the woman changed her mind.

Now three weeks in and she's become the talk of the city. Hushed murmurs from people who didn't want everyone to know that they were visiting a club like 'that' but just couldn't help themselves to share the secrets that lie within.

-

Loud conversations and the sounds of hair getting pressed, blow dried and styled filled the dressing room of the club. Pink walls wrapped around the room that smelled of vanilla, cocoa butter and hairspray.

There were 10 vanities. Five on each side of the room. Nine ladies currently sitting in front of their own assigned mini beauty parlor. Some were gluing lashes, others were trying on different earrings and most were still trying to finish their make-up.

Annie was going around helping the ladies with whatever they needed. Sewing beads back onto their bras, rubbing oil down their legs, and curling every strand of hair to perfection.

Glitter, feathers from the boas and sequins danced around the floor as the ladies stepped over them in a rush.

"Aight girls. I don't have to remind y'all why tonight is so important but if you do need one, the twins are coming back tonight"

The ladies screeched in excitement at the thought of seeing the Moore twins. They had left four weeks ago, mumbling something about needing to go find somebody. And now they were finally coming back.

The twins had opened club Âme after being on the run for 7 years. Scamming and robbing anybody they could get their hands on.

After making more money than they've ever seen in their entire lives, they decided it was time to settle down.

Start making "clean" money.

Their names still whispered fear into the man and woman who dared to speak it. They left their mark in every city and country they dug their perfectly polished shoes in.

Nobody bothered to mess with them.

They knew better.

"Please keep y'all panties dry ladies." Annie rolled her eyes, nervously looking around for a face she hasn't seen yet.

"Mmm, they just so fine. I could just drop to ma' knees and show em exactly what they need." Caramel, a brownskin woman with short thick legs followed by a full tummy adorned with a belly piercing and further up long black coils, comments with a dreamy look on her face.

"Girl, you can say that again. I'd let them ruin me!" Medusa yelled. Her pale skin shining from all the glitter she packed on it.

"Aight. Please. Enough." Annie’s face turns up in disgust.

"Bitch just cause you gay don't mean the rest of us is. Let us enjoy some fineeee black men, please and thank you." Caramel giggles as she fixes her garter belt.

"Right. You stick to swallowing Pearline's face and let us focus on trying to do the same with the twins."  Medusa adds causing the rest of the girls to laugh.

Annie rolls her eyes. "None of y'all gon ever get there so let's cut the delusions from now." She walks to the dressing room door and sticks her head out. "And where the fuck is Solána! God I swear, one of the most important nights and she's fucking late!"

She paces back and forth and the girls all exchange a look before they start getting up, adding the last few touches they needed before heading out to start their combined beginning number.

Caramel nervously walks up to Annie, knowing that the woman is not to be fucked with when she's angry. "Want us to wait?"

Annie shook her head. "No, just do it without her."

The girls nodded and walked out in a perfect line. Heading straight to the stage.

-

"Oh my god Annie, I'm so sorry ! The trains are messed up and I swear I left early!" Solána runs into the dressing room, out of breath and with flushed cheeks.

"I don't wanna hear it. Sit down, you gotta get ready."

Solána sits in front of her vanity just as Pearline rushes in the room. "They almost done, is she-

Annie passes her a hot comb before she could finish her sentence as she helps Solána get undressed and into her silk robe.

Without another word Pearline starts working on styling the woman's long honey blonde hair into a deep side part with Hollywood style curls.

-

With only five minutes to spare. Solána steps into a black corset thong bodysuit. Puts on her lace gloves and her 8 inch red heels to match her lips.

Her neck, wrists and ears were decorated with silver prop jewelry that you wouldn't be able to tell is fake unless you squint real hard.

"Go kill it girl." Annie smiled at her before squeezing her hand.

She quickly made her way backstage, grabbed her black diamond encrusted microphone and waited for her que.

Meanwhile in the back of the club sat the Moore twins.

Elijah and Elias Moore.

Also known as Smoke and Stack.

Smoke had a cigar in his mouth, drink in hand and his blue hat lowered just enough to cover his eyes.

Stack had a cigar in his hand, drink to his lips and his red had sat high on his head. Eyes daring anyone to speak to them and a grin so cocky you start to hate it the longer you look.

"Lot of people tonight." Stack announced quietly to Smoke who nodded in agreement. "Seem Annie hired some new girl."

The lights dimmed low and the curtains slowly opened.

The club suddenly went mute. So quiet you could hear Smoke's eyebrows furrow in confusion as he looked around before settling his eyes on the stage.

Solána hits the first note to 'Tough lover' and suddenly both of the twins spine straightened. The hairs on the back of their necks at attention.

"Wait... is that?" Stack started slowly moving closer to the figure that was currently pouring her soul out on stage.

"That can't be..." Smoke mumbles to himself as he follows his younger brother through the crowd of horny grown men.

The car drops her a half step past the entrance like the driver doesn’t want to block the curb too long. Zariah steps out into a slice of low overhead light and the door shuts behind her with an expensive thud. The building doesn’t announce itself. There was no line, no loud music spilling out. Just a matte black door and a man who looks like he’s part of the wall until you meet his eyes. 

Zariah gives her name. The man checks if once, then again without looking like he’s checking anything at all, and opens the door. 

Inside, things felt warmer. Thicker. Not quite music, more like a pulse under everything. Velvet seatings. Dark wood. People who speak in half-voices and don’t repeat themselves. 

Zariah pauses just inside, long enough to take it in. It was just a breath, nothing obvious. Her shoulders settle into their usual line, chin level, eyes forward. Zariah belongs in rooms. That part is muscle memory. 

A hand touches her elbow lightly, her spine goes rigid. 

“Saint-James.” 

Zariah turns. Malik. He’s familiar enough to ease the first second of it. Zariah’s seen him at fittings, at a campaign wrap, once backstage where he talked too smoothly to be anyone’s assistant. Tonight, he looked sharper, but same smile though. Same confidence that assumes a yes before it’s given. 

“You made it,” he says. 

“Mm.” A small nod. “For a minute.” 

Malik steps in beside her, hazel eyes boring into hers, not blocking, just aligning. 

“Come on. I’ll show you around.” 

Zariah lets him guide the direction not the movement. There’s a difference. He knows people here. That’s useful. He speaks in low tones as they move, greeting without stopping, names traded like small coins. When he introduces Zariah, his hand rests at the small of her back for a second too long, then lifts. 

“This is Zariah. Saint-James.” 

Heads turn. Not many. Enough. 

She offers the version of a smile that doesn’t invite questions. 

“Hi.” 

A woman in a silk slip dress made by some foreign designer studies her, then softens, “I know your face.” 

Zariah dips her chin once. “That happens.” 

A glass appears in her hand without her asking. She doesn’t drink it yet. She holds it, lets the cool settle into her palm. Malik leans in to say something near her ear. His breath brushes too close. Zariah tilts her head just enough to hear without giving him the rest of the space. 

“Good room,” he says. “Keep your face around.”

“Mm.” She takes a small step forward, easing the distance. “I’m not staying long, Malik.” 

They drift to a cluster near the bar. Four men, maybe five. Conversation tight. Phrases that loop around meaning instead of landing on it. Numbers, but not spoken like numbers. Zariah listens without looking like she’s listening. That’s a skill she learned early. One of them glances at her, then at Malik. A beat. A question that never becomes a question. 

Malik answers it anyway.

“She’s good,” he says, easy. “She with me.” 

One of the men drags their eyes over Zariah.

“This you, Malik? Whatever happened to that French model you had on your arm during fashion week?” 

“You know that was all business,” Malik leans into Zariah, placing his hand on her lower back. “This is Zariah Saint James. She’s gonna be the new face taking over the fashion industry. Ain’t that right, baby?” 

Hums of approval circulated.

Zariah stills. Not a freeze. A correction. She turns her head, just enough to catch his eye. Her voice stays light, even.

“I came by myself, actually.”

It lands clean. No edge. No apology. 

A couple of the men look away first. Malik’s smile doesn’t falter, but it tightens at the corners. 

“Yeah,” he says, like he meant it that way. “For a minute.” 

“For a minute,” she repeats, and lifts the glass to her lips without drinking. 

Zariah notices the details in the room now. How people stand angles instead of square. How no one laughs too loud. How eyes track movement without turning heads. This isn’t a creative room. Not really. It wears the shape as a disguise but the weight under it is something else. 

Malik introduces her again, this time to a man in a dark suit with a watch that probably costs more than what Zariah is worth. Older. White. The man’s gaze rests on her a fraction longer than it needs to. 

“Pleasure,” he says. 

Zariah meets it, steady. “Mm.” 

He smiles like that answer told him something. 

Malik’s hand returns to her waist, guiding her half a step closer to the circle as if to anchor the introduction. She lets it sit there for a second, then shifts her weight, a small turn of her hips that leaves his hand with nowhere natural to land. It falls away. 

“I’m gonna grab something,” she says, already moving. 

Stay,” Malik whispers, soft enough that it could pass for a suggestion. 

Zariah doesn’t stop. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

At the bar, she can breath better. She sets the glass down untouched and rests her fingertips on the smooth marble of the bar top. Her reflection glides along the surface, broken by light. Zariah smoothes the line of her dress at her hip, more to ground herself than to adjust anything. 

Her phone buzzed once. Zariah glanced at it. A text from a stylist about a call time tomorrow. She types back a quick answer, then locks the screen. Behind her, the private lounge continues like it didn’t notice her stepping away. 

Malik returns, closer than before. Zariah stiffens.

“You good?”

“I’m fine.” Zariah keeps her gaze on the bar, then turns to Malik. “I’m heading out in a second.” 

“Already?” Malik smiles, but there’s something under it now. “You just got here.” 

“I said a minute.”

Malik leans in again, voice low. “Don’t do that, Zariah. It’s a good look for you to be seen here. I called some connects. Got you on the list…”

Zariah holds his gaze. 

“I’ve been seen.”

There was a pause. Malik’s eyes search her face like he’s trying to decide how far to push. It was making Zariah feel uncomfortable. 

“Come meet one more person,” he says. “Then you can go.” 

Zariah considers it. Quick. The room presses at the edges of her awareness. 

“One,” she says. 

Malik nods like he won something. They cross the floor again. This time, the path feels longer. Or maybe she’s more aware of it. The man Malik wants her to meet stands near a corner where the ambiance is softer. He looks up as they approach, already informed. 

“Saint James,” Malik says. Like he’s placing a piece on a board. “Told you.” 

The man’s eyes take her in without apology. Dark. Unreadable. A face so chiseled it could only be described as a plastic surgeon’s work. 

“I’ve seen you. That shoot with Alberto Rodriguez. Stunning. Versace.”

“Thank you.” Her tone stays even.

“I’m Westley.” He smiles. “You’re in the right room.”

Zariah meets that without returning it, “I’m in the room I walked into.” 

Malik laughs under his breath like she said something charming. The man doesn’t laugh. 

For a second, no one speaks.

“…well. It’s nice to finally meet you, Saint James. Hopefully the next time we meet, It’s us working together.”

Zariah lets it sit. Then, she inclines her head, gives Westley a faint smile, small and final.

“I’m heading out.”

Malik’s hand ghosts at her back again, then stops when she doesn’t slow. “I’ll walk you.”

“No, you’re good.” Zariah turns slightly, enough to keep it polite, not enough to invite him to follow. “I got it.”

Zadiah moves toward the door with the same pace she walked in with. Composed. The man at the door opens it before she reaches for the handle. 

Outside, Zariah exhales, a real one this time, and steps onto the curb. For a second, she stands there, looking back at the black door like it might explain itself if she gave it long enough. 

It doesn’t. 

Zariah pulls her phone out to call her driver, thumb hovering over the screen. Then, she stills. 

A small thought crosses her mind. 

I should’ve said something.

The ride back felt longer than it should have. Zariah sits angled toward the window, city lights dragging across the glass in streaks of gold and white. Her phone sat in her lap, the screen dark. She picked it up once, unlocked it, then locked it again without doing anything. Her reflection stared back at her faintly in the window. Same face. Same poise. But there was something tighter around her eyes now. 

She exhales and leans back. 

By the time the car pulls up, most of the lights in the surrounding units are off. Her driver tells her goodnight. Zariah answers without thinking and steps out, her heels landing soft against pavement. Inside, the elevator ride was short. Too short. She watches the LED numbers climb, arms folded loosely, thumb brushing over her wrist. Not nervous. Just…aware. 

