eye-raq

[eye-raq]

The Hoodoo Apprentice

Summary: Amelia packed her things and took a train to Clarksdale Mississippi to reunite with an old friend, Annie. Annie promised she’d teach Amelia the art of Hoodoo. After a month, Smoke and Stack return with a plan to open a Juke Joint.

Warnings: Warnings: SMUT

Part six: this one had to be broken down as well! It was getting long! This chapter will be the start of the turning point within the series. Enjoy!

The sun was beginning to sink, bleeding amber light across the cracked glass of Club Juke. Shadows stretched long across the sawdust-slick floors, and the smell of varnish and heat curled in the air like smoke that wouldn’t lift. The place was humming—not with music yet, but with nails, footsteps, murmured cussing, and the steady scrape of hard work.

The bar was nearly finished, the stage raised, the lights half-wired. Still rough, still raw. But it was taking shape. The dream was becoming something real.

And in the center of it all—untouched by the dust, the hammering, or the sweat—sat Amelia Broussard.

She was perched on a freshly wiped barstool like she owned the damn room, one leg crossed high over the other, a soft-skinned calf rocking slowly with rhythm only she heard. Her skirt fluttered slightly with each motion, teasing her thigh just enough to catch attention. In her lap was a slim, worn book of fairytales. The kind children outgrow. But Amelia hadn’t.

She flipped the page slowly, lazily, like she had all the time in the world. But her eyes weren’t on the story.

They were on them.

Smoke stood with his back half-turned, cigarette tucked in his mouth, arms folded as he watched a man mount stage lights near the ceiling. His shirt was clinging to his back, darkened with sweat, sleeves rolled to the elbows to show those thick, weather-cut forearms.

Stack leaned against the bar just ten feet from her, drumming a pencil against a pad, tapping with a rhythm that didn’t match any music. His shirt hung open at the throat, suspenders slack, chest rising and falling with something heavier than breath.

Amelia glanced between them—once, then twice. And then she smiled.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was flirty, low-lidded, and steeped in knowledge. She knew what they were thinking. Knew what they weren’t saying.

She was lighting the fuse.

Her shine—her fae—rippled through the room in slow waves. Subtle but certain. A pull. Not a charm, not a working, just the natural heat of her presence. Like honey slicking the walls, slow-dripping into their heads. Smoke felt it in the back of his throat—thick, warm, confusing. Stack felt it in the pit of his stomach, where jealousy was starting to coil.

They moved around her like two beasts circling the same flame.

Amelia didn’t speak. She turned another page, slowly licking her finger first.

One of the men helping out stepped across the floor toward her—a childhood friend of Stack and Smoke’s. Dark-skinned, with strong arms and sweat beading along his brow. His name was Lemont, and he was still wearing the same charm bracelet Annie had fixed for his mother years ago.

He gave Amelia a crooked grin as he passed.

“Evenin’, Miss Amelia.”

Amelia looked up, lashes brushing her cheek, and smiled soft.

“Evenin’, yourself.”

Lemont’s step faltered just slightly as he walked past—his grin slipping into something quieter. He didn’t blush, but there was something else in his face. That dazed, reverent look a man wears when he sees the moon hanging low and full over water.

Stack watched the whole thing.

His jaw ticked.

“Damn shame,” he muttered, loud enough for Smoke to hear, “Man comes in here to hang lights and walks out prayin’ over a woman that don’t even want him.”

Smoke’s voice came back low and even, “Sound like you talkin’ about yourself, brother.”

Stack shot him a look. Smoke didn’t flinch. He was leaned against the far wall now, lighting another cigarette, eyes half-lidded behind the smoke.

Amelia heard all of it. She smiled behind the page.

Then she said, without looking up, “Funny how two men can tear up a whole room without ever raising their voices.”

That made Stack shift. He looked over at her, but her gaze was still on the book—like she was reading something meant for him. Something written between the lines.

“You playin’ a game, girl?” Stack asked, his voice tight.

She turned the page.

“Me?” Her voice was like heat rising off sugar, “I’m just readin’ stories. Y’all the ones gettin’ lost in ‘em.”

Smoke chuckled once, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Stack said nothing. He just pushed off the bar and stalked toward the back hallway—toward the office they shared.

And Amelia watched him go, her smile fading just slightly at the edges. Something shimmered in her expression—a flicker of guilt, or maybe warning.

She could feel it: the balance was starting to tip.

The door to the office slammed with more force than Stack meant to use. The narrow room didn’t echo, exactly—it swallowed sound. Dust hovered in the sunlight slanting through the blinds. The room was too small, too warm. Or maybe it was just him.

He paced once, twice, then leaned on the edge of the desk, breathing slow through his nose.

What the fuck is wrong with me? He thought.

It was just pussy. That’s what he told himself. Just one more sweet, wet, wanting thing in a long line of women who begged to be bent.

But that wasn’t the truth. Not this time.

He closed his eyes—and there she was.

The night before.

He’d come to her tipsy, shirt open, the air still clinging to his skin like a second layer. The moon was swollen and low, casting a soft silver wash over the garden behind Annie’s shack. Down by the pond, where the land dipped and softened, where the moss grew thicker and the frogs quieted when someone got too close—she was there.

Amelia.

Sitting on the edge of the old pond, humming some tune he didn’t recognize. Not English. Not quite song. Her voice was soft, fluid, carried by the breeze like smoke curling from a burning leaf. Fireflies hovered above her head, blinking slow like they were caught in a trance. So was he.

Her dress clung to her thighs, her calves bare, her curls wild and loose. She didn’t look surprised to see him.

She looked like she’d called him there.

He didn’t ask why she was out there. He didn’t speak at all at first. Just stood behind her, watching. Breath heavy. She looked up, her lips parting slightly, and that was all it took.

She straddled him on a tree stump with no hesitation, grinding down slow until his head tipped back. The rough bark bit into his thighs, but he didn’t care—not with the way her hands slid over his chest, nails grazing just enough to make him hiss. She rode him slow at first, her moans like velvet—low, rich, drawn out as she tightened around him.

Then she said his name.

“Stack…”

That one word broke something open in him. Not just lust. Not just need.

Something deeper. Territorial. Fragile. Real.

He flipped her onto her back on the stump and buried himself in her again, fucking her hard, pulling sounds from her throat that didn’t sound human. Her legs wrapped around his hips. Her hands clawed at his shoulders. She whispered things between moans—his name, yes, but also things he didn’t understand. Like spells. Like promises.

The fireflies hovered closer. The wind stilled. For a moment, it felt like the world watched them.

And when she came—eyes wide, chest arching into his mouth—she glowed.

Not metaphorically. Not with sweat.

She glowed.

Only for a second. Just enough for him to blink and question it. But he knew what he saw.

Now, in the tight stillness of the office, Stack pressed a fist to his thigh, trying to shake the memory loose.

“Fuck.”

But he couldn’t. Not with the scent of her still clinging to his fingers. Not with the echo of his name falling from her lips like prayer.

He didn’t want her giving that to anyone else.

Especially not his brother.

His twin had always been the quiet one. The still one. The one who burned slow until something exploded. And Stack could feel it now—Smoke wanted her. Maybe already had her. Maybe still had her.

That thought made Stack’s stomach turn.

It wasn’t just about the sex anymore. It wasn’t even about the competition. It was something deeper. He didn’t want to admit it—not even to himself—but it was there now, rooted in the meat of his chest like a thorn:

I want her to look at me like I’m the only one she need.

He stood suddenly, jaw tight, blood hot. He needed answers.

He needed truth.

And there was only one man who could give it.

Stack stormed to the door, yanked it open, and looked out.

Smoke was still near the stage, talking low to Lemont about some crates that needed moving. His eyes flicked over to the office like he’d been expecting this moment.

Like he knew.

Stack stepped back into the office and left the door open.

“Aye,” he called, voice low but sharp, “Come in here.”

Smoke didn’t answer, but he was already moving.

The door creaked open, slow and steady.

Smoke stepped in, cigarette already lit, his movements loose but deliberate. He didn’t look surprised to be summoned. If anything, he looked like he’d been waiting on it. Expecting it.

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Stack stood by the desk, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes sharp and unreadable.

Smoke said nothing at first. Just leaned back against the closed door and took a slow drag, eyes tracing the room like he was looking for exits—or weak spots.

“What you want, Eli?”

Stack didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence build.

Smoke let out a long exhale, smoke curling up toward the low ceiling fan that barely moved.

“You gon’ say somethin’ or stare a hole through me?”

“You fuckin’ her?” Stack asked flatly.

No hesitation.

Smoke’s brow barely ticked, but his expression didn’t shift. He walked to the chair beside the desk, sat down slow like the air didn’t just change. Laid the cigarette across the edge of the ashtray and dragged his palm across his jaw.

“That what this is about?”

“I asked a question.”

“You already know the answer.”

Stack’s jaw flexed.

Smoke leaned back, legs spread, voice calm like molasses poured over a blade.

“She fuckin’ Annie. She fuckin’ me. She fuckin’ you. Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on you don’t already know about.”

The words sliced the space between them.

Stack shifted his weight. His fist curled slightly at his side.

“You catchin’ feelings for her?” Smoke asked, tilting his head, “That what’s crawlin’ under your skin?”

Stack’s nostrils flared. He didn’t answer.

“You think she yours?” Smoke added, voice soft but cutting, “That why you lookin’ like somebody stole your damn coat?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you talkin’ about,” Stack growled, stepping forward.

Smoke didn’t flinch.

“I see the way you been lookin’ at her. Like you think she gon’ start sayin’ your name and forget the rest of us.”

“Maybe I want her to,” Stack snapped, voice rising for the first time.

There it was. The confession.

Smoke sat up, the weight of it settling over him like dust.

He stubbed the cigarette out. Real slow.

“You ain’t never cared who put their hands on who. Not til now.”

“She ain’t like the others.”

“You right about that,” Smoke said darkly, “She ain’t.”

That silenced the room. Both men stared at each other, the distance between them suddenly vast despite the small space.

“You feel it too?” Stack asked, quieter now, “That thing…inside her. The way she look at you, like she see right through your bones?”

Smoke didn’t nod. Didn’t deny it.

“She shines,” he said instead, “And shine like that? It burns. And it don’t belong to nobody.”

Stack took a breath like he was going to say something more—but then he froze.

From just outside the door, there was a faint creak.

A soft shadow.

The sound of light footsteps.

They both turned at the same time.

The door handle moved.

Amelia was on the other side.

The door creaked open like it didn’t want to.

And there she was.

Amelia slipped into the office like candlelight—quiet, warm, and dangerous if you got too close. She didn’t rush. Didn’t speak right away. Just eased the door shut behind her with a soft click, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness.

Her back pressed against the wood, her palms flat to it, and she looked between them with a calm so steady it felt unnatural.

Her gaze moved from Stack—tense, breathing heavy—to Smoke, seated, fingers curled near the edge of the desk.

“I could hear y’all from the bar,” she said gently, “Even over Lemont hammerin’.”

Her voice was sweet, but her tone wasn’t innocent. It carried something more—like silk pulled tight. There was an edge beneath it. A knowing.

“What’s the matter?”

She tilted her head slightly, curls spilling over one shoulder. The light from the window hit her cheekbones just enough to cast faint shadows under her eyes. Her mouth was soft, but her eyes…her eyes were lit from within.

Not glowing. Not quite.

But seeing.

She knew.

Her fae didn’t need to hear words. She felt it—the heat that crackled between the twins, the possessiveness, the jealousy rising like steam off the floorboards. Their tension was a language, and she’d been born fluent.

“Y’all fightin’ over me?” she asked softly, though her voice dipped like a challenge, like she was pulling a thread just to watch it unravel.

Neither man answered.

Stack swallowed hard, throat tight. His hands fisted at his sides again.

Smoke looked up at her, slow and measured, jaw ticking beneath his calm.

Amelia pushed off the door and walked forward—three steps, slow, heels echoing soft. She didn’t touch either of them. Just stood in the space between, close enough to feel their breath.

Her hands smoothed her dress down at her sides.

“I ain’t tryin’ to come between brothers,” she said, gaze flicking from one to the other, “But I can’t help how y’all look at me. Can’t help how I feel when you do.”

She let that hang. Heavy. Hot.

“If this too much…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “Then maybe you should both stop touchin’ me.”

The challenge was laid bare.

But her fae already knew:

Neither of them would.

No one moved.

Not at first.

The air inside the office had changed. Thicker. Warmer. Like something unseen had stepped through the door with her. Smoke’s cigarette burned down to the filter and he didn’t even notice. Stack’s pulse was visible in his throat.

Amelia stood between them, smiling faintly—but it wasn’t sweet. It was slow, sharp, and dripping in seduction.

And something inside her had shifted.

The fae in her had tasted the tension. It liked it.

And now, it wanted to play.

She turned to Stack first. Walked toward him like she wasn’t walking at all—like she was gliding, hips rocking in smooth rhythm. Her eyes never left his. He stood frozen, breath shallow.

When she reached him, she brushed her fingers up his chest—light at first, then pressing down just enough to feel the heat of his skin through his shirt.

“You know what I love about you, Elias?”

Her voice was soft. But sultry. Wicked.

Stack didn’t answer.

She leaned in close, lips near his ear, breath warm against his jaw.

“I love how you make me laugh. How you grab me like you already know how I wanna be touched.”

Her nails trailed down the center of his shirt.

“I love the way you fuck me—like it’s a game you know you always gon’ win. The way you eat me like you ain’t tasted nothin’ sweeter since you been born.”

Stack’s jaw clenched.

His fists curled tight.

Amelia smiled against his cheek.

“It’s amazing,” she whispered. “You’re amazing.”

She stepped back, slow and deliberate, watching his throat work around a swallow. His eyes were dark now. Almost black. His control was slipping—and she could feel it.

The fae in her purred.

Then she circled him. Walked around him like a predator stalking familiar ground. Her fingers traced lightly along his shoulder, his back, then slid away as she came to stand in front of Smoke.

Smoke hadn’t moved.

He sat still in the chair, watching her like a fuse burning down toward dynamite. His breathing was shallow but steady. His eyes never left hers.

Amelia looked down at him—her expression shifting. Her smile curved differently now.

More intimate. More dangerous.

She reached forward and slipped her fingers beneath the knot of his tie and tugged it gently, just enough to pull his face up to hers.

“And you…” she said, voice like silk soaked in heat, “I know you fightin’ it. That thing you feel for me. You tryin’ to bite it down, like it’s shame in your mouth. But it ain’t.”

She leaned closer, lips just a breath from his.

“You think I don’t know about the bloomers?”

Smoke’s face didn’t move—but his hands curled slowly on the arms of the chair.

Amelia’s eyes sparkled.

“You smell ‘em when I’m sleepin’. You think about how I taste. How I’d sound if you bent me over this desk and fucked me hard enough to make the windows rattle.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, so soft only Smoke could hear it.

“You want to ruin me, don’t you?”

Smoke’s nostrils flared.

“You want to fuck me ‘til I cry. ‘Til I beg. ‘Til Annie don’t even recognize what’s left of me.”

Amelia’s smile widened—soft, sensual, teasing.

“And you know what, Elijah?”

A pause. Her voice was like velvet now.

“I like it.”

She let go of his tie and stood tall again, looking between them—one twin burning with fury, the other with restraint ready to snap.

Her fae danced behind her eyes.

She didn’t have to say it, but the message was clear:

Which one of you’s gonna break first?

Amelia stepped back.

Her fingers went to the first button of her blouse.

She didn’t rush.

Didn’t look away.

Her gaze flicked between them—between Elias, who looked ready to burst at the seams, and Elijah, who still hadn’t moved, but whose stare had grown impossibly dark.

“Y’all done arguin’?” she asked, voice soft, teasing, that ever-present sultry lilt curling around every syllable, “Or y’all just gonna stand there and let this go to waste?”

Her second button slipped free.

Then a third.

The blouse opened just enough to show the soft curve between her breasts. Her skin shimmered faintly in the low light, kissed by heat, touched by something older than want.

“Been sittin’ at that bar all day wonderin’ which one of you was gon’ crack first.”

She let the blouse fall off one shoulder, then the other. It drifted to the floor like silk, pooling beside her bare feet.

“But now I’m tired of waitin’.”

She reached for the zipper of her skirt, watching them both the way fire watches wood.

“So tell me…”

The skirt slipped down her hips, revealing honey-toned skin and sheer bloomers beneath. She stepped out of it with grace that didn’t belong in a room built by men like them.

She stood half-naked, chest rising and falling with slow, wicked calm.

“Who’s gonna come get it first?”

Stack moved first.

Fast.

He crossed the room in three steps, gripped her by the waist, and pressed her against the desk so hard it shook. His mouth crushed into hers—angry, hungry, his. She gasped into it, arms wrapping around his neck, hips arching against his.

But then—

Smoke was behind her.

Silent as breath.

He grabbed her wrists from behind, pulling them gently behind her back as Stack kissed her harder. She moaned into it—head tipping back, lips parted—and Smoke leaned forward, his mouth brushing her ear.

“You asked,” His voice was low, almost tender, “Don’t forget that.”

Amelia’s eyes fluttered closed, her breath catching between them.

“I won’t,” she whispered.

“Good,” Smoke growled.

And then they took her.

Together.

No mercy. No order. Just heat, hunger, and war.

The office door slammed shut behind them.

And just like that, the world narrowed to the sound of breath, skin, and the low throb of tension finally set loose. Amelia was pressed chest-first against the desk, her bare thighs brushing the cool wood, bloomers still clinging to her hips like the last secret she hadn’t given away yet.

Smoke stood behind her, grip still firm on her wrists, jaw clenched like he was holding back something dangerous. Stack was in front, his mouth at her neck, his hands everywhere—palming her breasts, sliding down her sides like he needed to map every inch.

“Fuckin’ finally,” Stack muttered against her skin, biting at the spot just beneath her ear, “You feel what you do to us, girl? You feel how fuckin’ crazy you make us?”

Amelia moaned, arching her back between them, head tipped to the side to bare her throat. Her legs trembled slightly when Smoke let go of her wrists and used both hands to yank down the last bit of cotton covering her heat.

Fffshh— the fabric tore clean in half. Cold air kissed soaked skin.

“Mmph—!” she whimpered, thighs twitching as she was exposed.

“You want nasty?” Smoke growled behind her, “You got it.”

He dropped to his knees.

“Fuck—!” she gasped.

His mouth was on her—tongue buried deep, lips wet and open as he devoured her from behind like a man gone mad. No buildup, no mercy. Just obscene sucking sounds and the flat pressure of his tongue dragging across her folds.

“O-ohh—!” Amelia cried out, pressing both palms flat to the desk. Her hips bucked involuntarily.

“Shit,” Stack hissed, watching her face contort, her mouth hang open, “You lettin’ my brother eat you while you moan like that?”

He grabbed her jaw and kissed her hard—wet, deep, claiming—before pulling back just enough to whisper:

“You ours tonight. You hear me?”

Smoke growled against her, fingers digging into her ass as he licked and sucked like her taste might save him. The wet sounds filled the small room—sloppy, hungry, loud.

“Mmmn—Elijah—!” she whimpered, legs starting to give.

“That’s right,” Smoke muttered into her, “Say it while you drip for me.”

She was shaking, thighs trembling violently when Stack pulled her up, dragging her back off Smoke’s mouth with a low curse.

“Get on the couch.”

She stumbled backward, lips kiss-swollen, chest heaving. The couch was narrow, but she obeyed—dropping onto her knees, then rolling onto her back, hair fanned over the armrest.

Amelia lay back on the couch—nude, glowing, and dripping like a honeyed peach sliced too deep. Her thighs were spread wide, trembling slightly as she held them open for the Moore twins. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, nipples hard and glistening from her own touch, her fingers still toying with the peaked buds as they knelt before her like twin devils ready to feast.

Stack was the first to lean in. His grin was wicked, hungry.

“Mm…look at this messy lil’ cunt,” he murmured, breath ghosting over her wetness, “Already leakin’ like you knew we’d be down here.”

Stack got down on his knees and with no hesitation, he kissed her pussy like he meant to claim it—deep and nasty, tongue flat and dragging slow through her folds before curling inside her with a low moan. His spit mixed with her slick as he sucked hard on her clit, then pulled back just to spit again, strings of it glistening down her slit. Amelia bucked, her legs shaking as her fingers twisted her nipples tighter.

“Fuck, Elias—”

“That’s Stack, baby,” he growled against her pussy, “And this mouth don’t play fair.”

He sucked her clit again with filthy intent, lips wrapped tight and tongue flicking mercilessly. Then he backed off suddenly, face wet, licking his lips like she was dessert.

“Your turn, Smoke.”

Smoke didn’t say a word. His eyes were already dark with hunger as he moved in—his approach slower, more calculating. He ran his calloused palm up her thigh, then hooked his fingers into the softness just beneath her cunt, spreading her wide so he could look.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he muttered.

Then he dove in—slower than Stack, but deeper. He used the flat of his tongue to press into her, collecting every bit of her mess. His nose brushed her clit as he licked low and slow, tasting every inch. When she whimpered and tried to grind up into him, he just gripped her thighs harder, holding her down.

“You gon’ take it like a good girl,” he rasped against her slit. “Let me taste you proper.”

He fucked her with his tongue, slow strokes pushing deep, then moved to lap up the slick now coating her ass too—licking lower until she gasped, her head tipping back as her mouth fell open.

“Elijah,” she moaned, shocked at the way his tongue teased her backside, just the rim. He didn’t push in—just kissed it. Claimed it. Possessive even there.

Stack chuckled low.

“You gone eat her ass now too, Smoke?”

Smoke licked her slow again. “I’ma eat all of her.”

Then he passed her back to Stack like they were sharing a meal.

Stack went rougher this time. He sucked her clit again and slapped the inside of her thigh, loud and sudden, making her jolt. His fingers slipped inside her while he mouthed her like he meant to leave bruises. Amelia was trembling now, hips stuttering, eyes rolling as she mewled through another moan.

“She so fuckin’ wet for us,” Stack grunted, eyes meeting Smoke’s. “Wants both our tongues. Greedy lil’ fairy thing.”

Amelia was beyond words now—hands in her hair, thighs shaking, sweat beading at her temples. They’d made a mess of her—spit, slick, and all.

And she loved it.

Her legs had gone numb from holding them open so long, but Amelia didn’t dare close them. Not with the way Smoke and Stack were switching off between her thighs like wolves gnashing over fresh kill. Her body was soaked—slick between her legs, spit down her thighs, sweat dotting her chest. Every nerve felt flayed raw, lips parted as she tried to breathe through the teasing. Stack was back between her thighs, fingers pumping up into her slow and deliberate, curling just right.

“Bet he don’t touch that spot like this,” he said, eyes locked on hers as he slid in deeper and rubbed, just right. Amelia cried out, her back arching hard off the couch.

“Ohh—Stack, please—please—”

“Uh uh, not yet.” He leaned down, spit on her clit again, then sucked it into his mouth with a wet pop, “Gotta hold that nut ‘til you earn it.”

Smoke sat back on his heels, watching. His lips were wet from the last round, and his hand was palming himself through his trousers.

“Look at her. She don’t even know which one of us makin’ her shake like that.”

Stack chuckled and pulled his fingers out slow, coated to the knuckle. He wiped them across her inner thigh like paint.

“She know. She just scared to say it.”

Smoke leaned in, nudged Stack’s shoulder, and took his place between her legs.

“Watch this.”

He ran his tongue flat up her cunt, all the way to her belly button, then back down again like he was memorizing her taste. Amelia sobbed.

“Fuck—Elijah—” she whimpered, trying to close her thighs.

He growled, “Keep ‘em open. I ain’t done.”

Then he slipped two fingers in and stroked—slow, steady, fingers curved like he was trying to pull her soul through her pussy.

“You feel that? Huh?” he rasped against her clit, “Feel how deep I’m in you? Your lil’ walls clutchin’ up already.”

His mouth closed around her again, tongue circling her clit in tight, firm spirals. Her hips jumped, thighs trembling.

“God—I’m gonna—”

He stopped instantly. Pulled back. Blew cool air across her swollen clit.

“No you not.”

She sobbed, shaking her head, tears springing to her eyes, “Please—”

Stack leaned close to her ear, “Aww, poor baby can’t cum yet? Not ‘til you tell us—who eat it better?”

Smoke smirked and stood, unbuckling his belt slow, letting the sound snap through the air like a threat.

“She ain’t gotta say it. Her pussy already told me. She gushed all over my mouth.”

“She gushed on me first,” Stack countered, finger dragging up the mess between her thighs, “Had my whole face shiny.”

They circled her now—one on each side. Amelia couldn’t stop crying out, couldn’t stop writhing. Her thighs trembled, glistening with spit and her own slick. Her nipples were raw from being played with too long. She was dizzy from being denied.

And still—still they were teasing her.

Stack knelt again, slapped her pussy once—just enough to make her cry out.

“Tell us, sugar. Whose tongue you dream about?”

Smoke bent down and kissed her ribs, slow, before biting the soft flesh just beneath her breast.

“Who makes you feel like you ain’t even real anymore?”

Amelia’s voice broke, “I—both of you, I swear—I can’t—please let me cum, I can’t take it—”

Smoke smirked, “Mm. You beg real sweet, but you gon’ give us a name.”

Stack was grinning, already pushing her thighs open again, face hovering right above her soaked, twitching slit.

“Maybe we both gotta eat it again,” he spoke, “until you know.”

And with that—they both moved in.

Stack on her clit, mouth messy and greedy. Smoke below, licking lower again, tongue dragging along the seam of her other hole, teasing her ruthlessly. Amelia screamed—head thrown back, hips jerking, body convulsing.

“Oh—oh my GOD—”

They didn’t let up.

And they still didn’t let her cum.

When Smoke finally drew back, Stack was already leaning in, crowding the space, his voice hot against her ear.

“He gets his fill, then I take mine…that’s how it goes.” His fingers brushed over her hip, possessive, testing the way her body reacted to his nearness.

Amelia whimpered—half need, half surrender—and let her legs fall even wider. She twirled her fingertips lazily over her nipple, eyes lidded, mouth trembling between smiles and soft gasps.

They traded space without words—Smoke’s shadow passing over her again, Stack’s low laugh rumbling in her ear—like two wolves circling the same kill, patient only because they enjoyed watching her break apart under the weight of their attention.

They had her right at the edge—again.

Stack was sucking her clit so hard her thighs twitched, one foot kicking out like her body couldn’t take it. Smoke’s tongue was working between the cheeks of her ass, slow but firm, licking the spot no one had ever touched before him. Their moans were layered with hers—obscene, greedy, loud.

Amelia was gone. Her hands gripped the couch cushions, knuckles flexing, head flung back as a scream built in her throat.

“I—I can’t—I can’t hold it—”

Smoke grunted against her skin. Stack looked up, eyes dark.

“Let go, baby.”

That was all it took.

Amelia shattered.

Her whole body locked up, a cry torn from her chest as her orgasm ripped through her—sharp, rolling, deep. Her thighs clamped around Stack’s head, her hips lifted clean off the couch. She sobbed through it, tears sliding from the corners of her eyes, mouth open but silent as her pussy spasmed hard around nothing.

Stack moaned like he was drinking her down, “Fuck, she squirtin’ on my face—look at this shit.”

Smoke sat back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing heavy. His trousers were tented so high the fabric looked painful. He slowly unbuckled his belt, unzipped, and pulled his dick out—thick, dark, veined, the kind of size that made a girl rethink her life. It slapped up against his abdomen, heavy.

Stack followed suit, standing as well. His dick was just as thick, maybe a shade longer, already leaking at the tip. He grinned, wiping his face where her release still clung to his lips.

“Come here, sugar.”

Amelia’s lashes fluttered as she tried to sit up, but her arms were jelly. They helped her—hands under her arms, guiding her down to her knees like she was being offered up.

Stack stood in front of her, hand around the base of his big wood.

“Look at what you done,” he said, voice smug, bouncing his stick in her face with a firm hand. “Now clean it up.”

She opened her mouth without hesitation, tongue out, eyes still wet. Stack fed her the tip slow, letting her feel every inch as it slid across her tongue.

“There you go,” he muttered, holding her face still, “Pretty mouth know just what to do.”

Smoke stepped behind her, stroking himself—twist of the wrist from base to tip—as he watched her lips stretch around his twin’s pecker.

“Mmm…mouth so fuckin’ warm,” Stack grunted, “She moanin’ while suckin’ it too—greedy lil’ glowin’ thing.”

Ameila tried to use hands but Stack smacked them away. He took his time feeding her thick inches, locking eyes with her and licking his lips. She had him glossed up good with her drool. Smoke grunted, anxious and impatient. Stack chuckled, hips bucking and nuts slapping her chin.

“Stay on that dick, Melia, any other time you suck all of me up. Don’t act shy ‘cause Smoke here. Be that nasty lil’ girl. Take this big fuckin’ wood down your throat—”

“She better get used to it and stop playin’ getting my turn next. And I ain’t stopping no way,” Smoke barked out.

“Hear that?” Stack tangled his fingers around Amelia’s thick curls, pulling her lips off his dick with a pop, “You came all this way from Louisiana to get tossed, right? Can’t help it? Love it when that pussy and this mouth get fed, huh?”

“Y–yes!” Amelia spoke, voice trembling.

“Mhm,” Stack slowly pulled out of her mouth with a pop and nodded at Smoke.

“Your turn.”

Smoke moved in, hand cupping the back of her head. His tip pressed to her lips—slick and heavy—and he pushed in without mercy, the stretch making her moan again as drool slipped from the corners of her mouth.

“That’s it,” he growled, fucking her face slow, “Take it deep. Don’t run from it.”

Amelia choked a little, tears spilling freely now, but she didn’t stop. Her hands reached to stroke Stack while Smoke used her throat like it belonged to him. Her moans were broken, messy, pure filth.

“Look at you,” Stack whispered, brushing the hair from her face, “Down on your knees, full of nut and tears, and smilin’ for more.”

Smoke pulled out, letting her breathe—just a second—before guiding her back to Stack.

“Go ‘head,” he said low, “Tell us. Who tastes better?”

Amelia looked up between them—eyes glassy, face slick, lips swollen.

“Both of you,” she whispered, licking her lips. “I want both.”

Stack chuckled darkly.

“Good girl.”

Stack followed fast, dragging his pants low enough to free himself. He stroked himself once—hard, thick, glistening at the tip, spit covered.

“You wanna see who make you scream louder?” he asked low, eyes flickering over her face, “Me or him?”

“Both,” she whispered, lips curling, “Make me scream for both of you.”

“You nasty little—fuck,” Stack groaned.

Stack picked her up and placed her on her back. He climbed over her, opened her legs wide, and slammed in hard.

“AH—!” Amelia cried, nails clawing at his back.

The couch thudded into the wall.

Smoke stood nearby, shirt unbuttoned, chest rising slow and hard. He watched, stroking himself with slow, brutal precision.

“Tight, ain’t she?” he muttered.

“She pulsin’,” Stack growled, fucking into her like he meant to bruise, “Little glow whore likes it rough.”

“You like gettin’ stuffed in front of both of us?” Smoke asked, stepping closer.

Amelia nodded, moaning, writhing, whimpering under Stack’s punishing rhythm.

“Yes—yes—!”

Stack pulled out with a slick pop and flipped her fast.

“On your knees, mouth open.”

She obeyed.

Amelia was on all fours now, her mouth stretched wide around Stack’s thick dick, throat working as he slowly fucked her face. Her hands gripped his thighs, nails digging in, drool hanging in long strands down her chin and onto her breasts. Behind her, Smoke lined himself up, dragging the head of his dick through the slick mess between her thighs.

“Look at this pussy,” he muttered, “Still flutterin’ from that nut we pulled outta her.”

Smoke arched Amelia’s back further, bringing her ass higher. She wrapped a hand around the girthy base of Stack’s dick while rolling her tongue around his weeping tip.

“Look how she arch up…pussy cat wetta than a ma’fucka…this the pussy my wife was suckin’ on while I was away, huh?”

Ameila moaned with a mouth full of dick.

Smoke opened her up some more while Stack tapped his tip on her tongue.

“Shiiit, had Annie eatin that puss off the bone, huh? Huh, you glowy lil’ thing?” Stack taunted with a slick grin.

“Just a fuckin’ whore.” Smoke barked out, “Time to take this dick…”

Smoke lined himself up and pushed in slow. Amelia moaned around Stack’s length, her throat vibrating. Smoke filled her in one long, punishing stroke, so deep she jerked forward, nose pressed to Stack’s pelvis.

“God…damn,” Stack grunted, watching her gag a little, “She tight and throat-deep. Can’t even run.”

They moved together—twin rhythm, bodies syncing like they were made to fuck her just like this. Smoke’s hips snapped into her from behind, hard and deep, while Stack rolled his own forward, slower but steady. Amelia couldn’t speak, couldn’t even think—just drool and moan and take it.

“Who you fuckin’, baby?” Stack taunted, brushing her hair back so he could see her eyes, “Me or him?”

She gagged softly around his dick. He smirked.

“That’s what I thought.”

Smoke had one firm grip on her shoulder while he used the power of his hips to drive that dick in Amelia. She left a creamy ring at the base, causing Smoke to chuckle low and wicked. Her back dimples glistened with sweat and that sweet pussy smelled like ripe peaches left out in the sun. Smoke caught his bottom lip between his teeth to stop himself from drooling.

They swapped.

Smoke eased out from behind her, hands gripping her hips as he guided her up. Stack pulled from her mouth with a thick pop, letting her gasp for breath. He moved behind her next, slapping her ass once before driving into her pussy in one brutal thrust.

Amelia screamed.

