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mikaylathenerd5 · 14 hours ago

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𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 | 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨.

warnings. profanity. themes of violence & murder. guns. themes surrounding drug distribution & dealing. angst. grief. use of the “n” word. smut.

word count. 6.6k

Red.

So dark it was almost black.

The impact from the blow that close—it was impossible for it not to get on her. Tiny droplets like it had rained. On her face. In her hair. On her hands.

She was fine at first. When she actually did it. Finger pressed on the trigger. Watching his six foot three frame collapse. Her hand still lingering about for so long, her muscles went sore. Until Tío Ricky’s blurry existence held his strong hand atop of hers. Cautious as he lowered her hand—guiding it down—sliding the steel out simultaneously.

In her peripheral, someone—she couldn't tell who—checking his pulse. They said something. She might as well had been underwater. And just as Ricky guided her out and into the hallway she saw them—a group—folding the bubble wrap over him.

The whole way she was fine. On autopilot. Like someone else had taken the wheel and was driving her. Possessed. Had to be. She couldn’t do what she had just done as just Yamille.

Because Yamille loved Shy. Yamille’s heart beat a little differently in his presence. Even half-way covered in ice chips—an effect of every night mirroring events like tonight, where she held a gun in her hand, making impossible decisions. The temperature of the organ responsible for giving her life lowered longed ago. But him—Shiloh Neverson—he had assumed the role of holding it in the warmth of his hands whenever he saw it getting too close to freezing point.

As a brother. As a friend. As a possible lover.

Her eyes burned hearing his deep chuckle echo in her ears. Every smile meant for her. The right dimple always winking at her. The sea of waves that sat on his head and shone at every angle when it caught the light. His full lips and how the right words always came out of them. The Lealtad inked on his skin that she sat for two hours watching him get.

It just didn’t make sense to her. Shy was the poster child for loyalty. It fueled him. It ran through his veins like the blood on her hands. How someone so once dedicated to the idea of family and binding themselves to something they believed in more than god—could not only take from that something, but look it in the face and lie.

She’d rather anger consume her because grief is selfish. Needy. Wanting everything all to herself. There was no room for any other emotion when she came around. And that bitch grief came in full force. The very second the autopilot button cleared—grief forced herself on her.

Her eyes—they burned and burned—like they were under the heat of a flame. Finally it fell—a single tear. So heavy it bypassed her face and dropped straight into the porcelain sink bowl. His blood—once a crimson red—now a fusion of blush due to the running water.

Her hands began to shake like she had tremors. The water was washing the red away. She didn’t know why but the more it went, the more grief pushed down on her shoulders. Like the blood was the last piece of him. She wasn’t ready to let go.

Ricky was quick and sufficient. As careful as he possibly could be. A task he never imagined he’d have to carry out. Tonight would be infinitely remembered as a first for everybody.

He took over. Scrubbing the blood off her hands with the harsh antibacterial soap. He scrubbed and scrubbed. Rinse and repeat. Scrubbing and letting the water take the remnants of Shy down under. Together their hands were wrinkled and raw. The sleeves of his button up, even rolled to his elbows, were soaked. He moved with such persistence he broke a sweat.

Yaya’s eyes hadn’t moved from their fixation on the drain. Even when he pushed the command of, “clothes—off.”

His instructions and the shower as the water beat down on the floor sounded like a distant memory. She was paralyzed in place. The blood. It was gone. Only the lightest pink streaks remained in the bowl.

Wearily, she found the will to flip her shaking palms face up. She could still feel the weight of his blood even though her hands were clean as a whistle. Not a single of trace of him left. But that’s not what she wanted. If she could, she’d keep it there until it crusted and faded away. It was the last piece of him that she had left.

“—Mija.” She almost forgot he was even there. His thick hands caught her face by the chin, causing wrinkles to form where he pressed into the meat of her cheeks. They both stood, glossy and wide, sage eyes trained on each other. “You hear that?” He pushed. And the moment he said it, she finally did. The heartbeat of the club. They had opened the doors. The bass from some upbeat track—Drake or PARTYNEXTDOOR, maybe—she couldn’t tell. Her mind had abandoned her and decided to reside right in that room where she took Shiloh’s life. “Snap out of it,” he hissed. Only nodding when she did.