The elevator doors open. The hallway leading into the hall of her apartment building is dim, lined with soft recess lighting along the ceiling. Her steps are steady and cloaked by the hand-tuffted carpet runner in dark green as she walks to her door. Zariah reaches into her bag, pulls out her keys, and unlocks it. 

The door opens with a hiss. 

And the first thing she notices is the light. It’s already on. It wasn’t every light, but enough. The living room. The kitchen. 

He’s here. 

Smoke is sitting on one end of her sectional, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. No TV. No phone. Just him. And that was enough to make her pause. 

He looked up when she stepped in. Zariah pauses just past the foyer for half a second. Then, she sits her bag down on the coffee table. 

“When did you get here?” She asked, proceeding to take off her heels like everything is normal. 

Smoke doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay locked on her. 

Then—

“Where you come from?”

Flat. No extra weight in the words. That’s what makes it land hard. Zariah slips her other shoe off, placing them beneath the coffee table. 

“Out.” 

A beat

“With who?”

Zariah straightens, smoothing her dress down at her hips before turning to face him. 

“Some people from work.” 

Smoke’s gaze doesn’t break. 

“What people?” 

Zariah tilts her head slightly, studying him now. 

“Why you askin’ like that?” 

Smoke leans back just enough to rest against the sectional, but his eyes remained glued to her like he was seeing past the guard she was trying to obtain.

“Answer the question.”

Zariah’s jaw sets for a second. 

“I told you. Work people.”

Silence. It stretched just enough to be felt. 

Then—

“You was at that lounge on Mercer.” 

It wasn’t a question. Zariah’s eyes flicker once. She wasn’t surprised. Just confirmation that she knew he would be keeping an eye on her location. 

She folds her arms loosely. 

“…Yeah.”

“Who took you there?”

“My driver dropped me off. I went by myself.”

Smoke’s gaze sharpens just a fraction. 

“Don’t do that.” 

Zariah’s brows pull together. “I just told you—”

“Who brought you in?”

His voice doesn’t rise. It just tightens. Zariah exhales through her nose.

“A creative I know. Malik was there.”

Smoke leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees again. 

“Malik.” 

Smoke repeats it like he’s placing it somewhere. Then, he looks back at Zariah. 

“And you thought that was somewhere you should be.” 

There was no question in it. Zariah shifts her weight onto one leg. 

“I’ve been in places like that before.” 

“No,” Smoke says, cutting through it. “You haven’t.”

That hit. Zariah’s arms drop from where they were closed. Her posture straightens. 

“You don’t know every place I’ve been,” Zariah replies, voice firmer now. 

“I know that one.” 

Zariah studies him, eyes narrowing slightly. “You actin’ like I walked into something crazy, Smoke.” 

He holds her gaze. “You did.” 

Zariah’s lips press together. For a second, she looks like she might push back harder. 

“I was fine,” she says instead.

Smoke’s expression doesn’t change. “No, Z. You wasn’t.”

Short. Final. 

Zariah’s breath catches slightly, more from the certainty than the words themselves. She looks away for a second, then back at him. 

“I handled myself. Like I always do.” 

The corner of Smoke’s mouth twitched. Enough to part his full lips and reveal silver slugs. He watched her with a slight squint of his eyes. Because he knew. He always knew. 

“I’m sure you think you did, baby.”

That stung more than anything  else he’d said. 

Her chin lifts just a touch, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Silence again. This time more overbearing. Smoke leans forward more, closing some of the space between them without standing. 

“Look at me.”  

Zariah’s eyes snap back to his. She holds it. 

“I am.” 

Then, Smoke asks, calm and direct. “He put his hands on you?” 

Zariah stills. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides. 

“It wasn’t like that.” 

That’s not an answer. 

Smoke’s gaze doesn’t waver. 

“Did he touch you.” 

Zariah exhales. “…Yeah.” 

Another pause. 

“Where.” 

Her jaw tightens. 

“At my back. My waist. He was just—guiding me.” 

Smoke nods once, slow. “Guiding you.” 

He repeats it, but it wasn’t like he agrees. 

Zariah shifts her weight again. “I moved. I corrected it.”

“I know you did.” 

That catches her off guard. Her brows lift slightly. 

“You know?” 

“I know how you move.” His tone hasn’t changed, but something underneath it has. “And you still stayed.” 

There it is. 

Zariah’s shoulders drop just a fraction. 

“I was trying to leave without making it a thing.” 

Smoke sits back again, dragging a hand over his face once before letting it fall.

“You already was a thing the second you walked in there.” 

Zariah’s gaze softens, just a little. She looks at him for a long second, then speaks quieter. 

“I didn’t know it was like that. That he…that it was more than making connections. Helping my career.”

Smoke watches her. And for the first time, something shifts in his expression. Edged with something else. A softness rarely seen.

“I know you didn’t, Z. That’s the problem.” 

Zariah exhales, slow. Her shoulders ease. She steps a little closer now, enough to close some of the distance. 

“I hear you.”

It’s quieter than anything she’s said so far. Real. Smoke holds her gaze a moment longer. Then, he leans back against the sofa, one hand resting on his jaw.

“Next time,” he says, voice steady, “you tell me where you goin’.” 

Zariah nods once. “…Okay.”

She means it, but she looks away right after she says it, eyes drifting toward the kitchen like the conversation might loosen if she doesn’t hold it. 

It doesn’t. 

The sofa creaks as Smoke Stands. He steps toward her, closing the space she left between them. Zariah’s shoulders tighten just a fraction as he stops in front of her. 

“Don’t look away.” 

Smoke’s voice stays low and firm. Her eyes lift back to his, slow and steady. Smoke studies her for a second. Then, his hand comes up, fingers settling under her chin, thumb along the side of her jaw. 

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.” 

Zariah’s breath shifts. She doesn’t pull away. 

“Mkay,” she replies with a soft voice. 

“You walked into a space where nobody in there is who they say they are,” he says. “Not to you.” 

Zariah watches him, listening.

“…That wasn’t no industry lounge,” Smoke continues. “That’s a place people use to meet when they don’t want nothin’ traced back to ‘em. Deals get made in there that don’t got nothin’ to do with clothes or cameras.”

Zariah’s brows pull together slightly. “I didn’t hear anything like that.”

“You wasn’t supposed to,” he answers, just as even. “That’s the point.” 

Zariah’s lips part, then press together again. Smoke’s thumb shifts against her jaw, grounding her attention back to him. 

“And that nigga, Malik?” Smoke goes on. “He ain’t no creative you just ‘know’. He move with people who use faces like yours to get in rooms easier. To make things look clean.”

Zariah’s posture straightens. She exhales. 

“He didn’t do anything to me. I wouldn’t have let it get that far, Smoke. I had it under control,” she says, a little firmer. “And I didn’t even expect to see him tonight. A friend of mine put in a word. I…I just…I figured it was just some exclusive party for A listers and I could—I could walk in there and—”

“I didn’t say he did anything.” Smoke cut her off. “I said he put you somewhere you shouldn’t have been. And that friend? I wouldn’t be surprised if they a part of it. So you need to cut them off.” 

Zariah’s gaze flickers, then steadies again. 

Smoke leans in just slightly, enough to make sure she’s locked in with him. 

“I’m in this enough to know how that goes,” he says. “I seen how fast it turns. You walk in thinkin’ it’s one thing, and next thing you know you tied to somethin’ you don’t even understand yet.”

Zariah swallows lightly. Smoke’s eyes stay on hers. 

“And I don’t play about what’s mine.” 

There’s no rise to his voice. No dramatics. Just fact. Zariah feels that one’s it sits heavy on her chest. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides, but she doesn’t break eye contact. Smoke lets that hang for a second before continuing. 

“So listen to me,” he says. His hand drops from her chin, but his presence doesn’t pull back. “When you go somewhere, you let me know first.” 

Clear.

“You don’t just show up anywhere off impulse. I don’t care who invited you.” 

Zariah nods, lips scrunched up. “Okay.” 

“If you walk into a spot and somethin’ feel off,” he continues, “you don’t stand there tryin’ to figure it out. You leave.” 

Zariah’s lips part slight like she’s about to speak but she lets him finish. 

“You call me,” he says. “I’ll come get you. I don’t care where you at.”

Certainty. 

“And if somebody put their hands on you,” Smoke adds, voice still low, “or make you feel any type of way…”

He paused, enough to let Zariah know he’s dead ass serious. 

“You tell me. And I’ll handle it. My way.” 

Zariah’s breath slows. “I will.” 

Smoke studies her, making sure. 

“Say it again.” 

Zariah’s eyes stay on his. “I’ll tell you.” 

Smoke hums, then he nods his head before leaning down to kiss her forehead, then her cheek, and ending with her lips. A soft peck that stirs her. Zariah breaks the kiss, exhales, then she looks at him. 

“I didn’t know—”

“I know, baby girl. Just…listen to me, okay? You know this shit triggers me when you go off doin’ shit that make me worried. I’m serious, Z. Don’t do this shit again.” 

She purses her lips, but ultimately gives him another kiss, falling into his big embrace that swallows her.

Correction. 

Weeks pass. At first, Zariah tells herself Smoke is just being attentive. Protective. Present. 

After the lounge incident, Smoke starts rearranging his life around hers in ways that don’t announce themselves immediately. It begins small enough to almost feel thoughtful. He starts picking her up from late shoots instead of sending a driver. He waits outside fittings in black SUVs with the engine running while she changes out of couture and campaign makeup under bright studio lights. When she lands in another city for a show, he’s already there before she reaches baggage claim, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, eyes scanning the terminal before they settle on her. 

Smoke never makes a scene. Never acts possessive in public. That’s what makes it harder to argue with. To everyone around her, Smoke looks dependable. Solid. The type of man women brag about having.production assistants smile when he takes garment bags from their hands. Publicists relax when he quietly checks exits and entrances before an event. Designers greet him like they trust him instinctively, even when they don’t know why. 

And Zariah hates that part a little because he’s so good at it. Too good at it. 

Her world keeps moving at full speed while his begins orbiting around it with frightening precision. Editorial spreads in Paris. Beauty campaigns in New York. Fashion week dinners packed with actors, athletes, stylists, investors, people who speak in air kisses and coded conversations. Zariah is everywhere lately. Her face is in windows three stories high. Magazine covers. Digital campaigns looping across giant screens downtown. And somehow, Smoke is always there now too. 

Not beside her. Near her. Outside the room. At the car. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

The first few times, Zariah lets it go. She tells herself it’s temporary. That he’s going to go back to work doing what he does that’s so top secret and get bored of all the glitz and glam. That he’s trying to make a point after what happened with Malik and the lounge. But the weeks stretch and instead of easing up, Smoke becomes more involved. 

More structured. 

He starts asking for schedules in advance. What event. Which hotel. Who invited her. Who’s attending. What time she expects to leave. 

Not interrogations. 

Expectations. 

And that’s what starts irritating her. Because Zariah has spent her entire adult life moving independently through spaces exactly like these. She built her career on instincts, timing, reading energy, staying graceful under pressure. Men in fashion flirt. Men in entertainment hover. Wealthy people invite you places with hidden motives attached to every smile. She learned how to survive that years ago. So when Smoke starts appearing downstairs before she even calls for a car, something in her begins pushing back automatically. 

She stops texting updates as quickly. Leaves details out. Answers questions vaguely. 

“Just work.”

“A dinner.” 

“Somewhere in SoHo.” 

Nothing technically disrespectful. But it was enough for Smoke to notice she’s testing the edges of what he said in that apartment weeks ago. And Smoke noticed everything. Especially patterns. Especially when someone starts moving different on purpose. 

The irritation builds on both sides slowly, layered beneath long workdays and late nights. And the worst part is she can’t tell where protection ends and control begins anymore. 

Zariah’s up early, wrapped in a robe, hair slicked back into a bun, glass skin and fuzzy Louis Vuitton slippers on her pedicured feet. She’s standing at the kitchen counter with her phone propped against a glass of hot water with lemon and ginger. A call time gets pushed. A fitting added. A dinner penciled in. Her voice stays even, professional, the version of her that never slips. 

“Yeah, I can make that,” she says. “Send me the address.” 

She doesn’t mention it to Smoke. Not when she hangs up. Not when she toasts her sourdough bread to add slices avocado and sliced smoked salmon. Not when she walks past the living room where Smoke is sitting, reading. 

He glances up when she crosses. Zariah doesn’t stop. 