“Fuck!—Elias—”

“That’s it,” he grunted, “Scream for me. Let Smoke hear how I make it clap.”

Smoke’s dick slapped her cheek, slick and heavy. She opened her mouth and took him again, her lips trembling from the force of Stack’s thrusts behind her. Her whole body rocked forward with every stroke.

Amelia opened her mouth wide, tongue stretched flat, lips parted just enough to taunt. Her eyes didn’t leave Smoke’s. Her gaze was soaked in hunger, gleaming with defiance and surrender all tangled together.

“Gon’ make you lose your voice tonight,” Stack grunted, fucking her deep and rough, “ain’t gon be none of that singing by the pond.”

Stack wrapped a hand around her long hair and held her steady while Smoke used her throat to his liking.

Gawk–gawk–plap–plap

Amelia gagged softly around Smoke as he pressed deeper, inch by inch, until her throat fluttered. Her moans vibrated around him.

“Filthy little thing,” he muttered, “Slobberin’ all over it like you was made for this.” Smoke said.

“This my fuckin’ pussy,” Stack growled. He felt her walls flutter and it caused him to plant his feet firm.

“Stop tryna make me cum quick, girl,” Stack whacked her on her ass, “keep that pussy open.”

Smoke felt his balls damn near retract. He pulled out with a slick glide and locked eyes with Stack.

They moved her again.

She was straddling Smoke now, her back arched as she slid down on him, thighs shaking as he filled her deep. His hands gripped her waist, guiding her hips in tight circles. She bounced slow at first—then faster, wilder. He widened his thighs and bounced her while thrusting upward. At this point, the entire Juke could hear them bumping skins.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low, “Ridin’ Big Smoke like your life depend on it.”

Behind her, Stack stroked himself, watching her ass jiggle every time she dropped down.

“You know I’m gettin’ back in that pussy next, right?”

She nodded, eyes hazy. “Please…”

“You hear that, Smoke?” Stack grinned, “She beggin’ for it now. You know who you belong to?”

She looked up through her lashes, eyes wet with tears.

“Both of you.”

Smoke grunted low in his throat—like he’d been holding back for weeks, and her mouth was the only place left to fall.

“You takin’ my brother’s dick like that, huh?” he muttered, voice hoarse, “Fuckin’ hell—look at you.”

Gglmmff…Mmmnhh—

Smoke let out a shaky breath, sweat beading along his brow, both hands steadying her while she bounced up and down, deep and punishing.

He didn’t wait.

“Fffuck—!”

Her body jolted forward, throat stuffed, cunt clenching around Stack so tight he cursed.

“Shit—she’s still so wet—”

The pace turned brutal. The room was filled with the obscene sounds of flesh slapping, wetness squelching, and muffled gags paired with high-pitched whimpers that turned into desperate, aching moans. Stack grabbed Amelia by her hair and eased her lips down and around him.

Plap—plap—plap—slrk—plap—

They laid her back. Missionary.

Her legs were thrown over Stack’s shoulders, his dick driving into her from above, slow and mean. Every thrust made her tits bounce, her body jerk, her mouth fall open in a moan so sweet it sounded like song.

Smoke hovered by her head, feeding her his dick again, slower this time. She sucked greedily, messily, one hand moving to stroke his base.

Between her legs, Stack leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers.

“You feel full, baby?”

She nodded fast, moaning around Smoke’s dick

“Good. You gon’ take all this nut when I give it to you. Both ends.”

Smoke grunted, “Let’s fill her up, twin.”

“She fuckin’ loves it,” Stack grunted, slamming into her, “Listen to her—moanin’ while she chokes.”

“Gllrmmnn—guh—Mmhhnn!”

Smoke pulled back for a moment—just enough for her to gasp. Amelia let out a deep, broken sob of pleasure, eyes glassy, tears clinging to her lashes, spit coating her chin.

“Y’all gonna ruin me,” she panted, voice ragged,“I want it—I want it.”

Smoke growled low and slapped the head of his dick against her lips.

“Then beg for it.”

“Fuck me harder,” she whined, eyes flicking back to Stack. “Fill me up. You hear me? I want both of you to put it in me, leave me leakin’, messy—yours.”

That broke whatever thread was holding them back.

“You beggin’ now, girl? Thought you liked to play.”

“I do—I do—don’t stop—!”

Smoke bent down in front of her, dragging her onto his lap, mouth crashing into hers, swallowing every filthy word as Stack fucked her like he was trying to etch his name inside her.

“God—y’all feel so good—!”

“This what you wanted?” Smoke growled against her lips. “Both of us? In you, on you—claimin’ you?”

“Yes! Yes! Please—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop!”

They took her again and again—hands grabbing, mouths biting, hips colliding in a rhythm that had nothing holy in it. Just need. Just sweat. Just raw, ugly possession dressed up in pleasure.

By the end of it, she was trembling between them—used, soaked, lips swollen and red, thighs slick and shaking.

And she was smiling.

But this—this—was different.

Smoke didn’t ask. He didn’t grin. He didn’t even blink.

She nodded, breath trembling.

He slid into her in one smooth, unforgiving thrust.

“—AAHH—!” she cried out, body arching hard as her cunt stretched to take him, deeper than Stack, heavier, slower—meaner.

Smoke didn’t move fast. He moved deep. Grinding. Shoving. His jaw clenched as her walls gripped him, soaked and hot and pulsing.

“You fuckin’ wet,” he hissed through his teeth, watching her eyes roll back, “Knew you would be. Knew this pussy was waitin’.”

*“Mmmfuck—Smoke—oh my god—”

“Say my fuckin’ name.”

He slammed in harder.

“ELIJAH—!”

Her scream was half-pleasure, half surrender.

He growled deep in his chest, hand around her throat now—not choking, but holding. Grounding. Dominating.

“This mine now. You understand me?”

“Yes—yes—it’s yours—it’s all yours—”

“Stack got his turn. Now I’m gon’ ruin you.”

He fucked her like it was a sentence. A punishment. A long, slow fall into obsession he could no longer resist. Every thrust dragged a cry from her lips—moans that went high and cracked, gasps that turned to sobs. She wasn’t faking. She couldn’t.

Plap—plap—plap—plap—

“So fuckin’ good—so fuckin’ tight,” he snarled, sweat dripping onto her chest, “You feel that? That stretch? That ache? That’s me.”

She nodded, her head thrashing as he pounded into her harder.

“Take it,” he growled, “take every fuckin’ inch, baby. I ain’t pullin’ out.”

“Please—don’t—don’t you dare—”

“Say it again.”

“Yours—Elijah—your pussy—you—your mess—!”

He bent low, teeth scraping her jaw, his hips slamming harder now—relentless, brutal, raw.

“You taste like sin,” he whispered into her mouth, “And you love it.”

“I do—I fuckin’ do—”

Her thighs locked around him just as her climax crashed over her again—loud, soaked, uncontainable.

They switched again.

Stack was buried deep, grinding his hips into her with heavy, deliberate thrusts. Her legs were wide, high on his shoulders, toes curling with every stroke. Her pussy squelched with every drag of his dick—slick, raw, and overstretched from taking both of them. Her cunt was puffy, clenching, already sore from being used.

Above her, Smoke’s dick was in her mouth again—her lips stretched around the girth, cheeks hollowing as she sucked like she was starving.

The room was hot. Sweat clung to their skin. The air thick with sex.

“Keep suckin’,” Smoke growled, hand tightening in her hair, “Don’t slow down ‘til I nut down that throat.”

Stack leaned in close, his voice a slow rumble near her ear, “You feel that? Pussy tryin’ to milk me already…”

Amelia’s moans were muffled, helpless, her body twitching between them. She was drenched, her thighs shaking, her eyes glassy from too much pleasure.

“She gon’ cum again,” Smoke said, amused, “Feel her shakin’.”

“She greedy,” Stack muttered, gripping her thighs tighter, “She want us to break her.”

Then he snapped his hips forward—hard.

“FUCK—!”

Smoke thrust forward with quick succession before the sensation to release overpowered him. He sank deeper, dick twitching and then he filled Amelia’s throat. Stack groaned deep, burying himself one last time, body tensing as he emptied inside of her, his hand gripping her neck like he could brand her from the inside out.

When it was over, they stayed like that—tangled, soaked, trembling.

Amelia’s eyes fluttered open, dazed and wet.

Smoke looked down at her like he didn’t know whether to kiss her or leave the room.

No one spoke.

But everything had changed.

Stack’s breath fell in slow, shallow waves against her neck, his body heavy, hips twitching every so often from the aftershocks. Amelia lay beneath him, legs parted, pussy dripping full and wrecked, her chest rising beneath his.

Smoke hadn’t moved in minutes. He stood against the wall, shirt open, chest gleaming with sweat. Watching. Breathing like he was still mid-act.

None of them spoke.

The room was thick with the scent of sex, of skin, of spit and heat and breathless filth. The air didn’t move. Even the light seemed to hold its breath—dim, golden, suspended.

She blinked up at the ceiling fan, unmoving.

The blur of the brothers pressed against her skin like heat that wouldn’t leave.

Their hands had touched everything—her throat, her hips, her soul.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

She turned her head slowly, watching Smoke’s face above her—jaw slack, mouth open, his dark eyes staring down like he didn’t trust what he just did.

And Stack…he was still looking at her like he’d lost something.

Something he hadn’t realized he’d given her.

Somewhere outside, a train moaned in the distance. The walls creaked. Time stretched.

Amelia closed her eyes again.

Her thighs ached. Her voice was gone. Her fae pulsed low under her skin, curling into her bones like smoke returning to ash.

Was this a dream?

It felt like one.

A filthy, raw, beautiful dream where nothing made sense but the way they needed her.

Where she belonged to them—for a moment, for a night, for whatever spell had made this real.

And then the room grew soft.

Dim.

Unmoving.

The edges blurred.

And the world dissolved into quiet.

Smoke jolted awake like a man being yanked out of water.

His breath caught sharp in his throat, chest heaving as his eyes snapped open. The room around him was still dark at the edges, but pale gold light was already bleeding through the curtains—just enough to paint thin lines across the hardwood floor.

His hand flew instinctively to the side of the bed.

Gripped the handle of his pistol.

Still there.

Loaded.

Real.

Everything else?

He didn’t know anymore.

His white tank was soaked through, clinging to his chest. His skin was slick with sweat, muscles coiled like he’d fought someone in his sleep. His boxer briefs were damp, stretched tight, his dick still hard—angry, pulsing, aching like it believed what his mind had dreamed.

“Fuck.”

The word came out as a whisper, half breath, half disbelief.

He sat up slowly, dragging a hand down his face. His sheets were twisted at his waist, sticking to his skin. His mouth was dry. His shoulders tight. His thighs sore, even though he hadn’t moved all night.

And he could still smell her.

Sweet. Earthy. Tangled up in something soft and wild—like the inside of her thighs after she’d been sweating. Like her.

No, he thought. She ain’t even here.

But the scent lingered—on his skin, in the air, maybe even in the pillow behind him. Like she’d laid beside him hours ago. Like she’d been in him, around him, under him.

He ran a hand down his face again, then over his hair, trying to shake the sensation.

But it wouldn’t go.

It hadn’t been real. He knew that now.

The office. The desk. Her bare thighs. Stack’s voice. Her mouth full. Her back arching for him.

It had all been a dream.

But the weight of it stayed.

His hands ached. His jaw hurt from clenching. His thighs were tight with memory. He could still feel the way she looked at him. The way she smiled.

Like she knew.

Smoke stood slowly, rolling his shoulders, wiping the sweat from the back of his neck. The floor was cold under his feet, grounding him. He walked to the window, pulling the curtain back just slightly. The sun was just beginning to rise over the trees, casting soft light across Annie’s garden, dewy and still.

It was too quiet.

Too calm for the storm roiling inside him.

He rubbed his chest—right over his heart—then stared down at his hand like it had betrayed him.

You touched her yesterday. For real.

He remembered.

How he’d slipped into her room while Annie was away.

How she’d looked at him. How she didn’t stop him.

How her bloomers hit the floor, and how his name left her mouth in a sound more dangerous than prayer.

And how you left her there, he thought.

Still dripping.

Still open.

Still glowing.

But now? After the dream?

He couldn’t shake the feeling.

Not of guilt. Not of lust.

Of truth.

She ain’t just a girl.

She’s something else.

He remembered the first time he saw her.

Not in a dream. Not mid-fuck. Not in some fever haze.

In real life.

It was the day he came back to Clarksdale after seven years gone. Dirt still on his boots from places he didn’t talk about. Death still clinging to his knuckles like dried blood under his nails. He wasn’t even sure what he expected when he came back—just knew Annie was still breathing and that was enough reason to return.

He stepped through the creaking front door of her hoodoo shack—still smelled like cedar smoke, salt, and iron. Still had dried herbs hanging from the rafters like ghosts with work to do.

And there she was.

Not Annie.

Her.

Amelia.

She was crouched near the front table, head tilted just so, curls falling around her cheeks. There was a faint hum in the air—not from her mouth exactly, but around her. Like the air was singing back to her.

She didn’t look up when he entered. But she knew he was there.

He watched her from the doorway, quiet, still. Something about her struck him the wrong way—but not in a bad way. Just…off.

Like a light turned too high in a dim room.

Like sugar gone sour if you let it sit too long in a jar.

He didn’t say a word.

But he watched.

She ain’t right, he’d thought. Too soft. Too still. Too… something.

But damn if he wasn’t already curious.

Drawn to her the way a snake might watch fire.

And then Annie left.

Gone off to do work in another town, tending to a woman sick in her bones.

And now?

Now Smoke was alone in that house with her.

And he could feel it—Amelia’s claws sinking deeper.

Not real claws, no. Not even touch. Just…presence.

He couldn’t stop smelling her. Couldn’t stop thinking about her. Her scent clung to every room like perfume soaked into woodgrain. It lived in his throat. Lingered in the bend of his elbow when he laid down to rest.

And now, after that dream—the kind that made his dick ache and his chest burn—it wasn’t just desire crawling under his skin.

It was suspicion.

Something’s off. It’s been off since day one. But now it’s lookin’ me in the face.

He stared at the light bleeding through the curtain. Heart still pounding. Dick still hard.

And underneath it all…

He was afraid.

Not of her.

Of how bad he wanted her.

He’d known it when he kissed her. Known it when he fucked her. Known it when she smiled at him afterward like she could see right through him.

And now?

Now he was sure.

“You ain’t right,” he muttered to the empty room, “You ain’t right, girl.”

But his body still ached for her.

He got up slowly, feet hitting the floor, and crossed the room to the basin. Splashing water over his face didn’t help.

The mirror hung crooked on the wall.

As he looked up into it, the breath froze in his lungs.

Behind him—in the reflection—stood Amelia.

Or…something wearing her shape.

Her skin glowed faintly, as if lit from within. Her eyes were molten gold, pupils like slits. Her lips curved in that same sly, knowing smile she wore whenever she wanted to fuck with him.

“Elijah…” she whispered, but not aloud.

It slid through his mind like honey over a blade.

His hand moved before he could think.

BOOM.

The mirror shattered.

Smoke stood still, pistol raised, smoke curling from the barrel. Shards of glass rained onto the floor like falling teeth.

There was no one there.

No footsteps. No body. Just the throb of his heart and the bitter stench of gunpowder.

His jaw clenched hard.

“Nah. Nah, somethin’ ain’t right,” he muttered, chest heaving.

He slid the pistol back onto the dresser and sat down hard on the edge of the bed, dragging both hands down his face.

He may not know the rites, may not claim to believe in hoodoo…

But he’d been married to Annie long enough to know when something ain’t natural.

And Amelia?

She wasn’t just sweet.

She was dangerous.

And now…now she was in his head.

And Smoke had seen it.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that settled over a man like a warning. Like the hush before a storm breaks. Smoke moved through it slow, bare feet brushing over wood worn smooth from years of steps. The air inside was warm and thick, the morning sun slanting through the windows just enough to catch the dust dancing in the light.

Annie wasn’t home yet.

She’d sent a telegram yesterday. Said she’d be coming in on the 11:45 am from Shelby. Said she missed him, said she’d be glad to see him at the station.

But right now, all Smoke could think about was her.

Amelia.

That damn dream still clung to his skin like sweat. He could smell her on him—honeysuckle, moss, and heat. The memory of her thighs, her mouth, the way she tasted. It hadn’t been real, but his body didn’t know that. His cock still ached from it. His jaw was tight. His gut turned like something inside him was getting twisted slow.

He lit a cigarette with trembling hands. Exhaled.

And then…the pull started again.

Not from between his legs this time.

But from somewhere deeper. Somewhere behind his ribs. Something called to him. Told him to go.

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t even fully admit to himself what he was doing.

But he found his feet taking him to her room.

Amelia’s door creaked open with a soft groan, and the moment he stepped inside, it hit him again—that scent. Like something wild blooming too fast. It clung to her sheets, her hair comb, her discarded bloomers folded atop the laundry. His eyes swept across the space. It looked the same as before. Neat. Soft. Pretty in that old-world kind of way. But wrong too. Like the corners held shadows that shouldn’t be there.

His gaze drifted to the pile of books in the corner.

To the journal.

He’d opened it once before—days ago. Back when he was just curious. Back when he told himself he was looking out for Annie, making sure this strange girl she took in wasn’t some troublemaker. But he remembered what he read. The way Amelia described him like a beast. Like she saw too deep.

“He walks like the air bends for him…”

He pulled the journal out again, thumbing through pages that smelled faintly of herbs and ink. His calloused fingers landed further in this time. Something tugged at his hand. Like the damn book wanted to be read.

And then he found it.

A page that pulsed on the edge of the uncanny. The handwriting was hers, but different—slanted, like she was writing in a trance. Words flowed like verse, and some of them shimmered faintly, catching the light like the surface of water.

The fire watches me like prey. I feel his hunger before he speaks. I taste his thoughts when he dreams. He smells of iron and smoke and something broken.

But I did not come to seduce the fire. I came to sweeten my survival.

I never meant for her to drink the tea. Or for the fire to take me to his mouth. Or for the flood to come to me wet and wanting. I meant only to stay safe.

But now they taste me.

And they don’t want to let go.

Smoke blinked.

A chill worked its way down his spine.

He backed away like the book had struck him, jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack. The cigarette between his lips burned down to the filter, forgotten.

Something was wrong.

Something had always been wrong.

He thought about how Amelia would look at him when Annie wasn’t watching. How her eyes flashed like struck gold. How she glowed when he was buried inside her. And now…this. This page that read like prophecy. Like confession. Like a spell.

He snapped the journal shut. Heart thudding like thunder.

Then—

Creeaak.

The floorboards to his left groaned. Not loud. Just enough to raise every hair on his arms. His breath hitched. He turned sharply—

And froze.

The mirror on Amelia’s vanity caught his eye. But the reflection staring back wasn’t his alone.

It was hers.

Amelia.

Not the soft-eyed girl in cotton dresses.

No. This version had eyes like hot coals and a smile too wide, too knowing. Her hair shimmered with something unnatural, and when she moved her mouth—

“Elijah…”

The sound wasn’t out loud. It slithered into his mind, sweet and wicked.

Smoke roared.

He drew his pistol and fired.

BOOM!

Glass shattered across the room like breaking rain. His pulse pounded as he stood there, chest rising and falling, gun still aimed at nothing.

The mirror was ruined.

And the reflection…gone.

Just his face now. Just the wreckage.

His hands were shaking.

He sat down hard on the edge of her bed, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his tank. He felt dizzy. Unmoored. He didn’t know what the hell she was. But he knew she wasn’t just some girl Annie took in off the road.

He stared down at the journal still clutched in his hand.

Annie would be back in a few hours.

And something told him this was just the beginning.

Smoke’s jaw ticked.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for.

He just knew something was off.

Standing again, Smoke crouched by the dresser first, hands skimming beneath, checking again. Nothing. His gaze swept to the corner. The floorboard near the wall looked warped, like it had been pried up before. Not cracked—but gently lifted. Used.

He moved toward it, knelt down, and dug his fingers into the seam.

The plank groaned. Smoke paused—then peeled it back.

What he saw made his chest tighten.

Two jars.

One still shimmered faintly—a sweetening jar, sealed with wax and twine, packed with syrupy herbs and tiny flower buds. The other—older, darker—reeked of something sick and gone. Its glass was fogged, the inside blackening at the bottom like a wound.

He reached for the older one first. His nose wrinkled. The moment he picked it up, his fingers tingled, and a sharp chill licked up his spine.

It smelled like death.

Like mold and heartbreak and blood that had long dried.

His eyes narrowed. He didn’t know the name Nathaniel, but his bones knew a grave jar when they felt one. It held grief. Rot. A love turned poison.

Then the other.

The newer jar was beautiful, almost—coated with a soft, golden hue. A sliver of blue ribbon curled beneath the wax. It pulsed warmth. Power. It didn’t name names, but it had an energy. Not for one person—no petition. No photo. Just…hope.

He could feel Annie in it.

Maybe even himself.

His lips parted, eyes still locked on the jar, “Goddamn.”

Smoke stood slowly, both jars now heavy in his hands. He wasn’t a rootworker. But he’d lived long enough with one to know what not to ignore.

The Delta morning rose thick with gold heat, the sun barely cutting through the haze of a restless night. Stack hadn’t slept much—not really. The dream had woken him slick with sweat, breath short like he’d just finished fucking. Only he hadn’t. At least not in this world.

Amelia.

Her name hadn’t even crossed his lips when he woke. Just sat on the edge of the bed, dick still hard, heart pounding. Her voice still echoing in his skull.

Who’s gonna come get it first?

He’d never had a dream feel so real. Never had a woman crawl under his skin like that. Not even the ones who’d whispered his name with tears in their eyes or scratched his back ‘til they drew blood.

She was in him.

And it scared the shit out of him.

Stack turned the wheel of the old coupe with one hand, the other hanging lazy out the window as he headed into town. Heat rolled through the cracked windows, but he didn’t mind. He needed to sweat some of her out. His little cousin Sammie was waiting out front of the boarding house, shirt half-buttoned, suspenders loose.

“Aye, Stack!” he called, jogging up with that bright grin he always had, “Appreciate the ride.”

“Mmhm,” Stack muttered, lighting a cigarette, “You said Pearline’s?”

Sammie nodded and hopped in, settling into the passenger seat with a soft thud and a smirk, “Her man outta town. Couple days, she said.”

Stack gave him a sidelong glance as they pulled off.

“So you still tappin’ that married woman?”

Sammie didn’t even flinch. Just grinned wider, “You askin’ outta concern…or curiosity?”

Stack chuckled, “Both, probably.”

They hit the gravel stretch outside of town, wheels crunching over loose stone.

“You find that button yet?” Stack asked, smirking. “Know how to use it?”

Sammie grinned like a man with secrets, “Found it first night. She damn near cried.”

Stack let out a deep laugh, low and dirty, “Boy, you gone get shot. Husband come home early, you gone be a damn story folk whisper about.”

“Ain’t scared of that old man,” Sammie shrugged, “Ain’t got what she need anyway. She say I pray better between her legs than he ever did in church.”

Stack nearly choked on his smoke, laughing so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes, “Preacher Boy, huh? You preachin’ wit’ ya tongue now?”

“All kinds of sermons.”

The car went quiet for a minute, laughter fading as the road stretched ahead of them. Pearline’s little shotgun house came into view, shaded under a crooked pecan tree.

Before they pulled up, Sammie glanced sideways.

“Aight, your turn. What’s goin’ on with you and Amelia?”

Stack’s jaw twitched.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared out at the road, cigarette burning low.

“She got you lookin’ real tight lately,” Sammie added, “Like you got some shit on your chest you ain’t ready to say.”

Stack pulled the car over slowly in front of Pearline’s gate and threw it into park. He rested his arms over the wheel for a second, thumb tapping it.

“I’m feelin’ her,” he said finally, voice low, “More than I ever felt for any woman.”

Sammie blinked, “What?”

“I know,” Stack muttered, “Shit don’t make sense.”

“But… that ain’t like you,” Sammie said slowly, “You the one always sayin’ pussy come and go, heart don’t get involved.”

Stack looked straight ahead, “Yeah, well. That was before her.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was just full. Like the air couldn’t hold the weight of what had just been admitted.

“Damn,” Sammie said, finally, “You in trouble.”

“I know,” Stack said, “Thing is…I don’t even care.”

He reached into his pocket and handed Sammie a folded bill, “Go on. Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

Sammie smirked, taking the money, “Too late.”

Stack watched him disappear up the walkway. Pearline cracked the door just long enough for Sammie to slip in before closing it behind him.

Stack exhaled slow.

Then turned the coupe around and headed toward Smoke and Annie’s house.

Amelia would be there.

And whether he was ready or not, he needed to see her again. Needed to see if that dream meant something more than sweat and sin. Needed to know if what he felt was real.

Because if it was…

He was already too far gone.

Stack turned off the main road, tires crunching slow over the red-dust path that led to Annie and Smoke’s. The trees hung low and heavy on either side, casting shadows over the hood of his coupe. He could see the house in the distance now—small, worn, full of spirit and secrets. The closer he got, the tighter his grip got on the steering wheel.

He wasn’t sure what he was walking into.

And that pissed him off.

He eased his foot off the gas, letting the car crawl as his mind roamed.

Smoke had fucked her.

Of course he had.

That dream they’d both shared—it wasn’t just dream-stuff. Not just desire. It was truth wrapped in magic. A whisper from something old and twisted, dragging them all together like magnets under skin.

Amelia.

She had burrowed deep in him, deeper than he’d ever let any woman get. And it happened fast. Too fast. Like she’d been waiting on him. Like her body already knew his name before he even spoke.

And now?

Now she was fucking his twin.

His twin.

Stack ran his tongue along his teeth, jaw clenching. It wasn’t the sex that got to him. Hell, he’d shared women with Smoke before—casually, wordlessly, the way some men share a bottle or a smoke.

But this? This felt different.

He thought he wouldn’t care.

Thought he could be cool about it, maybe even make a joke or two.

But the moment he’d realized Amelia meant something to him, it shifted the ground under his feet.

He should’ve been the one to find her first. The one to see her with Annie on the back porch, mouths sweet and slow in the moonlight. The one to stumble on their laughter, the curve of Amelia’s spine arched into Annie’s palms.

He’d take that jealousy to his grave.

And still, what gnawed at him now wasn’t what they’d done—it was what it meant. What did it mean for Amelia’s feelings?

Did she love his brother?

Was she falling for him the way Stack was falling for her?

Fuck.

He rolled his shoulders, as if the ache lived in his muscles and not in his chest.

Smoke wouldn’t admit shit. Wouldn’t let on if he felt something real. But Stack knew him. Knew the way he moved when something got under his skin. The stiffness in his shoulders. The way his eyes lingered when he thought nobody was lookin’.

Smoke was built for love.

Had it, too—with Annie.

Real love. The kind that rooted itself deep. The kind that held you steady when the world went crooked. Stack had seen it with his own eyes—how Smoke looked at Annie like she was his compass, his home, his whole damn redemption.

And yet…

Something about Amelia still had him pulled tight.

Stack didn’t understand it. Didn’t like it.

Maybe it wasn’t love for Smoke. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was need. Maybe that shine of Amelia’s—whatever it was—crawled into places even Annie couldn’t reach. Not because Annie wasn’t enough, but because Amelia was other. Because Amelia could tap into something Smoke didn’t understand.

But he understood.

Stack didn’t have what Annie and Smoke had.

But he wanted something like it. Maybe with Amelia.

And maybe that’s what scared him most.

Stack leaned back, eyes narrowing as he slowed before the front gate.

Is she just a fire they both drawn to? Or is she mine, and I just got here too late?

He parked, engine ticking quiet as it cooled.

There was the shack. There was the house. There was his brother, probably inside.

And there was Amelia.

She was somewhere close. He could feel her like a pulse in his throat.

Stack killed the ignition and stepped out.

His boots hit the dirt soft, but the weight in his chest made the whole world feel heavier.

Time to face it.

Time to face him.

Time to face her.

The crunch of gravel outside.

Smoke stood still in the hallway, bare feet planted on the old pine floorboards as he heard the engine cut off. Low and familiar.

Stack’s car.

The creak of a door opening, then shutting with a firm clap. Slow footsteps on the porch. Smoke didn’t move. He waited.

And sure enough, the door pushed open and Stack stepped in, the morning light cutting across his face in soft gold slants.

He looked…off.

Not disheveled, not shaken exactly. Just different. His clothes were neat—slacks, collared shirt open at the chest—but his shoulders were tight. His mouth set. His eyes a little too wide, like he’d seen something behind them that wouldn’t let go.

He had the same damn dream.

Smoke didn’t say it. Didn’t need to.

Because when their eyes met across the dim room, the silence said enough.

Stack stood there a moment, glancing down the hall toward Annie’s empty room like he needed to remind himself where he was. Then he gave a short nod, tried to smirk, but it landed crooked.

“Morning,” he muttered, stepping further inside.

“Mmhm.”

They didn’t hug. Didn’t shake hands. Just looked.

The kitchen held a low heat from the sun rising at their backs. The old wood table between them bore scratches from years of knives and jars, of heavy elbows and long silences.

Smoke lit his pipe. Sat down slow. Stack followed, flipping open a switchblade and running the flat of it along the grain of the wood, not cutting—just feeling.

They sat in that thick stillness for minutes. The air filled with tobacco and something else: unspoken knowing.

Finally, Smoke exhaled a long plume and said flat:

“You dream somethin’ last night?”

Stack glanced up, quick. Too quick.

“What?” he chuckled, playing dumb.

Smoke didn’t even blink, “You heard me.”

Stack ran a thumb along the spine of the blade. Shrugged.

“Maybe.”

Smoke leaned forward, pipe perched between his fingers.

“She was there, wasn’t she?”

Stack’s smirk dropped.

His eyes flicked up, dark and hesitant.

And that’s when Smoke saw it—the pull. The thing clawing at his brother’s chest like it lived there now.

“You feel it too,” Smoke said low, “Ain’t just me.”

Stack was quiet.

Then he shut the blade, slow, and set it down on the table.

He exhaled like something heavy had been pressing into his lungs.

“I ain’t scared of her,” he said, “But somethin’ ‘bout her got me feelin’…wrong. Or right. Hell, I don’t know.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. Looked away.

“I swear, Eli…I looked at her the other night and it was like—like she was shinin’. Not just sweat. She glowed. Her eyes…looked like gold coins in moonlight.”

Smoke’s jaw tensed.

Stack wasn’t lying. He wasn’t playing it cool anymore.

He was in it.

And deep.

“It felt real. Not like no spell. Like I’d been waitin’ my whole life just to hear her say my name.”

Smoke stood slowly, pipe clenched between his teeth, arms crossed now as he stared down at the table.

“You think that’s normal?”

Stack lifted his head, brows drawn, “What the hell is normal ‘round here?”

“She ain’t what she say she is,” Smoke growled, “Ain’t nobody shine like that without a price attached.”

“So what, you think she castin’ spells?” Stack snapped, “On you? On me? On Annie?”

“I think she’s doin’ somethin’, even if she don’t mean to.”

Stack stood now too, voice lowering with heat.

“Or maybe you just mad I got feelings for her and she feel somethin’ back.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed.

“I ain’t mad.”

“You ain’t actin’ like a man who don’t want her.”

Smoke’s silence said more than words could.

Stack’s mouth curled bitter.

“You got Annie,” he hissed, “You got your wife. You need to be focused on that and leave Amelia be. She don’t belong to you.”

That did it.

“Oh, so now you care? Nigga, I’m tryna look out for you—”

“I don’t need no savin’. Ain’t no trouble. Just a woman I want. You got yours. Work on that.”

Smoke’s jaw flexed hard.

He stepped back from the table, pipe clenched tight in his fist. He didn’t say another word.

He turned and walked out. Left Stack alone in the kitchen, standing in that rising morning light, the sound of the door creaking open and shutting like punctuation on something heavy.

Something broken.

The screen door creaked as Stack eased it open, a ghost of tobacco still clinging to his shirt and the sweat of Mississippi heat pressing into his spine. He stepped lightly onto the porch, then down toward Annie’s shack, the familiar crunch of gravel and dry grass beneath his boots.

He wasn’t sure what brought him here—not exactly.

He told himself he was just checking in.

But the truth sat low in his chest, thick as syrup. He wanted to see her. Needed to.

Amelia.

The woman who’d crawled into his dreams and refused to leave.

He spotted the door slightly ajar. Sunlight filtered in through the wood slats, painting the inside golden. There was no music playing, but a voice—her voice—was humming something sweet and southern. Old and otherworldly. The kind of tune that felt like it remembered you, not the other way around.

He stepped closer. Stopped.

Through the door, he saw her.

Back turned. Barefoot. Sweeping the floor with slow, lazy strokes. Her long, dark hair spilled down in a tangle of waves that nearly kissed her lower back. She wore a simple, soft green dress cinched at the waist, the kind of fabric that fluttered when she moved, clinging to her curves like it had been made just for her.

The light hit her just so—haloing her like a fever dream come to life.

Stack’s hand braced the edge of the doorframe. Something inside him tightened.

He wasn’t used to this feeling. The nerves. The hesitation.

Hell, he’d bedded women in fine hotels and the back seats of Fords without flinching. But this… this was different.

And he hated that he liked it.

Amelia turned slightly, sensing him before she saw him.

Then she looked up.

Their eyes locked.

And it was like time folded in on itself.

Something bloomed between them—magnetic, thick, and unseen. He could feel it hum beneath his skin, the same way he’d felt her in that dream, riding him under the moonlight, calling his name like it was sacred.