With all her strength, she pulled herself—or what was left of her—out of the darkest cell of her mind.

There was no time for that. Mourning. The show must go on.

Life stopped for nothing and no one. The blessing and the curse.

“You think you the man?” His words played back in her head. She breathed deep, discarding her clothes. Hell yeah, she said to herself.

She had to be.

Two floors above, on the highest level of the Viper’s Den, Jefe moved with vigor. His son just a few paces behind him—flanked with armed soldiers in suits allergic to wrinkles—the heels of their premium dress shoes clicked on impact to the floor.

The complete opposite of his sister—coming down from the high off grief and morphing into autopilot. Jaw locked and eyes concentrating on the floor with every step. One foot in front of the other, he tried to keep up. Tried to think of anything else. Obsessed with the rhythm of everyone’s dress shoes clicking with every step.

Before he was thrusted through two of their men, an unforgiving amount of weight pressing against his chest, until his back met the wall with so much force, he thought he’d go through it. He was so out of it. Dissociating so much, that he didn’t even realize he was in danger until it was too late.

His father’s forearm, pinning him to the wall in the low lit hall, as if he were a piece of art meant to hang there. Jefe’s eyes were always heavy and demanding. Fierce and overwhelming. Tonight, Yamir saw the green flames burning like wildfire in them.

“The next time you deny a direct order—” Jefe applied more pressure against his son’s chest. Something between a groan and a wince escaping him against his will. Trying his best to swallow the pain—trying to remain numb. “You’ll be standing next to whoever is on the other side of my gun. Am I clear?”

Anyone else would’ve had their tongue cut straight from their throat, had they ever used it to threaten his only son. But Rafael Figueroa wasn’t anyone. Even back when he was down on his dick—nameless and pinching for pennies, getting his own hands dirty and washing them to come home and cook for a young Yamille and Yamir—even then, he was far from just anyone.

As much as he wanted to acknowledge the body of men who had stopped with them—he couldn’t. His father’s stare like cuffs, locking him in place. His eyes felt heavy with grief and shame. But he knew the price for that. So, he didn’t dare let a drop fall. He breathed in deep from his nose instead.

“Crystal.”

He held him for just a minute longer. Looking between the two eyes like he was looking in the mirror—only, he wasn’t. His son was the complete opposite of him. He beat it into his head with force and fire since he was a pre-teen, that this life was the only one that mattered. That the road he was paving had his name on it. Everyday Jefe peeled his eyes open, he prayed to whatever deity got him this far—that it’d stick.

He could see his son’s face twitching in pain. More than just physical. But, Jefe hadn’t been that kind of father for a few years now. In his hands—coddled and borderline spoiled—is where Yamir had rested long enough. He didn’t know what it was to struggle. He hadn’t felt real pain yet. Didn’t have a clue what it meant to truly be hungry—starving. Yamir—no matter how hard he looked to the eye—had been raised with something mimicking love. He wasn’t anywhere near ready to sit at a table or go against the men who had been raised on survival. Like a lion to an antelope in the jungle—they’d prey on him and then eat him alive.

If what happened tonight wasn’t a testament to how not ready and unfit Yamir was—there was nothing else that could open Rafael’s eye’s wider to the hard to digest reality.

With almost just as much force as he had initially used to push him—he released him. Roughly gripping the lapels of his suit jacket as if they had done something to him, and straightening them back in place to dissolve any evidence of the rough hit from his initial attack. He smoothed and corrected him back to the near perfect shape as he was before. At least physically. His mental was a whole different animal. And Jefe didn’t have the capacity to tailor his emotions. No one had done such for him. He couldn’t give what his hands hadn’t possessed. He was just a man—not a magician.

He placed a hand on the back of his son’s neck. His sage eyes softer than they had been all night. The only gesture of that looked or even smelled like love, that Yamir would receive from him tonight.