“I got a dinner tonight,” she says like it’s an afterthought. “Brand people.” 

Smoke nods, “what time?”

“Eight.” 

“Where.” 

Zariah takes a sip of her water. 

“I’ll text it.”

Smoke studies her for a second longer than usual. Then, nods again. 

“Aight.” 

And Zariah doesn’t text it. Not at eight. Not at nine. She’s already dressed and out the door by the time the reminder crosses her mind, heels clicking down the hallway, phone buzzing in her hand with another message that isn’t his. 

When she comes back, Smoke’s in the same spot. That’s the first thing she notices. Not the fact that he’s there. The fact that he hasn’t moved much.

Zariah steps in, sets her bag down, slips her heels off. 

“You been sittin’ there all day?” Zariah asks, light, like she’s asking about the weather. 

Smoke’s eyes lift to her. “Where you just come from, Zariah.” 

Zariah walks past him, heading toward the kitchen. That little fancy plate of French food wasn’t enough to settle her hunger. She considers ordering in some Pho from her favorite Vietnamese restaurant. 

“I told you,” she says. “Dinner.” 

“With who.”

Zariah opens the fridge, bends over, little cocktail dress rising up, almost revealing no panties. She scans it like she’s actually looking for something. 

“People from the brand.” 

Smoke doesn’t say anything right away. But his jaw ticks. Zariah pulls out a bottle of water, shuts the fridge, leans against the counter. 

“You ask a lot of questions,” she says, taking a sip.

There’s a small edge to it. A sassy little tone that reeks of an attitude that needs to be checked. 

Smoke watches her unblinking. 

“I asked you where, Zariah.” 

She shrugs one shoulder. “It was in the city.”

That’s it. That’s all she gives him. And she knows it. Something stills in Smoke. He’s locked. Smoke sets his phone down on the table beside him. Slow. Then, he stands. Zariah watches him this time. She doesn’t look away. Smoke walks toward her, closing space like an imposing shadow. Zariah straightens a little as he stops in front of her. She braces her hand on the counter behind her. Smoke’s eyes narrow slightly, orbs darkened with frustration. 

“You ain’t text me nothin’.” 

Zariah takes a sip of her water, avoiding his eyes as if the vase across from her on the dining room table was more interesting. 

“I was busy.” 

Smoke tilts his head. “I told you, Z. You go somewhere, you let me know.” 

Zariah lifts her gaze, chin lifting slightly. Defiantly. 

“And I heard you.” 

There it is. That fucking tone. 

Dismissal.

Smoke’s gaze tightens just a fraction. “But you ain’t do it.” 

Zariah shrugs, “I got there, everything was fine. It wasn’t a big deal.” 

Smoke stepped in closer to where she was nearly pressed between his solid frame and the countertop behind her. Her breathing shifted but she checked it as best as she could. 

“It was to me.” 

Zariah rolls her eyes. She pushes off the counter, standing fully now. 

“You can’t expect me to check in every time I step outside, Smoke,” she argues. “That’s not how I move and you know that.” 

More edge now. More bite. Zariah knows she’s pushing. Smoke watches her for a long second. Then, he exhales once through his nose. 

“You think that’s what it is.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

Zariah folds her arms. “I think you’re doing too much.” 

The silence was heavy. 

Then. “Say that again.” 

Zariah holds his gaze. Doesn’t flinch. 

“I said you’re doing too much.”

Smoke’s haha comes up, firm fingers gripping her jaw, turning her face just enough so she can’t angle away. 

“Don’t do that.” Smoke said, low. Controlled yet deep.

“I’m just sayin—”

“NO,” Smoke cuts in, sharper. “You talkin’ like what I said don’t matter. And that’s a problem for me.” 

Zariah’s eyes flash. “That’s not what I—”

“That’s exactly what you doin’.” Smoke’s grip tightens. “You hear me them weeks ago. Loud and clear.” 

Zariah’s chest rises and falls a little quicker now. 

“I did.” 

“But you moved like you didn’t.” 

There’s no way around that. Zariah looks at him, really looks this time. There’s something building in her too. It wasn’t fear. It was friction. 

“I’m not one of your operations,” she says. “You don’t get to run me like that.” 

Smoke scuffs. “Aight.” 

He releases her jaw. Steps back half a step, and that almost feels worse. 

“You right,” Smoke says. And it’s too calm. “I don’t run you.” 

Zariah’s shoulders ease slightly. But only for a second. 

“Which means,” Smoke continued, “you make your own decisions.” 

Zariah watches Smoks cautiously now. 

“And you deal with whatever come with ‘em. You don’t call me. You don’t tell me where you at. You don’t move how I told you to move—”

Smoke pauses. Not long. 

“You on your own with that.” 

Zariah’s brows pull together. “That’s not what I—”

“You wanted independence,” he says, cutting in, still calm. “I’m givin’ it to you.” 

Zariah studies him. 

This isn’t him trick to control her. This is him stepping back. And that doesn’t feel how she thought it would. 

“You serious?” She asks. 

Smoke nods. “I don’t chase grown decisions, ma. But don’t stand in my face and act like what I said ain’t carry weight.”

Zariah exhales. She folds her arms and juts that hip out. Lip poked. She looks at Smoke for a long second. Then, softer, but still holding onto herself: 

“That’s not what I was tryin’ to do.” 

Smoke cuts his eyes at her. Then, he walks off. Leaving Zariah fuming. 

Zariah spends the rest of the evening like she lives alone. That’s the first thing that gets under Smoke’s skin. 

Just…dismissal. 

She moved through the luxury apartment with that polished calm of hers, never quite looking at him, never quite acknowledging the weight sitting in the space between them. She replies to texts on the sofa with one knee tucked under her, laughing softly at something on her screen, walks past him like he’s furniture. 

Smoke says her name once. 

Zariah hears it. He knows she hears it because her shoulders tighten for half a second. But, she keeps on walking. That does more than attitude ever could because now she’s choosing it. And one trigger of Smoke’s, one thing that really ticks him off—being ignored. He watched her enter her bedroom. Smoke sits there another few seconds, jaw working once. 

Then, he stands. No rush to it. He rolls his shoulders once, loosening the tension sitting there. Smoke reaches for the watch on his wrist and sets it on the side table. Neatly. That alone would tell her everything if she saw it. Smoke never tosses things. When he starts setting items aside with care, he’s making room for discipline. He walks to the kitchen, pours a glass of water, drinks half, sets it down. Runs both palms over his face, then drags one hand across the back of his neck. 

Collecting himself. Not cooling off. Centering. 

By the time he reaches the bedroom, the bathroom door is cracked open from the steam, he pushes the door open wider and steps inside. Zariah is standing in front of her vanity, fingers hooking the thin straps of her sleek black cocktail dress. She tugs one strap down her shoulder, exposing smooth dark skin inch by inch, the fabric whispering at her elbows while she twists to face the mirror, grabbing her hair to pile it high, pinning it loose but secure with a claw clip. 

Smoke leans against the frame, hoody heavy against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest, fitted black tee stretching across his pecs. His eyes track every peel of fabric like he owns the view. Tension crackles thick from the kitchen standoff earlier, her defiance still simmering hot under her skin. 

She sees him in the mirror, and now she’s taking off her strapless lace bra and matching thong. Completely naked and glowing like her body was slathered in liquid gold. That little performance almost makes him smile.

Almost. 

“You done?” Smoke asks. 

Her voice stays light. “With what?” 

“With this act you tryna put on to piss me off.” 

Zariah grabs a plum-colored silk robe from a wall mounted hook, hiding that beautiful body. 

“I’m getting ready to shower. Then I’m going to bed. I have a busy schedule tomorrow, Smoke.” 

Smoke closes the bedroom door. The click of the latch is small but it lands. Zariah’s fingers pause over the tie of her robe. Only for a second. Then, she resumes, adjusting the front of her robe like nothing changed. Smoke walks up until he’s directly behind her, watching her reflection instead of her directly. 

“You been real busy not seein’ me tonight.” 

Zariah shrugs one shoulder. 

“I’ve been minding my business.”

“That so.” 

“You got something to say,” she says, voice even, “say it.”

“I did.” His tone is lower now. “You ignored it.” 

Her chin lifts a little in the mirror. 

“Maybe I was tired of hearing it.” 

Smoke’s hand comes to the robe knot at her waist, fingers brushing the bow but not pulling it loose. Zariah finally turns them, eyes lifting to meet his. 

There’s a challenge there. Smoke matches that, boring his eyes into hers like he was asking her telepathically ‘you really wanna take it there, baby girl?’. His gaze dropped briefly to the robe that barely hugged her frame, the one she loved to put on after her showers. The one she wore whenever her skin was slicked with body oil so it could mold to her body in ways that had Smoke dickin’ her down to put her to bed properly. 

“You been pokin’ at me all night.” 

Zariah folds her arms over her chest. 

“Maybe you’re easy to poke.” 

That earns a quiet breath through his nose. And he wasn’t amused. 

He steps closer until there’s no way for her to forget he’s there. The heat of him reaches her before contact does. Her spine straightens automatically. Smoke notices. His hand slides to her jaw, thumb settling near her chin, guiding her face up. 

“Wrong answer.” 

Zariah’s lips part.

She means to say something slick. He sees it forming.

But the words stall when his other hand reaches down,  tugs the robe knot loose in one pull, then lets it fall open on its own. He takes a small step back, eyes downcast to admire her. Take in the view like she was modeling nudity for his eyes only. Robe parted wide and framing that long, elegant frame without hiding a damn thing. 5’10 of slim-thick lines hit different up close. Her long torso stretched down to a waist he could circle with both hands and still have room, dipping into hips that curved fuller from the side, that rich brown skin glowing warm.

Her chest rose steady with each breath, full and natural, nipples tightening just from the air or maybe his stare, elegant shape softening the sharp edges of her shoulders and collarbones. He clocked the subtle give in her stomach, toned thighs long from runway miles pressed together slight, calves flexing strong as she held runway poise even now. 

Smoke’s eyes never leave hers.

“That attitude you got,” he says quietly. “I’m ‘bout done with it.”

“You ain’t my bodyguard no more, Smoke,” Zariah snaps, voice laced brat-sharp. “Stop actin’ like you run shit. I do what I want.” 

Smoke chuckles low, rumble deep from his chest rolling out gravel-thick, his hand shoots out to snag her wrist before she grabs the front of her robe, pulling her half-turn into him, cedar scent faint mixing with her floral perfume. 

“Yeah, but who you come runnin’ to when you needed help? Who handled things to make shit easier for you? Roughed niggas up that got too close? Would kill anybody that so much as try you?” Smoke drawls slow, southern thick, free hand palming the front of his joggers where his thick bulge thickens obvious. “Yeah, but you was feenin’ for this dick. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you beggin’ me to fuck you in that dressing room. Remember? Or you forgot just like you forgot who the fuck I am. And when I say somethin’, you do as you told.” 

Smoke’s eyes never left yer face, unblinking and coal-dark, jaw set under stubble. 

Zariah yanks her wrist free, twisting away but stays close, turning full to shove her palm flat against his chest, pushing half-hearted, his pecs unyielding under her spore as fingers. Zariah leans in, chin high, lips curling into a smirk. 

“And wasn’t you the one that couldn’t wait to fuck me?” She fires back, hip cocked. “Ain’t never had a bitch like me in yo’ life. Soon as you got a taste, you obsessed, right? That’s why you still actin’ like a good little soldier. Now who’s in control now, big bad Smoke?” Her voice pitches taunt, one hand sliding down to trail the ridge of his abs where his tee clings, nails scraping light to test the flex. 

Zariah walks off, brushing past him. Smoke snorts  breath. 

“Control? Lil’ girl, you testin’ ropes right now.” Smoke growls. His large Pam clamps her hip, yanking her flush from behind, his hard dick against her ass. His beard grazes her cheek as his head dips. “That dressin’ room…you hiked that dress, spread your legs wide, pussy was drippin’ and beggin’ for my tongue first. Then you rode this dick cryin’ daddy til you squirted all on this dick. Obsessed? Yeah…I ain’t got a reason to deny shit. But you hooked, baby girl. Chasin’ this nut every night since.” Smoke’s fingers trail up the arch of her spine, his other hand cupping her ass cheek. 

Zariah gasps sharp, twisting her hips, bucking against him, but eventually she breaks the hold. 