But this wasn’t a dream. She was here. Real. Sweeping and smiling, like she didn’t already own every inch of him.

“Well, good morning,” she said, voice like warm honey, her mouth already curling into a grin.

Stack didn’t speak.

Didn’t think.

He stepped in.

Amelia blinked, her smile widening in surprise, her hands still on the broom as he closed the distance between them.

Then—he kissed her.

Hard. Maddening. Like he was chasing something he’d already lost.

Her breath hitched.

Then she giggled against his lips, soft and bright, and tried to push him back.

“Stack—stop,” she whispered, laughing as he kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, down to the side of her neck.

“You hummin’ like that, lookin’ like this, and expectin’ me to act right?” he muttered into her skin.

Amelia laughed again but there was a breathlessness behind it, “I was just sweeping…”

He pulled back, just enough to look at her.

“I know what you were doin’. And I ain’t never wanted to be a broom more in my whole damn life.”

She slapped his chest playfully, “You so damn foolish.”

But Stack didn’t laugh. He stared.

Long and deep.

His thumb brushed the side of her jaw, and his voice dropped low.

“You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

Amelia’s lips parted—but she didn’t answer.

Because she did know.

She felt it too.

And in the stillness between them, the only sound was the creak of the shack settling and their shallow breaths. Outside, the wind rustled the tall grass.

Inside, the air was charged. Like something was about to break open again.

But Stack didn’t take it further. Not yet.

Instead, he reached behind her and slowly took the broom from her hands, setting it aside with care.

Then he whispered, “Come sit with me a minute.”

And she did.

Not because he told her to.

But because the pull between them was no longer something either of them could pretend away.

The air in the hoodoo shack hung heavy with stillness, thick with conjure smoke, secrets, and something sweeter—something almost like peace. Amelia sat on the edge of the cushioned bench, the hem of her soft cotton dress brushing her ankles. Her long hair, wild and dark, falling in velvet waves along her back. Across from her, Stack leaned forward in the worn wooden chair, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers loosely steepled. He was watching her with that quiet intensity of his, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth, the slope of her cheekbone, the sound of her breathing. Neither of them spoke yet. The silence between them pulsed—soft and heavy—like a held breath waiting to break.

Stack sat beside her, boots dusty from the walk over. His hat rested on a nearby shelf. His voice, when it finally came, was rough with something weightier than lust.

“I gotta tell you somethin’.”

Amelia’s eyes lifted to his—soft, full of curiosity, and something else too. The way she looked at him made his chest tighten, like she saw the version of him no one else bothered to remember. The boy before the blood. Before the war. Before all the sin.

His lips parted to speak. But—

Gravel crunched outside.

Both of them froze.

The sound rolled low, slow…the purr of tires over dry dirt.

Stack straightened instantly, his jaw tightening. He moved to the front window, parting the sheer curtain with two fingers, eyes narrowing. Amelia rose too, her breath catching, posture gone rigid as if her bones suddenly remembered something awful.

A sleek black motorcar had pulled up just beyond the fence line. The kind that didn’t belong to Clarksdale locals. Polished. Quiet. Intentional.

A woman stepped out.

She moved like a ghost wrapped in money—tall, commanding, gloved in navy with a matching wide-brimmed hat that shadowed her face. Her heels clicked across the gravel like a ticking clock.

Stack’s brow furrowed, “Who the hell is that?”

Amelia edged beside him to look.

The color drained from her face.

“No,” she whispered, backing away from the window as if she’d been struck.

Stack turned sharply, “You know her?”

Amelia nodded, voice breaking as she clutched her middle, “It’s my aunt. Celine.”

Stack blinked, “The one you told me about?”

“Yes. But she—she can’t see me. Not here. Not like this.”

“What’s she even doin’ here?”

“I don’t know,” Amelia said, grabbing the basket she’d been sorting earlier, hands trembling now, “But if she’s here, it’s not just to visit. Please, Stack…I can’t let her see me.”

“You wanna hide?” His voice dropped low, incredulous. “You serious?”

Amelia didn’t answer. She was already moving to the closet in the back corner.

“Please,” she begged, her hand on the door, “Just this once.”

Knock. Knock.

Firm.

Unapologetic.

Stack looked from her to the front of the shack.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Without waiting for his reply, Amelia slipped inside the closet and pulled the door shut behind her with a soft click.

Stack was still processing when the front door opened without ceremony.

He hadn’t locked it.

The woman entered like she owned the space, perfume preceding her—jasmine and clove, powder and something colder underneath. Her face was beautiful in that sharp, untouchable way—high cheekbones, honey skin, a mouth that looked like it had cut hearts in half. Her veil cast a netted shadow across her features, but her gaze was as clear and assessing as a blade.

Stack straightened his shoulders, “Somethin’ I can help you with?”

The woman’s eyes swept the room—the altar, the lingering smell of oils, the two teacups still warm, the faintest trail of a second perfume that didn’t belong to her.

“I’m looking for someone,” she said smoothly.

Stack’s hand went to the back of his neck, feigning casual, “Yeah? Who?”

“My niece. Amelia Broussard.”

He didn’t flinch. Just blinked slow, “Ain’t no Amelia here.”

“You sure?” she asked, stepping further in. Her voice was polished, but there was warning threaded through the silk, “Pretty girl. Long hair. Likes to hum when she works. Draws attention she doesn’t mean to.”

“I run this place with my brother,” Stack said calmly, “Only woman been here’s his wife. Maybe you got the wrong spot.”

She tilted her head, looking at the altar, “This don’t strike me as the kind of place a man like you runs.”

He gave her a cool smile, “You’d be surprised what kind of man I am.”

She turned slowly, her fingers brushing over a jar of graveyard dirt, “If you see her…tell her Celine’s come calling.”

Her eyes met his. There was something ancient behind them. Something used to being obeyed.

Stack gave a single nod. “Sure thing, ma’am.”

She took her time walking out. The click of her heels echoed long after the door shut behind her.

Only when the car eased away and the rumble faded into silence did the closet door creak open.

Amelia stepped out, eyes wet, hands clasped.

“She found me,” she whispered.

Stack turned toward her, breath still shallow, that pulse in his neck still throbbing.

“Why’s she really here, baby?”

Amelia opened her mouth, but no sound came.

The shack was quiet again, the scent of burnt lavender still curling in the corners like ghost smoke.

Amelia sat back down on the bench, her dress falling softly around her thighs. Stack stood a few paces away, still watching the door as if it might swing open again. He hadn’t moved since Celine left—his jaw was tight, fists flexing and loosening at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Amelia was pale. Not afraid. But shaken. Her glow dimmed beneath the weight of whatever she wasn’t saying.

Stack finally turned to face her, stepping forward, slower now.

“You wanna tell me why the hell you just crawled into a closet like the boogeyman was comin’?” His voice wasn’t unkind. Just taut with confusion. With…something else.

She looked down at her hands, “I didn’t expect her. Not here. Not yet.”

“What does she want with you?”

Amelia hesitated. Her fingers played with the edge of her skirt, twisting the fabric. “She’s looking for something that don’t belong to her no more.”

Stack crouched down in front of her, “That mean you?”

Her breath caught. She nodded, slowly, “Yeah.”

He reached for her hands, rough fingers curling over hers.

“Tell me what happened, sugar. Tell me what she’s got on you.”

Amelia looked at him—and the way he looked back, with his whole damn heart in his eyes, made her want to shatter.

She opened her mouth.

“I need to tell you something,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, “About her. And about me. I should’ve told you before. I just didn’t know how—”

The back door creaked.

Both of them turned sharply.

Smoke stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the golden afternoon light. His shoulders looked broader somehow—tense, imposing. His eyes flicked from Amelia to Stack, then lingered on their hands. Still joined.

Amelia pulled back first. Stack stood, slow and steady, his jaw tightening.

Smoke didn’t speak at first.

“I came to let y’all know,” he said after a beat, voice low, “I’m headin’ to the station. Annie’s train due any minute.”

Neither Stack nor Amelia responded.

The air crackled with unspoken things—Stack’s shoulders rigid, Smoke’s eyes sharp. Amelia’s breath faltered in her throat.

“You alright?” Smoke asked, gaze shifting to her.

Amelia nodded, slow, “Yes.”

Smoke didn’t believe it. But he didn’t press.

He looked to Stack, “You good?”

Stack’s smile was tight, “Peachy.”

Smoke gave a single nod. Turned without another word. The door swung shut behind him with a heavy finality.

The moment he was gone, the silence was thick as sorghum.

Amelia swallowed hard, but the words had retreated again. Like birds startled off a wire.

Stack stared at the closed door for a long beat. Then he looked back at her.

“You still wanna tell me?”

She opened her mouth again—but this time, no sound came.

Not yet.

Stack’s eyes softened, “Alright, baby. When you’re ready.”

He kissed her forehead, lingering.

But even as his lips touched her skin, he could feel it.

The divide had deepened.

[eye-raq]

Smoke didn’t have a hint of hesitation while pulling out his two guns on Mary! Smoke’s hands did not shake before or while shooting to Kll Mary either 😩🥴😂

[eye-raq]

𝙋𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙘 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙘𝙚

“Her fingers were still wrapped around her cocktail glass when she leaned in and whispered, ‘I’m not wearing anything under this skirt. Don’t fuck up your high score, Poppa."

Elias should’ve known something was up when London took extra long getting dressed.

It wasn’t just the hoops. Or the gloss. Or the black thigh-high socks hugging her legs like they were paid to worship her.

It was the skirt. Tiny. Pleated. Dangerous.

And that hoodie?

Cropped. Loose. One good breeze from being a confession.

They rolled into the barcade just after 9. Music bumping. Neon lights flashing. The smell of bar food and cherry slushies floating between pinball machines and retro booths. It was loud, casual, and just chaotic enough for someone to get away with murder.

Or something worse.

“First drink’s on you,” London teased as she reached for her ID, her voice all caramel and confidence.

Elias didn’t respond.

He was too busy staring at the way her skirt moved when she walked — and wondering if she’d really left the house without panties.

⸻

They played games for the first hour like any couple would.

Pool. Mortal Kombat. Old-school Pac-Man. A little trash talk. A few shoulder brushes. A lot of heat under the surface.

But the moment she slid onto the stool beside him at the bar — crossed her legs and leaned in with a cherry-red smile — the energy changed.

She touched his thigh casually.

Nothing crazy.

Just fingertips.

And leaned in.

“Not wearing anything under this,” she whispered against his ear, “so if I shift wrong, everybody here’s gonna get a show.”

Elias’s jaw flexed. Her drink hadn’t even arrived yet.

He looked at her — slow, sideways, deadly.

“You really wanna start this here?”

London sipped her vodka sour and blinked, all sweet innocence. “Score’s still 2–1. I’m just playing to win.”

⸻

The teasing started small.

Hand on his thigh while he played air hockey. Tongue on the rim of her glass while he chalked his pool cue.

Then, while he lined up a shot — she leaned over and palmed him through his jeans.

Elias missed.

“Damn,” she said softly. “That looked like it was gonna go in.”

He turned, gripped the edge of the table.

“London.”

“Hmm?”

“You keep doin’ shit like that, and I’ma fuck you right here.”

“Oh, I know,” she whispered. “I’m counting on it.”

⸻

By the time they hit the racing game, he was leaking pre.

London had leaned in during the countdown, one hand on the wheel, the other sliding under the hem of his hoodie.

And she whispered filth.

“Remember last night?” “Still wet.” “You gonna cum in me again tonight?” “Wanna feel it drip while we drive home…”

He crashed in-game.

On-screen and in his brain.

⸻

He didn’t say a word when they left.

Just grabbed her hand, led her straight to the car, and unlocked it with that specific silence that promised destruction.

They barely got the doors closed.

London giggled as he slammed the door shut behind them and climbed into the backseat with her.

“Oh no,” she laughed, voice breathy, “did I break your focus, Poppa?”

“You think this is funny?”

“I think you’re hard as hell and you still haven’t kissed me.”

He grabbed her jaw, leaned in, and kissed her like a punishment — wet, deep, claiming. His hands were on her thighs, yanking her legs open. She was already straddling him, skirt up, no panties in sight, bare and wet on his lap.

“Tell me the truth,” he growled. “You get off on acting like this, huh?”

“I get off,” she whispered, grinding against him, “when you lose control.”

Elias hissed and slid his fingers through her folds — soaked, warm, pulsing.

“Fuck, baby…”

“Don’t make me wait,” she begged. “I want it. Inside. Now.”

He didn’t waste time.

Pushed his jeans down. Lined up.

And slid in.

Raw.

Deep.

She gasped, arms flying around his neck, eyes rolling back.

“Oh my god—Poppa—”

His grip tightened on her ass as he thrust slow, steady, intentional.

“You like that?” he grunted. “That what you wanted, huh? All that teasing just to get filled again?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

She started grinding harder, chasing it, the seat squeaking beneath them as he fucked her deeper.

“I’m not stoppin’ till I cum in it,” he groaned. “You hear me?”

“Please,” she cried. “Do it.”

He nearly blacked out.

One hand grabbed the back of her neck. The other wrapped around her thigh.

“Say it again.”

“I want it,” she sobbed. “Fill me up. Make it yours.”

That was it.

He came with a deep grunt, buried inside her, every thick pulse hitting just where she needed.

She clenched around him and moaned, shaking, body trembling as she came right after.

They sat there panting.

Breathless.

Sticky.

Still joined.

Still full.

London finally pulled back, smug and glowing, and whispered in his ear:

“3–1.”

+

London thought she had him.

From the moment they stepped into the barcade — low lighting, synth beats, neon reflecting off metal buttons — she’d played every move with surgical precision.

The tiny skirt. No panties. Thigh-high socks. That lip gloss.

A cocktail of sin and confidence.

She’d brushed her hand across his thigh mid–air hockey and whispered, “You get hard that fast, Poppa?”

He’d missed the shot. She’d grinned. 3–1.

He said nothing the whole ride home.

Not when she gripped his thigh at the red light. Not when she kissed his neck in the elevator and whispered, “You gonna get me back?”

He just smiled.

⸻

By the time they stepped into the condo, she was wet.

Not figuratively.

Literally.

Still smug, still glowing, she dropped her keys in the dish and turned toward him—ready to start what she thought would end with her pinned to the bed.

But Elias just walked past her. Calm. Quiet. Hoodie off, shirt tight to his chest, face unreadable.

London blinked.

“Poppa?”

“Mm?”

“You good?”

“I’m great,” he said, pulling a water bottle from the fridge. “Hungry?”

“…No?”

He grinned. “Cool. I am.”

He sat on the couch. Turned on the game. Took a slow sip. Never looked at her.

London stared.

“You’re… watching TV?”

“Mhm.”

“After everything I did to you tonight?”

Elias finally turned his head.

“Oh. You thought I was gonna give it to you just ’cause you looked good at Pac-Man?”

Her jaw dropped.

He nodded at the chair across from him. “Sit.”

“I don’t wanna sit.”

“Didn’t ask if you wanted to.”

⸻

Ten minutes passed.

She squirmed in the chair — legs crossed, then uncrossed, then crossed again — while Elias kept his eyes on the game. Calm. Steady.

Until halftime.

Then he finally stood.

Walked over to her.

And pulled her to her feet.

“You wanna come?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded, breath catching.

He kissed her once. Soft. Deep.

“Then take your time,” he whispered.

And walked to the balcony.

⸻

She followed him out barefoot.

The night air was cool on her skin, the sky clear, the city lit below like a private audience.

Elias leaned back against the balcony wall — arms folded, jaw tight.

She stepped up to him.

Pressed her body to his.

And tried to kiss him again.

He turned his head just enough to tease.

“Try harder.”

London growled softly, grabbing his hand and guiding it between her legs.

He didn’t move.

“Fuck, Poppa,” she whispered, “I’m so wet—”

“I know.”

“Please.”

“No.”

⸻

She dropped to her knees.

Unbuckled his belt slow, staring up at him with those glassy eyes.

When she pulled him out, he was already hard — thick, pulsing, heavy in her palm.

She licked him slow. Base to tip. Then took him in.

Soft. Warm. Wet.

Elias hissed, hand going to her curls, but he didn’t thrust.

He let her work.

Let her whimper and suck and stroke while the skyline glowed behind her.

But just before he could lose it—

He pulled her up.

And turned her to face the city.

⸻

Bent her over the balcony wall.

Lifted her skirt.

Pulled her hips back.

And slid in.

Deep.

Slow.

London gasped, hands gripping the railing, breath fogging the night air.

Elias grabbed her jaw and turned her face toward him.

“You wanna come now?”

“Yes,” she moaned.

“You want me to cum inside you?”

“Yes—please—”

He grinned. “Say you’re mine first.”

“I’m yours,” she cried. “I’ve been yours.”

He leaned in, kissed the back of her neck.

And fucked her slow.

Steady.

So deep she shook.

Until she came hard, mouth open to the stars, legs trembling.

And Elias followed — finishing inside, moaning her name, hips jerking as he filled her full and didn’t stop until the world disappeared.

⸻

They stood there after.

Still tangled.

Still full.

City lights dancing off their skin.

London turned her head, panting.

“…Still your point.”

Elias smirked.

“3–2.”

[eye-raq]

Sammie is the angel on Smoke's shoulder... While Remmick is the devil on Stack's...

[eye-raq]

🍑 GEORGIA PEACH 🍑

Stack and Susannah Mae Whitfield aka Peaches.

Summary: Folks called her Peaches before she ever stepped on stage, and the name stuck the way honey clings to warm skin—sweet, natural, and just a little messy. Nobody sent for her. She showed up on her own terms. With not much more than a worn traveling dress, a fan tucked in her cleavage, and a laugh that could make sinners lean in, Peaches arrived at The Blackline looking for a fresh start and a full purse. But she didn’t come in desperate. She came in ready.

Warnings: HARDCORE SMUT

Savannah, Georgia–born in the backroom of her auntie’s boarding house on a sweltering June morning…

Two part series

The Blackline–Late Afternoon, Golden Hour

The front doors creaked open just as the sun hit the curtains and painted everything inside in bronze. Heat clung to the velvet walls, thick and perfumed, wrapping around the new girl the second she stepped inside.

Peaches.

Sandy brown curls pinned up, a fan tucked into her cleavage, curves wrapped in a dusty rose traveling dress that had seen better days. Her lipstick was fresh, but her shoes were worn. She looked like temptation come knockin’—with a past and a punchline in every sway of her hips.

“This the place?” she asked, letting the double doors shut behind her with a slap, “Smell like sin and good money in here.”

A man near the bar chuckled under his breath. One of the housemen tried to straighten his tie. Peaches didn’t notice. She was too busy looking up—admiring the gold ceiling, the stairwell that curved like a question mark, and the big shadow leaning against the upstairs rail.

Stack.

He clocked her instantly.

Didn’t say a word. Just lit his cigarette, watching the new girl from above. His eyes dragged down her body like they’d been waiting for her.

Elias “Stack” Moore was clean and crisp in a dark vest and open collar, suspenders hanging easy at his sides, a gold tooth flashing when he smiled—though right now, he wasn’t smiling. He was watching.

Peaches stood near the front parlor, fan in one hand, lips glossed and pouting just enough to tempt sin. When their eyes met, it was like two seasoned gamblers at a table—each clocking the other’s bluff, charm, and heat in a single sweep.

Stack spoke first, smooth as aged whiskey.

“You the new flavor I heard comin’ through?”

Peaches grinned, wide and brazen.

“Depends who’s tastin’.”

That made him smile. Just a flick of it—but enough to make the room feel hotter. He made his way down the stairs, slow and wicked. Peaches hummed to herself when he stepped closer, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging down her body like he was counting blessings.

“How can I help you, baby?”

His voice dropped a register—low, velvety. That sound that curled around your spine and made even silence feel intimate.

Peaches shifted her weight, letting her hips settle just so.

“Well, I’m Peaches. Fresh from Savannah. I sing, I swing, and I ain’t scared of much.”

“Peaches,” he repeated, tasting the word, “That suit you.”

He reached for her hand—not rushed, not timid—just confident. Raised it to his lips and pressed a slow kiss to her knuckles, all while holding her gaze.

“Elias Moore. Folks call me Stack. I run this place.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t let go. His lips stayed a beat longer than they should’ve, and Peaches felt it all the way down to her thighs.

“Well, Stack,” she said, her voice syrupy, “Looks like I came to the right door.”

He finally let her hand go, turning slightly to call over his shoulder.

“Minnie! Show our guest to the green room.”

A young woman appeared from the side hallway, moving with the kind of calm that settled a room without trying. She wore a dark wrap dress dusted lightly with flour, a kitchen cloth tucked in her hand, and her wide brown eyes held a hush of quiet knowing—not nervous, just tuned in. The kind of woman who could read your whole mood in a glance and never call you on it—just smile soft and say, “Mmmhmm.”

“Yes sir.”

Peaches gave Stack one last up-and-down sweep—not shy, not subtle—and turned to follow Minnie.

They passed through a narrow hall, the scent of rosewater and dusted velvet trailing behind them. As they neared the back stairwell, a richer smell crept in—butter, cinnamon, maybe brown sugar—the kind of scent that made a girl slow down and breathe.

Peaches cocked her head, lips parted.

“Mmm. Somebody back there tryin’ to seduce me through my nostrils.”

The woman leading her smiled gently, her steps unhurried. She wore a simple black wrap dress with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her voice, when it came, was soft like honey on warm toast.

“That’d be me. I just pulled a peach cobbler from the oven. Figured the house could use a little sweetness tonight.”

Peaches turned to take her in—plush frame, wide eyes that knew too much, and a half-smile that made you feel like you’d already said too much. She didn’t walk fast, didn’t fidget. She moved like someone who knew exactly how much space to take up—and how to listen when the room spoke.

“You bake and do tours?” Peaches teased, grinning, “What, you gon’ sing me to sleep next?”

Minnie didn’t laugh. Just gave her a look from the side—eyebrows raised, lips pursed—like she’d seen every kind of woman come through these halls and already had Peaches pegged as the kind who talked big but had gold under all that peach.

“I do a little bit of everything,” Minnie said, “Keep the girls fed. Keep the energy right. Keep an eye on things.”

She opened the door to the green room, then looked back with a knowing glint.

“This where we put the new girls first night or two,” she said gently, “Ain’t your permanent room—just a place to breathe, wash up, get your bearings. We’ll place you proper once they see what your light look like.”

Peaches walked in slow, taking in the velvet chaise, basin stand, and the faint scent of lavender tucked into the linens.

“I done slept in worse,” she muttered, half to herself, “Ain’t no complaints.”

Minnie lingered in the doorway, her arms crossed loosely.

“Stack’s the one who sends the clothes up. He always does that for the new girls.”

Peaches looked over her shoulder, lips curled.

“He always kiss hands too?”

Minnie’s smile curved sly.

“That depends. But lingerin’ on the balcony the way he did?” She paused, eyes twinkling with quiet knowing, “That only happens when he’s interested. Real interested.”

Peaches raised an eyebrow, mouth parting like she had a flirt on deck—then thought better of it. Instead, she turned back to the room, tracing her fingers over the dresser’s edge.

“Good to know.”

The green room hummed with stillness, the late-day light casting a warm, slanted glow across the walls. Outside, footsteps creaked faintly along the upstairs hall. Laughter echoed from the bar below. Somewhere, a piano tuned itself in slow chords.

Peaches stood in front of the vanity, robe slipping from her shoulders, naked but not bare. She was wrapped in heat, in promise, in something that felt like electricity thrumming low in her belly. The bundle of clothes Stack had sent sat folded on the bed—peach satin, gold trim, a whisper of a dress. Next to it, a note written in a man’s hand, short and crooked:

Sing like you mean it. —S.

She snorted.

“Cocky bastard.”

But her lips curved up anyway.

She took her time getting ready.

Powdered her chest. Oiled her thighs.

Dabbed perfume behind her ears, under her breasts, the inside of her knees.

She wore it like intention—like scented warning.

The dress slid over her hips like water, clinging to her curves, dipping low in the back and lower in the front. No bra. Just skin and softness and the gentle weight of her breasts moving with her every breath. She pulled her hair up in loose, intentional curls, pinning each piece with care.

Her reflection stared back, full lips glossy, eyes lined with a little more black than usual. Not for disguise. For declaration.

“You gon’ give them somethin’ to remember, baby,” she told herself.

Just as she slipped on her heels, there was a knock at the door.

Three soft taps.

She walked over and opened it to find Minnie holding a small silver tray with a crystal glass and a spoon.

“Figured you could use a little somethin’ before you sing,” Minnie said, voice warm.

“What’s this?”

“Peach whiskey with a drop of honey. Eases the nerves.”

Peaches took the glass, sipped slow, and sighed as it slid down her throat.

“You might be dangerous, you know that?”

Minnie just smiled, stepping back.

“Stage’ll be ready in ten. Cordelia’s lightin’ the candles now.”

“And Stack?”

“Already waitin’.”

Peaches closed the door behind her and turned back to the mirror. Her heart beat harder now—not with fear, but with readiness. She looked like a storm in peach satin. And he was going to feel every inch of her voice when it hit that room.

She grabbed her fan, touched her lipstick one last time, and whispered to her reflection:

“Let’s go make a memory.”

The music room in The Blackline was draped in shadow and silk, with low-hung lamps casting golden halos across polished wood. A hush had settled in. Patrons leaned forward in velvet chairs. Cigarette smoke danced beneath the chandeliers.

The upright piano murmured. A slow, sweet tune crept out—something bluesy, almost shy. The band was light tonight, just piano and bass. The kind of sound that gave a singer room to breathe. To seduce.

The side curtain rustled, and a silhouette appeared.

Peaches.

She stepped out into the light, hips wrapped in peach satin, skin gleaming with powder and oil. The dress clung to every curve, the hem brushing her ankles, the neckline low enough to cause distractions in the front row. Her hair was pinned just high enough to show the slope of her neck, and her eyes scanned the crowd like she was searching for her next sin.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t smile.

She let the silence grow pregnant with curiosity before sauntering to the mic and lifting the fan in her hand—gold silk with tiny peach blossoms stitched into the folds.

And then, she sang.

🎶I want a little sugar…in my bowl…🎶

🎶I want a little sweetness…down in my soul…🎶

Her voice was molasses and fire, sliding over the notes like a silk slip sliding down thighs. Men shifted in their seats. Women leaned in. Even the servers froze in the doorway.

In the far back corner, half-shrouded in smoke and low light, Stack sat with a half-empty glass and one leg draped over the other.

He was still.

Watching.

One elbow on the armrest, his gold tooth catching a flicker of candlelight every time his mouth twitched. But he didn’t smirk. Not now. Now, he was hungry. His gaze trailed up the length of her thighs to the way her mouth shaped each lyric.

🎶I want a little steam…on my clothes…🎶

🎶Maybe I can fix things up, so they’ll go…🎶

She dipped into the next note like it hurt. Like she was laying something on the altar.

And she was.

Because Peaches wasn’t just singing.

She was laying claim.

Every roll of her hips, every glide of her fingers across her chest—intentional. Every line pointed toward one man who hadn’t moved once, but who had been eating her alive with his eyes since the first note.

She could feel him.

It was like his stare had weight—like it sat between her thighs and tugged on every moan in her throat.

She walked away from the mic, slow, singing over her shoulder as she moved between tables.

🎶You been acting different, baby…sleepin’ cold at night…🎶

🎶I think I need a taste of somethin’ that feels right🎶

Someone whistled.

Someone groaned.

But she only had eyes for one man.

And when she reached the edge of the stage again, she turned her back to the crowd, rolled her hips once—deep and low—and looked directly at Stack Moore.

🎶I need a little sugar in my bowl…🎶

🎶And baby…I need you.🎶

The last note rang out like a secret.

Then the room erupted—applause, hoots, laughter. But Peaches didn’t wait for a bow. She gave a single wink, fanned herself once, and strode off stage with her hips still talking.

Behind her, Stack sat motionless for a beat.

Then he stood.

Drink abandoned.

Suit sharp.

Intent clear.

The applause still rang in the halls long after she left the stage.

Peaches walked slow, fan still half-open in her hand, the satin of her dress whispering at her thighs. The green room was dim now, lit by a single lamp and the golden glow of the hallway spilling in through the cracked door.

She set the fan on the vanity and leaned in close to the mirror. Her lipstick hadn’t moved. Neither had the fire in her eyes.

“Still got it,” she whispered to her reflection.

That’s when she heard it—two knuckles to the door, low and deliberate.

She didn’t turn. Just smiled.

“Come in, sugar. Door’s already open.”

The hinges creaked, slow and smooth.

Stack Moore stepped inside like he’d always belonged there. The door shut behind him with a soft click.

His vest was undone now, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t loosened a bit. If anything, he looked more dangerous in the quiet—like a storm that hadn’t decided whether to kiss or kill.

“Well?” she asked without facing him, “Did I pass your little test?”

Stack said nothing for a moment.

Then his voice came, velvet-dark.

“You didn’t just pass, baby. You fucked up the curve.”

Peaches turned, slowly. Leaned back on the vanity, one hand resting on her hip.

“That right?”

Stack’s eyes dragged over her—not greedy, not rushed. Reverent. Like he was still hearing her voice echo in his skull.

“Didn’t expect that sound to come outta you,” he said, stepping closer, “Thought you’d be good. But you ain’t good.”

He stopped just a breath away.

“You dangerous.”

Peaches licked her lips slowly.

“And what that make you?”

Stack’s smile came slow, eyes glinting.

“A man who wants a second listen.”

He reached for her hand again—like he had when they first met—but this time, he didn’t kiss it. He just held it for a moment, calloused thumb brushing along her knuckles.

“That last note…” he said quietly, “Felt like it hit me in the ribs.”

“I was aiming a little lower,” she teased, voice soft.

He huffed a breath—almost a laugh—but didn’t let go.

The silence between them swelled, thick with everything unspoken. The tension wasn’t sharp—it was molten, slow-burning, coiled.

“You always sing like that?” he asked, eyes locked to hers.

“Only when someone worth singin’ for in the room.”

She said it like a challenge. And he took it like one.

He leaned in, lips near her ear.

“Don’t make a habit of impressin’ me, Peach. I might start askin’ for encores.”

She tilted her head, barely brushing his mouth with her cheek.

“Might not be a bad thing…long as you remember who’s got the mic.”

He pulled back, studying her like a painting—something too detailed to take in all at once.

Then he let go of her hand.

“You rest up. You got folks buzzin’ downstairs already.”

He turned to leave, then paused in the doorway.

“I’ll be watchin’.”

And he was gone.

Peaches stood there a beat longer, heat still prickling beneath her skin.

Then she whispered to herself, smirking into the mirror:

“Oh, he already is.”

Phase one.

Stack leaned back in the leather, one elbow on the armrest, a cigar smoldering in his other hand. His dark eyes tracked Peaches from head to toe—the soft, plush robe barely covering her thick, honey-toned thighs, the way her hips swayed when she stepped into the warm glow of the room.

“Go on,” he said, voice smooth and slow, “Let’s see what you got, Peach.”

Peaches smiled—slow and lazy—her lips painted red to match the curve of her nails. She stood a few feet in front of him, swaying with the music like her body carried its own rhythm. Her eyes locked on his as she slipped one hand to the sash at her waist and pulled, letting the robe fall open.

Stack’s grin widened.

Underneath? A sheer slip that left nothing to the imagination — her nipples pressed dark and tight against the fabric, the curve of her belly soft and inviting, the weight of her ass and thighs moving with every shift.

Stack exhaled, smoke curling from his lips.

“Mm. You pretty,” he whispered, “You know that, don’t you?”

Peaches tilted her head, “I know what I look like.”

She turned slow, presenting her ass, letting her robe slip completely from her shoulders. Then she bent at the waist, hands sliding down her legs as she moved her hips to the beat. Stack leaned forward slightly, watching the deep arch of her back, the way her thighs trembled like they were daring him to grab them.

“Keep goin’,” he said, voice darker now.

She did. But she didn’t rush. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, her warmth heavy against his thighs. The slip rode up, exposing the tops of her thighs. Her lips brushed his ear when she whispered.

“Want me to dance for you, daddy?”

Stack chuckled, hands automatically moving to her waist.

“Mmhmm. Show me you know how to move.”

She rolled her hips over him slow, grinding on his lap with deliberate pressure, her breath warm on his neck. Stack groaned low in his throat—she had weight, she had power, and she wasn’t shy about using it.

“Damn,” he muttered, “You know how to work that big ass, don’t you?”

She leaned back, grabbed the straps of her slip, and peeled it down, letting her breasts fall free. Soft. Heavy. Beautiful. She grabbed them, pinched her nipples, rolled them slow while she stared into his eyes. Stack’s grip on her hips tightened.

“You wanna taste ‘em, huh?” she teased, grinding harder.

Stack smirked, “Don’t tease me, Peach. I’ll flip you over this chair right now.”

Peaches laughed, low and throaty, “Oh, will you?”

She bent forward, kissing him—slow at first, then filthy, tongue tangling with his, her body pressing close. Stack groaned into the kiss, his hands sliding down to her ass, fingers gripping the flesh like it was his.

That’s when Peaches flipped it.

She pulled away, grabbed his wrists, and pinned his hands to the arms of the chair.

Stack blinked.

“…What you doin’, girl?”

Peaches smirked.

“You always in charge, huh? Always got these girls droppin’ to their knees, lettin’ you take every inch of control.” She rolled her hips again, her pussy dragging over his growing bulge through his slacks, “Not tonight. Tonight you sit back and let me make you beg.”

Stack’s breath hitched.

“You talkin’ big,” he muttered.

Peaches leaned in, her lips at his ear, voice dropping to a low growl.