The small act was monumental for someone like Rafael Figueroa.

But for his son—Yamir Figueroa—it would never be enough.

Without another word, he released his grip and continued his pursuit down the hall. Flashes of the growing celebration down below as they passed the narrow placements of floor to ceiling windows that gave scarce view of the main club level. Beams of red and blue neon lights burned the side of their faces. The sea of pedestrians—ready to drown in premium alcohol, recreational narcotics, dance their pain away, and hopefully leave with the partner of their dreams for just a night—oblivious to the acts that ensued before their arrival. Money being thrown and falling a top of them like confetti. Unaware of the billion dollar, binding deal—sealed with Shy’s blood—taking place just a level above their heads.

“I apologize for the wait gentlemen.” Jefe offered to the room. Already full with men—tan in skin, thick in hair with stories of pacific war on them, covered in inked armor. Men whose last name held weight and ignited fear like an ancient myth, just as the Figueroa’s.

Undoing the single button to his suit, he took his seat at the opposite head. His soldiers lining the walls. His son next to him, sunken shoulders weighed down by grief—not his usual vibrant and arrogant demeanor.

The shift in energy was not at all missed. The man that sat at the other head who had been waiting fifteen minutes past their agreed time—regardless of how emotionally distant he had altered himself to be, was as emotionally intelligent as they come. He could smell it on Yamir—the grief. The shame. His regret.

Knocking twice on the Blackwood table before them, he ignored Jefe’s hospitality—too emerged in Yamir’s energy.

The bass from the floor below was alive enough to reach them. Still the silence swallowed the room whole. Reign’s dark eyes never leaving Yamir, whose gaze was trained down.

“I take it our little issue has been resolved?” Reign probed. Anticipating Yamir’s answer. But tonight, he didn’t have any.

“It’s been handled.” Jefe assured.

The room went deaf again. Reign’s eyes studying the severe bouncing of Yamir’s leg as if it was a bomb ticking down the seconds until explosion.

The silence was a knife threatening to sever the last thread of Yamir’s sanity. Grief in quiet—stillness—was a recipe for destruction. Grief flourished in the dark rooms of idle hands. The quieter the mind the louder the memories.

He swears he could hear Shy’s mischievous chuckle before he would utter, “nigga pull ‘ya skirt down and snap out of it.”

Reign landed two forearms—attached to two biceps larger than life—on the table. Peering over his shoulder at his right-hand and blood cousin—Jey Fatu—gauging if his eyes could see what his did.

“Business can resume like usual, then. Jimmy will be waiting for Yamir at the drop spot as discussed. With more product of course.”

“We’ll need more than the three hundred originally discussed.”

Snatching his eyes from Yamir for the first time, they bounced to Rafael’s. His eyebrows turning up in somewhat amusement.

“No disrespect, Jefe, but you all just lost the first two hundred given as a demo. A courtesy considering it was discounted. And now you’re asking for more?”

“It wasn’t lost it was stolen,” Rafael corrected. The bitter story of his chosen son’s betrayal still leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “We’re making up for the gap in profit. Your money will be on its way to you, as soon as we leave this meeting. That’s the only part that should matter. What we lost, is irrelevant.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Your losses are our losses now—” Reign held a strong finger up. A red light to his cousin’s sudden outburst.

“You’ll get your five. I’ll even keep the discounted price on the table.” Reign’s eyes wandered back to the only closed mouth. “You’re so confident your problems have been solved. You can handle five hundred keys? Is that right…Yayo?”

Determined to pull the boy out of his madness—he put the spotlight on him.

Reign initially despised Yamir. He was entitled, sheltered and arrogant as fuck their first time meeting in this very room just a month ago. Now, he sat in the same spot, touched by something. Humbled even. Reign recognized the heaviness in his heart. There was no weight greater than that of expectation. He could see him clearly now. The man he met before was wearing the mask. He had since threw it away or it had been ripped off of him. Underneath, just another boy whose original pursuits in life had been taken. In their place was responsibility—obligations he never asked for. An entire kingdom at his feet.