“Hooked? Please. You stalkin’ my every move like a lost puppy.” She spits, laughing brittle, backing toward the bathroom door. “Body guard days over, but you still guarding this pussy like it’s yours. And I’m glad you know exactly how obsessed you are.” Her eyes flash, lips parting to rest her tongue at the corner of her mouth. 

Smoke steps forward, hands shooting out to brace the doorframe over her head, caving her without touch. 

“Mine? Damn right. Till you prove otherwise.” He rumbles. “Go ‘head, shower off that dinner, but don’t think slamming doors gon’ end this talk.” His eyes rake over her body, dick tenting the front of his joggers. Zariah places her palm flat against his chest before giving him a final shove to the ripple of muscle, the door swinging hard bang latch catching. The shower turned on beyond the door and as much as Smoke wanted to open that door, he waited. Waited until he heard that shower shut off.

Zariah is standing at the vanity in nothing but a towel, lotion bottle in hand, acting deeply interested in the label. She bends to reach for her toner in the cabinet beneath the sink. The bathroom door opens, the humidity in the bathroom turning the air chill. The fog on the glass began to disappear. The way she knows exactly where he is behind her without turning around. She just wants him to know she can ignore it. 

Zariah rises slowly, and sets her toner on the sink with careful precision. 

Still won’t turn. 

Zariah swallows. Her arms start to cross over herself instinctive. Smoke catches both her wrists and lowers them back at her sides. 

“No.” 

Zariah looks at him now, fully. Some of the bravado thinning at the edges. Because she knows this version of him. The one who gets calmer the more serious he is. He releases her wrists only after they stay where he put them. Then, he steps back half a pace and gestures toward the counter. 

Smoke steps behind her, broad hand spreading over the back of her neck for one steady second, claiming her attention. 

"Good," he says.

The steam from her shower clings to the air, thick and warm, fogging the mirror above the sink in faint swirls. Zariah stands there naked, skin dewy, water droplets tracing slow paths down her shoulders and the curve of her back. The towel lies discarded on the floor by her feet, leaving her fully exposed. Smoke’s hand lingers at her neck a beat longer, thumb pressing firm against her pulse, anchoring her in place. The heat of his palm seeps into her, carrying that familiar cedar scent that always seems to cut through everything else. Smoke's chest brushes her back as he closes the space. Zariah can feel the expansion of his black tee against her shoulder blades when he draws a controlled breath.

"Hands on the sink," he tells her, voice low and even. 

Zariah does not move right away. Her chin lifts a fraction, eyes flicking to his reflection in the mirror, holding his gaze there. Bold still, testing. 

“For what?” she asks, tone carrying that edge she knows gets under his skin, words clipped. 

Smoke doesn’t rise to it. His free hand slides down her side, large fingers splaying over her hip, gripping just enough. The veins in his forearm stand out as his muscles flex. 

“You know why,” he says. “All that mouth. Ignoring calls. Acting like rules don’t stick. Time to fix it.”

Zariah exhales through parted lips, a subtle shift, but her hands stay at her sides. Her posture remains upright, feet planted on the cool tile. Inside, she feels the pull, the way his presence makes the steam feel heavier, but she pushes back one more time.

 “I was busy. You act like I owe you every second.”

Smoke's grip tightens on her hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh there. He leans in closer, lips near her ear, breath warm against the damp shell. 

“Busy playin' games. Poking. Now I’ma show you. But that’s what you wanted, right?” His other hand lifts from her neck, trails down her spine, ending at the swell of her ass. He cups one cheek fully, squeezing hard enough to make her shift her weight.

"Hands. Sink. Now."

This time, her body responds before her mouth does. Palms flat on the cool porcelain edge, fingers splaying wide. She arches her back slightly without meaning to, ass pushing out toward him, skin prickling under the humid air. Her eyes stay on his in the mirror, defiant spark still there, but her breathing picks up, chest rising faster.

“That's better. So, you do as you told then?” he says, stepping fully behind her now. His feet plant wide on the tile, knees bracketing her legs as he positions himself. One hand stays on her hip, holding her steady. The other rears back, large palm open, veins bulging along his wrist.

The first smack lands solid across her right cheek, skin meeting skin with a sharp crack that echoes off the tiled walls. Her ass jiggles from the impact, flesh purpling instantly under his handprint. Zariah's fingers curl against the sink, a hiss escaping her teeth, but she bites down on anything louder.

 “That all?” she throws back, voice tight, trying to keep the bold front.

Smoke sees it. The way her thighs tense, pussy lips glistening between her legs from more than just the shower. He knows she’s wet, knows the defiance is her last push before she settles. His dick barely had room to grow in his joggers, that thick length pressing against the seam as he watched her in the mirror. 

“Keep talkin',” he warns, hand coming down again, harder this time, left cheek taking the full weight of his swing. The slap rings out wet in the steam, her ass bouncing, a fresh mark blooming dark against her skin.

Zariah gasps, knees buckling a touch, but his grip on her hip keeps her upright. Heat spreads across her backside, stinging deep. 

“Fuck,” she breathes, eyes narrowing at him in the glass. “You mad at me daddy?”

Smoke doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he delivers three quick spanks in succession, alternating cheeks, each one heavier than the last. Palm cracks against flesh, her ass rippling with every strike, turning hot and swollen under his assault. Her pussy clenches visibly, slickness dripping down her inner thigh, betraying how much she needs this correction. Smoke's free hand slides between her thighs from behind, thick fingers parting her folds roughly, middle finger plunging into her soaked pussy without warning.

“This what you wanted?” Smoke growls low, pumping in and out once, twice, feeling her walls grip him tight. She moans despite herself, hips bucking back. But he pulls out just as quick, smearing her juices over her ass before landing another brutal smack right where her cheek meets thigh.

Zariah's head drops forward a second, elbows locking on the sink, but she lifts it back up, meeting his eyes again. 

“Keep goin' then,” she challenges, voice breathier now, the bold cracking at the edges.

Smoke's chest rumbles with a low sound, approval mixed with hunger. That big dick throbs, straining as he tugs his joggers down with one hand, freeing the curved shaft and wide tip. Pre-cum beads at his slit, heavy length slapping against her bruised ass. But he ain’t done punishing her yet. Smoke grabs a fistful of her wet hair, pulling her head back gently but firm, forcing her to arch deeper. 

“Count 'em,” he orders.

His hand cracks down again, full force, the loudest yet. Her ass quivers, marked deep purple, heat radiating. 

“One,” she grits out, pussy aching empty.

Another on the other side, palm stinging his own skin from the velocity. “Two.”

Smoke spreads her cheeks with his thumbs, exposing her tight asshole and dripping slit, then spanks right across both, the impact jarring her whole body. 

“Three,” she moans, thighs shaking. Teeth chattering. 

Smoke leans over her, his dense midsection pressing into her back, shirt damp from the steam and her skin. His beard scraping her shoulder as he bites down lightly there, marking her while his hand rains down five more measured strikes, each one pushing her closer to breaking that last wall. Her counts come faster, voice turning needy, ass on fire, pussy clenching around nothing as viscous arousal slicks her legs. By the tenth, she is panting, body trembling in his hold, bold facade shattered into raw want.

 P-Please,” Zariah whispers finally, not begging wildly but settling, hands gripping the sink.

Smoke pauses, rubbing his palm over the abused flesh, soothing the burn while his tip nudges her entrance, thick head parting her lips. 

“Good girl,” he says, voice thick with possession. 

Then he thrusts in deep, stretching her pussy wide around his girth, filling her completely. His hips snap forward once, deep and punishing, fat dick buried to the hilt in her dripping pussy, stretching her walls tight around his thickness. 

When he eased that fat length inside her it opened her pussy with a slow burn, the girth demanding space as it sank deep. The curve to the right caught along her slick walls, dragging firm pressure against the sensitive ridge there with each inch that followed. Long and solid, bottoming out steady, filling her to the limit while her body adjusted around the thickness pulsing hot and full. Every shift would send that curve nudging the same spot over and over, building a tight coil low in her belly that made her thighs tremble without her meaning to. Zariah's breath catches sharp, body jolting against the sink, but Smoke pulls out slow, leaving her clenching empty, creamy slick coating his shaft. Not done yet. Her ass still needs more work, cheeks blazing hot under his palm prints.

Smoke's hand cracks down again, heavy and mean, right across both bruised globes. The slap echoes wet in the bathroom, her flesh rippling, thighs quivering from the sting. Zariah whimpers low, knees buckling inward, but his grip on her hip locks her straight.

“I don’t know why the fuck you act like you tough, baby,” Smoke growls, voice thick with that Mississippi drawl, low and gravel-rough, breath hot on her neck. His free hand fists her wet hair tighter, yanking her head back so her eyes lock on his in the fogged mirror. Dark brown gaze bores into hers, heavy-lidded and unblinking. “Why the fuck you keep actin’ up? Huh?”

Another smack lands harder, palm flattening her left cheek, sending fire blooming deep. Zariah’s legs shake harder, pussy leaking fresh wetness down her inner thighs, mixing with shower droplets on the tile. Zariah bites her full lip, trying to hold the sound, but a needy whine slips out anyway, body arching despite the burn.

“Why? Answer the fuckin’ question,” Smoke demands, leaning his solid chest heavier against her back, tee clinging damp to his thick torso. The weight of him pins her forward, broad shoulders eclipsing her reflection. His cream-coated dickthrobs hot against her thigh, pre-cum smearing her skin, but he holds off, rubbing her sore ass roughly with his rough palm, veins popping along his forearm whenever he would grip the flesh with his fingers. 

Zariah exhales shaky through parted lips, fingers digging into the sink edge, porcelain cool under her palms. That bold edge frays, but she pushes one last time, voice breathy and tight. “I heard you...just didn’t think…”

Crack. His hand swings full force, spanking the spot where ass meets thigh, jolting her whole frame. Her pussy clenches hard, clit twitching, inner lips trembling from the impact, visible drip falling to the floor. Her legs trembled bad now, barely holding her up.

“Didn’t think what? That I mean what I say?” Smoke presses closer, beard scraping her shoulder as he leans in to kiss the spot where his teeth was minutes ago, soothing it. He spanks again, rapid fire—three in a row, alternating sides, each crack louder, her ass swelling fuller, hot to the touch. 

“You went out there actin’ like my words ain’t shit. Ignorin’ calls. Playin’ like you run this. Nah, baby. That stops now.”

Zariah’s whimper turns into a gasp, body softening under the onslaught, shoulders dropping a fraction. She feels his control sink in deep, the dense gravity of his frame making the steam thicker, her vanilla-musk scent mixing with his cedar smoke. 

“Y-Yeah... I hear you,” she admits quieter, chin lifting less defiant, eyes holding his with that flicker—irritation yielding to the weight.

Smoke pauses, large hand soothing over the fiery flesh, squeezing possessive. But his voice stays mean, drawl dragging slow.

 “Too late for that hearin’ shit. You gonna learn tonight.” That dick nudges her slit again, thick head parting her soaked folds, teasing that creamy entry without giving it what it wants. One more spank, brutal across the fullest part of her right cheek, making her cry out soft, hips bucking back involuntary.

“Count the rest. And don’t make me ask twice.”

Her voice comes steady now, reined in, body present under him. “E-Eleven.”

Smoke’s hand lifts off her throbbing ass cheek, fingers digging into the heated flesh one last time before shoving her shoulders down firm. Enough with the slaps. Time to shut that mouth up proper. Her knees hit the wet tile with a soft smack, water slick under her shins. Zariah’s dark eyes lift to his, breath still ragged from the burn, but she don't hesitate. Her body shifts smoothly, settling low, full tits swaying as she balances on her heels.

Smoke steps up close, black tee clinging to his broad chest, sweat and shower mist beading on his deep brown skin. One thick hand wraps the base of his dick, pulling it free from where it hung thick and heavy between his muscular thighs. Almost as thick as her forearm, easy nine inches stretching out straight at first, then curving wicked at the tip like it know exactly where to hit deep. Girth thick around, veins bulging ropey along the dark shaft, skin a rich chocolate shade fading near the fat, flared head that's glossy with pre-cum leaking steady. Heavy balls swing low underneath, plump and full, hanging loose in that wrinkled sac, dark and musky from the heat. Whole thing pulses alive in his grip, smelling of clean soap mixed with his natural cedar-earth scent up close.