“I move big. Watch.”

And before he could say a word, she slid down between his legs—not because he told her to, but because she wanted to. She looked up at him through heavy lashes as she unzipped his slacks, pulling his thick dick free, letting the cool air hit it.

Stack grunted, “Shit—”

Peaches smiled.

Then she licked him.

Slow. Long. Flat-tongued.

From base to tip, her saliva coating every inch as her hand stroked in rhythm. Stack’s head fell back, a sound escaping him he didn’t mean to let out.

“You like that, daddy?” she teased, “Like my mouth on you?”

Stack looked down at her, eyes dark, lips parted.

“Yeah…I like it.”

“You gon’ love it.”

She took him deep, lips sealing around him, her throat working in smooth, controlled pulses. She rolled her neck, bobbing slow and slick, every motion deliberate. Stack groaned—loud—his hips jerking once.

“Fuck, Peach—shit—”

She pulled off with a wet pop, spit and precum glistening on her chin. Her hand kept stroking him as she leaned in close, whispering:

“You ain’t runnin’ shit right now. You just sittin’ there lettin’ me ruin you.”

Stack stared at her, chest heaving.

“…Goddamn.”

And she went back in—slurping, gulping, humming, sucking him like she was writing her name on his soul.

Stack, for once, didn’t know what to do with his hands. He let her work, let her dominate him with her mouth, and for the first time in years, he felt out of control.

Peaches popped off his dick again with a loud, wet slurp and stared up at him, lips swollen and glistening, spit dripping off her chin.

“Uh-uh, baby,” she said, voice sweet and dangerous, “Don’t you reach for me.”

Stack’s chest heaved. “I—fuck—I can’t help it—”

“You can,” she said, standing just enough to lean into him, her breath on his lips, “And you will. Now bring them hands up.”

Stack blinked, confused, stunned, dick still jumping between them.

Peaches smirked and whispered, “Grab the back of that chair.”

Stack slowly raised his arms, hooking both hands over the top of the leather. His muscles flexed. His breath came hard.

“Now don’t let go,” she purred, trailing her fingers down his chest, “You move them hands before I say, you don’t get to cum.”

He swallowed, “Yes, ma’am.”

She grinned.

“Good boy.”

And then she dropped again.

Mouth wide. Tongue flat. Full submission of throat.

She devoured him—slow stroke, then fast. Tongue twisted, throat fluttered, lips sealed tight around the base as her nose pressed into his pelvis. Her hands gripped his thighs, squeezing just enough to anchor him, her nails biting into his skin.

And all the while?

She was looking up.

Right into his soul.

Stack stared down at her, jaw clenched, hands gripping the leather behind his head like his life depended on it. His thighs trembled. His lips parted. He looked completely wrecked.

“Shit…Peaches…what the fuck…” he moaned, almost whispering it like a prayer.

She pulled back slow, lips dragging up his shaft, then swirled her tongue around the tip, licking up his precum with a hum.

“Don’t you dare look away,” she whispered, “I want you to watch me.”

Then she sucked the head again—hard, sloppy, loud.

Slurp. Gulp. Moan.

Her tits bounced with every bob, spit flying, dribbling down to his balls, her rhythm perfect. Controlled. She used her neck like a pro, tightening her throat, then releasing, then doing it again—just enough pressure to make him see stars.

“Peach—I’m close—I can’t—baby please—”

“You better hold it,” she said, not slowing once, “You better let me take you over the edge. Hands still on that chair, baby.”

He whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

His entire body shook beneath her, thighs clenching, toes curling, abs flexing.

Peaches sped up. Faster now. Her hands sliding up to stroke the base while her mouth worked the top—wet, brutal, filthy. She sucked like she meant to break him.

Stack was gasping.

“I’m gonna cum—I’m gonna—fuck—fuck—”

She nodded with him still in her mouth, humming deep.

That vibration?

Finished him.

His body snapped, his hips jerking once, twice—then he exploded into her mouth, hard, fast, shooting deep. He cried out, head falling back, hands still gripping the chair as his dick throbbed between her lips.

Peaches didn’t pull back.

She sucked him through it. All of it.

Drinking every drop. Swallowing with slow, delicious moans. Letting her tongue glide across the tip before she finally, finally pulled off.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

And smiled.

“You can let go now, daddy.”

Stack slumped in the chair like a man who’d seen the gates of heaven and hell.

“…You tryna kill me?”

Peaches straddled his lap again, licking her lips.

“Nah, baby,” she whispered against his mouth, “I’m tryna own you.”

Stack blinked up at her, still panting, still holding onto the back of the chair like his soul hadn’t fully come back down yet. His chest rose and fell in slow, shaky waves. His mouth opened—but nothing came out.

Peaches licked her lips slow, one last time.

Then smiled.

“Whew,” she said softly, half-laughing, mock fanning herself, “You good, daddy?”

Stack just stared.

Like a man watching the rapture walk out in red nails and thigh meat.

His voice came out hoarse.

“…Where the fuck you learn to do that?”

Peaches looked over her shoulder as she tied her robe loose and slow, the silk hugging her hips again. Her smile turned sly, playful.

“Mmm…” she teased, “a lady never tells.”

She leaned down just enough to press a kiss to the top of his head—soft, sweet—and whispered:

“But I’m glad you liked it.”

And with that, she straightened up, flipped her braid over her shoulder, and made her way to the door like she hadn’t just taken the breath from his body and the bones from his legs.

Stack tried to gather himself—but failed.

She was halfway out the room when the door cracked open.

Cordelia.

Stunning. Sharp. Dark red lips and matching heels. She stepped just into view, one eyebrow arched like she already knew everything.

Peaches winked as she slipped past her.

“All yours, Cordy.”

Cordelia looked her up and down, caught the smirk, then turned her gaze inside.

Stack was still there—ruined, legs wide, chest heaving, sweat clinging to him, pants still open, hair messy, mouth parted.

Cordelia tilted her head, then let out a short, musical laugh.

“Well damn,” she said, hand on her hip, “Didn’t think I’d see you speechless.”

Stack wiped a hand down his face, still dazed.

Cordelia smirked and leaned against the doorframe.

“She flipped you, huh?” she teased, “Got in that chair and reminded you who got the power between them thighs.”

Stack shook his head slowly.

“…Don’t even know what to say.”

Cordelia laughed louder this time, reaching to close the door behind her.

“Mmhmm. That’s what I thought.”

And with a wink, she let the door click shut—leaving Stack alone, still tasting Peaches in the air, still feeling her in every twitch of his body, and wondering what the hell just happened to him.

Cordelia crossed her arms, leaned against the wall, and looked Peaches up and down.

Then she let out a deep, satisfied laugh.

“Baaaaby,” she said, dragging the word like silk, “You ain’t even been here a week and you already got Stack lookin’ like somebody took the bones out his body.”

Peaches cackled, adjusting the top of her robe, “He was talkin’ all big, too. ‘Gon flip you over this chair’… ‘Gon stretch you out’…”

Cordelia raised a brow, “And you flipped him.”

“Sure did.” Peaches popped her lips, “Had him holdin’ onto that chair like it was floatin’ in deep water.”

Cordelia hollered, leaning against the wall and bending slightly, one hand on her knee, “Ooooh you wrong for that!”

Peaches was giggling now, playful and proud.

Cordelia straightened up, eyes still gleaming.

“Nah but for real? I love your energy,” she said, smile settling into something warm, “You ain’t scared of nobody. Not even Stack. And that man be out here actin’ like God got him on retainer.”

Peaches laughed but looked at her—really looked.

“And you? You been here a minute,” she said, “The way you move…all them girls look up to you.”

Cordelia shrugged, but her grin stayed cocky. “Somebody gotta teach these babies how to handle power and heels at the same time.”

Peaches nodded, “Well, I think me and you? We gon’ make a hell of a team.”

Cordelia pushed off the wall, stepped closer, voice low and sister-sweet.

“We already do, Peach.”

She tapped Peaches’ hip and added with a wink, “Thick girls gotta stick together in this place. These niggas ain’t ready for all this softness in one room.”

Peaches smirked, hand on her hip, “They gon’ learn today.”

Cordelia reached for her hand, gave it a tight squeeze.

“You need anything—anything—you come find me. I mean that.”

Peaches squeezed back, “Same goes for you.”

Cordelia smiled, warm and real.

Then she looked toward Stack’s door, lowered her voice, and said with a grin:

“You know he ain’t gon’ stop thinkin’ about you now, right?”

Peaches rolled her eyes playfully, “That man already think he in love.”

Cordelia laughed, “Mmhmm. And that’s your problem now.”

Peaches gave her a playful shove, “Girl, shut up.”

And the two walked down the hall together—hips swaying, laughter echoing, thick thighs and thick power moving through The Blackline like they owned it.

Because honestly?

They did.

He realizes too late…

He’s the one getting ridden all the way down into the mattress.

And the kicker? The only other woman who’s ever made it into this room before was Cordelia—and Stack’s about to realize why Peaches deserves that same crown…

Phase Two

Stack was already shirtless when she entered, tattoos stretched across his chest, slacks hanging low. He leaned against the edge of the bed, gold tooth glinting as he smiled slow and wide.

“You made it to Phase Two,” he said, eyes dragging over her body like syrup, “Only one other girl been in this room.”

Peaches raised a brow, “Let me guess. Cordelia.”

“Mmhmm.” He nodded, “She earned it.”

Peaches stepped closer, hips swaying, her full figure moving like a threat dressed in perfume.

“Good. I plan to do the same.”

Stack’s grin deepened. He sat down on the edge of the bed, legs spread, dick already hard and waiting, twitching beneath the loose slacks.

“Phase Two,” he said, voice thick, “is about stamina. Control. You get on this dick and show me you can ride. Not bounce like you cute. Ride it. Grip it. Take it all. Show me you can own it without losing rhythm.”

Peaches nodded slow, licking her lips.

“Yes, Daddy.”

That made him grunt.

“Good girl,” he muttered, “Now come take it.”

She moved like honey poured over heat—slow, decadent, unstoppable. She straddled him, thick thighs spreading wide, her weight grounding her hips against his lap. She reached between them, pulled his dick free, and rubbed it along her slick slit, teasing, soaking it.

Stack groaned.

Then she sank down.

Slow. Deep. Every inch.

Stack’s head fell back, “Fuck.”

Peaches let out a low moan, then grinned, “You feel that, Daddy?”

“I feel it.”

“You gon’ feel all of it.”

She started to ride.

Slow at first—grindin’, rockin’, just massaging his dick with her pussy like she was workin’ dough in a bowl. Stack gripped her hips, tried to set the pace, but Peaches slapped his hands away.

“Uh-uh. You said ride, didn’t you?”

Stack blinked, stunned, “…I did.”

“Then sit back,” she whispered, rolling her hips again, deeper, dragging that fat pussy across every inch of him, her weight making it hit different.

He grunted. “Shit—”

She began to move faster, but it wasn’t just speed—it was precision. Her pussy gripped him like velvet, her thighs keeping control, her rhythm unbroken. She alternated grinds with bounces, her ass slapping down against his thighs, the sound wet, nasty, perfect.

Stack’s hands gripped the sheets.

“Goddamn, Peach—”

“Shhh,” she whispered, still movin’, “Let Mama work.”

He stared up at her, mouth open, breathing hard, his usual filth caught in his throat because he couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even handle what she was doing to him.

Peaches grabbed her tits, rode deeper, hips circling, that BBW body raining pressure down on him like a full-body blessing.

“You said keep up,” she moaned, hair sticking to her neck, “But you the one tryna tap out.”

Stack could only groan, his thighs twitching beneath her.

She leaned forward, lips brushing his ear.

“Look at you,” she whispered, “Wanna be in charge so bad. But you ain’t in control of nothin’ right now.”

Then she sat up again and bounced harder.

Ass clapping. Tits swinging. Wetness dripping.

Stack choked out her name.

“Peach—fuck—baby—slow down—”

But she didn’t.

She rode him like she was claiming land. Like that dick had a deed on it and she was signing her name with every bounce, every grind, every filthy cry.

And when she finally felt him twitch, close, about to break?

She stopped.

Ground her hips slow, pussy fluttering around his dick and said with a smirk:

“You wanna cum, Daddy?”

He nodded, desperate.

“Then beg.”

Stack let out a broken, humbled laugh.

“Shit…Peaches…”

“Beg me.”

“Please,” he groaned, “Please let me cum. Let me cum in this pussy, baby. You got it. You win.”

She moaned low, leaned in close, kissed his mouth with tongue and sweat.

Then rode him again.

“Beg nicely,” Peaches toyed with him.

“Can I cum in this fat, fuckin’ pussy, please?”

“…no.”

Peaches lifted off his dick, wrapped her lips around him and slid down to the base. Stack came hard—deep, loud, wrecked, dick buried in the back of her throat while his body jerked and seized. She kept him from releasing beneath all that thick, perfect weight.

Peaches slowly released his dick from her mouth while he twitched.

And whispered in his ear:

“Phase Two? Complete.”

The Blackline’s private upstairs bath. The room is dim with soft amber lamplight, a clawfoot tub filled with steaming water, rose petals scattered lazily across the surface. A wooden tray rests on the rim with oils, soap, a soft sponge, and a basin of warm rinse water. Stack is already in the tub—shoulders broad and relaxed, head tipped back, eyes closed, steam curling around him like smoke…

The water lapped quietly against the porcelain, soft splashes echoing in the stillness.

Stack had one arm slung over the edge, the other resting on his chest, fingers occasionally flexing like he was trying to shake off a thought.

“Where the hell that girl go?” he muttered, brows twitching beneath closed lids, “Ain’t got time to be sittin’ here wet and waitin’…”

The door creaked open.

Soft.

Silent.

Peaches stepped in on bare feet, wrapped in her own silk robe, the hem just brushing her thick thighs. Her hair was tied up high, a few loose curls slicked to her temple. She saw him laid out—chest rising slow, lips parted, the slope of his neck glistening with sweat and steam—and smiled to herself.

She didn’t say a word.

She moved to the basket the other girl had been preparing, rearranged the soap and oils the way she liked it, plucked a warm towel from the rack and placed it close.

Then, she crept closer.

Stack groaned.

“Damn it, girl, I said bring the scrub, not leave me sittin’ in here like—”

His eyes blinked open fast.

And locked onto hers.

Peaches stood at the side of the tub, one hand on her hip, the other trailing down to grab the bar of sweet bay rum soap. Her smirk was slow, wicked, proud.

“Well,” she said, low and amused, “You ain’t dead, so I guess I ain’t too late.”

Stack blinked. Sat up slightly.

“What you doin’ in here?” he asked, voice hoarse.

She shrugged, dropping the robe from her shoulders in one smooth pull.

The silk slid down and pooled at her feet, revealing her thick, naked body beneath—soft belly, warm brown thighs, heavy breasts rising with breath. The heat from the bath fogged the mirror behind her.

Peaches dipped the sponge in water, squeezing it once.

“I saw that lil girl tryna fumble her way through bathin’ you,” she said, “Figured I’d do it right.”

Stack watched her like a man trying to remember how to breathe.

She knelt beside the tub and leaned in.

“I ain’t one of these half-scared girls just here to make you feel important,” she whispered, dragging the sponge over his shoulder, “I want you to feel…good.”

He groaned softly as the sponge slid across his chest, trailing steam-slick paths down his torso.

“You somethin’ else,” he muttered.

“I know.”

She dipped the sponge again, slower this time. The water rippled. Her hand was steady.

She began to work—sponge in one hand, warm water in the other—slowly washing down his chest, tracing the curve of his ribs, the deep cut of his stomach. She didn’t flinch at the scars. She admired them. Touched them like they were treasure maps.

Stack watched her now—eyes hooded, lips slightly parted, breathing shifting from slow to something deeper.

When she reached the waterline, her hand stopped.

“I can keep goin’,” she said, “or you can ask me to.”

Stack’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. A beat passed.

“Keep goin’,” he murmured.

Peaches dipped both hands beneath the surface, sponge forgotten now, and slid her palms down the insides of his thighs. She washed every inch of him— no shame, no hesitance, just smooth, controlled touch that had Stack’s breath catching in his throat.

“You let that other girl touch you like this?” she asked, low and amused.

He scoffed, “She ain’t never even made it this far.”

“Didn’t think so.”

She poured water over his chest again, slow and deliberate, and when she leaned in to reach around him, her bare breasts brushed his shoulder. On purpose.

“Peaches,” he rasped.

She tilted her head, “Mmhmm?”

“You tryna get me hard in this tub?”

“I ain’t tryin’,” she said, fingers trailing under the water, “You already there.”

His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.

She met his eyes—bold, firelight flickering in both sets.

He pulled her closer, chest rising fast now.

“You keep fuckin’ with me like this, I’ma have you on that tile floor in ten seconds.”

Peaches smiled.

“I ain’t scared of water,” she whispered.

Stack’s hand was still wrapped around her wrist, the tension taut between them—but Peaches didn’t flinch. She held his gaze like she already knew what he was thinking…and just wanted to hear him say it.

Then, under the surface of the water, her fingers moved again. Slow. Gentle. Purposeful.

He twitched against her palm.

“See how easy you give it up?” she whispered, voice warm as the steam swirling around them, “Ain’t even tryin’ hard.”

Her hand moved again, stroking him beneath the surface. She leaned closer, lips near his ear, whispering filth laced with syrup.

“Feels heavy in my hand,” she breathed, “Hot. So thick. Bet it’d feel even better on my tongue…”

Stack’s jaw locked. His eyes rolled halfway shut before he forced them open again, fixing them on her face.

“What else?” she whispered, still stroking, “Besides this. Besides wet pussy and deep throats—what else gets you?”

He hesitated. That was rare. Stack always knew what he liked. Always took what he wanted. But Peaches? She was different. She didn’t take it—she earned it from him, peeled it right off his skin with a smile.

“C’mon,” she coaxed, licking her lips, “You already halfway gone. Might as well give me the rest.”

Stack’s eyes slid down her body. The way her bare breasts glistened from the heat. The way her thighs parted slightly even though she was kneeling. The way her lips curled like they already knew his secrets.

“…feet,” he said finally, voice low and reluctant.

Peaches stilled her hand just long enough to let the confession hang in the air, then gripped him tighter.

“Feet?” she echoed, a little smirk in her voice.

He nodded slowly, “Pretty ones. Painted up nice. Soft. I like the way they move when a woman’s ridin’. I watch ‘em curl.”

Peaches bit her bottom lip, “You like when they press against you? Rub all up your chest?”

Stack groaned.

She leaned even closer, lips brushing his earlobe now. “You like when a woman puts her pretty feet on your face and lets you smell how warm she is?”

His head tipped back.

“I knew it,” she whispered, “You like it nasty. Real nasty.”

Then she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again—and he looked wrecked.

But she wasn’t done.

“Tell me somethin’ else,” she said softly, still stroking under the water. “Somethin’ you don’t tell nobody.”

Stack was breathing heavy now. Water beading on his chest. Lips parted. She watched him try to decide if he should keep it to himself.

And then he said it—quiet, raw, vulnerable:

“…sometimes, when I’m alone,” he murmured, “I—taste it.”

Peaches blinked slow.

“You taste what, baby?”

“…mine.”

His eyes lifted, met hers.

Peaches let out a low moan—real, unfiltered. Her lips parted, pupils dilated. She didn’t tease him for it. Didn’t laugh. She just leaned in close, brushing her lips over his cheek, then his ear, and whispered:

“That’s the hottest shit I ever heard.”

The confession still hung in the air like steam—thick, hot, daring.

Stack’s chest rose in steady rhythm, his arms now resting along the edge of the tub. He didn’t say anything after that last truth—just watched her. Eyes hooded. Lips parted. Vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see.

Peaches soaked it in.

And then she moved.

Quiet, deliberate.

She reached for the rinsing basin, still warm, and slid it closer to the edge of the tub. Then, gently, she lifted one of Stack’s heavy legs out of the bathwater, guiding his foot into her lap like it belonged there.

“Let me touch what carries you,” she spoke softly, almost to herself.

Stack raised an eyebrow, watching her—part suspicion, part awe.

She picked up a soft cloth, dipped it in the warm basin, and began to wash.

It wasn’t rushed. She cradled his foot in both hands, turning it gently, fingers gliding across the arch, the heel, the ball. The cloth moved in slow circles, massaging, not just cleaning. Her thumbs pressed into the sole with care, like she was reading something sacred through his skin.

Stack watched, chest tight.

She glanced up then—those deep, honeyed eyes full of heat and pride.

“These feet done stomped through war, through Chicago back alleys, through Delta dirt. All that blood on your name…and you still walk like a king. Deserve to be tended to like one.”

Stack swallowed.

Peaches smirked, “But you mine right now.”

She slid her fingers between his toes, and he groaned —not from discomfort, but from the pure vulnerability of the act.

“Red suit you,” she whispered, noticing the faint red polish still on her own toes, “Next time I’ll paint mine while I sit in your lap. Make you watch.”

She lifted his foot and kissed the arch.

Stack’s eyes closed briefly.

She moved to the other foot, repeating the slow ceremony—cloth gliding, fingers strong but gentle. She took her time, circling her thumbs into the pads beneath his toes, watching every twitch, every shift of his jaw.

He finally spoke again.

“…you know what you doin’?”

Peaches smiled faintly, “Always.”

She dried him with a warm towel, slow and sensual, then kissed both feet again before setting them back into the tub. When she stood, her body dripped with steam, her hair slightly damp, her hands scented of oil and him.

Stack reached for her wrist.

“I ain’t done with you,” he rasped.

“You ain’t supposed to be,” she said, leaning down to kiss his mouth—slow, deep, claiming.

Peaches dried him slow. Let him sit there in the steam like royalty while she gathered the towel tight around his shoulders, then reached for the whiskey she brought—because Stack always liked a sip after heat.

But he didn’t reach for the glass.

He was just watching her. Quiet.

Not brooding. Just…quiet.

Peaches cocked her head. “You alright?”

He nodded once.

But something in his face was different—slack with thought, like whatever just passed between them had tugged at something he wasn’t used to showing.

She crossed her arms under her chest, still damp, robe tied back around her body now, “You lookin’ at me like I done cast a spell.”

Stack huffed a laugh under his breath, leaning forward, arms on his knees.

Then, he said it.

“…you get to me.”

Peaches blinked, surprised he’d said it out loud.

“I do?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. Rough, “You do.”

His eyes drifted down to his feet, now clean and resting on the checkered floor tile, before flicking back to hers.

“You talk slick like the rest, but you don’t play the same. You don’t just want to please me. You want to own how I feel it.”

Peaches didn’t deny it.

“I ain’t just a body,” she said, “I’m a woman. I know what power feel like, and I know how to use it soft.”

Stack tilted his head, lips parting, “That’s what’s messin’ me up.”

She moved closer then—bare feet stepping soft on the tile—until she was between his knees. She bent slightly, cupped the side of his jaw, let her thumb stroke just beneath his lower lip.

“You ever been touched like this before?” she asked.

“…not like this.”

He meant more than the bath.

He meant the way she saw him.

“Good,” she whispered, “Then I get to be the first.”

They both stilled.

Steam curling at their feet. The whiskey still untouched. The bath now cooled behind them.

And then Stack said, almost to himself:

“You dangerous.”

Peaches grinned slow, kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Only if you fight it, sugar.”

It’s a slow afternoon at The Blackline. The main floor is quiet—curtains drawn to soften the light. Peaches and Cordelia are in the lounge, sipping sweet tea over crushed ice. Cordelia has one leg tucked beneath her, silk robe loose at the collar. Peaches is sprawled sideways on the fainting couch, toes painted red, still reeling from the bath earlier with Stack.

Cordelia swirled the ice in her glass with a lazy flick of her wrist.

“You took your sweet time up there with King Stack. Girl had a towel in her hand for forty-five minutes before she realized you wasn’t comin’ back down.”

Peaches smirked, biting her straw, “He was dirty. I did a thorough job.”

Cordelia gave her a look, “Uh huh. I bet you got between every toe.”

Peaches crossed her ankles, grinning, “Damn right I did.”

Cordelia leaned back with a knowing laugh, eyes narrowing just a little, “So what is it? You really got it bad for him, huh?”

Peaches tilted her head, lips pursed like she was about to play coy—then gave up the act with a shrug.

“…I do,” she said, matter-of-fact, “I got it bad bad.”

Cordelia perked up, “Oop—lemme get comfortable then. Go on, say it with your chest.”

Peaches laughed, tossed her head back, and let the tea glass clink gently on the table beside her.

“You ever just look at that man,” she said, slow and dreamy, “and wanna climb him like a sugar maple?”

Cordelia choked. “Girl—!”

“I’m serious,” Peaches said, waving a hand, “He walk in all slow, got them dimples sittin’ pretty in that smug-ass face…Them lips always slick talkin’ some sinful shit, and all I’m thinkin’ is what else they could be doin’.”

Cordelia fanned herself, “You filthy.”

“And he got that swagger, Delia,” Peaches went on, eyes gone glossy with memory, “You seen the way he fixes his cufflinks? Like he know you watchin’—but he ain’t gon’ rush it. He likes bein’ admired.”

“Mmhmm,” Cordelia hummed, “He always smell good, too. Like bay rum and heat.”

“Yesss,” Peaches moaned, “And his voice—low and ragged like he just woke up from a bad dream and need me to rock him back to sleep…”

Cordelia snorted,,“You need help.”

“I need that man,” Peaches corrected, licking her lips, “I wanna ride that dimpled face and bless it. I wanna leave lip gloss on that thick neck and make him beg for it back.”

Cordelia threw a pillow at her.

Peaches caught it and hugged it with a wicked grin. “I’m just sayin’,” she whispered, “he keep makin’ these lil noises when I touch him? I’m liable to break somethin’ on purpose just so he gotta call me for help.”

They both fell into laughter then, doubled over with no shame, no filter. Just two women enjoying the way they spoke desire out loud.

Cordelia wiped her eye, “Lord, when Stack finds out just how deep you in, he ain’t never gon’ be right again.”

Peaches grinned slow, “That’s the plan.”

The laughter settled into a soft buzz, both women stretched out in the velvet heat of the lounge, sipping slow and grinning wide.

Peaches kicked her feet a little, eyes still dreamy. “I swear, that man could ruin me and I’d write him a thank you letter in lipstick.”

Cordelia gave her a sideways look, smile tugging the corner of her mouth. “You sound like me three summers ago.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.”

Peaches sat up a little straighter, eyes glinting. “Go on then. Spill it. You and Stack—y’all ever…?”

Cordelia snorted, sipped her tea like it was liquor. “We ain’t never been exclusive, if that’s what you mean. But yeah, we done danced a few dances.”

Peaches’ grin widened. “Bet y’all was nasty.”

Cordelia’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Always. But let me tell you somethin’—Stack think he like to share. All that big talk about threesomes and pretty girls tangled up in his sheets…but he don’t like when the girls forget about him.”

Peaches cackled, “I knew it!”

Cordelia leaned in, voice lowering like a delicious secret, “One night, me and this creole gal from Shreveport got to kissin’—real slow, real deep—while Stack was sittin’ back watchin’. Thought he was chill. Thought he was enjoyin’ it.”

“He wasn’t?”

“Oh, he was…‘til we kept goin’ without him.” Cordelia smirked, “That man got off the bed, grabbed my chin, and told me ‘Don’t make me remind you who’s runnin’ this show.’”

Peaches fanned herself, “Lord have mercy…”

Cordelia laughed. “He don’t mind a show. But he don’t like bein’ left out the spotlight.”

They both giggled again, soft and knowing, bonded by secrets only girls like them ever shared.

Then Cordelia’s voice dropped a note, smoky and sweet.

“But you know what he do love? When I bend over slow at the end of the bed and shake this ass while he behind me. Naked. No music. Just the sound of my this ass, wet pussy, and him breathin’ hard and tellin’ me ‘Do it again.’”

Peaches let out a slow, low hum, “Mmm. He like to watch.”

“He do,” Cordelia said, “He’s visual. Always has been. You get to movin’ just right, lookin’ back over your shoulder while he’s holdin’ himself? Whew. You’ll have that man crawlin’.”

Peaches let her tongue glide across her bottom lip. “Then I got him already.”

Cordelia winked. “I know you do.”

The low thump of a door closing signaled someone entering from the side.

Smoke strolled through the lounge in that slow, deliberate way of his—sleeves rolled up, holster peeking under his open vest, cigar between two fingers like it had been there since dawn. He didn’t look their way, didn’t nod, didn’t speak—just moved like a shadow on a mission.

Peaches and Cordelia both went quiet as he passed.

Watched every step.

Waited ‘til the office door clicked shut.

Then—

Peaches spoke, “Mmm. Somebody woke up grumpy.”

Cordelia chuckled, “That man always look like he fightin’ somethin’ internal.”

Peaches, tilting her head, eyes mischievous.

“He ever dipped his toe in the Blackline pool? You know…had a lil’ swim?”

Cordelia responded, flat, “Nope. Smoke don’t fuck girls from the house.”

Peaches’ brows shot up, “Not even a taste?”

Cordelia shook her head, “Don’t look twice, neither. Cordial, quiet, gone.”

Peaches licked her bottom lip slowly, “Mmm. Shame. I’d take both them Moore boys, stack ‘em like pancakes and slide some syrup between.”

Cordelia burst out laughing, nearly dropped her tea.

Peaches, grinning proud, “Look like Smoke need some nookie, though. Somethin’ warm to knock that chill off his bones. He too fine to be walkin’ around lookin’ like the ghost of Christmas ain’t-never-came.”

Cordelia fanned herself, still laughing, “You stupid.”

Peaches shrugged, “Just honest.”

They clinked their glasses.

The air in Stack’s office was thick with tension.

Cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling in lazy spirals as Smoke leaned back in the leather armchair across from the desk, voice low and gravelled. “I don’t trust Vaughn’s numbers. Too clean.”

Stack sat behind the desk, sleeves rolled, jaw ticking. He’d been pacing before settling in. “We ain’t lettin’ no preacher pimp out the numbers game under our nose. You wanna hit back, hit back loud.”

Smoke nodded, “Loud and clean.”

Stack opened his mouth to reply—then froze.

His eyes caught movement through the open door that led into the hall. At first it was just a swish of fabric. Ivory silk. The faintest whiff of vanilla and summer peaches.

Then he saw her.

Peaches.

Barefoot. Wearing the thinnest slip known to man—barely dusting the curve of her thighs. No bloomers. No drawers. No shame.

She didn’t say a word.

Just caught his gaze.

Held it.

Then, like a slow sin on a Sunday morning, she turned around right there in the open hall, bent over deep, hands gripping her ankles, and shook her ass in the most obscene, hypnotic rhythm he’d ever seen.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Stack’s mouth dropped open. Speechless.

“Stack?” Smoke asked, not looking up, “You hear me?”

Stack blinked, didn’t answer.

Peaches straightened, gave him one last glance over her shoulder with a smirk so filthy it could’ve started a fire, then disappeared around the corner like nothing ever happened.

Smoke stood up, “The hell got into you?”

Stack snapped out of it just as Smoke crossed to his side and looked out the door.

Nobody there.

Just empty hall.

Silence.

Smoke narrowed his eyes, “You seein’ ghosts now?”

Stack cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, “Somethin’ like that.”

Smoke gave him a look, “Uh huh.”

But Stack didn’t elaborate.

He sat back down slow, eyes still locked on the spot where Peaches had been. His palms rested on the desk like he needed grounding.

The deal could wait.

He was officially ruined.

Stack hadn’t touched her in days.

Not since that stunt outside his office—the one where she bent over slow and gave him a view no man should witness without consequences. And she knew what she was doing. Had the nerve to walk away after like she ain’t just set a fire in his blood.

Since then, he’d watched her quietly.

Watched how she’d taken to the house like she’d been born in it—pullin’ in high rollers, dressing to kill, makin’ grown men spend their whole check just to get near her perfume. She was glitter and heat and danger in silk, and she was his.

But she’d been showin’ out.

And he needed to remind her.

That morning, Stack lit a match, pressed it to the tip of his cigarette, and paced his room barefoot—bare chest rising slow with every breath, slacks slung low, tension pulling tight across his shoulders.

He’d waited long enough.

Time to finish what he started.

Time to show her who she belonged to.

He opened the door, called for one of the girls with a look sharp enough to cut.

“Tell her I want her upstairs.”

The morning stretched across Clarksdale in streaks of syrupy gold, soft and unbothered. The Blackline was hushed—the stage unlit, the halls still, the piano keys resting untouched from the night before. The only sounds were the faint clink of teacups downstairs and the soft brushing of someone’s broom in the far back hallway.

Peaches lay half-awake in her bed, face turned toward the lace-curtained window, one leg outside the covers, toes flexing now and then in the quiet. Her room still smelled like honey-dipped perfume and night sweat. Her body still felt half drunk on sleep…and something else she hadn’t named.

Then came the knock.

Two soft taps.

Peaches didn’t move, not until the door cracked slightly and a familiar girl’s voice whispered, “He want you upstairs.”

No name.

Didn’t need one.

Peaches blinked slowly, “When?”

The girl smiled faintly, “Now.”

She didn’t rush. Just slid out the bed, let the cotton robe fall over her shoulders, and tied it at the waist. Her hair was still in its wrap, but she didn’t touch it. He wasn’t summoning no showgirl. He wanted her.

The walk up the back stairs was quiet—familiar creaks, familiar hush. The sun streamed in through the upper windows like it had business there, casting golden lines along the polished wood.

She didn’t knock.

Just opened the door and stepped inside.

Stack was already pacing.

Shirtless.

Slacks slung low over his hips, the line of his abdomen visible beneath the soft, golden morning light. His bare feet made no sound on the worn rug, and his jaw was clenched like he’d been chewing on something bitter and hot all night.

He paused when she entered but didn’t turn right away. Just let his fingers brush through his hair once, like they itched to pull something. Maybe her.

“Door shut?” he asked, voice low.

Peaches nudged it closed without a word.

When he turned, his eyes were already on her. Tired. Wild. Intense in that quiet, burning way he got when something had been eating at him and he was done trying to ignore it.

She leaned back against the closed door, arms folded loose across her middle. “You rang?”

Stack didn’t answer right away.

He just stared at her, eyes dragging over her like his fingers were already there.

Then, softly:

“You ain’t had no business walkin’ past my office yesterday like that.”

Peaches raised one brow, “I was stretchin’.”

“You was tauntin’,” he shot back, voice rougher now. “Had me sittin’ there like a damn fool while you out there clappin’ that ass like church bells.”

Peaches smiled slow, “And what you do when church bells ring, Daddy?”

Stack stepped forward once, like the leash on his self-control had snapped halfway through the night.

“I answer,” he growled.

Silence stretched between them, thick as molasses, charged with something electric.

Stack’s chest rose with a deep breath, “Get over here.”

Peaches tilted her head. “What if I don’t?”

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. Just said, low and sure, “Then I’ll come take you.”

Her breath hitched—just a little (🤏🏿).

She didn’t move right away.

But her robe slipped a little lower on one shoulder.

And her toes curled softly into the floor.

Stack didn’t move at first.

He just stood there—bare chest rising slow, jaw tight, eyes locked on her like he was starving and furious about it.

Peaches stayed against the door. Calm. Amused. Dangerous.

“I told you to come here,” he said again, voice low.

She smiled soft, “And I heard you just fine.”

Stack took a slow step toward her, “You think this shit funny?”

“I think it’s cute,” she said, tilting her head, “You mad ‘cause I ain’t crawl to you like the rest?”

Another step.

“Girl, I run this house.”

She stepped forward to meet him, “And I run you.”

That shut him up. For a second.

His jaw clenched. His breath caught. His body wanted to grab her, shove her to the bed, claim her.

But his pride was stuck between his ribs.

“You walked that fine ass past my office like you wanted to ruin me.”

“I did.”

“You came in my house, my space—”

“And made you submit,” she said, stepping in so close her breath hit his lips, “Made you sit quiet in that chair with your dick hard and your mouth shut.”

Stack flinched like the words slapped.

Peaches grinned wider.

“You the King, Stack. I know that,” she said, her voice syrup-sweet now, “But I ain’t no pawn. I move how I move.”

He still didn’t say nothing.

His lips parted slightly, breathing harder now.

“And since I’m one of your girls,” she added, brushing her chest just barely against his, “I might let you boss me around.”

She leaned up, close to his ear. Whispered it slow.

“But you still gon’ do what I say…when I say it…with your fine self.”

When she pulled back, Stack’s mouth was open like he had something to say, but no words came.

Speechless.

Her eyes danced.

“Mmhm. Thought so.”

She turned from the door and moved past him—a slow brush of hips, a whisper of heat—like she already knew she’d won this round.

Stack watched her walk across his room, fists flexing at his sides, still trying to figure out how the hell she’d gotten the drop on him again.

And why it turned him on so damn bad.

Peaches didn’t linger after shutting him up.

She let her fingers trail down his chest—just a touch— before turning her back and sashaying across the room, robe swaying like a tease, hips rolling like thunder in slow motion.

She paused at the door, hand on the knob, and looked over her shoulder.

“Stay sweet, Daddy.”

Click.

Gone.

THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED:

Stack couldn’t shake her.

Not that he tried.

He’d catch her in the hallway, laughing with one of the girls, hair tied in silk, stockings hugging her thick thighs like they was painted on. She’d glance his way, let her eyes travel down his body like he was just another appetizer—then keep it movin’.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t speak.

Just looked.

A look that said she knew exactly how much he wanted her.

One afternoon, he was in the back parlor. Curtains drawn. Mirabel on her knees between his thighs, working her mouth like a girl desperate to please, pretty lips stretched around him, hands shaking slightly with effort.

He was barely paying attention.

The door to the hallway creaked open, and that honey-rich scent hit the air before she even stepped inside.

Peaches.

Stack opened his eyes.

She walked past slow, wearing a form-fitting satin number that glistened like peach nectar, breasts soft and high, thighs thick and bare beneath the hem. No panties.

She saw him.

Saw Mirabel.

Didn’t blink.

She just gave him that look—the one where her lips curled at the corners like she already had him wrapped, owned, conquered. Then she swayed on past, hips switching like music, knowing damn well he’d be useless the rest of the day.

By the time night fell, Stack was seething quiet. Not with anger.

With hunger.

She had him starved, and she knew it.

And still, she didn’t fold.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t come knocking.

Just strutted through the house with power in her step and a little smile on her lips—the kind that said, you’ll come to me when you ready to behave.

And he was this close.

This damn close.

It was late.

The Blackline was humming low—the clink of glasses downstairs, soft jazz from the gramophone, a few muffled laughs from the card room.

Peaches had just finished her set, rhinestones still clinging to her skin, that peach-colored silk dress hugging every generous curve. She slipped out the back hallway toward her room, hips moving in that same slow, rolling sway that had been driving Stack insane for days.

She turned the corner and nearly ran into him.

Stack.

Leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting.

Bare chest beneath an open shirt, sleeves rolled, slacks loose on his hips. Eyes sharp. Hungry.

He didn’t say a word at first. Just straightened, towering over her, blocking the hallway with his body.

Peaches tilted her chin up, lips curling in that soft, taunting smile, “Daddy.”

That was all it took.

He grabbed her.

Big hands on her waist, spinning her until her back hit the wall. She gasped, but he was already there — chest pressing into hers, mouth at her ear.

“You wanted my attention?” he growled, voice low, thick, “Now you got it.”

Peaches licked her lips, that same smile tugging her mouth, “Took you long enough.”

Stack’s hand shot up, fisted in her hair, jerking her head back just enough so he could look her in the eye.

“You been struttin’ around my house like you runnin’ shit,” he rasped, “Got me sittin’ in my own office hard as a rock while you just keep on walkin’. You think you gon’ keep playin’ with me, girl?”

Peaches’ breath hitched, “I might.”

Stack’s jaw flexed, “Nah. You ain’t.”

He kissed her then.

Hard. Claiming. Tongue deep, teeth scraping her lip, groaning into her mouth like he was pulling her back into his orbit. His free hand slid up her thigh, dragging that dress high, high, until his fingers brushed bare skin.

“No panties?” he muttered against her lips, voice sharp with disbelief, “You been walkin’ around like this all night?”

“Mmhm,” Peaches whispered, breathless.

Stack’s teeth grazed her ear, “You dirty little tease.”

He lifted her without warning, big hands gripping her ass, pinning her to the wall as her legs wrapped around his waist.

“You gon’ take this dick,” he said, low and final, “Right here.”

Peaches moaned, arms clinging around his shoulders, “Then give it to me.”

Stack unzipped with one hand, freed himself, and lined up with that hot, dripping center he’d been starving for.

He didn’t ease in.

He slammed deep.

Peaches cried out, head snapping back, nails digging into his back, “Oh—shit—”

Stack growled, hips already pounding, each thrust hard enough to rattle the wall behind her.

“You think I’ma let you walk away again?” he grunted, thrusting deeper, harder, chest slick against hers, “Nah, baby. You mine.”

Peaches whimpered, meeting every stroke, dress bunched at her waist. “Yes—Daddy—fuck—”

“You gon’ remember this the next time you decide to test me,” he rasped, one hand gripping her throat lightly, thumb under her chin, “Say it. Who you belong to?”

“You,” she gasped, tears at the corners of her eyes from the intensity, “I’m yours, Stack. Yours.”

Stack’s thrusts turned relentless, filthy—grinding into her, grunting in her ear, whispering how sweet her pussy gripped him, how he’d been dreaming of this for days.

Peaches was moaning, sobbing out little praises, calling him Daddy, biting his shoulder just to ground herself as he took her apart.

When she came, it was hard and wet, her whole body clenching around him with a cry so loud he had to cover her mouth with his hand.

And he didn’t stop.

He fucked her through it, through the shaking and the tears and the trembling legs, until he slammed in deep one last time, chest trembling, jaw clenched, and groaned against her throat as his whole body locked up.

With a growl of restraint, he pulled out quick, gripped himself tight, and spilled hot all over her belly, pussy, and thighs, panting through his teeth as he stroked the last of it out with trembling hands.

His breath was ragged, forehead pressed to hers, sweat glistening down his spine.

They stayed like that a moment longer, pressed against the wall, her thighs still clinging around his waist, his release sticky between them, breathless and wrecked.

Stack kissed her throat—rough and lingering.

“Next time,” he rasped, voice hoarse, “you beg for it.”

Peaches let out a breathy laugh, eyes half-lidded, “Might just make you beg first.”

Peaches slid down the wall with her thighs still trembling, breath hot against his skin as she crouched between his legs on the floor. His dick hung heavy, still slick, twitching with the remnants of what they’d just done. Her lips curled into a sinful smile as she dragged her fingers between her thighs, collecting the thick mess of him and her, still warm, still wet. She moaned low at the feel of it.

Without breaking eye contact, she brought her fingers to her mouth and sucked slow—obscene. Her lashes fluttered, her tongue swirled, tasting the filth they’d made.

Stack growled deep in his chest, watching her tongue lap up every drop with a greedy tongue . He leaned back slightly, letting her have the view of his smug grin and the tension in his flexed abdomen.

“Goddamn, girl…” he rasped, voice thick, strained, “You nasty.”

Peaches just smirked, crawling back up over him with lazy hips and a mouth still wet, “Damn right.”

She reached down again, scooped up another mix of their come from where it dripped along her inner thigh, and lifted her fingers to his mouth.

“Open,” she whispered.

Stack hesitated for only a heartbeat—then let her slide her fingers past his lips. He groaned around them as the taste hit his tongue—salt, musk, sweetness, sin. His eyes rolled shut for a moment as he sucked them clean, jaw clenching tight. The sound he made was somewhere between a growl and a moan.

Peaches leaned in close, her lips brushing his jaw.

“Now you know how good we taste together.”

Stack’s tongue slid slow along her fingers as he sucked the last drop from her skin, his breath coming harder now, like the flavor of her had stirred something all over again. But Peaches wasn’t done—not even close. She watched his mouth work, then pulled her hand back with a soft pop of suction and dragged her wet fingers down his chest, nails lightly grazing the muscle and hair.

“Mmm,” she purred, bringing a thigh up again with that slow, bossy roll of her hips, “You think just ‘cause you picked me up like I ain’t weigh nothin’, slammed me against that wall, and fucked me full—you runnin’ things?”

Stack smirked, lips still glistening, “Ain’t that what I just did?”

Peaches leaned in, tongue flicking the sweat from his collarbone, her voice all molasses and bite, “Boy, please.”

She rocked her hips forward, just enough to tease him, not let him slip back in, not yet.

“You got my name tatted on that big ol’ dick now,” she whispered against his ear, “Stamped and branded. You feel me?” Her hand cupped him, possessive, “Every time it jump…it’s thinkin’ of me.”

Stack’s throat bobbed. His grip on her hips tightened. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. She had him, and they both knew it.

Peaches sat upright again, back arched, tits proud and glowing with sweat. She dragged her fingers down his chest one more time, then tapped his sternum with the tip of her nail.

“If you gon’ keep tryin’ to match this freak,” she said, slow and dangerous, “then you best learn to let me have my way when I want it. However I want it.”

Stack’s jaw ticked, breath caught in his throat, pupils blown wide.

“I don’t care if they call you King Stack,” she smirked, “That crown don’t mean shit when I’m sittin’ on your face…or ridin’ you till you beg me to stop.”

She leaned forward again, lips barely brushing his, “You gon’ let me play with you, baby?”

He growled, deep and ragged, and rolled them in one sharp motion—flipping her back to him, hand gripping her wrists above her head as he loomed.

“You talk slick, Peaches,” he rasped, voice thick with need, “You better be ready to back it up.”

She giggled, breathless, thighs parting on instinct.

“Oh, I’m ready, Daddy.”

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[eye-raq]

Velvet Heat & Country Sin

Summary: In the thick Mississippi heat of the 1920s, identical twins Elijah “Smoke” Moore and Elias “Stack” Moore return home from war—ragged, restless, and searching for something steady. Promised opportunities have dried up, and the only offer worth taking comes from August Langston, a wealthy Black ranch owner and old friend of their father’s. August gives the boys work and a place to sleep on his sprawling land just outside Clarksdale.

But what neither twin expects is Delphine Langston.

Warnings: HARDCORE SMUT (Age gap, threesome, intense masturbation, voyeurism, exhibitionism, hyper sexuality, cheating, oral fixation, dirty talk, domination, teasing, rough sex, degradation, mirror kink, violence)

Part One

The road stretched ahead like a dried tongue, cracked with heat and caked with dust. Nothing moved but the occasional vulture overhead and the slow roll of their truck’s wheels grinding over gravel. The air was thick, syrup-thick, and even the wind seemed tired.

Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore sat behind the wheel, jaw clenched tight as the steering wheel in his grip. He hadn’t said much in over two hours—not since they passed the gas station where that white boy stared too long and spit in their direction. Stack almost got out the truck, but Smoke told him no. Not today. Not for that.

Beside him, Elias ‘Stack’ Moore leaned back, boots kicked up on the dashboard, hat pulled low over his eyes. He chewed a sliver of sugarcane between his teeth, but the sweetness didn’t touch his face. He looked asleep, but he wasn’t. Stack never slept while Smoke was driving. Never trusted a road that ran too quiet.

They both wore old army trousers and threadbare shirts that clung to their backs with sweat. Neither had shaved in days. The war had ended two years ago, but it still sat in their bones like an echo—especially in Smoke, whose hands still trembled sometimes when he wasn’t paying attention.

“We close?” Stack finally spoke, voice low and rough like gravel soaked in whiskey.

Smoke nodded once, eyes fixed on the sign just ahead

Langston Ranch – Visitors Welcome By Invitation Only

Private Property. No Trespassing.

“You think this man gon’ really help us?” Stack asked, sitting up and pulling his hat back, “Or just pat our heads and send us on to pick cotton like the rest?”

“He knew our Daddy,” Smoke said flatly, “Owes him somethin’. Said he got work. We’ll see.”

They hadn’t wanted to return to the Delta. Not like this. They’d left boys and came back changed—men made of wire and war, fists quick and tempers quicker. The government promised land, work, dignity. They got none of it. Just stares. Just silence. Just heat.

Still, Mississippi was home. And Clarksdale… Clarksdale held ghosts they hadn’t faced yet. Smoke had kept that quiet, but Stack knew. They always knew each other’s truths, even unspoken.

The road curved, and then they saw it.

A stretch of land that looked like it could swallow the sun. Cotton fields long retired, now golden with overgrown grass. Fences well-kept. A distant herd of cattle lowing under the blaze. A cluster of pecan trees in the distance. A wide barn the color of clay. And in the center of it all, perched atop a slight rise like it ruled the whole world, was a whitewashed house with a deep wraparound porch and two shadows standing still beneath it.

Smoke cut the engine. The truck sputtered to silence.

“That him?” Stack asked, hopping out of the passenger side and rolling his shoulders.

“Only one way to find out.”

Smoke stepped out slowly, dust curling around his boots. The Mississippi sun hit his back like a memory he didn’t ask for. He looked up at the house. The man on the porch stepped forward. Mid-fifties, built strong, skin dark and proud, with silver dusting his beard. Wide-brimmed hat. Suspenders. A presence like a mountain that wouldn’t move for nobody.

“Elijah. Elias,” the man called down. His voice carried without shouting, “Ain’t seen y’all since you were barely up to my hip.”

Stack smiled first. Smoke just nodded.

“Mr. Langston,” Smoke said, “Appreciate you takin’ us in.”

August Langston gave a small smile, more respectful than warm. The kind men used when they remembered burying too many good people.

“Y’all’ll earn your keep. This ain’t charity. But I meant what I said in the letter—I knew your father. Owed him my life once. Time to pay it back.”

He stepped aside, motioning them up the steps.

“Come on in. I’ll show you to the bunkhouse. Come meet the heart of it. My wife’s inside gettin’ supper ready.”

Stack’s smirk faltered.

Smoke’s eyes shifted to the doorway.

And that’s when they saw her.

August gestured toward the house with a slight cant of his head.

And then he turned.

And she stepped out.

Delphine Langston.

She moved through the doorway like light pouring through gauze—soft, slow, but certain. She wore a pale green dress with a collar just loose enough to show the hollow of her throat, sleeves cuffed above the elbow. Her skin held the glow of someone who’d been in the sun, but not too long. Barefoot on the porch planks. A gold bangle on one wrist, hair gathered in a soft knot low on her neck.

She stood behind August as he spoke, but her eyes were already on them—open, unreadable, and quiet like a hush in church.

“This here’s my wife,” August said, “Delphine.”

“Well,” she said, voice dripping slow and warm as honey in a skillet, “Y’all must be the Moore boys. It’s Elijah and Elias, isn’t it?”

Smoke tipped his head, words caught in his mouth. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not right away.

Stack cleared his throat gently, smiling as he stepped forward.

“Ma’am.”

“Miss Delphine,” she corrected softly, “But only if you plan to stay polite.”

Her voice was like water drawn from a well—cool and full-bodied, something that settled deep and lingered sweet at the edges.

She smiled then, not too wide, not too coy.

Just enough.

Stack nodded.

Delphine’s gaze moved between them, slow and searching—not cold. Just curious in a way that made the air thicken.

“Well,” she said, folding her hands loosely in front of her. “House gets a little quieter with company. Hope y’all don’t mind the sound of your own footsteps.”

“We don’t,” Smoke said, eyes still on her.

She was a silhouette in the frame, sunlight curling around her like a halo. Barefoot, hips high, house dress clinging to her curves like it knew every inch of her. A breeze teased the hem, lifted it just enough to show thigh. Her hand rested lazy on the doorframe, but her eyes…her eyes were awake.

Smoke’s mouth went dry.

Stack forgot how to breathe.

August Langston led the twins down the steps, the sun pressing down harder with each footfall. His stride was steady, boots crunching on dry gravel, and his words were few—measured like a man who didn’t waste air or kindness unless it counted.

“You’ll rise with the sun. Feed, clean, ride. Cattle mostly, some horses. I run a tight place. No slackers. No late mouths at the table.”

“Yes, sir,” Stack said with a smirk, rubbing the back of his neck.

Smoke only nodded, eyes flicking back toward the house—toward her.

Delphine hadn’t said another word after that first molten greeting. But she didn’t have to. She’d lingered in the doorway just long enough to feel like a dream—and then disappeared into the shadows of her home. But Smoke felt her. Like a hand still resting on his chest.

August pointed across the fields.

“Over there’s the retired cotton fields. We let ‘em rest a few years back. Still good land, but we focus on cattle now.”

“That’s a lotta land to work,” Stack noted.

“More than two hands can manage,” August said, “But I trust y’all.”

“We ain’t afraid of sweat,” Smoke said low, jaw set.

August nodded once, then gestured ahead, “Bunkhouse’s past that split fence. You’ll have it to yourselves for now. Supper’s at six. Delphine don’t like late men.”

Smoke heard the way he said her name—casual, but faintly possessive. As if he knew what she stirred just by standing still.

“She always cook like that?” Stack asked under his breath once August was a few paces ahead.

“Don’t start,” Smoke muttered.

But he looked again. Couldn’t help it.

Behind them, lace curtains fluttered.

She was watching.

The bunkhouse sat warm and sun-bleached, the wood gray from years of heat and memory. Inside, it was simple, two cots, a basin, a cracked mirror, a shared dresser with dents in the drawers. A breeze slipped through the screen window, not enough to fight the sweat pooling in their shirts.

Stack dropped his bag on the cot nearest the window.

“Ain’t bad,” he said, sitting down, legs spread, “I’ve laid my head on worse.”

Smoke stood still in the doorway, letting the dust settle around his boots. He could still feel her—Delphine—in his chest. Like he’d breathed her in without meaning to.

“You see the way she looked at us?” Stack asked, tossing his hat onto the dresser, “Like we were somethin’ sweet she wasn’t supposed to want.”

“You already thinkin’ wrong,” Smoke said flatly.

“Hell, I ain’t even touched her.” Stack said.

“Don’t plan on it either.”

Stack turned toward him, brows raised, “You didn’t feel that?”

Smoke didn’t answer. Just sat on the edge of his own cot and pulled off his boots slow, one by one.

“She’s married,” he finally said, low and sharp.

“So’s temptation,” Stack replied with a grin, “Still shows up uninvited.”

They didn’t speak for a minute.

A fly buzzed somewhere near the rafters.

The silence stretched. Long and heavy. Full of things neither of them could name yet.

Then Smoke leaned back, closed his eyes, and whispered, more to himself than to Stack.

“That woman gon’ burn us down.”

Two Years Earlier. 1919

Winter. Chicago

The city didn’t sleep right. Smoke could never rest with all that noise—the screech of trolleys, the grind of alley fights, the cold that bit through wool like it was personal.

They’d come to Chicago after the war. Promised jobs. Land. Dignity. A new world.

What they got was cold soup, calloused white hands pointing to the back door, and too many “no vacancies.” Stack worked a factory line for two months until the foreman told him to go back where he came from. Smoke boxed underground for money. Once killed a man with one punch. They never let him fight again.

Stack remembered that night. The blood. The silence. Smoke’s knuckles split open like scripture.

“You okay?” Stack asked, kneeling beside him.

“That ain’t what I wanted,” Smoke whispered, “Just wanted to be seen.”

They left the city after that.

Took what little money they had, rode freight trains and backroads all the way south. Too proud to beg. Too angry to break.

And now…now they stood on land their father once touched. Answering the call of a man who owed him something. But what neither of them knew—what no voice had warned—was that the real test wasn’t work. It wasn’t survival.

It was her.

Delphine Langston.

Standing behind lace.

Wearing sunlight like perfume.

And stirring a hunger they’d never had a name for.

The dining room smelled of smoked ham and sweet bread, peach glaze and fresh rosemary. The table was long, hand-carved mahogany, with a cream linen runner and pressed napkins folded just so. There were only four chairs. And only one woman who made the air feel tight.

Delphine Langston was already seated when the twins walked in. She wore soft blue tonight—a house dress, but fitted just enough to suggest something beneath it worth wanting. Her hair was pinned loose at the nape, one curl tumbling near her collarbone like it was daring a man to follow it with his mouth.

“There they are,” she said, smiling slow as honey off the spoon, “I hope y’all brought your appetites. I do like feedin’ men with manners.”

Stack cleared his throat and tugged at his shirt collar like it suddenly didn’t fit.

Smoke said nothing, but his eyes dipped once to her neckline. He forced them back up before August could notice.

“You boys sit,” August said, nodding to the chairs across from him, “Delphine, you done outdid yourself.”

“I do try,” she spoke, slicing a honey-drizzled ham and passing the platter down. Her fingers brushed Stack’s as she handed him the tongs—just for a breath, just enough to feel.

The table was filled with food. Candied yams, biscuits soft as air, collard greens with smoked turkey, pecan cornbread that steamed when broken.

“Eat,” she said, smiling at Smoke now, “Ain’t nothin’ cold here but the tea.”

That voice—sweet, low, warm at the edges—hit him somewhere behind the ribs. He picked up his fork but didn’t speak.

August started in with ranch talk. Branding schedules, feed orders, the next week’s work. But Smoke only caught half of it. His eyes kept flicking back to Delphine’s hands—how she cut her greens slowly, how her lips closed softly around her tea glass. She didn’t touch her food much. She watched them eat.

“You two are quiet,” she said, amusement in her voice, “You always that quiet? Or just around women who use too much butter?”

“You don’t use too much,” Stack said before he could think, “You use it right.”

Delphine’s smile turned sharp and wicked, though her tone remained pure sugar.

“Well now. You keep talkin’ like that and I might start feedin’ you separate from your brother.”

August chuckled, not catching the undertone. Smoke did. His jaw flexed tight, eyes dropping to his plate like it might save him.

Delphine rose to fetch another pitcher of tea. When she passed behind them, both twins turned slightly, drawn to the soft swish of her dress and the scent of rosewater and cinnamon clinging to her skin.

“She’s gonna be a problem,” Smoke muttered once August excused himself to get his pipe from the parlor.

“The best kind,” Stack said, already looking toward the door she disappeared behind.

The scent of warm yams, cinnamon, and sweet cornbread still lingered in the kitchen, though the plates were scraped clean and the men had gone quiet. August was out on the veranda with his pipe, tapping the bowl against the railing and staring out at the pasture like it held answers.

Delphine stood at the sink, sleeves pushed up, her hands submerged in warm, sudsy water. Her hips rocked in a slow rhythm as she washed one dish at a time—not rushed, not idle. Just enough motion to keep from thinking too hard.

She heard the door creak.

Footsteps. Hesitant.

She didn’t turn around.

“Ma’am—Miss Delphine?” a voice said, deep and careful, “You need a hand with that?”

A second voice followed—lighter, smoother, with a flick of charm in it.

“Ain’t right letting you do all that alone.”

She smiled to herself before answering. That kind of sweetness didn’t come from manners. It came from curiosity.

“That so?” she said, still facing the sink, “Y’all done eaten my food and now want to see how I clean up after it?”

“We figured we could help.”

She turned then, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she looked at them.

Both standing just inside the threshold. Both tall, built from sweat and war. One had his arms crossed. The other had his hands in his pockets. They looked the same but held themselves different. She’d been watching—quietly cataloguing.

She tilted her head.

“Now which one of y’all is Elijah, and which one is Elias?”

They glanced at each other—brief, silent.

“I been married to a man fifteen years and I still get surprised by his moods. Twins? Lord, I don’t stand a chance.”

“I’m Elijah,” the quieter one said, “Folks call me Smoke.”

“Stack,” said the other, a grin teasing the corner of his mouth, “Though Mama named me Elias.”

Delphine gave a soft laugh, the kind that stayed low in her throat and curled sweet at the end.

“Smoke and Stack,” she repeated, pointing slowly between them, “What kind of names are those?”

“Earned,” Smoke said.

Stack winked, “Sticky names for dirty work.”

Delphine turned back to the sink before they could see her amusement. She didn’t like feeding men too much pride too quick. Not even the beautiful ones.

“Well,” she said lightly, rinsing a plate, “Y’all feel free to dry if your hands work.”

They didn’t move at first. Just stood there, watching her body shift with the soft sway of her cleaning, the rise and dip of her back beneath the cotton, the curl of her neck as she leaned.

She felt their eyes like a second heat.

“You ever met twins before?” Stack asked after a moment.

“Once,” she replied, drying her hands now, “Back when I was still singin’. Danced with one, flirted with the other. Got in trouble with both.”

She didn’t look back, but she heard the breath one of them sucked in.

She turned, holding a dish towel out.

“Here,” she said, “Dry, then go. A woman can only take so many eyes before she start wonderin’ if they mean to watch or take somethin’.”

Neither of them spoke.

But they both took a plate.

And she smiled.

Because she knew the look in a man’s eye when he lingers.

The bunkhouse was hot that night. The kind of thick heat that made sweat pool behind the knees and dreams come too slow. Stack kicked off his sheet and rose with a grunt, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He needed to piss and cool off. Maybe splash some water on his neck and shake the itch crawling under his skin.

He stepped outside barefoot, the grass damp and cool beneath his soles. The moon was high—full, round, bright enough to make everything silver.

He walked behind the bunkhouse, and that’s when he saw her.

Delphine.

Standing barefoot in her garden beneath the moonflowers, in nothing but a thin cotton nightgown and a silk robe tied loosely at the waist. Her hair was down, wild around her shoulders. She moved slowly, running her fingers over the petals, humming something low under her breath.

She looked like a ghost in the dark. A ghost with hips. Stack stayed still in the shadow, heart hammering too loud in his ears.

She picked a jasmine bloom, lifted it to her nose, and smiled.

Then—she looked up.

Straight at him.

He didn’t know if she’d heard his breath or just felt him. But her eyes locked with his like a slow trap, like she already knew what part of him was burning.

She didn’t speak. Just raised one hand… and let her robe slip down her shoulder, baring one honeyed arm and the soft curve beneath it.

Then she turned, slow, and disappeared into the house.

Stack stood there, jaw tight, eyes dark, his need sharp and sudden as a switchblade.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

She was going to ruin him.

And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

Smoke couldn’t sleep. He lay on the cot, one arm behind his head, eyes open to the ceiling, his other hand draped over his chest. The fan above them creaked in lazy circles, stirring nothing.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled him under.

And when it did, it took him somewhere warm.

He dreamed of magnolias.

Not the flowers—but the scent. Sweet, sultry, with a sharp edge beneath it like rain on hot dirt. He stood in the garden, the night air thick around him. And she was there.

Delphine.

Wearing white. Not a dress. Not a nightgown. Just… white. Like mist wrapped in silk. She stood by the pecan tree, lips parted, one bare foot raised slightly off the earth like she didn’t quite belong to it.

“You gonna come closer?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. He just walked to her.

When he reached her, she didn’t move. Just looked up at him with those heavy-lidded eyes and let her fingers trail along his jaw. Not possessive. Not shy. Like she already knew how he tasted.

She leaned in, mouth at his ear.

“You ain’t gotta be good with me.”

Smoke stirred in his sleep, one leg shifting beneath the sheet.

In the dream, her hands were warm on his chest. She pressed a kiss to his sternum. One to the side of his throat. Her breath was heat. Her hair brushed his lips. And her voice—

“I won’t tell.”

He woke with a hard gasp, sweat rolling down his temples, one hand pressed to his stomach.

His dick was stiff—aching—his heart thudding too loud in the stillness.

He hadn’t felt like this in over a year. Hadn’t let himself.

Smoke sat up slowly. Ran both hands down his face.

“Goddamn woman,” he whispered.

He didn’t touch himself. Didn’t finish the burn.

He just sat there in the dark, needing something he couldn’t name, and knowing—

She wasn’t just a problem.

She was the match.

And he was already burning.

The kitchen smelled of browned butter and cane sugar.

Sunlight poured in through the east window, catching the copper pans and glass jars with a glow so rich it looked like amber syrup was seeping through the air. The house was still quiet—August was out tending to the horses, and the twins were likely just rising.

Delphine moved with instinct, gathering what she needed. Butter softened in a chipped white dish. Cornmeal and flour sifted together. Buttermilk cold against her fingers. Her night was still on her skin, a hum beneath her clothes she hadn’t shaken loose.

She hadn’t slept long. Didn’t need to. The ache she carried wasn’t the kind rest could mend. A curl slipped loose from her wrap and fell along her cheek. She didn’t bother brushing it away.

She hummed as she moved. Not a full tune—just the ghost of a melody she used to sing when her hands weren’t full of chores or memory. Something slow. Bluesy. Low enough to stir a soul without waking it fully.

She cracked an egg, one-handed. A familiar rhythm.

Behind her, floorboards creaked.

Then she felt it.

That shift in the air.

A stillness that meant she was not alone.

She didn’t turn immediately.

She let the silence stretch—let him think she hadn’t noticed.

Then, gently, she set the spoon down and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Morning, Miss Delphine.”

Elijah’s voice.

Low, rough with sleep, like sugar cane crushed down to something thick.

“You always move that quiet, Elijah? Or is it just my kitchen brings out the hush in men?”

Smoke cleared his throat behind her.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t.”

Now she turned.

He stood in the doorway, shirt half-buttoned, boots unlaced, hair still a little damp from washing. The sun caught him sideways—lit his jaw and collarbone in honeyed amber, and the look in his eyes…

That look was what women pretended not to see.

She tilted her head slightly, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“You eat in the morning, Elijah?”

“I do.”

“Good. I make my biscuits with lard. None of that city butter nonsense.”

He nodded, gaze dipping briefly to the curve of her waist, the slip of skin at her collarbone.

Delphine caught it.

But she didn’t shame it. She understood it.

The war had starved men in ways they didn’t speak of.

She turned back to the oven, bending just slightly as she slid the cobbler in. When she stood, she wiped her hands again and walked toward the stove, where a pot of coffee was beginning to bubble.

“Want me to pour you a cup?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She reached for the mugs, her fingers lingering just a second longer on the rim.

When she handed it to him, their fingers brushed.

That same quiet heat.

That unspoken dare.

Still nothing overt.

But nothing innocent either.

“Stack still sleepin’?” she asked, taking a sip from her own mug.

“He’s up. Just movin’ slow.”

“Y’all always move different in the morning?”

“Stack gets loud. I get still.”

Delphine smiled. Let that truth settle between them.

She walked to the open back door and stood in the sun, sipping her coffee, robe fluttering lightly at the hem.

Smoke didn’t leave the kitchen. He stood behind her, quiet, still. Watching the morning light slip across her skin like prayer. He didn’t speak again, just lingered in the doorway. She could feel him there—big and quiet like thunder in the distance. Not moving. Just watching her shoulders. Her waist. The easy sway of her hips as she worked.

“You gon’ stand there lookin’ till I burn the cornbread?”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. He shook his head, but didn’t leave.

Delphine rolled her eyes, soft and teasing, and slid the skillet into the oven.

She bent slightly—knew how she looked from behind. Knew exactly what he was seeing.

But when she stood, she only dusted her hands and kept it moving. She moved to the sink, rinsing her hands in the cool basin. His eyes stayed with her the whole time. She felt it the way a woman always does.