“See this dick right here, baby? You wanna talk back, runnin’ yo’ mouth like you run shit? Get this dick in that throat,” Smoke growls low, drawl dragging thick and mean, free hand tangling rough in her wet curls. He yanks her face forward, smearing the leaking head across her plump lips, leaving a shiny trail. “Suck big daddy’s dick. Put that mouth to work since you actin’ all tough. Throat it deep, show me you learned somethin’ tonight.”

Zariah parts her lips wide, tongue flicking out to lap the salty bead from his slit before she stretches her jaw open. Head disappears first, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard around the ridge, pulling him in inch by girthy inch. Those full Saliva spills quick, dripping down her chin. She trained for this, months of him working her down slow at first, gagging her till she took every curve without choking. Now she slides forward steady, throat relaxing open, feeling that bend nudge the back of her mouth then slip past her tonsils smooth.

The soft flesh of her lips stretches wide and presses flush against his shaft as she sinks lower, creating a tight seal that drags with each slow pull. Wet suction fills the quiet with each bob of her head, the sound thick and wet as her mouth works to take more. Heat and pressure builds around Smoke from the way her lips clamp and slide, her tongue pushing up from below while her throat opens to pull him deeper with every descent.

Zariah’s face pulls tight around that thick girth filling her mouth, her cheeks drawing inward in deep hollows that frame the shaft with sharp definition as she sinks lower. She maintains a steady rhythm of long, controlled pulls, her tongue pressing firm and flat underneath while her throat opens to swallow more with each descent, creating a constant wet drag and suction that tightens on the upstroke. Her jaw works visibly with the effort, lips sealed flush and sliding in a smooth, milking motion that builds pressure without pause.

Smoke groans deep in his chest, hips bucking shallow to feed her more. “Yeah, that's it, fuckin' swallow this big dick. You know how I like it, don't play. Deeper, baby, choke on it if you gotta, but don’t stop.” His voice rumbles harsh, hand guiding her head, thick fingers pressing her nose toward his trimmed pubes. His fat nuts slap light against her chin as she bobs, throat bulging visible with his length buried fully. Zariah gags once soft, eyes watering, but pushes through, humming low around him, tongue pressing flat underneath to stroke the bulging vein.

Smoke watches her work in the mirror, heavy-lidded eyes narrowing mean. “Look at you, all that fire earlier, now you slurpin' dick like a good lil’ girl. Shoulda did this from jump, keep that ass in line and yo’ throat full. Mmm, suck harder, baby. Drain these nuts dry.” His grip tightens in her hair, fucking her face, pulling out to the tip with a wet pop before slamming back in, curve hitting her gag reflex perfect every thrust. Her hands brace his thick thighs, nails digging into the dense muscle, feeling him flex under her palms as drool strings from her stretched lips.

Zariah’s pussy aches empty between her spread knees, thighs slick with her own drip mixing on the floor, but she focuses, hollowing her cheeks tighter, swallowing around his girth to milk him. Her nose buries in his coarse hairs finally, balls snug against her chin, holding him deep till her lungs burn. She pulls off gasping, strings of spit connecting her mouth to his shining shaft, then dives back, faster, head twisting side to side for friction.

“That’s my girl, train that throat right. You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I bust down yo’ neck,” Smoke grunts, free hand cupping her jaw rough, thumb smearing spit back in. His heavy balls draw up tight, dick twitching hard in her sucking mouth, but he holds off, drawing it out mean. “Keep goin’. Earn that forgiveness, baby.”

Zariah’s right hand wraps around the base of his thick dick, fingers barely meeting around the girth as she strokes up slow, twisting at the swollen head slick with her spit. She sucks deeper on the pull back, lips sealed tight around his veiny shaft, tongue swirling under the curve that presses her cheek out. Her left hand steadies on his heavy thigh, nails scraping light into the dense muscle as she bobs faster, throat opening wide to take him balls-deep again, humming vibrations along his length.

Smoke's eyes narrow sharp, watching her work from above. His big palm cracks down quick on her stroking hand, slapping it off his dick with a wet smack. 

“Nah, baby. Hands where I can see ‘em. Up behind yo head or on them thighs. This mouth mine now.”' He grabs a fistful of her wet curls tighter, yanking her head back just enough to pop his dick free, strings of saliva stretching long before snapping. Then he thrusts forward, burying every curving inch straight down her throat in one push, balls smacking her chin heavy.

Zariah gasps around the invasion, eyes watering, but puts her hands in her lap. Her throat bulges with his girth, the  bend lodging deep, cutting off her air till black spots dance. He don't let up—hips snap forward, fucking her face, pulling out to the flared head where she gasps ragged, then slamming back in, pubes grinding her nose.

“Fuckin’ tired of yo games, Zariah. All this bullshit you pullin’,” he growls low, thick and gravelly, voice echoing off the tile. Smoke picks up meaner, dick pistoning her mouth, heavy balls swinging to slap her jaw each thrust. “Back when I was yo’ bodyguard, dealin' with yo’ spoiled, uptight, prissy ass barkin' orders left and right. Actin’ like you own the world, snappin’ at me like I'm one of yo’ lil' errand boys. Had to bite my tongue, watchin' you strut ‘round thinkin’ you untouchable.”

Zariah’s knees spread wider on the slick floor, thighs quivering as drool pours down her chin, soaking her tits glossy. She gags hard on a deep plunge, throat convulsing around his pulsing shaft, but holds the position, hands laced tight in her lap, fingers twitching to grip something. That wet ass pussy throbbed neglected, juices trailing down to puddle under her.

Smoke grunts deep, free hand bracing the sink edge, muscles flexing in his thick arm as he rams harder, curve dragging her tonsils raw. “And now? Now you on this dick, slurpin’ like you starved, and still think you run shit? Nah, baby girl. I run it. Always did. Just lettin’ you play pretend till I remind this lil’ ass who in charge.” He yanks her hair sharper, holding her nose-deep, balls snug on her chin, grinding slow circles to stretch her throat wider. “Feel that? Feel daddy ownin' this mouth? You gon’ take every inch till I say stop. No more actin’ brand new.”

Zariah’s chest heaves desperate around the blockage, tears streaking her cheeks mixing with spit, but her eyes stay locked up at him, defiant spark fading to raw submission. She swallows around his girth, milking the veiny underside, tongue pressing frantic when he pulls back for air. Her hands stay put, obedient, elbows trembling from the strain as he resumes pounding, wet gurgles filling the humid air, his heavy balls tightening with each brutal thrust.

Smoke abruptly snaps his hips back, dick leaving her throat. Zariah sucked in a lung full of air, sniffling, teary eyes cloudy as she looked up at her daddy with a bite of her bottom lip. She’d sucked a few dicks in her twenty-nine years of living but she would have never thought a nine inch, veiny monster would fit down her throat. Normally, she would pat herself on the back, but right now, Smoke was pissed off. Her reward would come later. Right now, she’s a throat to fuck and nothing more. Her eyes went hazy from staring at his hard dick bobbing and twitching in her face, glossy and dripping with saliva. She knew he was close because his tip was a deep purple and it flared so wide it left the corners of lips raw. The map of veins along his shaft bulged in size, and his nut sack sat full and loaded with cum. 

“Open up.” Smoke commands.

Zariah does as she’s told, eager for more. That big dick slid in smooth and full, making her eyes roll. 

Smoke's hips jackhammer faster now, thick dick plunging her throat raw brutal snaps, the curve battering her tonsils. His balls draw up tight, slapping her chin wet and relentless, his breath turning into ragged grunts as the pressure coils low in his gut. Sweat beads down his solid chest, tee clinging damp to the full slabs of pecs heaving with each drive. He feels her throat spasm greedy around his girth, milking him closer to the edge.

“Eyes up here, Zariah. Look at me while I feed this throat,” he snarls, free hand clamping her jaw firm, thumb digging into the hinge to force her gaze up. Watery brown eyes meet his dark, heavy-lidded stare, hers wide and pleading, his burning with ownership. “Hands in yo’ lap. Fingers laced. Don't move ‘em.”

Zariah shifts quickly on her knees, pulling her elbows in to drop her hands to her thighs, palms up and fingers interlocking obediently in her lap like a proper slut. Her thighs quake wider apart on the tile, pussy clenching empty and dripping strings of arousal to the floor. Her jaw slackens under his grip, relaxing loose as he demands, lips stretched obscene around his pistoning shaft, drool bubbling out the corners to sheet down her neck and pool between her heaving tits.

“Good girl. There you go, relax that jaw. Let daddy bust,” Smoke growls deep, gravel scraping rough, pace turning erratic, hips stuttering as his dick swells thicker in her gullet. His balls contract hard, and he slams balls-deep one final time, grinding his pubes flush to her nose, holding  as ropes of hot cum erupt straight down her throat. Pulse after thick pulse floods her, warm, slightly salty jets coating her esophagus, forcing her to gulp convulsively around the buried length.

He don't budge an inch, big hand locked on her curls, the other on her jaw, keeping her pinned nose-deep while she swallows every drop—no spill, no waste. Her throat works visible under the skin, bulging swallows pulling his load down greedy, chest fluttering desperate for air around the blockage. Her eyes remain locked on his, tears carving clean tracks through the spit mask on her face, but that defiant spark's gone fully, replaced with raw, owned surrender shining back.

Smoke holds till the last twitch fades, dick softening just enough in the wet heat, then eases out slow, dragging the sensitive underside over her lolling tongue. Strings of cum-mixed saliva cling thick, snapping as the flared head pops free. She coughs hoarse, sucking air in big whoops, hands twitching in her lap but staying put, lips puffy and glossy. He strokes her cheek with his thumb, smearing the mess, voice dropping low and satisfied. 

“Every drop. That's how you take what’s yours. Don’t forget who run this shit.”

Smoke’s thick fingers loosen from her curls, sliding down to hook under her arms with that unyielding grip, hauling her up off the tile slow and steady. Her knees wobble jelly-soft, thighs slick from her own dripping need, but he steadies her full against his sweat-damp shirt, broad chest rising firm under her cheek. His big hand cups her elbow, the other spans low on her back, guiding her bare feet over the bathmat and out the steamy bathroom door.

He snags a clean washcloth from the sink edge first, soaking it under hot tap water till steam curls off, then presses it gentle but thorough to her chin, wiping away the glossy streaks of spit and tears. His thumb traces her swollen lips, the cloth dragging over puffy cheeks and her jaw, leaving her skin flushed warm and bare. 

“There. Clean slate, baby girl,” he rumbles low, voice that quiet thunder rolling deep from his chest.

The king bed dominated the dim space, sheets rumpled from earlier. He sinks onto the edge, thighs spreading wide like tree trunks, then tugs her forward to drape her naked body across his lap face-down. Ass up high, cheeks still blooming hot from the spanking, pussy lips peeking swollen and slick between spread thighs. His weight shifts the mattress deep, one massive palm flattening broad on her lower back to anchor her still, the other dipping into the jar of balm on the nightstand. A cool, thick shea and aloe mix he keeps stocked for nights like this.

His fingers dig in generously, spreading the cream in firm circles over her left cheek first, kneading the stinging heat away, thumb pressing into the tender underside where it meets thigh. Smoke switches to the right after a while, palms gliding slick, parting the globes slightly to smooth the balm down the cleft, grazing her puckered hole and dipping low enough to tease her soaked folds without mercy. 

“You know why that ass got lit up, Zariah,” he starts, tone even, dangerously calm wrapping each word like barbed wire, dragging vowels long and weighted. “Pushin’ me like that, testin' boundaries when I done told you how it's gone be. Mouth runnin’ reckless, darin’ me to snap. I spank you again and again if you keep triggerin’ this fire. Don’t make me prove it twice more tonight.”

His hand keeps working, the balm sinking in as her skin drinks it greedy, cooling the fire to a throb. Smoke’s palm cups one cheek full, squeezing soft, then leans down to press open-mouth kisses along the curve—lips dragging hot and wet, tongue flicking out to taste the salted balm on fevered flesh. Peck after peck trails inward, nipping the fullest swell before soothing with flat laps.

“Mmm,” he draws back, biting his bottom lip, her slick sticking to his goatee, “pussy puffy from me popping that ass,” Smoke takes two fingers, tapping her pussy lips, labia peeking through like petals. “I know you love it when daddy turns you out like a fuck doll…pussy leakin’ for it. But safety first, always. Top of my list. You play brat, defy what I say to keep you whole, that shit upsets me deep. I’d kill anybody—end ‘em slow—who so much as touches a hair on your head. Bleed ‘em dry for less.”

Smoke’s voice stays level, no rise, just that steel edge slicing through, breath ghosting her skin between kisses, one hand landing square on the sit-spot welt. Smoke pauses, hand stilling to pat her ass possessive, waiting till her breath evens soft against the sheets.

“Now, you know what I want you to do. Say it clear.”

Zariah shifts slightly across his lap, thighs clenching, posture holding upright even prone, spine straight, hands smoothing the bedspread once to ground herself. Her voice comes soft, that self-possessed edge threading through.

“…I’ll listen to what daddy says.”

“Good girl, keep goin’.”

Smoke’s palm resumes stroking the balm in, fingers parting her cheeks wider for a deep kiss right above where her puckered hole sat, his tongue circling lazy.

“…I—I’ll stop being m–mean to daddy…and understand t–that he’s trying to protect m–me, not control me,” her full lips press thin a beat, exhale parting them tense, brown eyes flicking back over her shoulder to hold his gaze steady. Even though her body couldn’t stop shaking.

“Mm. That’s my girl,” another peck lower, between the under cuff of her ass where her thighs met, “finish it.”

“H–He wants me to continue t–to be independent…but understand that m–my man w–wants and needs to step up. To provide, protect, a–and spoil me. To create a life for me w–where I can continue to be t–the phenomenal women that I am. The beautiful woman t–that I am. The sexy woman that I am.”

Her words came out even in some ways and shaky in others. No plea. Only quiet dominance and echoing his, her body relaxing fuller into his lap as the balm soaked deep. Smoke nods once, satisfaction etching his heavy-lidded stare. He gave his girl a final kiss planted firm on her tailbone, one large, calloused hand sliding up her slick spine to tangle light in her hair, tugging her head back gently for more eye contact.

“That’s my girl. Good job. Now…rest that ass here while daddy thinks up how to spoil you next.”

Smoke positions Zariah on her stomach across their bed. He spreads her thighs wide from behind and lifts her hips into the right tilt. Smoke dips his head and admires her pussy lips sitting in the shape of a heart below her ass that glistened from the balm. His tongue moves in slow strokes from the base of her pussy upward, gathering every bit of wetness. He seals his lips around the folds and sucks them clean with steady pulls before pressing soft kisses along the slick skin. His tongue dips inside to lick deeper then returns to lap and suck without rushing, working through the mess until only his mouth leaves her glistening.

Zariah’s body rocks with small shifts under his hold. “Yes daddy." Her voice comes thick. “Thank you daddy.” She pushes back a fraction as his suction holds on her clit. “I love it when you eat my pussy.”

Smoke keeps his pace while his voice rumbles low against her. “Stay open for me. Let daddy clean every drop. You taste so good when I take my time like this.” He kisses her tender entrance then sucks again, tongue circling slow. “That’s it. Give it all to me.”

Zariah shifts her hips back in a slow roll, pressing her soaked folds against Smoke's mouth. He meets each motion by sealing his lips around her clit and sucking with firm, steady pressure, drawing the swollen bud between his lips in a gentle pull before releasing. Her thighs tremble under his grip as she rocks again, grinding back for more contact.

"Oooo," she breathes out, the sound stretching long. “Fuck. Yes.” The words slip free between moans while her body keeps moving, seeking that same suction each time she pushes her pussy toward him.

Smoke's tongue works in skillful laps, flattening broad against her entrance before dragging upward to circle her clit again. His voice stays low and even, vibrating right against her skin.

 “That’s right, keep bringing it back  like that. Let me suck on this pretty pussy. You feel how wet you stay for me?” Smoke proves her opening with the tip of his tongue to catch some of that wetness. “I can taste every bit of it, so sweet and thick on my tongue. Gon’ fuck you so deep after this, stretch you open slow with every inch until you can't think straight. This pussy gon' take it all, and I'ma give it to you proper.”

Snoke sucks with more pressure on her clit as she rocks back once more, holding the pull for a beat longer before easing off to lick through her folds. “Tastes so damn good, baby. Can't get enough of how you drip down my chin.”

Zariah’s voice comes out husky between her moans. “You love this pussy, baby?”

Smoke answers without lifting his mouth, the words rumbling straight into her. “Daddy love this pussy. Best fuckin’ pussy I ever had.”

Zariah’s voice lifts soft and questioning as she rocks back once more. “Daddy?”

Smoke answers with a low hum that vibrates against her folds, the sound deep and steady while his tongue continues its work.

Zariah pushes again, her words coming clearer now. “Daddy I wanna watch you eat my pussy.”

In one smooth motion Smoke flips her onto her back, his hands guiding her body with controlled strength. He pulls the black tee over his head and drops it aside, leaving him fully naked as he settles between her open thighs. Zariah spreads wider for him, and he eases down to keep his mouth on her, licking and sucking with focused attention. She grinds her pussy into his mouth, hips rolling to meet each pull of his lips. Smoke gently pushes her thighs open further, holding them apart so he can slurp directly on her clit with wet, smacking sounds. He stays right there, working that spot alone because it builds her up fast. Her body tenses and then releases in a sudden rush as she squirts, the warm fluid spilling over his tongue and chin while he keeps sucking through every pulse.

Smoke stays locked between her thighs, refusing to ease up. His tongue drags in long, wet strokes that feel heavy and thick against her folds, each one landing with pressure that makes her hips twitch. Zariah’s pussy quivers under the attention, the sensitive skin pulsing and tightening as he circles her clit again and again. He holds her legs open wider with firm hands, keeping her spread so nothing interrupts the steady motion of his mouth. The wet sounds grow louder with every lick, and he focuses right there, building the heat until her body starts to tighten once more. She grinds down into him, chasing the sensation as the pressure coils deep inside. His tongue works without pause, thick and insistent, pushing her straight toward the edge until she breaks again, fluid spilling over his lips while he keeps sucking through the pulses.

Smoke stays locked in place, his mouth sealed over her pussy as he sucks deeper, pulling her swollen clit between his lips with steady pressure. His tongue follows in thick, wet drags that lap up every fresh trickle of her arousal, working in firm circles that make her thighs shake in the air. Zariah keeps her legs spread wide, knees bent and feet towards the ceiling, giving him full access while her hips roll in small, desperate circles against his face.

Her body reacts in waves. The muscles in her lower belly tighten and release with each pull of his mouth, sending ripples across her frame. Her rich brown skin glistens with sweat, the soft curve of her waist flexing as her back arches off the bed. Her breasts rise and fall faster, nipples tight and dark against the air. Inside, her walls pulse and flutter around nothing, clenching with every lick that drags from her entrance up to her clit. More slick heat spills out, coating his tongue and dripping down his chin as he swallows it down without pause.

“Uhuh, yeah baby.” Smoke rumbles against her, voice low and thick with command. “Keep those legs open. Let me feel you gettin' close. I want every drop this time. Right in my fucking mouth. Feed me.” His words vibrate through her core, pushing the tension higher. Smoke sucks again, lips sealed tight while his tongue flicks quick and firm right on that sensitive spot, building the pressure until her moans turn ragged.

Zariah’s hands fist the sheets. Her pussy quivers harder now, the inner walls squeezing in quick spasms that grow stronger with each pass of his tongue. The heat coils low in her belly, spreading outward until her toes curl and her breath hitches in short gasps. "Haah—Fuck," a sharp inhale caught in her throat, then she breathes out, the word breaking on a moan as another rush of wetness floods his mouth. Her hips jerk upward, chasing the sensation while her thighs tremble around his shoulders.

Smoke doesn't let up. He slides two fingers inside her, curling them against that spongy spot while his mouth keeps working her clit in wet, insistent pulls. “I know you feel it buildin’. Don't hold back on me. You gon’ give it all, you hear me?” His free hand presses her thigh wider, keeping her open as her body winds tighter. Her stomach flutters visibly, the muscles jumping under her skin. Her pussy clenches around his fingers, gripping and releasing in a steady climb toward the edge.

"I'll be your good girl—” Zariah gasps, voice cracking as the pressure peaks. Her whole frame locks up for a beat, then shatters. A hot rush pours from her, squirting in pulsing waves straight into his mouth. Smoke groans low and drinks it down, tongue still moving through the contractions that ripple through her walls. Her orgasm rolls on, body shaking as fresh slick spills over his lips and chin, her moans filling the room while he holds her through every last spasm.

Smoke lingers between her thighs after the last tremors fade, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against her slick folds. Each one lands soft, his lips brushing over the swollen heat while his tongue gives the lightest flick to catch the lingering taste. 

“That’s a good girl," he whispers low against her, the words vibrating through her sensitive skin. “Took every bit of it just like I said. Look at you, still shakin’ for me.” His praise comes steady and warm, laced with that deep southern drawl that settles right into her bones.

Zariah’s breath hitches in the aftermath, her body still sprawled open on the sheets. Her rich brown skin gleams from the vanilla oil, a fine sheen of sweat tracing the narrow dip of her waist and the soft flare of her hips. Her breasts rise and fall in quick, shallow pulls, nipples drawn tight from the rush that just tore through her. Inside, her walls continue to flutter in small, involuntary pulses, the aftershocks making her thighs twitch around his shoulders even as she keeps them parted for him.

Smoke trails those kisses upward, dragging his mouth across the smooth plane of her lower belly. Each press of his lips leaves a ticklish, wet mark that cools against her heated skin, moving higher with unhurried purpose. His hands slide along her sides, palms broad as they frame her ribcage. When he reaches her chest, he pauses at one peaked nipple, drawing it between his lips with a firm, wet pull. His tongue circles the tight bud then strokes while he sucks, the pressure sending fresh sparks straight down to her still-throbbing core.

Zariah arches into the contact, a broken moan slipping free as her fingers thread into the sheets again. The pull at her nipple feels sharper now, heightened by how raw everything still feels below. Her other breast settles against his cheek when he shifts to give it the same attention, sucking deep while his tongue works in lazy, insistent laps. 

“So damn responsive,” Smoke rumbles between pulls, voice thick with approval. “Every part of you knows who it belong to.”

Zariah’s legs ease wider on instinct, the earlier tension melting into a loose, pliant sprawl. The muscles along her stomach quiver visibly under his path, and her hips give a small, involuntary roll upward as if chasing more of the contact even though he's moved on. Smoke keeps his mouth latched, alternating between gentle suction and firmer draws that make her back bow off the bed, her full lips parting around another shaky exhale.

Smoke stays latched on her nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth with sucks that make her whole chest tighten. His tongue works in firm circles, pressing and flicking against the stiff peak while his teeth graze just enough to send sharp little jolts straight through her. Zariah’s rich brown skin flushes darker across her breasts, the full weight of them rising and falling with every breath as he switches sides, sucking the other nipple just as hard, his broad hand cupping the first one to keep the wet heat from fading.

Her pussy responds fast, slick folds parting on their own as fresh wetness slips out in a steady drip that trails down toward the sheets. The sensation builds low and insistent, her clit twitching in time with each strong suck, the tiny bud swelling and pulsing without any direct touch. Her slim-thick thighs part wider on the bed, hips rolling in small, helpless circles as the throbbing between her legs grows heavier, matching the pull of his mouth.

Zariah’s long legs tremble as another rush of heat floods her core. She can feel it clearly now, the way her pussy clenches around nothing, dripping steadily while her clit jumps and aches for friction. Smoke doesn’t let up, his lips sealed tight around her nipple, sucking with that deep, focused technique hat leaves her gasping. His free hand slides down her side, palm broad against the curve of her waist, holding her steady as her back arches higher off the mattress.

“Look at that,” he says low, voice rough against her skin between pulls. “Your body tellin’ on you. Drippin’ all over just from this.” He drags his tongue across the sensitive tip one more time, then seals his mouth around it again, sucking harder until her clit twitches visibly with the next wave of wetness sliding free.

Zariah’s breath comes in short, shaky pulls, her full lips parted, eyes half-lidded as the pressure builds. Every strong draw from his mouth sends fresh heat straight down, making her pussy clench and release, more slick gathering and spilling out in warm trails. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, the empty ache growing sharper with each passing second. She rolls her hips again, seeking something, anything, but Smoke keeps her pinned with his weight and his mouth, focused entirely on working her nipples until the dripping and twitching leaves her shaking.

When he could see that pussy weeping the way he needed it to, Smoke releases her nipple with a slow drag of his lips, the wet pull leaving a shiny trail across her deep brown areolas. He rises over her, his thick frame blotting out the light above the bed as he lowers his mouth to hers. The kiss lands heavy and unhurried, his tongue pushing past her parted lips to stroke deep, carrying the taste of her own sex. Zariah meets him without hesitation, her full lips pressing back while her breath hitches against his. Her hands slide up his arms, fingers curling around the dense muscle there as the kiss stretches on, turning hotter with each slow pass of his tongue.