By the time Stack stepped into the kitchen, the scent of baking cornbread and fried salt pork had already curled through the house like a lover’s whisper. He paused just past the threshold. Delphine was at the sink again—elbows deep in soapy water, her back to him, shoulders relaxed, humming low under her breath. Something old and gospel-sweet. Her hips moved slightly with it, swaying like branches in wind that knew its rhythm.

Stack leaned against the frame, arms folded. Took his time admiring what August probably hadn’t touched in months.

Shame.

She turned slightly, glancing at him from over her shoulder, one brow arched.

“You lookin’ for breakfast or a job, Elias?”

“Could be both,” he answered, pushing off the doorframe, “Figured I’d earn it if I ate it.”

She smiled—just a flicker.

“You know your way around a kitchen?”

“’Round it, maybe. Inside it? Not unless I’m fixin’ to steal pie.”

That got a laugh from her. A rich, honey-warm sound that curled around his spine like smoke.

“Mmh,” she said, rinsing a plate, “Dryin’ cloth’s over there. Let’s see if you halfway useful.”

He found it, moved beside her. Not too close. Just enough that her scent—brown sugar, lemon balm, and something woman-warm drifted up each time she moved. They worked in silence for a moment. Her hands washed, his dried. The air between them heavy in that kind of way that don’t need words.

“Folks say twins can feel each other’s thoughts,” she said, not looking at him, “That true?”

“Sometimes,” Stack said, “Depends on what kind of thought.”

“And what kind you got now?”

She turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his. There was no flirt in her voice. Not obvious, anyway. Just that Southern dare that sweet women use when they know they’re dangerous.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.

“None I’d say out loud, Miss Delphine.”

A beat passed.

Then she handed him the next plate. Fingers brushed. Her touch lingered a second too long.

“Good answer,” she said, “Keep thinkin’ quiet.”

They went back to work like nothing happened.

But both of them felt it.

Felt the thrum rising slow between them, quiet as a storm before it breaks.

Smoke was already sitting at the table, shirt still clinging damp to his back from the early work. The smell of salt pork and baked cornbread hung thick in the air, warm and coaxing. Delphine was at the stove, back turned again, humming soft as she slid eggs onto a plate.

Stack didn’t speak. Just moved to sit across from his brother, nodding once as he did.

Smoke gave the barest nod back.

The only sounds were the scrape of chair legs, the crack of plates against wood, and the faint creak of the ceiling fan overhead.

Delphine placed a plate in front of Stack without a word, her fingers brushing the edge. He looked up just as she turned. Her eyes didn’t linger, but her hips did—rocking slow with each step back to the stove.

Stack looked across the table.

Elijah was watching her too—quiet, unreadable, chewing slow like he was thinking of anything but food.

“Mr. Langston wants me to ride into town with him after this,” Stack said, tearing off a piece of cornbread, “Wants to check in on somethin’ before next week’s shipment.”

Smoke didn’t say anything at first. He just kept chewing. Then he nodded.

“You drivin’ or just ridin’ along?”

“Said I’d help load whatever he needs. Might stop at the feed store, maybe the grocer.” Stack paused, “You want me to pick you up anything?”

Smoke’s eyes flicked toward him.

“No,” he said, “Don’t take long. Still need to finish the fence.”

“I know.”

They lapsed into quiet again.

Both men ate. Slow, methodical. Each aware of the other’s silence.

From the stove, Delphine poured herself a glass of water. She didn’t sit. Just leaned on the edge of the counter and sipped, the morning light washing her skin gold. Her dress clung in the front now too—showing the outline of her soft belly, the heavy curve of her breasts beneath the cotton.

Stack glanced at Smoke again.

His brother was still eating—but his jaw had gone tight.

That quiet, still rage that came not from anger but from hunger. The kind a man buried so deep it became part of his bones.

Stack smirked a little and shook his head.

He took another bite of cornbread, butter melting down his fingers, and kept chewing. Like the end of the world wasn’t already stewing in the kitchen.

Clarksdale hadn’t changed much.

Same sun-baked roads. Same whitewashed storefronts. Same men with slow eyes and women with quicker ones. But something felt different now that he was back. He wasn’t a boy anymore. Wasn’t just some loud-mouthed twin with quick fists and a sharper tongue.

Now he was a man with dirt under his nails and blood in his memories.

And folk could see it in his eyes.

He rode passenger while August Langston drove the truck through town, a crate of sweet potatoes and muscadine jelly jostling in the back, along with a few bags of corn feed for the horses.

“You remember where the store’s at?” August asked, eyes straight ahead beneath the brim of his hat.

“The Chow’s place?” Stack replied, “Ain’t moved since we were little. Always smelled like fish and pepper vinegar.”

August gave a low chuckle, “Ain’t nothin’ ever really change in Clarksdale. Just people come and go.”

“Sometimes they come back different.”

August didn’t answer that.

They parked near the curb where dust curled off the wheels and boots slapped against the porch steps. The sun was beating good now, but the town was alive—women with baskets of greens on their hips, kids chasing chickens in the alley, men chewing toothpicks in the shade with stories they wouldn’t say around wives.

Stack hopped out, leaned against the side of the truck for a breath.

That’s when he saw him.

Bo Chow—still short, still lean in the chest, all wiry muscle and sharp eyes—was out front hauling in a crate of catfish wrapped in newspaper from a local supplier. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms slick with water, apron tied tight around his narrow waist. His face lit up when he saw Stack.

“Damn, Stack?” Bo dropped the crate right there, “Boy, I thought you was dead or married!”

“Half dead, ain’t married!” Stack grinned, stepping forward to grip his hand, “But the Lord saw fit to spit me back out.”

Bo pulled him into a quick hug, clapped his back twice.

“Where Smoke at?”

“Ranch. Got us work again. August Langston took us in.”

“That man still upright?” Bo laughed, “Hell. You must’ve made an impression.”

“Daddy did. August owed him.”

Bo sobered for a breath. Looked Stack over.

“You look good, man. A little haunted—but good.”

Stack smirked but didn’t argue.

Behind them, Bo’s younger cousin peeked out the door of the store, curiosity in her eyes.

“You still runnin’ this place?” Stack asked.

“Yeah. Mama passed. Daddy’s mostly in the back. Got cousins helpin’. We stayin’ afloat. You comin’ by for real food soon or just flirtin’ with my fish?”

“Both.”

August called from the truck then, voice sharp but not unkind.

“Elias.”

Stack tipped his hat.

“Gotta run.”

Bo nodded, “A’ight. Come by later. First jar of pickled okra on the house.”

As Stack walked back to the truck, he felt it: something strange in the ease of that conversation. Something he hadn’t felt in years.

Belonging.

August was quiet as he shifted the truck into gear.

Then, after a few minutes on the road, August spoke.

“You your daddy’s boy.”

Stack looked over, unsure what to make of the tone.

“He was fire,” August said, still not looking at him, “Hard-headed. Could charm a knife out a man’s boot. Trouble, but loyal.”

“He wasn’t always kind,” Stack said.

“No. He wasn’t. But he protected what was his.”

The truck hit a bump. The crate shifted behind them.

“You got that same edge,” August added, softer now, “It’s not a bad thing. Just be careful who you cut with it.”

Stack didn’t answer.

He just stared out the window, the trees passing like ghosts.

And in the quiet space between them, he thought of Delphine’s robe slipping down her shoulder.

And wondered what kind of cut that would be.

That dress this morning—so thin it might as well have been nothing. The way she moved through that house like it was hers and always had been. A full-grown woman with hips made to cradle. Breasts that begged to be worshipped. Skin that looked like it held the day’s heat long after sundown.

She was older. He knew that. Not by much, but enough.

Old enough to know how to undo a man slow, and never say sorry for it.

Stack shifted in the seat, jaw flexing.

Was August even touchin’ her like that anymore?

He didn’t seem the type to keep up. Not lately. Not with that stiff, preacher-like calm he wore more and more. Stack had watched the man leave for the stables early, smoke his pipe late, barely brush Delphine’s arm in passing.

Shame, he thought, jaw ticking. All that woman should be tended to regular.

He imagined how she’d be—sweet and mean at the same time, pressing her mouth against a man’s throat, pulling his hair, saying his name like a song and a warning.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

Bet she’d lose her damn mind over a young dick. One that could go more than once. One that ain’t afraid to lift her up and take his time with every inch.

Stack let out a breath and adjusted his legs.

He shouldn’t be thinking like this.

Not with the man right next to him.

But hell, he couldn’t help it.

Delphine wasn’t just beautiful. She carried something. That kind of sexual energy you didn’t just see—you felt it on your skin. Like heat before a thunderstorm. Like static on your knuckles before a spark. She smiled soft and polite around August, but Stack saw the glint in her eye. The still-burning woman under all that sweet.

And Lord, did he want to be the one to let her burn.

The truck hit a bump, rattling them both slightly.

“You alright?” August asked, glancing at him for the first time.

Stack nodded once, clearing his throat.

“Yeah. Just thinkin’.”

August made a small sound, something between understanding and dismissal. He tapped his pipe against the doorframe. Stack looked out the window again, the ranch drawing closer, the sky starting to split gold and rose over the fields.

He didn’t say another word.

Didn’t need to.

His thoughts were already back in that kitchen.

Back with her.

He didn’t mean to stop.

Smoke had just come from the field, shirt tied at the waist, dirt smudged along his arms and neck. The sun was cruel overhead, but there was shade near the kitchen window—just enough to pause a minute and let his body cool.

Butter. Brown sugar. Cobbler still warm, crust soft and golden like a kiss to the tongue. That’s what hit him when he stepped around back, arms sore from the woodpile, sweat clinging to his neck.

That was when he saw her.

Delphine.

She was at the window, back turned, sliding cobblers from the oven to the sill with practiced ease. Bare arms flexing gently with each lift. Her thin cotton dress—white, almost sheer in the sunlight—clung to every curve God took His sweet time on.

Hips like she was poured into the world.

Breasts full and soft beneath the fabric, bouncing faintly with her motion.

That ass—Jesus—round and high, framed like a painting in the kitchen light.

She moved like a woman who knew she was being watched, even if she didn’t look up.

She was humming low—something bluesy and wordless. It wrapped around Smoke’s spine like honey drizzled slow.

He stood still.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe much either.

A bead of sweat rolled from his temple down his jaw. He wiped it absently, eyes never leaving her. She licked her thumb, touched the edge of a crust, then gave a soft, satisfied sigh.

Smoke shifted his stance, suddenly aware of the way his pants felt tight around the groin. He cursed under his breath.

This ain’t nothin’ but trouble.

But he didn’t walk off.

Not yet.

She reached up to adjust the curtain, her body stretching just so—and the dress lifted higher on the backs of her thighs. Lord, he could almost see the split where her legs met. Could almost taste the sweetness she kept pressed between them like fruit in summer heat.

His hands balled into fists at his sides.

He was hard.

Hard and angry about it.

Not at her—but at himself. At the way he wanted so bad it made his teeth ache.

“You gon’ stare all day, Elijah?”

Her voice came through the window, amused but low—thick like syrup over warm bread.

He froze.

She didn’t look at him. Just set the last cobbler down and turned back to the counter.

“Ain’t polite,” she added, voice smooth.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“It’s Miss Delphine.”

He backed away slowly, jaw tight, heat still pulsing between his legs. He turned, headed back toward the field, dust swirling around his boots.

He shouldn’t’ve looked.

But the scent got him first.

And then she leaned into the windowsill.

Dress clinging. Hips tilted just so. That thick ass perched high like it was placed on a platter, framed by the sunlight pouring in.

He stopped breathing.

She didn’t even glance his way. Just lifted onto her toes to slide another cobbler outside—hips shifting with that slow, syrupy grace that turned his knees loose.

His dick jumped.

And then she had turned.

Eyes like she’d been waitin’ on him to break.

Shit.

Smoke jerked his head back to the woodpile like it mattered. Gripped the axe too hard. Split the log wrong. But it didn’t matter. It was too late.

Because now all he could see was her mouth.

That lush, wicked mouth—full lips that looked like they were born to take things slow. He’d watched her drag a spoon between them the day before, licking peach juice like it was some private ritual. He’d had to leave the room.

And her thighs? Soft as risen dough, wide and welcoming when she sat with one leg crossed slow over the other. When she bent down, they kissed at the top, leaving just the smallest shadow between them.

He’d gone half-hard just watching her serve biscuits.

But her ass?

Lord. That was the thing that ruined him.

It moved like water. Like molasses warmed over fire. Every sway dragged his eyes and every curve told him he didn’t know a damn thing about control. When she walked past him that morning, the heat of her hips brushed him—just barely—and he’d nearly moaned out loud.

It’s only been two days.

And he was hard constantly.

Working with his shirt stuck to his back, dick pressed to the inside of his thigh like it was trying to reach for her. Dreaming about the way she said “baby”, like she could feed it to you with a spoon.

She didn’t even have to try.

Delphine was indulgence. Warm and sticky. Sin in a silk robe, humming blues under her breath while she stirred honey into hot biscuits with one bare foot up on the counter.

He wasn’t a boy, but she made him feel like one.

That ass…that mouth…the soft inside of her thighs…

“Fuck,” he muttered, adjusting himself behind the stack of logs like the wood might give him mercy.

She was still at the window, humming now. Slow. Sweet.

He swung the axe again. And again.

It didn’t help. The ache had settled deep.

Tonight he’d lie on that narrow cot, sweaty and strung tight, imagining the taste of brown sugar on her skin and her voice calling him baby.

And he’d pray to God she never caught him looking again.

Or worse—pray that she would.

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

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May/June 1996

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The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry and supernatural, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part Eight

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

The attic held a kind of hush that felt like a cathedral at dusk.

Not a silence, but a velvet stillness—soft, expectant, thick with value. The kind of quiet you whisper into without being told. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t lonely. It was womb-warm and dusk-dark, wrapped in slanted beams of amber light leaking through the porthole window, painting the floorboards with gold.

Above them, the rafters cradled cascading silks—wine-colored, violet, deep blues—all swaying gently in the draft like they were breathing. A linen sheet had been spread over the floor and weighted at the corners, and atop it, folds of velvet and satin layered like a nest. Someone had once stored fabric up here, or maybe dresses from decades past, but now they softened the space like memory itself had been laid bare.

Everywhere was softness. A place to fall open.

Their voices floated in the loft like prayers.

Smoke stood frozen by the door, his chest rising hard beneath his white shirt, jaw clenched so tight it twitched. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He looked like he’d been hit square in the chest by something bigger than lust.

“You sure?”

Smoke’s voice was low—deep like gravel wet with bourbon, but gentle around the edges and skin glowing with the sheen of want.

Violet nodded slowly, eyes shining behind her mask, lips parted just enough to tremble. Her voice was barely a whisper, but it rang through the attic like a bell.

“I want this. I want you.”

That was all it took.

Below them, through the floorboards, came the faint throb of the Velvet and Vice party—a muffled beat of blues guitar, the occasional wail of a trumpet, a woman’s laughter that turned into a moan before fading. The world was still moving, still writhing in heat and sin, but it felt far away. Here, in the loft, time slowed to breath and heartbeat.

Ba-dum…Ba-dum…Ba-dum.

His eyes dragged down her—jaw, collarbone, breasts, thighs—with a adoration so deep it burned. His fingers twitched at his sides. His chest rose faster. But he didn’t speak.

Smoke’s hand cupped Violet’s cheek. She leaned into him, skin flushed, silk brushing against her shoulders like feathers. Somewhere behind her, the mirror caught their reflection—not bold and sharp like stage lights, but ghosted in gold, blurred by light and softness. Their bodies looked half-dreamed.

Even the dust here sparkled, suspended like it had paused to watch.

And though the attic was warm, Smoke shivered at the sound of her voice.

Not from cold.

But from the weight of being invited into something so tender, so holy, and so achingly real.

“I want you to look at me, Smoke,” she said, her voice low, molten, “All of me.”

Her hands went to the straps of her white velvet gown.

She slid them down, one after the other, so slowly the fabric seemed to sigh. The gown clung for a moment to her breasts, then slipped—molasses-slow—over her skin, pooling at her feet like spilled cream.

She stepped out of it.

Naked.

Except for the ribbon still tied at her throat. A single lavender bow resting against the hollow of her neck. Her skin gleamed in the moon light—soft, full, golden-brown, glowing like candle flame licked over flesh.

Smoke still hadn’t moved.

He didn’t have to.

Violet moved for him—slow, swaying to the rhythm of the blues. Her hips rolled gently with the beat, her breasts bouncing just slightly, her breath getting heavier.

She ran her hands down her own body—over her waist, her belly, the inside of her thighs. Her voice came out on a shuddered breath, but it didn’t falter.

“I want you to see what’s yours.”

Smoke’s eyes snapped up to her face.

“I’m ready, Elijah.”

She rarely used his name.

That alone nearly broke him.

“I’m ready for you to take me. Claim me. Make me yours so deep I forget what it was like to be untouched.”

A sound broke from his throat—half-growl, half-prayer.

“You don’t know what you askin’, girl,” he rasped.

Violet stepped in close. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. Close enough that her breasts nearly brushed his chest.

She touched the buttons of his vest—slow, deliberate—and whispered…

“I know exactly what I’m asking.”

Then she turned.

Walked backward toward the velvet and silk splayed across the floor. Still moving to the blues. Still glowing. She climbed onto the drapery, her thighs parting just enough, knees bent, feet flat, ribbon catching the light as she looked back at him through her mask.

“Come here,” she whispered, “Take your time. But take me.”

Smoke reached behind him and locked the door.

Then he moved.

Slow and silent—like a wolf circling a flame.

He peeled off his vest first. Then his suspenders. He undid each button on his shirt like he was unwrapping something dangerous. His eyes never left her. When he pulled the shirt off, his chest gleamed with sweat. Broad. Scarred. Lined with strength and ache.

He knelt at the edge of the drapes and ran his hands up her thighs—slow, careful.

“You sure?” he asked again, voice deep as thunder under velvet.

Violet reached for him. She guided one trembling hand between her thighs, pressing his fingers where she ached.

“You tell me,” she whispered, “Does this feel like doubt?”

His fingers brushed over her wet folds.

Wet. Ready. Willing.

“Tell me to kiss you,” he rasped.

“Kiss me like I’m already yours.”

Smoke swore. Crawled up her body. Kissed her full on the mouth—hard and deep—then pressed his forehead to hers, eyes shut tight like he was trying to survive.

“I’ll go slow,” he said.

“No,” she breathed, “I want you to go how you feel.”

He looked at her.

And then he moved.

Smoke didn’t remember crossing the space between them.

One second, Violet was there molded into fabric, bare except for that lavender satin ribbon tied around her neck like a kept promise, her knees parted and the blush on her skin glowing like morning after sin.

The next, he was on her.

Not fast. Not frantic.

But with that slow, dangerous gravity that only happened once a man stopped fighting his desire. He leaned in, both hands braced on either side of her, and hovered—just enough distance for breath to pass between them. His eyes were locked on her lips. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles.

Violet’s voice shook—but not from fear. From knowing.

That did it.

Smoke’s mouth descended on hers like it was the only salvation left in the attic. His lips were hot, full, and rough, the way only a man who’s been starving can be. Not sloppy. Not rushed. Just…needy. Like he’d dreamed about the taste of her for weeks and couldn’t believe it was real.

Violet moaned into it, fingers smoothing down the front of his hair, yanking him closer at the nape of his neck, hungrier. Her lips parted beneath his, soft and slick, and when he licked into her mouth, she opened wider for him—welcoming, bold, burning.

His tongue met hers in slow, wet strokes—deep, velvety, every movement dragging low in her belly. Her thighs clamped around his waist. The kiss tilted, deepened, grew dirtier as they lost themselves in it. Smoke sucked her bottom lip between his teeth, bit down just enough to make her gasp, then soothed it with the flat of his tongue.

He pulled back an inch, just enough to speak against her lips.

“Jesus, girl…you taste like sin dressed in sugar.”

And then he kissed her again—slower this time, more focused, like he was trying to memorize her with his mouth. His hand cupped the side of her throat, thumb grazing the ribbon. The other slipped under her thigh, lifting her higher against him. Every part of her body arched into the kiss like it had been waiting years for this moment—this heat, this weight, this man.

Violet whimpered, tugged him closer.

Her voice broke against his mouth.

“I can feel you shaking.” She whispered.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep kissing me like that,” he muttered, barely holding himself up.

“Then don’t.” She whispered, biting down on his bottom lip, “Fall with me.”

He groaned—guttural and filthy—and kissed her so deep she forgot her name.

Smoke kissed her like he was unraveling—like every second of restraint had finally snapped loose and now there was only heat. Hunger. Her. Violet clung to him, trembling, her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands trembling against his shoulders. The kiss deepened until it wasn’t a kiss anymore—it was breath sharing, it was mouths devouring, it was I want you, I need you, I am not leaving here untouched.

But still, he didn’t thrust. Didn’t take.

Not yet.

He broke the kiss, barely.

Breath ragged. Eyes locked to hers through the mask. His voice was low and dark, broken open at the edges.

“I can see how bad you want it, baby,” Smoke spoke, chest heaving against hers, “You want slow? soft? Or you want me the way I really feel it…wild and deep and too much?”

Violet ran her hand down his chest, fingers tracing his sternum, the dip below his ribs. Her touch was feather-light—but deliberate.

She whispered, “I want it all.”

Smoke exhaled hard, like she knocked the air out of him. Then he kissed her jaw, her throat, the edge of the ribbon, dragging his mouth along her skin with wet heat and a devotion so intense it made her knees weak.

“You ain’t soft, Violet,” he whispered against her neck, “You’re blazing, baby. You think I don’t feel it?”

She gasped then guided his hand between her thighs again.

“Feel this,” she said, voice breathy and rising, “and tell me I’m not burning for you.”

He groaned, deep in his chest. His fingers moved through her folds—slick, swollen, warm—his touch slow and exploratory. Like she was a new language he’d been dying to speak.

“You soaked, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing her temple, “You feel like heaven. So wet…”

His fingers stroked up and down, circling her clit with the pads of two fingers—just enough pressure to make her whimper. She arched into him, biting her bottom lip.

Her voice shook, but she didn’t hold back.

“Don’t tease. Touch me like you mean it.”

He growled, deep and low, and did exactly that—rubbing slow, firm circles, slipping one finger inside her, then two, pumping carefully, stretching her as she clenched around him.

“I can feel you flutterin’, baby,” he said, his voice breaking, “So tight…you gon’ come just like this, ain’t you?”

She nodded, eyes fluttering, biting down on her bottom lip, hips grinding down against his hand.

“Yes…Smoke—please, don’t stop…” she begged in that little voice.

He kissed her again—harder this time, tongue deep, claiming, messy. His hand didn’t stop moving, didn’t slow. He kept her right there, circling her clit, curling his fingers inside her. Violet whimpered, eyes flicking from between her legs to his eyes.

“You need it bad, don’t you?” he whispered against her mouth, “You been dreamin’ ‘bout this, layin’ in that little bed, slippin’ your fingers down and pretendin’ it was me?”

“Yes,” she moaned, “Yes, I have, sir. I’ve been touching my pussy to the thought of you since the moment I saw you.”

That undid him.

“You nasty little thing…fuck…since you first saw me? Huh?”

“Yes,” she moaned.

He moved faster, pressing his thumb down just right, until her body began to tense, her thighs trembling.

“Damn, baby…wet ass pussy…and you giving this precious little box to me?” Smoke whispered with a filthy exhale.

“Yes, daddy…all for you. To fuck…to lick…make me open up for you,” Violet trailed a singer finger down Smoke’s face until it curled beneath his jaw. She leaned in, and slowly flicked her tongue against his plush lips, “Daddy, I’m gonna cum.”

“Yeah?”

Violet nodded her head with a pout of her lip. She was so wet and sensitive. She could feel the ache in her belly grow bolder, stilling her legs.

“Cum for me, Violet,” he rasped, “Cum on my hand. Show me how sweet you taste when you fall apart.”

She shattered.

Her hips bucked. Her mouth dropped open in a moan so raw it cracked in the middle. Her walls clenched tight around his fingers as she pulsed, wet and rhythmic, riding it out in his arms, eyes wide behind the mask. Smoke watched every second, lips parted, chest heaving. His fat dick strained against his slacks, but he didn’t move for himself—didn’t even flinch.

He was entranced.

When her body finally stilled, he pulled his fingers from her slowly, wet and glistening.

Then—locking eyes with her—he brought them to his mouth.

And sucked them clean.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

She reached for him—desperate now, trembling, glowing.

“Your turn,” she whispered, her lips swollen, “I want to feel you…all of you. Fill my pussy.”

Violet lay sprawled across velvet and silk, her thighs still twitching, lips parted, skin glowing.

Her ribbon had loosened, one end hanging down between her breasts, catching the candlelight like a flag of surrender. But her eyes—what Smoke could see of them behind the pearl-tulle mask—weren’t surrendering anything.

They were hungry.

“Smoke…” Her voice was a whisper, half-wrecked from the way he’d made her come, but still thick with want, “I need you.”

He was kneeling between her thighs, half clothed—forearms taut, the buttons of his slacks straining around his dick. His hands rested on her thighs like he was trying to pray her back together.

“I know you do,” he rasped, voice rough, “I feel it. I smell it.”

He leaned down, mouth brushing her knee. Then her inner thigh.

“Still shakin’ for me, sugar?”

She nodded.

“Good,” he spoke, “You ain’t done.”

He kissed a path up her thigh, mouth hot and open, breath dragging over the wetness he’d left behind. Violet arched, gasped, but he didn’t lick her again.

He just breathed her in.

Slow.

Deep.

“You smell like heat and want.” he growled against her skin, “Like velvet burned down to the bone.”

His hands moved over her hips, up her ribs, over her breasts. He cupped one and ran his thumb across her nipple until it peaked. Then leaned in, letting his lips hover.

Not touch.

Just hover.

Letting the air between them throb.

“Say it again,” he said, “Tell me what you want.”

Violet reached up and grabbed the back of his neck—fingers squeezing a little, pulling until his mouth finally brushed her skin.

“I want you to lose control,” she said, “I want to feel your mouth. Your tongue. Your dick. I want you to take me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched. His fingers dug into her thighs.

“You want my mouth?”

She nodded, breath ragged.

He kissed her breast, sucked her nipple in slowly, circled it with his tongue while his other hand moved between her legs again.

She whimpered, hips lifting.

“You want my dick?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “God, yes—please—”

“Then be still,” he growled, voice shaking with restraint.

He sat back on his heels. Undid the button of his slacks. Pulled them down and off. Kicking his oxfords and socks with it.

Violet stared, wide-eyed, mouth parted. The fabric opened and—

God.

His dick was thick, flushed dark, glistening at the tip, twitching as he gripped the base.

He pumped it once. Twice. Just enough to coat his palm.

Her eyes dropped to his hand. Her breath caught.

He moved forward—pressed the head against her slit, not entering, just dragging it up and down. The friction slick. Torturous. Perfect.

“You feel that?” he whispered, “That ache right here?”

He rubbed her clit with the tip. She cried out.

“That’s me, baby. All of me. You ready to beg for it yet?”

Violet arched her hips.

Then—bold as anything—she reached between them, wrapped her hand over his, guiding his dick to her entrance.

Her voice trembled, but her words didn’t.

“I’m already begging inside, daddy.”

Smoke growled—a deep, wrecked sound—and dropped his forehead to hers.

“I can’t go slow for long, baby…I just can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

The lamp light flickered near them, scattering gold light over sweat-slicked skin and slow-burning sin.

Violet sat half-upright now, propped on one elbow, thighs spread wide in invitation. Her body was flush and radiant, lips kiss-swollen, glowing with release—and yet, not even close to satisfied. Her hand wrapped around Smoke’s thickness—firm, sure, trembling just slightly with the weight of what she held. He knelt between her thighs. His body gleamed, chest rising and falling like he’d just run through fire.

“Watch me,” she said, voice low and soaked in heat.

And he did.

Smoke’s jaw clenched tight, lips parted, eyes hungry as her fingers guided his big dick between her folds—slow, achingly slow—gliding along the length of her slick center.

His dick was flushed dark, veiny, heavy in her hand. Precum glistened at the tip, catching the moonlight as she dragged it up through her arousal. His shaft slid like silk between her folds, catching at her clit each time she pressed forward just enough to make them both twitch.

Wet sounds filled the space between their bodies—slick, filthy, honest.

She bit her bottom lip.

Pressed the head against her clit again. Rubbed it in slow, lazy little circles that made her thighs tremble.

Smoke swore under his breath. His hands balled into fists at his thighs, every muscle in his body tense with restraint.

“Jesus…Violet…”

His voice was a gravel scrape—half warning, half worship.

“You see what you doin’ to me? Got my dick so fuckin hard.”

She nodded slowly, dragging him down again, her folds parting around the swollen head of his dick like they’d been made to cradle it.

“You feel it?” she whispered, “How soft I am for you? How much I want it? How wet I am?”

Her grip tightened just a little. She stroked him, sliding his length back and forth, coating him in her wetness until the entire shaft gleamed.

“You’re so hard, sir,” she whispered, eyes wide behind the mask, “You’re shaking, Smoke…”

“I’m holdin’ on by a fuckin’ thread,” he breathed, “You keep that up, I’m gonna nut before I even get inside you.”

She lifted her hips, letting the head of his big dick catch at her entrance—not entering—just there. Tempting. Tormenting.

“I want you right here,” she said, voice breaking with lust, “Right where I ache the most.”

Smoke’s hand shot out—gripped her thigh.

Violet circled her soaked hole with his flushed tip. In tortuous fashion. Her breaths ragged. The sound of her slick loud. Smoke groaning low.

“Then stop teasin’,” he growled, trembling, “You ready for it? All of me?”

She smiled—soft, open, utterly unraveled.

“I’m ready for everything.”

Smoke gripped the backs of Violet’s thighs and spread her wide, wrapping them around his waist. Her hips tilted toward him, skin damp and glowing in the moonlight. The lavender satin ribbon still clung to her throat, looser now, trailing over one shoulder like an unspoken promise. It fluttered faintly with every breath she took, every tremble of want and nerves. Her mask stayed on. Her eyes locked on his.

Smoke hovered above her, braced on his forearms, his chest rising and falling like he’d run through fire. His face was close—so close—and his eyes searched hers like she was something sacred, something breakable and burning.

“Can I?” he asked, voice low and rough, “You want me to untie it?”

Violet looked up at him, and though her lashes were damp, her mouth trembled into something tender. Brave. Soft and blazing all at once.

She nodded.

But then she whispered.

“Yes. I want you to.”

Her voice was so small, but it rang like thunder in the hush of the attic. A storm in silk and skin. Smoke exhaled through his nose, as if steadying himself. Then he reached up, calloused fingers trembling as they found the satin bow. He didn’t rush it. Didn’t tug. Just held it for a moment, like it was the last ribbon on a gift he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Then slowly, delicately, he began to pull.

The knot gave with a whisper-soft sigh, and the two ends fluttered down over her collarbones. Her breath caught. Her body arched.

Smoke leaned in.

He didn’t speak. He just lowered his mouth and kissed the spot where the bow had been tied, right above her pulse, where her heartbeat raced wild beneath her skin. A soft, open-mouthed kiss—warm and wet and full of something unspoken.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered into her skin. “So brave.”

Violet’s hands slid up his chest, fingers curling near his shoulders. She didn’t speak—she didn’t have to. The ribbon now lay like an offering across her breasts, undone, and her eyes—those wide, wet eyes behind the mask—held his with an ache that begged to be answered.

Smoke rose just enough to look down at her again, chest heaving.

“You ready, baby?”

And this time when she nodded, she didn’t tremble.

She burned.

“Keep lookin’ at me,” he spoke, voice thick, trembling, “I wanna see your eyes when I fill you.”

She nodded, breath stuttering, lips parted. Her hands reached for his arms—those strong, tensed forearms, the ones that had held back for too long. He let her pull him close, brought his dick to her entrance, and paused.

Not yet. Not all at once.

He breathed against her mouth, and whispered, “You want it, baby? Tell me. Beg for it. ‘Cause I’m ready to give you what you deserve.”

Violet’s voice cracked open, soft but certain.

“Please. I need to feel it. Need you inside me. Please, Sir.”

He kissed her then—slow, wet, tongues curling, breath sharing. One hand came to her cheek, the other still bracing her thigh as he pressed in—just the tip. A tight, perfect heat wrapped around him, making him groan into her mouth.

“Goddamn,” he choked out, “You…Violet, you’re…so…so tight.”

She gasped, hips jerking slightly. Her thighs trembled.

He didn’t move.

Held still.

Let her adjust.

His forehead pressed to hers, sweat collecting at his brow, voice trembling when he spoke again.

“You okay?”

She nodded, breath hot against his lips. Her body pulsed around him, soft and slow, trying to make room.

“I feel so full already,” she whispered, eyes fluttering, “But I–I want more.”

Smoke rocked forward an inch—and Violet cried out, legs tightening around his waist. Her body stretched to take him, to welcome him deeper. She could feel the thick drag of his dick, the heavy pressure splitting her open slowly, soft walls stretching in ways they never had.

It burned, but not in pain.

In pleasure.

A deep, aching kind of stretch that made her arch and moan.

Smoke whispered against her ear, “You feel it, baby? How deep I am? That’s me…workin’ my way in. I’m makin’ my way in this pussy…inch by inch…”

His hands moved, sliding under her ass to lift her, angle her, open her more.

“Breathe,” he spoke soflty, “You takin’ me so good. So fuckin’ good.”

Another inch. Then another.