Her body stays open beneath him, thighs spread wide on the sheets. The steady drip from her pussy continues, warm slick sliding down the curve of her ass and soaking into the sheets right along with the puddle she made from squirting. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, each pulse sending fresh heat through her core. Zariah rolls her hips upward, seeking the press of his weight, the hard length of him brushing her inner thigh as he settles closer. Smoke's hand moves to cradle the back of her neck, holding her still while the kiss turns rougher, his teeth catching her bottom lip for a brief tug before his tongue claims her mouth again.

His hand lingers tangled in her curls, thumb stroking the nape of her neck in lazy circles 

“Spoil you proper now,” Smoke rumbles that reminder, voice vibrating through her bones. His big palms slide down her sides, gripping her hips firm to flip her upright in one smooth hoist, straddling his thighs now, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. That heavy and rigid, curved dick all thick-veined and standing tall from those low-hanging balls, say wedged between her pussy lips, tip glossy from pre-cum beading thick.

Zariah braces her hands on his full chest, fingers splaying over his pecs, feeling the dense muscle shift under her palms as he breathes deep. Glossy brown eyes lock on his heavy-lidded stare, lips parting on a soft exhale, posture straight even perched like this, thighs flexing to lift her hips. Zariah sinks down slowly, pussy lips parting wide around his girth, swallowing the flared head first with a wet stretch, inner walls clenching greedily as inches disappear inside. Halfway down, she pauses, breath hitching, hands smoothing over his pecs to steady herself. 

Smoke’s arms snake around her, one thick forearm banding her lower back, the other spanning shoulder blades, yanking her flush against him. Chest mashes to chest, her nipples dragging hard points over his skin, his beard scraping her jaw as he nuzzles close. “

“Ride daddy, baby girl,” Smoke growls low in her ear, hips snapping up suddenly, thrust punching deep, balls slapping her ass with a meaty smack. Zariah gasps, spine arching but Smoke holds her locked, pumping from below relentlessly now. Each buck rolls his pelvis up hard, curved dick spearing her g-spot dead-on, grinding the base against her swollen clit with every bury.

Thighs like steel pistons flex under her, driving up fast then slow, varying the rhythm to make her chase it, his arms crushing her closer, one hand fisting her ass cheek to spread her wider, fingers teasing her hole while he rails her pussy. Sweat slicks their skin, her juices coat his shaft glossy, dripping down to soak his balls. 

“Feel that? Daddy fillin’ you full, protectin’ this pussy ‘cus it's mine. Phenomenal woman takin’ every inch.” His voice stays that dangerous calm, breath tickling her neck between grunts, lips sucking marks along her collarbone.

Zariah rocks with him, hips circling intentional, walls fluttering tight around his length. Her voice was soft, edged with that self-possession. 

 “Yes, daddy...feels so good.” No begging, just owning the ride, thighs quivering as tension builds. He ramps it harder, arms vise-tight, fucking up into her like a machine, wet slaps echoing loud, her ass bouncing on his thighs, pussy creaming thick down his dick. 

Zariah’s moans spill out breathy at first, soft exhales pitching higher with each deep punch,,starting as hushed mmh's from deep in her throat, lips parting wider to let ahh's drag long and throaty, vibrating against where her mouth presses open near his collarbone. Tension coils her core tighter, breaths coming measured but ragged now, moans layering into nngh-ahh-mmh, each one punched out precisely by his upward drives, voice never cracking loud but husky-thick with need, edges fraying just enough to feel raw.

“Yes, daddy,” Zariah breathes into his neck, her hips working bolder, starting to throw it down now, lifting high to slam her ass back onto his thighs with snaps and deep grinds, pussy gripping his girth on every drop. “You fuck me so good. Fuck this pussy. Fuck me with that big dick.” Her thighs flex hard, bucking wilder to meet his thrusts, wet hole sucking him deeper, creamy froth building at the base where her pussy lips stretch taut around his veined curve. “Fuck, I love this big dick.” Her voice stays in that self-possessed tone, edged needy, no shrieks or pleas because she was owning every word as she grinds down, clit dragging his pelvis, walls pulsing greedy. 

Smoke’s grip tightens, one forearm locked across her lower back to mash her tits flush to his chest, the other palm cupping her ass full, fingers digging into the balm-slick cheek to yank her harder onto each buck. His toned hips piston up relentless, thick thighs bulging under her weight, curved length spearing her depths over and over. Those heavy balls swinging up to tap her perineum with heavy thwacks. 

“Fuck yes, baby girl, throw that pussy on daddy's dick like you ownin’ it, good girl, get your dick,” Smoke rumbles low in her ear, thick and commanding. “Look at you ridin’ this big Mississippi meat, creamin’ all over my balls. Feel how deep I'm feedin’ this wet hole? Huh? Stretchin’ you wide, hittin’ that spot ain’t I’m?” Smoke thrusts up and holds, tapping Zariah on the rump as she shakes all over. “All that boss shit disappear when I give you dick. You safe wit’ me, act like it.” 

Smoke rolls his pelvis on the upthrusts, grinding the fat base against her clit, varying the pace from slow deep grinds to three fast snaps, making her chase the friction. Sweat beads on his chest, his beard rasping her jaw as he turns her face to capture her lips in a messy suck, tongue thrusting in time with his hips. “Keep talkin’ to me, bad girl. Tell daddy how this dick rearrangin’ that tight pussy. You takin’ it perfect.” Smoke’s thumb teases her back entrance light, pressing the puckered ring while he rails her pussy, arms crushing her immobile against him, and Zariah was owning it even as she bucks wild.

Her pace picks up frantic, hips slamming down to swallow him balls-deep every time, pussy squelching loud around his girth, juices dripping warm down his sack to soak the sheets. Her moans turn into throaty-soft pleas now.

“Ahh-nngh-yes!” blending with his grunts, body trembling. Smoke feels her tighten vise-like, knows she's close, but holds back his own load, hips snapping sharper to drag it out.

Zariah’s walls clamp down vise-tight around his thick length, that deep coil snapping loose as the orgasm rips through her, body seizing rigid in his iron hold, thighs locking hard against his hips, back arching sharp but pinned flush by his forearm across her back. Her pussy floods him in hot gushes, creamy release squirting thick around his pistoning shaft, soaking his heavy balls and dripping messy down to the sheets below. Zariah can’t buck anymore, stuck impaled balls-deep on his curved girth, every ridge dragging her fluttering walls as Smoke keeps snapping up relentless, his hips rolling precisely to grind that swollen spot inside her over and over, forcing wave after wave to crash harder.

Moans pour from her throat uncontrolled, delicate but fractured, starting as a long, drawn out ‘ahhhh’ vibrating deep in her chest, pitching into sharp ‘nngh-nngh’ gasps punched out by each thrust, lips trembling open against his neck where her face buries hot and slick with sweat. They layer ragged, breathy exhales fraying at the edges ‘mmh-ahh-mmh’ blending into a throaty hum that shakes her frame, her voice husky-thick and edged raw, never shrill but owning the depth of it, body quaking helpless as she creams all over his big dick.

Smoke doesn't let up, thick arms crushing her immobile against him, his biceps bulging under her sliding palms, one hand palming her ass cheek deep to spread her wider, fingers splayed to feel her hole pulse and leak around him. His pelvis snaps up in deep strokes, curved head battering that g-spot without mercy, balls wet against her perineum through her flood. That thick length gleamed with her juices and he just kept fucking her pussy straight through the peak. Smoke turns her face to lock eyes with him, his heavy-lidded gaze burning steady into hers, full lips parting on a low grunt.

“Yeah, cum on this dick, baby girl, keep cummin’ on this dick.” Smoke growls thick in her ear. “Pretty pussy grippin’ me so tight, squirtin’ all over daddy’s balls. Stuck right here takin’ every inch while I hit that spot. Keep cummin’ for me, baby, flood this big dick, bad girl. You own this nut, pussy milkin’ me deep.” He varies the drives—three short punches to her depths, then a slow grind circling her clit with his base, drawing out the spasms, her walls sucking greedily even as she trembles locked.

Zariah’s body jerks in aftershocks, pussy clenching around him, more cream bubbling out to coat his veined length shiny, her thighs quivering helpless. All Zariah can do is moan throaty into his collarbone, ‘ahh-nngh-yes’ spilling fractured as he rails her sensitive hole. He feels his own sack tighten heavy, but holds it back, hips powering through her mess to chase every drop from her. He’d continue to edge himself as long as he gives his bad bitch plenty of orgasms. 

Smoke eases out of her spasming pussy with a wet pop, Zariah’s cream clinging thick in strings to his veined shaft, glossy from tip to base where her squirt and cream mixed in slick trails down his heavy balls. Smoke wastes no time and flips her over rough but steady, large hands gripping her hips to yank her ass high at the bed's edge, face pressed flat into the rumpled sheets, knees spread wide under his direction. One palm presses firm between her shoulder blades, forcing that deep arch in her spine until her spine hollows out perfectly, ass cheeks parting naturally from the stretch, lower back dipping sharp.

Her pussy blooms open in that position, lips puffy and flushed dark from the pounding, inner folds glistening raw and swollen, stuck slightly agape from his girth, unable to close full after the stretch. Cream leaks steady from that stretched, creamy hole, thick white rivulets bubbling out slow to trail down her inner thighs, mixing with squirt sheen that soaks the sheets beneath her knees. Above it, her pretty asshole winks in the cool air, the tight ring pulsing faint with each aftershock clench from her pussy below, pink-brown rim flexing open a fraction before snapping shut, begging subtle under the exposure.

Smoke stands planted at the edge, bare feet firm on the floor, thick thighs framing her as he lines up, messy dick heavy in his fist, curved length slapping once against her leaking slit to smear her own juices back over her clit. Then, he sinks in, crown breaching her folds with a squelch, inch after girthy inch parting her walls until his pelvis meets her ass full, balls nestling heavy against her clit. Slow strokes start, pulling back to the tip so her pussy lips drag reluctant along his ridges, then driving deep again, his hips rolling weighted to bottom out each time, grinding her depths before he withdraws again. 

“Zari…you daddy’s little bratty girl, huh?” Smoke rumbles low, thick and edged mean, one hand sinking deep into her left ass cheek, fingers digging to spread her wider. He watched his curved dick emerge shiny-coated in fresh cream, veins pulsing as her hole grips and tugs. “You piss me off just so I can fuck you like this? Bend you over and drill this good pussy deep?” Smoke popped her ass. “See how sweet you get when you finally let go?” 

“Yes, daddy,” Zariah gasps throaty into the mattress, voice husky-fractured from the stretch, ass pushing back instinctively to meet his plunge, her walls fluttering around the slow invasion. “Yes, sir, I do—want this dick so bad.”

Smoke grunts his approval, other hand claiming a full handful of her right cheek—palms rough and veined, overflowing with soft flesh, kneading hard as he pulls her onto him deeper, pace still controlled but forceful, balls tapping her clit wet on each burial. Her leaky mess coated him fresh, pussy slurping audible around the drag. 

“That’s right. Act up so daddy give you some dick, stretch this bratty hole wide. Piss me off on purpose, gettin’ that arch just right for me too. You love bein’ face down, ass up, leakin’ all over my balls while I stroke it slow like this? Huh?”

“Mmm-yes sir,” Zariah moans soft-edged, body rocking forward with each deep seat, tits dragging along the sheets, back holding that arch under his palm's pressure, thighs quaking faint as the slow grind builds the pressure anew.

 “Love it daddy, love pissin’ you off for this—fuck me deep, please sir.”

Smoke’s grip tightens on her ass, spreading her cheeks farther to stare down at the sight, thick dick disappearing into her gripping pussy, lips hugging tight on the outstroke, cream frothing at the base where her hole milks him greedy. He picks up a fraction, strokes still deep but adding a twist at the end to nudge her g-spot, heavy balls swinging to smack her clit. Sweat beads his sculpted chest, biceps flexing as he holds her steady, heavy-lidded eyes tracing the messy union.

Each withdraw dragged her puffy lips outward, clinging to his veined length before he fed it back in full, pelvis slapping her ass cheeks with a meaty thud that echoed off the walls. His large hands overflow with her flesh, thumbs digging into the crease where thigh meets cheek to pry her wider, exposing the way her hole stretches taut around his girth, inner walls visible in flashes of pink and slick as cream bubbles fresh at the seam. Her asshole keeps up its subtle pulse above, ring contracting in time with her pussy's greedy squeezes, a faint sheen of her own leak trickling down to gloss it further.

Zariah twists her neck, cheek lifting off the damp sheets, eyes glassy and desperate locking onto his over her shoulder, those lips he loved so much parted on heavy breaths, kinky hair spilling wild across her back. 

“Daddy–yyy,” she pleads raw, voice cracking high as one of her hands snakes down between her spread thighs, thumb finding her swollen clit to rub frantic circles, chasing the building coil. “Please sir, harder—gimme more dick, I need it deep.” Her hips buck back insistent against his controlled pace, ass jiggling faint in his grip, pussy slurping louder on the next plunge as her walls clamp down fluttering.

“Not yet, brat,” he growls thick, voice rolling low, free hand sliding up her spine to press her chest flatter, keeping that arch locked while his hips roll weighted, grinding the curve of his dick against her front wall on every bury. “You gon’ beg pretty for daddy first. Tell me how bad this pussy want it—how you act up just to get stretched like this, leakin’ all over me, nasty girl.” He watches her fingers blur faster on her clit, the way her thighs start quaking harder. “You feel how hard you holdin’ onto me? That stress been sittin’ in your body all damn week. Use me then, go ‘head.” 

“Daddy, yes, I'm your bratty girl, piss you off for this dick every time,” Zariah whines, head turning full to hold his gaze, eyes pleading wide while her fingers grind her clit ruthlessly, body rocking violently now between his strokes and her own touch. Her eyes go cross eyed as she gushes fresh around him, walls rippling wild as the pressure crests, her back bowing deeper under his palm, ass pressing back to take him to the hilt. “Daddy, daddy—I'm squirting, oh fuck sir, it's comin’—don't stop, talk me through it please!”

Smoke leans forward slightly, chest brushing her back as one hand releases her cheek to tangle in her hair, yanking her head back gently but firm to keep those eyes on him, the other palm smacking her ass once sharp to jolt her higher. His strokes stay slow but deepen, twisting at the base to nudge her g-spot while her fingers strum. 

“Good girl, there you do, baby girl, let it go for daddy. Feel that pussy squeezin’ me tight? You squirtin’ all over this dick, you can't help it. Push back on it, rub that clit harder—gimme that mess. You like bein’ handled, huh?”

“Yes—”

“That’s my baby right there.” 

His voice stays gravel-rough, guiding her edge with words as her body seizes, thighs locking, toes curling into the mattress, a sharp cry ripping from her throat.

Her squirt hits explosive, clear jets pulsing out around his buried length to spray his pelvis and thighs, puddling hot on the sheets below as her pussy convulses violently, clenching him in waves that force more cream to froth at the base. She stares back at him wild-eyed, mouth slack on gasps, fingers slowing sloppy through the aftershocks while he holds steady inside her, hips grinding minimal to prolong the clench, watching her leak mix with the spray in rivulets down her legs.

 “Good girl, just like that—daddy got you, keep cummin’ good tonight. There you go, let all that pressure out. Ain’t nobody gon’ take care of you like me. Daddy got you. Been a mean bitch for so long ain’t nobody fuck you stupid til I cam around,” Smoke pops her on the left cheek. “Quit actin’ tough and come get this comfort. Say, yes sir.” 

“Y–yes, sir.” 

 “Now we gettin’ to the good part. I’ma move when you ready, but when I do, you gon’ feel every stroke. You with me? Say it.”

Zariah exhales, “I’m with you, daddy.” She grips the sheets. 

“Talk to me, Zari. Words. You ready or daddy gotta give you a break?” 

Zariah sucks in air and lets it out meditating slow. 

“I’m ready, sir.” 

Smoke's grip shifts lightning-quick from her hair to her shoulders, thick fingers clamping down over the knobs of bone there, palms splaying wide across her upper back to yank her torso up off the soaked sheets, forcing that spine into a brutal arch. Her head snaps upright, chin tucking toward her chest while her eyes glaze over fucked-out, pupils blown wide staring dead ahead at the headboard, mouth hanging slack on drooling whimpers, tongue lolling faint as spit beads at the corner. The new angle spears his dick straight down into her core, her ass cheeks spreading obscene on his pelvis with every hilt, pussy lips puffing out bloated and raw around the veined stretch, cream and squirt foaming thick at the root to splatter his heavy balls on the upstroke.

Smoke rears back tall behind her, knees digging wider into the mattress for leverage, broad shoulders rolling fluid as his dense core tightens, abs flexing solid under sweat-slick brown skin that gleams. Those rounded delts bunch heavy, veins popping along his forearms as he hauls her back onto him harder, his hips snapping forward with punishing force now, no more tease, full throttle wrecking. Each thrust lands weighted and final, his pelvis crashing her ass with claps that ripple flesh outward in waves, her cheeks clapping back against his thighs while her entire frame jolts forward violently, tits swinging beneath her to smack her ribs. The bed frame groans protest under the onslaught, pure power uncoiling from that grounded stance, thighs thick and corded pumping relentlessly.

Zariah’s body's a live wire in the pound, pussy walls seizing erratic around his plunging length, clenching desperate to hold him but fluttering loose on the withdraw, gushing fresh squirt in erratic sprays that arc down her quaking thighs to puddle wider on the sheets. Every bury shoves her forward an inch before his shoulder grip reels her back, her ass meat compressing flat against him then bouncing rebound, ripples traveling up her spine to make her curls lash wild. Her thighs attempt to lock rigid then spasm open, toes scrabbling, curling into the mattress as her belly sucks in hollow, ribs heaving under sweat-sheened skin, fucked-out stare fixed unblinking ahead, lashes fluttering half-mast while tears streak silent from the corners, jaw slack wider on guttural cries that pitch higher with each rip through her depths.

“That little mean streak disappear fast when I touch you right. You been wantin’ this all day. Nah, stay right there I wanna watch you take it—look at my girl—take this dick tearin’ you open,” he rasps, drawl thickening hot over the wet slaps, one hand sliding from shoulder to tangle back in her hair—yanking her head higher to deepen the arch while the other digs  into her shoulder, pinning her steady for the ram. His chest heaves, heavy breaths fanning her neck as he leans over partial, hips pistoning machine-like, balls swinging to batter her clit, smearing her mess back up her folds. 

“Feel daddy rearrangin’ your guts? You soaked the whole damn bed beggin’ for it—now wet this dick up  again while I pound you stupid. Arch that back deeper, push this ass on me—gimme that grip, baby. You gon’ relax for me or keep fightin’ me, baby?”

Zariah chokes out a keen, body betraying full surrender—hips grinding back frantic despite the overwhelm, pussy convulsing in fresh spasms that squeeze him vise-tight, walls undulating a massage along every vein as another squirt builds from the core. Her arms buckle, elbows to the sheets, fingers clawing fabric while her tits drag heavy across the damp cotton, nipples scraping raw. Her entire frame shudders electric with the force, ass lifting instinctively to meet his slams even as her vision blurs white-hot ahead. Sweat rivers down her cleavage, pooling in her navel before dripping off to mix with the flood below, thighs slick and trembling spread wide around his pistoning thighs.

Smoke grunts approval low, pace ratcheting inhuman, thrusts blurring to a frenzy that shakes her teeth, his solid midsection slapping her ass endless while those large hands anchor her, veins throbbing prominent down his forearms from the haul. Sweat beads thick on his brow, trickling into the heavy stubble framing his jaw that’s set hard, dark eyes locked on the destruction between her legs, watching her hole gape briefly on pulls before swallowing him balls-deep again. 

“FUCK, just like that—pussy talkin’ back to daddy, on every stroke.” His voice coaches steady through the chaos, drawl wrapping command around her haze as her body hurtles toward shatter again, the room thick with their slap-echo and her broken pleas. “Breathe through it. You can handle it. This what happen when you act like you don't need me tellin' you what to do. Next time you think about steppin’ out of line, you remember how this dick feel stretchin’ you open and makin’ you cum so hard you can't even talk.” 

Smoke yanks free with a wet pop that leaves her hole gaping, pink inner walls fluttering visible, clenching air desperate around nothing while thick strands of her cream stretch and snap between his retreating length and her wrecked folds. Frothy white coats his dick heavy from root to tip, balls glossy-slick swinging low and heavy beneath, veins pulsing prominent along his curved shaft.

 “Flip over, clean this dick spotless, baby,” Smoke orders, cutting sharp through her haze as one large hand strokes himself base-up lazy, smearing her mess while the other pats her ass firm to roll her.

Zariah twists compliant on trembling limbs, spine sinking into the drenched mattress as she sprawls supine, hair fanning wild across the pillow, belly quivering faint under the aftershocks. Her thighs splay wide, knees bending hooks toward her shoulders to bare everything, pussy on full display. Lips swollen fat and parted like it wanted to stay just like that from now on, flushed deep around the edges from the tear-up, inner pink glistening obscene under a sheen of her own squirt that drips lazy from her stretched entrance. Her clit hood peeled back partial, pearl throbbing exposed and raw, folds puffy-ridged from friction with cream beading fresh in the creases, entire slit pulsing like a heartbeat begging refill.

Smoke kneels up tall between her legs, knees bracketing her hips as he feeds his dick forward, tip bumping her lips expectant. Zariah cranes her neck, tongue darting out to lap broad from balls upward, tracing the heavy seam salty with her tang before sucking one orb full into her mouth, cheeks hollowing while her hand cups the other, rolling it. Up the shaft next, flat laps cleaning veins groove by groove, swirling the flared head to hollow her cheeks around it vacuum-tight, sucking her cream off audible with slurps that echo wet, spit mixing fresh to dribble down her chin as she moans low vibrations against him. His free hand dives between her thighs unhurried, palm cupping her mound full before thick fingers part those bloated lips wider, middle and ring sliding through the slick valley, parting her petals to expose that clenching core.

Feels like firework sparks when he rubs. Thick fingers coarse-knuckled dragging pressure perfect over her clit first, circling the hood lazy to make it twitch and swell fatter under the pad of his thumb joining in, then dipping lower to trace entrance rim where her walls suck greedy at the intrusion. That sweet pussy yields butter-soft inside, hot velvet clamping instant on the shallow probes, gushing syrupy response that coats his digits knuckle-deep. Each pass through her folds sends jolts electric up her spine. Zariah’s thighs jerked, spread while her hips buck faint to chase. Her outer lips drag sensitive along his palm skin, inner ridges fluttering as he massaged with his fingertips that scoop cream back up to smear her clit renewed, building that coil tight again with every glide.

Zariah polishes him thoroughly, tongue polishing the underside ridge before popping off clean with a gasp. Her hand wrapped around the base firm now to stroke with a upward twist, the skin gliding smooth over the cleaned glans while her gaze locks with his from below. Sultry heat simmers there, lids heavy-lidded fuck-drunk but sharp with desire, full lips curving wicked as teeth catch the bottom one, dragging slowly, holding his stare unblinking, challenge wrapped in surrender. Smoke groans deep, torso folding forward lean as his mouth crashes hers hungry—tongue thrusting his claim deep to tangle hers messy, tasting her own flavor shared while fingers keep working her pussy, two now plunging knuckle-deep to curl and hook against that front wall.

The kiss breaks on her whine, his beard rasping her chin, then his lips trail fire down her throat, nipping her collarbone before his palms scoop under her breasts heavy, thumbs flicking her chocolate nipples side-to-side to make them diamond-hard. Smoke kneads them, fingers sinking deep into the yielding flesh to shape and bounce them palm-to-palm, mouth latching hot over one peak to suck with a vacuum pull while his teeth graze faintly. His tongue lashes flat on her areolas before nibbling gently. Her strokes quicken on his dick, thumb swiping pre cum at his slit.

Smoke releases her nipple with a wet smack, lips glossy from the pull as his gaze lifts heavy to lock hers, dark eyes boring deep, one thumb still circling the slick peak lazy while the other hand squeezes her other titty, flesh spilling between fingers. 

“Good girl, Zariah,” Smoke rumbles faintly, voice dipping low like thunder. “Daddy proud of you…takin’ this dick so deep, stretchin’ that pussy perfect. Handlin’ yo’ punishment like a champ too, ass sore but you stayed right there, took every lick without runnin’.That's my baby.”