Violet’s nails dug into his back. Her mouth dropped open. Her whole body quaked.

“Oh G–G–God…” she gasped, “It’s—it’s so thick. I can feel every inch of you.”

Smoke bit down softly on her throat, kissed over the spot, then whispered filth into her skin.

“You stretchin’ so sweet for me. You were made for this. Made for me. You know that?”

She nodded frantically, “Yes—yes, I want it all. I want you to fill me until I can’t breathe.”

Smoke’s hips rolled forward—deeper, slower—and she cried out, her voice breaking on the way her walls clenched around him, gripping him like a velvet vice.

“You okay?” he asked again, barely able to form the words, “Tell me, Violet.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

Her voice was breathless, high, shaking with need.

“I feel everything. You’re so deep. It’s thick—it’s stretching me so wide. But it’s—fuck, it’s perfect.”

He stopped halfway in, groaned, dropped his forehead to her shoulder.

“You feel like goddamn heaven,” he said, “If I go any deeper, I’m not lettin’ you go.”

“Then don’t,” she whispered, “Take all of me.”

Smoke groaned—wrecked, worshipful—and began to move.

Smoke knelt between her thighs, completely bare, stripped down to skin and sweat and sin. His body gleamed under the moon—broad shoulders, powerful arms, a chest dusted with hair, rising and falling like he’d just run through fire and hadn’t stopped burning. Veins traced the lengths of his forearms, tension coiled in his muscles as he fought not to take her all at once. His dick hung heavy, thick and flushed, glistening at the tip from her slick, twitching with each ragged breath he drew. There was nothing left between them now. No clothes. No pretense.

Just heat.

Just skin.

Just want.

He looked at her like she was the only thing left in the world that could save him.

Smoke stayed still, buried halfway inside her, thick and throbbing where her walls clung tight—stretching, burning, aching for more.

His breath shuddered. His jaw locked.

“Goddamn, baby…” he rasped, “You so tight—grippin’ me like you don’t wanna let me go.”

Violet’s back arched. Her thighs trembled.

She was soaked around him, her slick coating his dick, her folds flushed and swollen from how long he’d teased her. The stretch made her gasp—thick, slow, just shy of too much. Her walls fluttered, adjusting, pulsing with every heartbeat.

But still, he held back.

He didn’t thrust.

He didn’t press deeper.

He worshipped.

Smoke bent down and pressed kisses across her throat, soft and slow, letting his hips grind just a little—just enough to feel her flutter again around the half of him she was holding.

“You okay?” he whispered against her collarbone. “Need me to stop?”

She shook her head, voice trembling.

“No. Don’t stop. Just…give me a second. I can feel everything.”

He kissed her again, lips open over her skin, breath burning.

“You’re takin’ me so good,” he spoke, voice thick and deep, “So damn sweet, baby. You feel like heaven made wet for me.”

His hands slid up her ribs, rough palms grazing slick skin.

Then he took one breast in his mouth.

Her nipple was tight, flushed dark, sensitive from heat and wanting. He sucked slow, deep, lips sealing around it while his tongue flicked and dragged—hungry, tender, filthy.

Violet cried out beneath him.

“Oh…Smoke—yes…”

She arched into his mouth, hands threading over his hair, pulling him closer. His hips shifted just slightly and she felt it—the weight of him, the stretch still humming where they were joined.

He groaned against her skin, licked her nipple again, then moved to the other breast.

“Could suck these all night,” he rasped between kisses, “So soft. You shakin’ for me.”

“Because I need you,” she gasped, “I need all of you.”

He lifted his head, eyes glazed and burning.

“You’ll have it. Every inch. But not yet.”

He kissed her again—deep, wet, tongue sliding slow as his girth pulsed inside her. Her hips tried to rock up. He stilled her with a strong hand.

“Not yet, baby,” he whispered again, resting his forehead against hers, “Let me feel you like this. Let me memorize it—how you open for me. How you stretch around just half of me.”

Smoke stared down at the way his big dick only half way in looked. How her folds spread and bloomed around his slick girth. It was beautiful.

She whimpered.

“Then do it. Remember me, Daddy.”

“I want you to remember it too, baby. Look at this,” Smoke spread her so her hips tilted, “fuckin’ gorgeous, baby.”

Smoke kissed her slow and long. His hand gripped her waist. His dick twitched where it was buried halfway inside her heat.

Still not moving. Still holding.

Just trembling on the edge.

His dick is thick and throbbing, glistening from root to tip in her slick. Her walls gripped him so tight he could barely breathe, his control stretched to the edge of breaking.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice wrecked, “You grippin’ me good and tight.”

Violet arched beneath him, her thighs falling wider, chest heaving. Her hands dug into his shoulders, nails biting skin.

“I don’t want you to slip out,” she gasped, “I want…I want you to stay inside me. Live there.”

“Live in this sweet little pussy?”

“Yes…mmmm—”

Smoke let out a sound that was half growl, half prayer.

Then he shifted his hips—not thrusting in, not pulling out, just a slow, controlled sway from side to side, grinding his dick through her heat like he was trying to carve space inside her that didn’t exist. Rocking her hips.

Her eyes flew wide. Her breath caught.

“Oh—fuck—”

“You feel that?” he moaned out, staring down at where they were joined, “That stretch?”

He watched it happen—watched how her folds kissed every inch of him half way in, slick and swollen, gripping his dick like velvet-lined hunger. The way she opened, stretched around his girth, the raw, glistening pink of her taking him with effort, with ache.

“Look at this pretty pussy,” he groaned, voice low and filthy, “Can’t even take me yet, and she’s still tryna pull me in deeper.”

He rocked his hips again—left, then right—slow, obscene pressure.

Violet whimpered, biting her lip so hard her lip trembled.

Her pussy pulsed, clenching tight every time he moved like that, and he watched it happen, mesmerized.

“I could come just from this,” he muttered, “Just watchin’ your pussy swallow me like she don’t know whether to stretch wider or suck me deeper.”

“Don’t stop,” Violet begged, “It’s so full—I feel you everywhere.”

He leaned in, mouth at her ear.

“You like the stretch, baby?”

“Yes—yes—please—”

“Then take it.”

His hand gripped the underside of her thigh, lifting it higher, angling her open even more.

And still—he didn’t push deeper.

He just kept grinding. Swaying. Teasing. Torturing. Stretching the tension. Making her wetter. Filthier. Letting that big dick move inside her like a slow burn, wide and thick, dragging over her walls from side to side until she was shaking, writhing, helpless and dripping.

Her whole body lit up. Her head dropped back against the drapes.

“I feel every ridge of you,” she cried, hiccuped, “I can feel the veins. It’s—God, it’s so much—”

Smoke looked down again, watching himself buried in her halfway—her lips stretched wide around the base of his shaft, her slick smeared over his thighs.

“Look at what you fuckin’ doin’ to me,” he rasped, eyes blown, “Look how soaked you are. You’re fuckin’ drenchin’ me, baby.”

Violet reached down with one hand, touched the base of his dick where her body stretched around him, fingers trembling as she felt the obscene wetness there.

“I want all of it,” she whispered, “Now. I want to feel every inch stretch me open.”

Smoke stilled. His body shook.

“You sure, baby? This pussy too tight. You sure you can handle it?”

Her voice was soft, wrecked, completely undone.

“Ruin me.” She begged.

Smoke’s body was tight as wire, thighs trembling where they pressed to hers. His dick throbbed—half buried, thick and twitching inside her, coated in her slick. Violet lay beneath him—open, trembling, flushed with need. Her mask still framed her eyes, but he could see everything: her want, her surrender, her need for more.

“Ruin me,” she’d begged with a shaky voice.

And Smoke—bare, soaked in sweat, jaw clenched so tight it ached—finally gave in.

“Hold on,” he growled, low and hoarse, mouth at her ear, “’Cause I’m not stoppin’ this time.”

He braced his hands to either side of her, locked his eyes on her face—and pushed.

Inch by inch.

Deep.

Stretching.

Thick.

The sound was obscene—a wet, slick drag of dick sinking into tight, velvet heat, the slap of her slick against his hips as her pussy gave way, struggling to take the rest of him.

“Oh—fuckkkk—” she cried, legs shaking, body arching beneath him, “You’re—oh my God—you’re so deep—”

Her pussy fluttered around him, stretching slow, burning, the walls clenching, dragging over every ridge and vein as he sank deeper.

“FFFFUCCCCKKK,” Smoke breathed, sweat sliding down his chest, watching as his dick disappeared inside her, “You feel like silk soaked in honey. Like heaven’s got a tight little pussy just for me.”

Her nails dug into his back, hips bucking instinctively, trying to take more—wanting the pressure, the fullness.

“You stretchin’ so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, “Takin’ me inch by inch like this pussy was made for it. Gahdamn…”

She was gasping, voice breaking.

“It’s so thick…it’s so much—”

“I know, baby,” he whispered, “That’s it. Just like that. Let me all the way in. All the way…just like that…uhuh…good girl…”

He pulled back slightly, then rolled his hips forward again—deep, steady pressure, working her open.

The sound—wet, filthy, rhythmic—echoed in the moon -lit room, layered with her soft, broken moans and the slide of skin on velvet.

Another inch.

Another stretch.

He grunted when her pussy clenched tight again—trying to push him out and pull him in at the same time.

“You milkin’ me, baby. You even know what you doin’ to me right now?”

She whimpered, her heels digging into his back.

“S–Smoke,” she begged, “Don’t stop till you’re all the way in.”

He grabbed her thigh, opened her just a little more, and pushed—deep, all the way, until his hips met the soft cradle of hers and they both groaned like something sacred just broke.

Her walls stretched to their limit, fluttering around the base of his dick, soaked and swollen.

“Shiiiitttt.”

Smoke’s voice cracked.

He was fully inside her now—root-deep, dick buried to the hilt, surrounded by heat and wetness so tight he couldn’t move without coming undone.

“You feel that?” he gasped, chest pressed to hers, every muscle in his body trembling, “I’m all the way in. Every. Fuckin’. Inch. Deep baby.”

Violet’s mouth dropped open.

Smoke stared down at their conjoined bodies. He shook his head at the sight. She felt split wide, gloriously full, every nerve between her hips alive with ache and bliss. The stretch made her body quake—but it was perfect.

“I can feel you…everywhere,” she whispered, “So deep—too deep—”

He kissed her hard. Tongue deep, rough, teeth dragging her bottom lip.

“No such thing, baby,” he growled, “You mine. You take all of me.”

That dick was all the way in—thick, deep, pulsing inside Violet’s soaked, stretched heat. Her walls clutched him like she never wanted to let go, fluttering around him, wet and swollen and trembling. He didn’t move at first. He just held there, buried in the tightest, sweetest, slickest place he’d ever felt, sweat dripping from his brow to her chest.

Violet whimpered beneath him, her body quaking, arms wrapped around his back.

Smoke pulled back—slow, deliberate—until just the tip of his dick stayed inside.

Shlk…shlk…shlk…

The sound of her wetness parting around him made his whole body jerk.

Then he pushed back in.

One, long stroke.

From tip to base.

Shhhhlllk—THMP.

Violet cried out, high and helpless.

“Ahhh—fuck!”

Her pussy stretched and sucked around him, the tight pull of her walls fluttering with each inch he fed her. It pulled so tight her hips drew up each time he would pull back to the tip. Like she wanted to glue his dick to her aching walls.

Smoke braced himself on his knees, then reached down, hooked both her legs, and pressed her thighs back—folding her open.

“Yeah,” he growled, voice gravel and heat, “That’s it, baby. Let me open you wide. Feel that wet ass pussy.”

He slid her knees back, propped them on the shelf of his shoulders, hands gripping the backs to keep her pinned. Her ass tilted up. Her pussy tilted back.

Everything was exposed. Everything was his.

He looked down at where they were joined—his thick dick gliding into her, coated in slick, her folds stretched wide around his base, her clit flushed and swollen, barely untouched.

Smoke pulled out with a gushy sound and Violet whimpered. He stared at her pussy and put his mouth on her so fast Violet didn’t see it coming. Her head was tilted just enough to catch her reflection in the tall gilded mirror across the room. From this angle, she could see everything—the arch of her spine, the tremble in her belly, the way his head dipped between her thighs like he was starving.

When Smoke kissed her there, her moan ripped loose, raw and aching.

“Ahh—S-Smoke…”

He didn’t answer with words. Just a growl deep in his chest, continuous slurps, and a firmer grip on her thighs. He licked slow—luxurious, filthy—dragging his mouth in circles, tasting her like she was something forbidden and holy.

Schlllck…mmhh…

The sounds alone made her legs shake. Violet was the wettest she’d ever been. Smoke couldn’t help himself. He had to taste what he was responsible for. She watched through the mirror, watched the way her body writhed, the way his shoulders moved with every devouring stroke. His dark head moved slow and steady between her legs, and the contrast of her soft thighs around his jaw made her whimper.

“You see how pretty you look?” he rasped between open–mouthed kisses, glancing up at her with his mouth slick and eyes heavy, “Drippin’ all over my tongue?”

“F-fuck—please…please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He sucked her clit just right, tongue lapping, mouth wet and open and relentless. Her hands flew to his head, pulling him in, needing more. Her hips bucked but he held her down, his hands like shackles, steady and sure.

In the mirror, she saw her own mouth fall open, her body start to shake. Her eyes glossed over and begging to leak tears. The rhythm below them rose with her pulse—horns wailing, bass thumping, the whole house echoing sin. But all Violet could hear was the slick suck of his mouth and the trembling sobs falling from her lips.

“Ahhhhnn—Smoke—Smoke—I—”

She came hard, thighs clamping, toes curling, back arching off the velvet and satin. And Smoke—greedy, growling—held her through it, still tasting, still devouring, pulling every last tremor from her with slow, devastating precision.

“That’s it, baby. Ride it. Ride this tongue for me…let it happen.”

Violet broke. Sweet moans and cries. And just what he wanted—more mess.

Smoke lifted his head, lips wet and swollen from eating her pussy good. He grabbed his big dick in his fist, tapped her pussy, then glided back in to the base. All the way in. Deep. Violet was frozen with her mouth hanging open.

“Look at you,” he groaned, “You takin’ it all, baby? You feel how deep I am? All in you?”

Violet moaned again, higher this time, voice breaking on each syllable.

“Ah—ah—ahhhhnn…”

“Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you moan,” he grunted, sliding out again.

Pulled out to the tip again.

Then surged forward.

Shhlk… shhhlk…THMP.

Another full stroke. Measured. Deep. Controlled. His hips rolled, grinding at the bottom, pressing his dick into places she hadn’t even known she had.

“You love this daddy dick, don’t you?” he growled, voice ragged as his thrusts came slow but punishing, “Huh? You love this big boy stretchin’ this tight little pussy out?”

Violet couldn’t answer. Her head fell back. Her hands grabbed at the fabric. Her mouth hung open as she moaned, sobbed, breathed his name like gospel.

“Mmmnnnh—f-fuck—Smoke—yes—”

“Yeah, you love it,” he hissed, bending lower, keeping her thighs high on his shoulders, pressing his dick even deeper, “Listen to you. So fuckin’ wet. That pussy talkin’ to me, baby. Finally in this pussy. Best pussy I ever had.”

Shhlk…shhlk…shhhhlick—

The sound was filthy. Wet. Loud. Like her body was eating his dick.

“You a big girl now, ain’t you?” he grinned, voice smug and savage, “Look at you, takin’ it all like a good fuckin’ woman.”

She choked on her moan, “Yes—oh God, yes—”

“That’s it,” he growled, thrusting slow again, thick shaft dragging against every inch of her stretched walls, “You mine, girl. This is just the start, baby. This pussy? This heat? That little ribbon around your throat? All mine.”

He leaned down and bit her shoulder. Hard enough to make her gasp. His hips never stopped moving—slow, deep, thick strokes that made the floorboards creak.

“This is just night one. I ain’t leavin’ you the same. You understand me?” He spoke with that Mississippi drawl that drove her crazy.

Violet clung to him. Whimpering. Gasping. Taking every drop of him like she was born to.

“You fuckin’ hear me?” He dragged in and out of her, “Violet I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” she breathed, “Take me…keep me…make me yours.”

Smoke’s eyes burned. His body shook.

And he fucked her like she already was.

That big dick drove into her with measured force, slow but deep, thick strokes that dragged against her walls and made her shake with every inch. Violet peeked at her reflection and couldn’t believe what she saw. Smoke was up on his hands, toes planted into the floor, strong, thick, powerful body driving downward and upward above her little frame. Delicate against steel.

Shlk…shlk…shhhhlick—THMP.

He held her thighs high over his shoulders, chest pressed to her legs, his hips grinding low with wet, dirty rhythm. Violet’s body was open, trembling, flushed dark across her chest and throat.

Her eyes—behind the sheer pearl mask—were locked on his.

She was close.

Smoke saw it.

Her lips parted in a shaky gasp. Her pupils blown wide. Her moans hitched with every thrust like she couldn’t hold them in anymore. She clawed at the fabric.

“Ahh—ahh—ahhh—AHHH—ahhhn—”

Her whimpers were soft, breathless, rising.

Smoke didn’t stop.

He leaned in, fucked her deeper, hips rolling hard, grinding at the end of each thrust like he was trying to brand her with the shape of him.

“You feel that?” he panted, forehead nearly touching hers, “That buildin’ up inside you? That tight little quake startin’ right here—”

He brought a hand between them, pressed two fingers to her clit, circling slow as his dick stayed buried deep.

She gasped—loud and sharp.

“Ahhh—fuck—Smoke—”

“There she is,” he groaned, “That’s it, baby. That’s your climax comin’ for you. You feel it, don’t you? Let her out. It’s heavy ain’t it, baby?”

She nodded, mouth open, eyes glassy. Her hands clawed at his back, nails scraping sweat-slick skin.

“I—ah—I c-can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, fucking her through the rise, that good dick dragging, pushing, claiming, “You gon’ cum all over this dick. I want you to let go. I wanna feel it. Give it to me, baby. Please? For daddy?”

The begging. The quiver in his voice.

Her breath caught. Her whole body tightened. Her thighs shook on his shoulders.

“Ahh—ahhhhn—fuuuuck—”

“Come on, Violet. Let me feel it. Let me milk it, baby.”

Her eyes snapped open—locked on his.

Then she broke.

“Oh—Smoke—SMOKE—ahhh—fuuuuhhhck—!”

Her climax ripped through her like lightning in her spine—hot, deep, blinding. Her walls clenched, pulsed, squeezed around his dick like her pussy couldn’t decide whether to keep him or push him out. Slick flooded between them, wetting his thighs, coating him even more.

Shhhhhlick…shlk—shlk—shlk—

“Goddamn,” he growled, “You feel that? You hear that, baby? Fuck…wet this dick up.”

He never stopped moving—fucking her through it, dick sliding, grinding, making her feel every second of the release.

“You drippin’ for me. So wet, it’s drippin’ down my balls.”

She whimpered through her cries—“uh—ah—uhnnn—”—her whole body trembling, fingers gripping his shoulders like she might fly apart without him.

He kissed her. Hard. Filthy. Wet. Then pulled back to watch her face.

“Look at you,” he said, voice thick with awe, “Takin’ every inch and cummin’ ‘round me like this’s your fuckin’ purpose.”

“Y-You—” she gasped, “You made me—I’ve never—fuck—”

“You did it, baby,” he whispered, hips still rolling, dragging through her sensitive, soaked center, “You mine. All fuckin’ mine. This what daddy givin’ you. Anytime you want it baby.”

She moaned again, wrecked, slick pouring down between her thighs, her pussy fluttering with the last aftershocks.

Smoke grunted. His body trembled.

He was close.

But he wasn’t done yet.

Smoke’s chest heaved as he hovered above her, his dick still buried to the hilt in her soaked, fluttering heat. Violet lay beneath him, breathless, trembling, her release still pulsing around him in slow aftershocks.

He watched her—watched the way her sweat-beaded skin glowed, the way her chest rose and fell, the way her mouth stayed open like a question he couldn’t stop answering.

But then—

He pulled back.

Slow.

Obscene.

Shhhhhlk—shlk—slk—

Violet whimpered at the sudden loss, her pussy twitching, clenching at the absence of him, juices spilling from her stretched opening as his dick slid out glistening, coated in slick and cream.

“Fuck,” Smoke whispered, eyes locked on the sight between her thighs, “Look at that. Look.”

He didn’t touch her right away. Just knelt there, breathing hard, staring at her pussy.

“Goddamn, baby…I stretched you wide open. You see this mess?”

Her folds were swollen, her pussy glistening, the pink of her insides just barely visible where he’d split her so slow and deep. He ran two fingers up her slit—gentle, but filthy—spreading her lips apart so he could see.

“Pussy’s still pulsin’,” he spoke, eyes glassy, in a trance, “Still fuckin’ twitchin’ like she misses me already.”

Then—he started talking to it.

“You miss that dick, huh? Couldn’t wait to wrap around me. Grippin’ me like you were scared I’d pull out and leave you empty. But not you, nah. You took it like a big girl. You soaked me, didn’t you?”

Violet whimpered, her hand covering her mouth, watching him between her legs—watching him talk to her pussy like it was sacred.

Smoke kissed her thigh. Then leaned in.

Spread her open again with his thumbs, slow, adoring.

“Look how pretty you are, baby. Look how wet you made my dick.”

He looked down at himself—his shaft slick, shiny with her arousal, twitching, the head flushed and veins raised from how hard he still was.

Violet licked her lips. Her eyes darkened.

“I wanna taste it,” she whispered, “I wanna taste what you did to me.”

Smoke’s breath caught.

“What’d you say?”

She sat up slowly, eyes locked on his big dick. Violet reached out with one delicate, trembling hand and wrapped her fingers around the base.

“I wanna suck my mess off your dick,” she said, bold and breathless, “I want it in my mouth.”

Smoke groaned—low, helpless.

“Fuckin’ hell, Violet—”

She didn’t wait. She licked up the underside first, tongue flat, dragging through the slick of her own juices that still coated him.

“Mmm…”

She hummed—soft and sinful—as she tasted herself, his salt, their heat.

Then she wrapped her lips around the head—slow, tight, swirling her tongue over the sensitive ridge.

“Ah—shit—” Smoke’s hands flew into her hair, holding but not forcing, watching his dick disappear into that sweet mouth inch by inch.

“You nasty little angel,” he breathed, “Takin’ your own cum off my dick like it’s dessert.”

Violet moaned around him—Mmmnnnnh—eyes locked on his, throat swallowing him deeper. She sucked slow, wet, her tongue sliding under the shaft, collecting every drop of their filth.

Slrk…slrp…slrrrk—

“Look at you,” he groaned, his hips twitching, barely holding on, “Look how fuckin’ filthy you are for me.”

She pulled back with a pop, spit glistening on her lips.

“I’d do it again,” she whispered, “I’d let you ruin me again just to taste it after.”

Smoke stood motionless, jaw tight, every muscle trembling as Violet sucked him slow. Her mouth was hot—wet, velvety, her lips stretched around the head of his dick, cheeks hollowing with every draw.

Slrp…slrrrk…shlk…

The sounds echoed in the hush of the attic, filthy and rhythmic, the only thing louder than her mouth was the sound of his breath—shaky, caught between groans and restraint.

She took her time.

She licked up the underside with deliberate strokes.

She swirled her tongue around the tip, then kissed it like it was sacred.

And the whole time, her eyes stayed on his.

Soft. Blazing. Wrecked.

Smoke’s hands threaded through her hair, not pushing, just holding, worshipping.

“Goddamn, baby,” he rasped, “You were made for this.”

She pulled back just enough to speak, breath hot, lips slick with spit and arousal.

“I want you to remember this—my mouth on you, your taste on my tongue, me sucking the mess we made like I was starved for it.”

His dick jumped in her hand.

She smiled, then kissed the flushed head again—soft, like an apology for how dirty she sounded.

Smoke’s chest rose and fell in uneven waves.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep talkin’ like that,” he warned, voice breaking, “You want me to cum, you better be sure. ‘Cause I’m not gentle when I do.”

Violet licked the drop of precum from his slit and moaned like it was honey.

“I don’t want gentle,” she whispered, “I want truth.”

Smoke’s grip on her hair tightened—just a little.

But he didn’t thrust.

He didn’t force.

He watched her.

Watched her mouth.

Watched the slick on her chin.

Watched her tongue curl around the underside of his shaft like it belonged there. The candlelight flickered across her cheeks, her lashes, the ribbon still tied at her throat. Her breasts rose and fell with each slow breath, each wet suck, each swirl of her tongue as she licked the base and worked her way back up.

Slrp…slrk…slrp…

And all Smoke could do was let it happen.

Let it burn.

Let her own him.

His fingers flexed in her hair.

His thighs tensed.

His eyes dropped to her mouth again—that sweet, sinful mouth wrapped around his dick.

And he groaned.

“Fuck…Violet…you gonna be the death of me.”

Violet had Smoke’s dick in her mouth—slick, deep, wet—and he was barely standing.

He braced one hand on his thigh, the other threaded in her hair, his chest heaving like he’d run through a thunderstorm and liked it.

“Mmmmff—fuck.”

The groan cracked out of him—low, rough, long, like it was torn from somewhere deep. His jaw slackened. His thighs twitched.

“Shit…shit, babyyyy—”

Her mouth was heaven.

Her lips sealed tight around him. Her tongue worked the underside in slow, practiced swirls, then flattened, dragging from base to tip in a long, soaking stroke.

Sllllrp…slrk…slrp…

Violet pulled back just enough to breathe—spit and her slick glistening on her lips—and kissed the head of his precious, delicious dick like it was beloved. Then she looked up, eyes glowing behind the mask, and said, breathless

“I practiced for you.”

Smoke blinked, dazed.

“What…?”

She smiled. Bold. Sweet. Sinful.

“I started practicing. With a cucumber. Testing how deep I could take it. Seeing how long I could hold it. So I could suck you good.”

Smoke made a sound that wasn’t human—a broken moan wrapped in a curse, his knees nearly buckling.

“Jesus fucking Christ—”

He looked down at her like she was a miracle soaked in sin.

“You—fuck—”

Words failed him.

She giggled, soft and wicked, and took him back into her mouth—slow, tight, wet. Her lips stretched. Her cheeks hollowed. She eased down, inch by inch, until the head nudged the back of her throat.

Smoke’s moan was raw, open, dragged from the pit of his stomach.

“Ohhhnn—fuck, Violet—don’t stop—don’t you fuckin’ stop—”

She moaned around him—Mmmnnnnnh—her throat fluttering as she swallowed, pulling him deeper, then easing back, letting spit trail from her lips to his shaft.

Then—soft kisses.

One at the base.

One just beneath the crown.

A long, hot lick up the side, followed by a swirling stroke of her tongue around the slit.

He was twitching in her hand, hard as a brick, dick flushed and glistening.

“Does it feel good?” she whispered, teasing the head with gentle flicks of her tongue.

Smoke nodded, wordless.

His mouth parted like he wanted to answer—but all that came out was another guttural moan.

“Mmmfff… nnnh—god damn.”

She sucked again—just the head this time. Slow, steady pulses of suction while she stroked the shaft with her hand.

Slrp. Slrrrk. Slk…slrp—

“I wanted to be good for you,” she whispered against the crown, “I wanted this mouth to be your favorite place to cum.”

“It is,” he choked, “It fucking is, baby—don’t stop—please—”

His voice cracked. His abs clenched. His dick twitched against her tongue.

And she kept going.

Licking.

Sucking.

Swallowing him like she owned him.

Smoke couldn’t breathe.

Violet was sucking him like she was born for it—tight, wet, perfect—her hand stroking where her mouth couldn’t reach, her tongue swirling over the head like she knew exactly where it hurt the most.

And he was shaking.

“Shit—fuck—baby, I’m gonna—”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t flinch.

She moaned around his dick—mmmnnnnh—and that was it. That was fucking it.

Smoke’s body snapped forward, hips jerking hard. His head dropped back with a guttural, open-throated groan—deep, loud, wrecked.

“Fuuuuhhck—Violet—ahhh—shit—I’m cumin’, baby—fuck—I’m cumin’—”

And he did.

Smoke was wrecked. His big dick pulsed hard in her mouth, thick spurts of hot cum spilling across her tongue, deep, sudden, relentless. His thighs flexed. His abs clenched. His whole body twitched as the orgasm ripped through him—raw, full-body, no holding back.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he gasped, hips still rocking, chasing the last of it.

And Violet?

She took it all.

Swallowed every drop like it was a secret made just for her. Her lips stayed wrapped tight around him, her tongue licking gently, soothing, even as he twitched from the sensitivity.

Slrp…slk…mmmnnh…

She pulled off slowly, letting the tip slide from her mouth with a soft, wet pop.

Smoke stood above her—wrecked, panting, sweat running down his chest, his dick softening against his thigh, glistening from her mouth and his release.

Violet licked the corner of her lips.

Then looked up at him.

“Told you I’d be good for you.”

Smoke dropped to his knees in front of her—still gasping, still reeling.

He cupped her jaw, kissed her—deep, slow, tasting himself on her tongue, moaning into her mouth like he was still coming.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and full of awe, “You just—Jesus, Violet—you just broke me.”

She smiled against his lips.

“Good.”

Smoke knelt in front of her, hands on either side of her face, thumbs brushing gently beneath her mask. His breath had started to settle, but his body was still warm, flushed from release. His dick—softening now—rested against his thigh, still slick with the memory of her mouth.

Violet’s lips were swollen. Her chin wet with spit. Her skin still pulsed with heat, glowing from what she’d just done. And she was watching him like she still hadn’t had enough.

Smoke cupped her cheek, stroked her jaw with his knuckles, slow and sweet. His voice dropped into something deep—warm, molten.

“You took me so good, baby…” he whispered, “Mouth soft as sin. Fuckin’ ruined me.”

Violet leaned into the praise—eyes fluttering, hips shifting, thighs pressing together. Her body was still buzzing. Her pussy was wet, sensitive, still open from earlier. She could feel it—the hollow ache of being empty again.

And Smoke could see it.

He watched the way her mouth opened slightly, how her lashes fluttered, how her thighs squeezed.

“What is it, sugar?” he whispered, brushing a thumb over her kiss-bruised bottom lip, “You want somethin’ else?”

She bit her lip—slow, thoughtful—and nodded.

“Tell me.”

Her voice came quiet. Shy. But bold beneath the softness.

“Can I…ride you?”

Smoke blinked, caught between surprise and instant arousal.

She looked down. Then back up at him, cheeks flushed.

“I wanna feel it. I wanna be on top. I wanna…watch your face when I take you in.”

Smoke let out a low, stunned groan. His dick, still wet and sticky against his thigh, twitched.

“You wanna ride this dick?” he questioned, voice thickening again, “You think you can handle that after the way I just split you open?”

She leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, breath hot against his cheek.

“I can take it. I want to. I want to sit on it slow…make you feel all of me.”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye—hungry, worshiping.

“Shit, baby…you askin’ me like that, I’ll let you ride me all night.”

Smoke lay back against the drapes, sweat cooling on his chest, his body still thick with heat, dick hardening again under Violet’s gaze.

She climbed over him slowly—naked, glowing. Her thighs trembled with anticipation, not fear. Her breath was quick. Her eyes locked on his. And her pussy—wet, swollen, still stretched from earlier—throbbed with the need to be filled again.

“Come on, baby,” he spoke, voice deep and wrecked. “Climb on. Take what you want.”

She reached for his dick, stroked it gently—still slick, hardening fast beneath her hand—and guided the head to her opening.

Smoke groaned the moment he felt her heat kiss the tip.

“Shit…”

Violet sank down—slow, careful, inches at a time—her brows furrowing as she adjusted to his size all over again.

“Ohhh—ahhh—Smoke—”

He watched her the entire way down, eyes glued to where their bodies met, where her folds spread around his dick, inch by inch.

“You got it, sweet girl,” he rasped, voice thick with worship, “You can take it. You were made to take it.”

Her hands came to his chest to brace herself—fingers splayed, nails grazing sweat-slick muscle as she settled further down.

Her thighs trembled.

Her lips parted.

Her head dropped back with a gasp as the stretch bloomed deep.

“Ah—ahh—so big—so full—daddy it’s big in my pussy.”

“Yeah, baby,” he groaned, “You feel that pressure in your belly? That’s me.”

She bottomed out slowly, inch by trembling inch, until her ass met his hips and her breath broke into a shaky, wrecked moan.

Smoke could barely breathe.

Violet on top of him was a fucking vision.

Her body was soft, full, and glowing—hips plush, breasts swaying. In contrast, his frame beneath her was hard, scarred, dark with sweat and muscle. She looked small, but powerful—glowing, feminine, a goddess in bloom with a big dick buried to the hilt inside her.

“Look at you,” he whispered, hands running up her sides, “Takin’ me all the way, nice and deep. Good girl. Remember how scared you looked when you saw me for the first time? Now look at you, sittin’ on it. Mmm…”

She started to rock her hips, tentative at first.

Up.

Down.

A slow, wet grind, her pussy hugging his length with every drag.

Shlk…slrp…shhhlick.

Violet found her rhythm—hips circling, rolling, bouncing just enough to make her breasts sway. The friction built, deeper each time, the sounds of their bodies filthy, beautiful, perfect.

“Oh—ohh—Smoke—it’s so—full, I can feel all of it—”

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, eyes wild, “That’s my girl. Ridin’ it like it’s yours. Go from bottom to tip, honey.”

He sat up slightly, mouth at her collarbone, one hand cradling the back of her neck. The other reached up and wrapped lightly at her throat.

“Go on,” he growled, “That’s mine now.”

She moaned—high, desperate—and ground down hard, her walls clenching around him.

“Shit—you want somethin’ in your mouth?” he asked, voice hoarse and thick.

She nodded.

He pressed two fingers to her lips. She opened obediently, took them in, sucked slow, tongue swirling around the knuckles as her hips kept grinding down on his dick.

“Mmmnnnh…” her moan vibrated against his fingers, eyes rolling back.

“Good girl,” he growled, “Keep ridin’. Let me feel that sweet pussy melt all over me.”

Her thighs slapped softly against his. Her ass bounced in slow rhythm. Their joined bodies were a mess of slick, sweat, and sex.

She was gorgeous.

She was filthy.

She was in control.

And Smoke watched her like she was the only thing that had ever mattered.

Violet was moving now—hips rolling in slow, syrupy strokes, taking every inch of Smoke’s dick deep inside her. Her thighs burned, her skin glowed, and her mouth hung open in pleasure. Sweat beaded at the curve of her lower back.

Smoke looked up at her—wrecked, mesmerized, worshipful.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, “You’re fuckin’ art.”

Then—he reached up.

One broad, rough hand wrapped around her throat.

Not tight.

Not choking.

Just claiming.

His fingers spread across the sides of her neck, thumb resting just beneath her jaw, the pressure present, heavy enough to send a jolt of awareness through her.

Violet gasped—a high, breathy sound—and her eyes flew open behind the mask.

Her pussy clenched down hard around him.

Smoke felt it.

“Ohhh yeah,” he groaned, “You like that, don’t you? You like ridin’ with my hand right here—”

His grip stayed loose, but the weight of it made her tremble. She ground down harder, rolling her hips in tight circles.

“Mmmnh—uhhh,” she moaned, head tipping back into his palm.

“Look at you,” he whispered, “My sweet girl ridin’ like a good little slut.”

Her pussy fluttered again at the words, slick dripping down where they were joined.

And then—

SMACK.

His palm landed on her ass—not hard, but sharp enough to jolt her spine, to send heat blooming where flesh met flesh.

The sound cracked through the air.

THWAP.

Violet whined—“Ahhh—!”—more shock than pain, hips jerking forward as her pussy tightened around him.

Her thighs trembled. Her rhythm stuttered for half a second.

Smoke smirked, eyes hooded, hand still at her throat.

“You feel that, baby?” he rasped, “That sting in that ass? That stretch in your pussy? That’s me. That’s daddy.”

Violet whimpered, riding harder now, more desperate.

“Mmmnnnnh…yes…” she moaned, her hands sliding down his chest to brace again, “I need it—God, I need all of it—”

“That’s my girl,” he growled, “So good. So filthy. Drippin’ all over me and beggin’ for more.”

His other hand cupped her ass cheek, fingers splayed wide, kneading the flesh he’d just smacked.

“You want me to slap it again, baby?” he asked, voice low and hot, “Or you want me to grip up your throat next?”

Violet’s pussy clamped, a broken sob catching in her chest.

“Whatever you want—” she gasped, “Just don’t stop.”

Smoke’s hand stayed loose around Violet’s throat, dick buried deep inside her as she rocked and rolled above him—slick, full, beautiful.

But he wanted more.

Not just to feel her.

He wanted to see her.

“Turn for me,” he growled, breath hot against her chest, “Just a little. Right there—curve your body to the side.”

Violet blinked, dazed, mouth parted, hips still moving.

“What…?”

“Don’t stop,” he said, “Just lean. Curve that pretty body—yeah, like that.”

Her spine arched, and she turned her upper body slightly—off balance at first, but still grinding. One knee still braced beside his hip, the other shifted back to help her balance as she found the angle.

Across the attic the ornate gilded mirror stood angled in the flickering glow. Smoke could now see the full sweep of her body.

Her back arched in motion.

The bounce of her ass as she rode him.

The way her wet pussy spread open and swallowed his fat dick.

Fat brown pole slicked with cum and veined.

The ripple of her thighs.

“Holy fuck.”

The sight of it shattered him.

“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes locked on the reflection, “Look at that. Look at how that pussy stretch for me. Stretchin’ wide around this pole.”

Violet moaned, her cheeks flushed even darker, her eyes fluttering as she peeked toward the mirror.

“You see that, baby?” Smoke said, voice going low and filthy, “You see how nasty you look takin’ me like that? You see how that pretty little cunt’s grippin’ my dick?”

Her breath hitched—“Ah—ahhh—Smoke—”

“You see how your juices drip down my fuckin’ balls every time you bounce? Say it.”

She nodded frantically, thighs quivering.

“I want you to say it,” he growled, “Use your words, sweet girl. Tell me what you see.”

Violet whimpered, voice barely holding.

“I see…I see my pussy stretched around your dick—drippin’—taking all of you—fuck—it looks so nasty, sir—so good—”

“Damn right it does.”

Then—THWAP

Smoke popped her ass again, a crisp smack that made her jerk and moan loud.

“Ahnn—fuck!”

“That’s what I like,” he grunted, “That bounce. That jiggle. That tight pussy getting fucked.”

He grabbed both cheeks then—kneading, squeezing, spreading her open just to watch her pussy drag up and down his dick in the mirror. He made her do it real slow, so he could watch her go all the way down until his balls touched her cheeks, then he made her go faster.

“You see that mess?” he growled, “That’s mine. You makin’ a show for me, ridin’ like the sweet little slut you are.”

She cried out again, hips moving faster, her pussy wetter now from the way he praised her. Smoke’s big hands on her little waist held her steady.

“Say it again,” he whispered, thumb grazing her bottom lip.

“I’m your sweet little slut.”

“Louder.”

“I’m your sweet—fucking—slut!”

He slapped her ass again. THWAP.

Then grabbed it, held her still, groaning from the feel of her tight, slick heat.

“That’s it, baby. That’s fuckin’ it.”

Her thighs burned, her breath came out in sharp gasps, and her pussy was so wet, so full, that the drag of Smoke’s cock inside her made her see stars.

She ground down in slow, tight circles, gripping him, riding deeper, her upper body turned just enough for both of them to watch the reflection—her ass bouncing, her slick dripping, his dick—thick, brown, veined—sliding in and out of her like velvet dragged through honey.

Smoke couldn’t stop watching.

“Look at how you take me,” he growled, eyes locked on the mirror, hand on her throat, “That pretty pussy’s fuckin’ grippin’ me—squeezin’ like you were made for this dick.”

“Smoke—” she gasped, thighs trembling harder now. “I—I’m—fuck—”

He slid the hand from her throat down between her legs, fingers rubbing tight, wet circles against her clit in perfect rhythm with her hips.

“Cum for me, baby,” he rasped, voice hoarse and low, “Right here, ridin’ me like a good girl. Show me how that sweet pussy wanna be milked. Give this pussy what she been itchin’ for. There you go…spread that pussy…ride this dick, baby…that’s that pace I like…right up in it…”

Her mouth dropped open.

Her body started to shake—a tremble in her thighs, a flutter in her belly, a burn low and deep. Smoke met her strokes. Making sure she felt it. Making sure he gave her pussy what it wanted.

“I—ohh—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“You feel that heat crawlin’ up your spine?” he growled, fingers circling harder. “That ache in your clit? That swell inside your belly that says you ‘bout to lose it? Give daddy that pussy juice baby.”

“*Yes—oh God, yes—I’m cummin’—

“Then let it go.”

He thrust up into her hard—once—deep and full, burying his dick to the base as she cried out.

“*Ahhh—SMOKE—fuhhhk—I—Daddy—!”

Her body snapped, thighs locked tight around him, pussy clenching, rippling, gripping him so hard he moaned with her.

“Shiiit—that’s it, baby,” he groaned, hips still grinding as he felt her come undone, “That’s the way. Cum for me. Cream on this pole—just like that.”

Slllk…slrp…shhlk…

The sound of her soaked, spasming pussy riding him through the orgasm was filthy, intimate, perfect. Her slick coated them both, thick and wet, her pussy pulsing with every breathless cry.

“Nnnnh—uhhn—Smoke—ah—ah—”

She moaned into the crook of his neck, body trembling uncontrollably.

He held her.

Rocked her.

Rubbed her clit gently as the aftershocks made her shake.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful when you cum,” he whispered, kissing her shoulder, breath ragged, “This pussy’s mine forever, you know that?”

She nodded, voice barely a whisper.

“Yours.”

Smoke held Violet in his arms as she trembled, her pussy still twitching around him, wetness smeared across his thighs. Her breath was hot against his neck, her voice gone soft and shaky.

But he was still hard. Still buried inside her. Still hungry.

He pulled back slowly, lifting her chin to look at her.

“Violet,” he rasped, “I need to see you from behind.”

Her lashes fluttered. She blinked at him, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen.

“You want to…?”

He kissed her—slow, deep, soft.

“I want to claim you,” he said, voice hot at her ear, “Bend you forward, spread you wide, and slide back into that soaked little pussy.”

Her breath hitched. Her thighs clenched. She remembered what Peaches had said one morning:

“That’s where you feel all of him. Deep. Like he’s tryin’ to get in your belly.”

“You nervous, baby?”

She nodded, lip caught between her teeth.

Smoke stroked her cheek, slow and soothing.

“I’ll take care of you. I promise. You’re still in control. I’m gonna make it feel so fuckin’ good,” then he spoke softly, “Will you let me put your body how I like it?”

Violet hesitated for just a second.

Then whispered, “Yes.”

Smoke kissed her hard, then shifted her gently—handling her like a treasure, not a toy. He turned her around on the floor hands guiding her hips, letting her settle onto all fours. Then he gripped her waist and slowly adjusted her.

“Belly down…good girl. Drop your chest a little more. Let that spine dip—yeah, just like that. That’s it.”

He stepped back for a beat and looked.

She was a vision—arched deep, spine curved, her back a smooth, glowing line that dipped into the plush swell of her ass. Her pussy glistened below, wet, open, and still twitching from her last orgasm.

Her thighs trembled with anticipation.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, running his hands over her hips, “You look like sin waitin’ to be devoured.”

He knelt behind her, one hand on her lower back, the other wrapping around the base of his dick. He rubbed the head along her slick folds—slow, teasing, filthy.

Shhhhhlk…shlk…slrp…

Her moan was breathless, almost frightened.

“Smoke…”

“I got you, baby,” he spoke, “Just feel it. Don’t think—feel.”

He slid the head in—barely, just enough to part her.

“Ahh—oh God—”

“Shhh, that’s it,” he whispered, eyes locked on where she stretched open for him, “This angle hits deeper, I know. Let me in slow.”

He pushed forward another inch—thick, pressing, splitting her again with slow, claiming weight.

Her pussy gripped him tighter than before, the new angle pressing into her softest spots.

“*Ahhhnn—ah—*Smoke, I—” she gasped, fingers clutching the drapes.

He stilled.

“You okay?”

She nodded into the crook of her arm, voice trembling.

“It feels…bigger.”

“It is,” he rasped, “That pussy’s stretched wide open for me. You feel how deep I’m hittin’? That’s the kind of stretch that ruins other men for you.”

He pulled out halfway, then pushed in again—slow, steady, all the way to the base.

Shhhllk…THMP.

“Ohhh—” Violet moaned, her back arching deeper.

“That’s it,” he groaned, hands gripping her hips tight, “That’s how I like it—ass high, back bowed, takin’ this dick like a good fuckin’ girl.”

He leaned over her, kissed her spine, his breath fanning across her skin.

“You mine like this,” he whispered, “This pussy—my pussy—was made to be taken from behind.”

He grinded deep. Violet sobbed into her arm.

“Mmmmn—ah—ah—uhhnn—”

“Yeah, baby,” he growled, “You feel how I fill you? Feel that pressure in your belly? That’s me ownin’ it.”

He slapped her ass—not hard, just firm—THWAP—and gripped the cheek after, kneading it like he wanted to mold it to his palm.

Her moan was broken.

“Smoke—please—”

“You want it deeper?”

“Yes—”

“You want me to ruin you a little more?”

“Yes—please—take it.”

He pulled back—long, wet drag—then slammed forward.

SHHLK—THMP.

And kept going.

Smoke’s hips snapped forward again—louder this time.

SHHLK—THMP—shhlk—THMP.

Violet moaned into her arm, body arching and collapsing with every deep thrust. It was intense, but the more he did it…the more it felt good. Overwhelmingly good. Like she didn’t know what to do with her body.

Her ass—round, slick, reddened from his grip—ricocheted off his pelvis, the bounce rippling, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing like percussion beneath the music drifting up from the party downstairs.

A bawdy blues tune moaned through the floorboards—a woman’s voice dripping with want, backed by a piano and slow, heavy bass:

🎶 Told my man don’t be gentle, don’t be shy…

Slide it in deep ‘til I see the sky.

Took my sugar walls like a midnight sin—

Now he knockin’ ‘round my ribs just to crawl back in. 🎶

Smoke grunted through a deep thrust, his hands digging into her hips to hold her still as he buried himself balls-deep again. He scrunched his brows and stared down at Violet like he couldn’t believe this the type of pussy she was giving up.

SHHHLLK—THMP

“You hear that?” he groaned, “Even the music knows what I’m doin’ to you.”

Violet moaned, incoherent now, glistening, shaking, glowing under the candle’s flicker. Her arms collapsed at the elbows, chest dipping down into the drapes, back arched high, ass tilted up and spread wide for him.

She looked ruined—perfectly, beautifully ruined—and he couldn’t stop looking. Her head lolled to the side, mouth hanging open, and she started sucking on two of her fingers—middle and ring finger—mindlessly, desperate, sweet and filthy.

Smoke nearly lost it right there.

“Oh fuck, look at you…suckin’ on those fingers like I ain’t already feedin’ your pussy a whole meal.”

She whimpered around her fingers, back arching harder as she rocked back against him. Sucking on her fingers in a trance. The sight almost broke Smoke down.

“God damn, baby,” he growled, “You know what you look like right now?”

She didn’t answer—couldn’t—but her pussy twitched around him in response.

“Cross-eyed. Dumb from dick. Sweet little slut takin’ it so good her fuckin’ eyes won’t stay straight.”

He slapped her ass again—THWAP—then gripped the flesh in both hands, spreading her open, watching the way her slick little hole swallowed him.

Shlk—shhlllk—slrp—THMP.

“If only you could see how she clings to me,” he groaned, “So wet she sound like she beggin’ for more. You gettin’ used to it, pretty baby?”

Violet moaned around her fingers. Her thighs were shaking. Her slick was everywhere—on his dick, down his balls, smeared across her thighs.

He bent over her back, mouth at her ear. Then he pulled her up by one shoulder, and that made her spine curve deliciously.

“That’s ‘cause I’m fuckin’ you different now. This ain’t tender. This is mine. This is how I mark you.”

She cried out—high, shaky, desperate—fingers slipping along her tongue.

“Mmmn—uh—uh—Smoke—please—”

He licked a long, slow stripe up her spine and grunted, “Don’t worry, baby. I’m gonna fuck you through it.”

And he did.

Her moans had turned to cries, her thighs were trembling so hard Smoke had to grip her hips tighter just to keep her steady.

Every time he thrust, she jolted forward with a whimper. Violet looked back and locked eyes with Smoke. She chewed on that bottom lip, he reached down to rub his fingers into her slick spine.

THMP—shhlk—THMP—slrp—

The sounds were everywhere—slick, filthy, alive. Skin meeting skin, her soaked pussy slapping back against his hips, the wet grind of her body around him.

Smoke bent low over her, dick still driving deep, slow, devastating.

“Come on, baby,” he groaned, voice dark and hot against her neck, “Give it to me. I wanna feel this sweet pussy clench around me one more time.”

Violet whimpered, sucking her fingers harder now, mouth glazed with spit, eyes rolling up.

“I—ah—ahh—I can’t—*I’m—fuhhhck—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, “You got one more in you. One more for me. One more to show this pussy knows who it belongs to.”

His hand slid around her belly, found her clit, rubbed tight, slick, urgent circles just as he slammed deeper from behind.

SHHLK—THMP—shlk—shhhlick—

She sobbed into the velvet.

“Smoke—Smoke I’m gonna—oh God—”

“That’s it,” he panted, “That’s it, baby. Let go. Let me feel that pretty pussy cream my dick.”

She came hard.

Her body snapped into a quake—spine arched, toes curled, fingers tangled in the drapes. Her pussy clenched so tight around his dick he couldn’t move—velvet walls fluttering, gripping, milking him, slick pouring down her thighs.

“Ahhh—ahhhhhnn—nnnnnh—”

She choked on his name—“Smoke—Smoke—Smoke—”—as her orgasm ripped through her, raw and devastating.

Her whole body trembled beneath him, locked in wave after wave of pulsing heat.

Smoke lost it.

His voice cracked as he pushed deep, deep, buried to the hilt, and groaned so loud it shook his chest.

“Fuuuuuuck—Violet—I’m cummin’, baby—I’m fuckin’ cummin’—”

His big dick throbbed and released inside her—hot, thick, pouring into her in long, deep spurts—hips retracting as he released more onto her folds and the fabric beneath. He groaned with every pulse, hips grinding as he spilled into the tight clutch of her still-spasming pussy.

“Take it. Take every fuckin’ drop. This here mines. You fuckin’ hear me?”

He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her against him as he pulsed and groaned, pressing kisses to her shoulder and neck.

The blues song below faded into a final cry of brass.

And the room went quiet except for their ragged breathing.

Their bodies were tangled. Slick. Shaking.

Filled.

And together.

Violet collapsed into the drapes, her body trembling, her breath catching in little sobs of release. Her legs refused to work. Her skin glistened with sweat. And her pussy—soaked, stretched, filled to overflowing—still pulsed gently around the weight of Smoke’s dick softening inside her.

He was still deep. Still holding her hips. Still breathing hard against her spine.

“Shhh,” he soothed, pressing a kiss to the dip between her shoulders, “I got you.”

His voice was rough, spent, but tender.

Smoke withdrew slowly—gently—one hand smoothing over her back as he pulled out with a soft, wet slide.

Shhhhlk…slrp…

Violet gasped, twitching at the loss, and a warm trickle of his release followed, dripping between her thighs onto the sheets below.

“Fuck,” he whispered, staring at the mess, “Look what we did.”

Then he moved—quick, careful, like her body was something precious that needed wrapping, not wiping away. He reached for a folded towel that had been placed by violet earlier, used it to gently clean the inside of her thighs, his cum, her slick, the stickiness between them.

“Still with me?” he asked softly, rubbing her calf.

Violet nodded, her voice a murmur.

“I’ve never…felt anything like that.”

Smoke smiled against her skin.

“Me neither.”

He gathered her up—lifted her, turned her, pulled her into his chest like he was folding her back into himself.

She curled into him without hesitation, bare and boneless. Her breath still trembled. Her thighs twitched against his. His arms wrapped around her middle. One hand cradled her jaw. The other rubbed slow circles on her lower back, grounding her.

“Good girl,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her temple, “You gave me everything. And you took it like a fuckin’ dream.”

Violet buried her face against his chest.

“You okay?” he asked again.

She nodded.

“Better than okay.”

He smiled.

They lay there for a while—limbs tangled, bodies warm, sheets damp, the slow rise and fall of their breathing syncing like waves in the dark.

Then Smoke whispered, like a secret just for her.

“Next time, I want you to ride me with the mask off. I wanna see every part of you when you cum. Wanna watch your eyes when you break.”

Violet looked up at him through her lashes, flushed and soft.

“Only if I get to tie you up next time.”

Smoke blinked, then laughed—low, hoarse, adoring.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers, “You gon’ kill me.”

They lay tangled for a while, just breathing—bodies still slick with sweat and the fading pulse of pleasure. Violet dozed briefly, limbs boneless, cheek pressed to Smoke’s chest. He ran fingers through her damp hair, lips brushing her forehead, letting her rest in the silence between the music downstairs and the storm they’d just weathered together.

Eventually, he shifted beneath her, and spoke, “Come on, sugar. Let’s get you cleaned up before you melt into this floor.”

She stirred, soft and sleepy, lips brushing his skin, “You ruined me.”

He chuckled low, kissed the crown of her head, “Damn right I did.”

She swatted his chest weakly.

He dressed her slowly—gentle, loving, helping her into her dress, then tugged his shirt and pants back on without bothering to button it. Her mask still clung to her face, half askew, ribbon trailing.

He scooped her up bridal-style, arms strong beneath her legs and back.

“Gonna carry me?” she asked, blushing.

“Always.”

They left the attic loft quietly, stepping into the cool hallway beyond. The air was heavy with incense and smoke, the sound of low blues music still rising from the floorboards, dim now—slow, brassy, spent.

Violet’s room was further down the hall, the last door near the corner—secluded, tucked away.

Smoke shouldered it open with ease, stepping into the quiet dark and closing it behind them.

He carried her straight to the little washroom, where a deep clawfoot tub waited—already drawn earlier by one of the house girls at Violet’s request. Still warm. Still steaming. Rose petals floated lazily across the surface, and a lavender-salt scent clung to the air.

He set her down on the edge of the tub and undressed her slowly—untying the dress, letting it fall away. The white satin ribbon was the last thing he touched, fingers curling under it.

“Let me see you,” he said softly.

Violet nodded.

He pulled the bow loose, tugged the mask free—and saw her eyes fully for the first time tonight.

Soft. Wild. Glowing.

“Fuck,” he whispered, “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

A blush crept up her chest. She looked away, smiling shy.

He stepped out of his stacks, removed his shirt and climbed into the tub first, settling into the steaming water. Then he helped her in, pulling her into his lap.

She settled between his thighs, back against his chest, his arms wrapping around her belly beneath the water.

“You sore?” he asked, voice thick with tenderness.

“A little,” she spoke softly, “But it’s the good kind.”

He kissed the nape of her neck.

They sat for a while like that—warm, naked, silent—the water lapping gently at their skin, the world outside forgotten.

Smoke dipped a cloth into the water and brought it to her chest, dragging it slowly between her breasts, across her belly, between her thighs. He was gentle now, but still intentional—his touch a silent promise.

I’ll wreck you, and then I’ll hold you together.

“Never knew a girl who could ride it like that,” he murmured, teasing now, “Took me so deep I swear I saw stars.”

“You deserved it,” she whispered, leaning back against him,“I practiced, remember? All those times I rode your thigh.”

“And the way you sucked my dick,” he blew are out his mouth, “Baby…”

Violet giggled, “Thank you.”

He grinned, kissed her shoulder, “Might need to watch that sometime. You and that cucumber.”

She gasped, slapped water at him.

“Elijah!”

He laughed, arms tightening around her.

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name. Not just Smoke. I want you to say Elijah.”

She tilted her head back and whispered it softly.

“Elijah.”

His breath caught. His grip around her waist pulsed.

“Yeah,” he said, “That’s the one.”

The bathwater had cooled some, but neither of them moved. Violet sat curled between his legs, back to his chest, her cheek resting against his shoulder. Elijah’s arms stayed wrapped around her middle, fingers laced softly over her navel, as if holding her was the only thing keeping him steady. The room glowed gold and low. Candlelight flickered against the tile walls. Outside, the blues had faded into silence.

Inside—only them.

Violet shifted a little, nestled closer, drawing in a long breath like she was trying to swallow something tight in her chest.

“Elijah…” she whispered, barely above the soft splash of water.

“Mm?” His chin brushed her temple.

She turned her face just slightly, enough for him to see her eyes—wide, vulnerable, glassy with tears that hadn’t yet fallen.

“Thank you.”

He stilled.

She swallowed, “For seeing me. For being patient. For… not taking it from me. For letting me choose when it was time.”

Her voice cracked a little, but she didn’t hide.

“I know I was ready,” she whispered, “But it still… mattered. More than I knew it would.”

Smoke’s chest rose under her spine. He held her tighter, one hand coming up to brush a damp curl from her cheek.

“Of course it mattered,” he said softly, “It’s yours, baby. It was always supposed to be yours to give—when, how, to who. All of it.”

Violet’s tears slipped loose then—soft, quiet, not from regret but from the way his words found the places she never let anyone see. She turned fully into his chest, arms wrapping around him, face buried in the hollow beneath his collarbone.

“I didn’t think I’d ever feel like this,” she whispered, “Safe. Wanted. Chosen.”

Smoke pressed a kiss to her hair. His voice was low, adorning, “You’re more than wanted,” he said, “You’re seen. And every time you give me a piece of yourself, I’m gonna hold it like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.”

She sobbed once—quiet and grateful—then kissed his chest right above his heart.

“I felt everything,” she said with a soft spoken voice, Even when it hurt…it was good. You made it good.”

He closed his eyes, one hand stroking slow up and down her back.

“You made it good, baby,” he whispered, “You gave me something sacred. That’s yours. It always will be. But now it’s ours, too.”

They stayed like that for a long time—wet skin to wet skin, heart to heart, until the tears dried and all that remained was the quiet, aching peace of being held, seen, and safe.

[eye-raq]

[eye-raq]

Aweng for Farfetch

[eye-raq]

Trinity Mouzon

[eye-raq]

[eye-raq]

Hi girl love your work can you one where modern day smoke overstimulates black reader in a car with a toy

“YOU TIRED NOW?”

thank you boo!! here you gooo,

You’d been acting up all damn day.

Fussin’ about everything. The heat. The long line at the hardware store. The slow-ass cashier at the tire shop. The way Smoke always waved at old ladies. Even the music on the radio — “why you always playin’ the same five songs, Smoke?”

He ain’t say much, just kept driving with that toothpick tucked in the corner of his mouth, hand hanging off the wheel, the thick veins in his forearms twitching every time you huffed. He let you pout, let you cross your thick thighs in that little black tennis skirt, let you roll your eyes every time he said, “We makin’ one more stop.”

And now, hours later — night draped across the windows, air thick with your sass — he’d had enough.

The car was parked outside a dark-ass gas station lot, engine humming low, headlights off. You were curled in the passenger seat with your arms crossed under your tits, still grumbling, barely looking his way.

“I’m tired,” you whined, dragging the word out like it owed you something. Smoke didn’t look at you. Just leaned his tall body back, exhaled through his nose, and reached into the backseat. You heard the sound before you saw it — a soft mechanical whirr, vibrating low and dangerous, making your spine straighten.

You turned your head slow, eyes wide, watching him lift the vibrator out the back like it was a tool he’d been meaning to use all along. The pink one. Thick at the base, tapered, with that silky little nub at the tip you swore he used to torture you with every time you got too mouthy.

“You tired?” he finally said, voice deep and even.

Your thighs pressed together. You didn’t answer.

“I asked you a question, baby.”

“…yes,” you said, barely above a whisper. Smoke smirked. Turned toward you now, spreading his thick legs a little wider as he held the toy in one hand, lazily circling the power button with his thumb. “Mm. Funny how you got all that mouth when the sun up. Now it’s night, you quiet. You know what I think?”

You shifted in your seat, heart thudding. “I think you ain’t tired, you just spoiled. And I need to remind you who’s in charge.” Before you could blink, he nodded toward your lap. “Pull them panties down. Flip that lil skirt up.”

You stared. “Smoke—“ “Now.”

His voice was low. Stern. That heavy tone that vibrated all the way into your ribs. You swallowed hard and obeyed, shifting your hips up to tug the lacy pink panties down your thick thighs. Your skirt bunched up in your lap, soft and wrinkled, and you were already wet — embarrassingly wet — from the slow burn of teasing and denial all damn day.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Leakin’ from nothin but attitude.” He leaned over, kissed your inner thigh, then pressed the vibrator right to your clit — no warning. The soft buzz hit you like a punch, and your whole body jumped.

“F—fuck, Smoke!”

He grinned and held it steady. “Nah. You gon’ sit there and take it. Put your legs up on the dash. Lemme see that pretty pussy while she cryin’.” You whimpered, obeying, thighs shaking as you spread for him. He didn’t give you time to think. Just moved the toy in lazy circles, watching your slick drip down to the seat.

And then — two fingers.

Right in.

No warning. No mercy.

You screamed.

The stretch was perfect — those thick, calloused fingers curling into your soft walls, dragging slow like he was memorizing the shape of you again. He crooked them just right, rubbed right into that aching spongey spot, and your back arched.

It was too much.

But you needed it.

“Smoke, baby—” “You wanted to act like a brat? Sit in my car actin’ like you run me?” He kept talking, low and nasty, while his fingers moved in and out. “All that complainin’. All that huffin’. Now look at you.” The vibrator hadn’t moved. Still buzzing against your clit, strong and mean. The combo of that and his fingers — it was too much. Your legs twitched. Your vision blurred.

Your first orgasm hit so hard you saw white.

But he didn’t stop.

In fact, he pressed harder.

You tried to jerk away, but his free hand shot out, gripping your thigh with force. “Don’t move. You know better.” You sobbed. “Smoke, I c-can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, watching your cunt flutter around his fingers. “You can take every fuckin’ drop of this, mama.” And you did — your second orgasm rushed up like a tsunami, no pause between the first and the second, your body wracked with heat and trembles.

Your thighs were shaking uncontrollably now. Eyes glassy. Lips parted. Drool touched the corner of your mouth, and you didn’t even care. The air in the car was thick with sex and sweat and him, his deep, masculine scent grounding you while your body dissolved under his touch.

“Lemme hear that mouth now,” he teased, fucking his fingers into you faster, rubbing the vibe in tighter circles. “Go head. Fuss. Whine. Cuss at me.” You couldn’t. All you could do was moan and cry, your pussy clenching and pulsing, the pleasure turning painful, delirious, addictive.

And that’s when it hit again — a third wave, harder than the last two. You screamed his name, legs twitching violently. Tears streamed down your cheeks. Your voice was raw. “I—I’m gonna pee—!” “No you not,” he growled, fucking the vibrator against your clit now. “You gon’ cum again.”

And you did.

You didn’t know how many times. You lost count after four. Your throat was hoarse. Your thighs burned. Your body slumped against the seat like you’d melted into it. The windows were fogged. Your panties were soaked. You didn’t even remember pulling them off. Your whole body buzzed, and your clit was still twitching, throbbing, overstimulated and so sensitive it felt like it might pop.

But all you could do was look at him with tears in your eyes. And that bastard smiled. “Now you tired.”

@cursed-carmine for the dividers!

[eye-raq]

Hello! Can you make a Smoke Headcannons? If you can add a NSFW section? Please and Thank you so much❤️

🀥 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 🀥

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ➤ Elijah “Smoke” Moore

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ➤ of course! here you go! enjoy!

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➤ emotional withdrawal, avoidance, fear of abandonment, rough sex, spit play, oral sex (implied), praise kink, control kink, black reader (but anyone can imagine themselves), light bondage (implied), overstimulation (implied), dirty talk, mirror play, and possessiveness. 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈! 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐓𝐄, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃. it ain’t even always about food, really. elijah be pickin up lil things like the way your energy drop when you ain’t had enough protein or how your skin get extra dry when you been skippin meals outta stress. he won’t nag, never does—just slide through your apartment while you at work and stack your fridge up, leave post-its on the door sayin “don’t be stupid, eat sum.” if he there when you cookin, he always sit at the counter, rollin up slow and watchin you with that lazy-ass smirk, callin you “chef girlie” under his breath even when all you makin is some boxed mac and a baked chicken. he love seein you nourish yourself, ’specially when it’s for you and not just for him.

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐈𝐍’𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘. he ain’t grew up knowin what to do with curls, coils, edges, none of it—but the first time he seen you sittin on the floor between your homegirl’s knees gettin your scalp oiled, he ain’t say nothin for a good five minutes. just stared. then after that, he got quiet every time you brought out your bonnet or your wide-tooth comb. not cause he ain’t care—nah, cause he was tryin to learn. eventually, he started offerin to grease your scalp himself, real slow with his fingers, thumb pressin right where it felt good at the base. “this what you like, huh?” he’d ask, voice low, lips on your neck. he always kept his hands warm for you, too.

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐀𝐈𝐍’𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐍 𝐍𝐎𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘, 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔. you could feel it in the way he moved when y’all fought—that sharp, clipped silence he slipped into, like he was already pullin away from you before you finished yellin. he ain’t say sorry unless he meant it, and sometimes he ain’t mean it, even when he hurt you. “i love you” ain’t stop his pride from showin up first, loud and reckless. but it was the way he looked at you after, like he ain’t know how to reach out but still wanted to. he always let you go if you needed to walk away, but he never moved from the spot you left him in.

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐈𝐓. he’d press you into the mattress real slow, hand wrapped firm around your jaw, thumb draggin over your bottom lip while his eyes stayed locked on yours. “you gon be good f’me, huh?” always a question, never a demand. but you could feel the weight of his voice in your chest, the way his fingers slipped past your waistband like he already knew you was wet for him. he liked keepin you there, teeterin between a moan and a plea, legs wide open while he took his time. he was obsessed with makin you feel it everywhere—fingers, tongue, voice, all in sync like he practiced it. and maybe he did, in his head. said you was “his lil prize” like it was scripture, like the world ain’t deserve to see what you gave him.

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐀𝐈𝐍’𝐓 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔, 𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔. he’d back you up against the bathroom mirror, one hand between your thighs and the other pressed flat against your lower back, like he tryna fold you in half. “look at how messy you get f’me,” he’d growl in your ear, draggin his lips down your throat while his hips ground slow, deep. he loved seein you lose your words—watchin you stutter, eyes glazed, mouth open while he whispered filth in that heavy voice. praise, too, when you took him real good. “yeah… just like that, pretty. don’t run now.” spit play? that was his shit. had no shame spittin in your mouth while he fucked you slow, callin you “good girl” like a reward. rough hands, soft lips. and the smirk he gave when you couldn’t walk right the next morning? cocky as hell.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐕𝐘𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐀.

[eye-raq]