Reign knew the melody to that sad song all too well.

Yamir shifted in his seat. Fingers going so stiff he had to ball them up to feel them again.

“Yeah, man.”

The ridges of his jawline danced as he fought the internal battle vigilantly. He could feel Rafael watching. He always was.

Reign poked his bottom lip out, somewhat satisfied. “Five it is, then.” He sighed, looking to his right to see if Jey had any last words. They gave one another a nod and stood as the other two men followed suit.

They all shook hands the way men do. Sealing the deal.

Reign and Jey filed out the room, not at all intimidated by the armed men lining the hallway that didn’t belong to them. But, they weren’t alone. Yamille had just made her way up. Mind still fighting to return back to the horrid scene from earlier. She didn’t even notice Reign’s overpowering frame making slow steps to where she stood with her back against the wall.

But he had a presence that couldn’t go unnoticed. He wasn’t the elephant in the room—he was the lion in it.

Face to face with the dent of his collarbones peaking through his black button-up shirt, she stood unmoved. A smirk dancing behind his own mouth watching her struggle to not look up. He could smell it on her too. Grief.

He didn’t know what transpired as he was waiting for them. Had no clue all the hurdles and long nights it took to “handle it,” as Jefe relayed. Whatever it was, it had shaken this small family up.

Still, he refused to leave until she acknowledged him.

The pair had done this dance a few times before. This cat and mouse game. Reign was only playing the game, as a courtesy. Games—he did not play. Especially with women. This was new territory for him. He always got what he wanted. No fight. No games. And they only crossed his path but once.

He’d play her game—for now. Only because he knew in his heart she was one of none. And he would never play a game he didn’t think he could win.

He slid his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. Patient as they come.

Her eyes—a color he had never seen before, and didn’t even know could be replicated in a human—snatched his soul from the first moment they landed on him. Every time after. And this time was no different. The single thing, that separated this instance from the others, was the distance in them. He could sense she wasn’t there. This wasn’t a part of their game.

It was as if somebody set him ablaze. Tingles he didn’t think he could get in the presence of a woman that wasn’t even touching him—he could feel them all over his body. Damn, he thought. Even her pain was enamoring.

She broke their trance. Snatching her gaze from him to Tío Ricky, as he passed them both to make his way into the room the two men dispersed from. Pushing off the wall, he brushed her soft body against his hard one, to follow her uncle. Shutting the door behind herself and finally breathing again.

It took a hell of a lot to take a woman like Yamille Figueroa’s breath away. Reign Fatu had done so effortlessly. Even on a night like tonight, where her heart was so heavy it weighed her aura down.

They didn’t know each other. Only heard the tall tales told about one another. The rest was up for interpretation. Imagination.

That’s the part they enjoyed the most. The hearing but not knowing.

Her hearing about his merciless acts to sustain his position. Him hearing about her being the force that drives the entire Figueroa dynasty, with balls bigger than her brother could ever have. Still, just stories.

The rumors of her ability to lure men to their deaths if need be. Using everything she was given to get what she wanted—to get into spaces she didn’t belong. He heard them all—and the sickest part of him liked it. A smirk planted on his handsome face his whole walk down the hall, as he took his first breath too.

They were in the thick of it now. The deal was made. There was no way to get rid of him. The game would have to go on.

“I called Blanca already,” she announced to the room of men. “She’s already at his apartment.” Not able to speak his name just yet, her words were scarce. There wasn’t much she could say that didn’t make her throat tingle with the threat of bile.

“A runaway?” Her father asked.

She nodded.

And when no one else spoke, and the silence became too loud—pictures of his silhouette dropping before her—she turned on her heels.

“You’re leaving?” Her brother’s voice was hard as steel. The pain in the simple question made her stop dead in her tracks. He knew her. Some days it felt like they might be one. So, he knew she needed some type of release. She wouldn’t find it there, at The Viper’s Den. Alcohol wasn’t her thing. Never was into drugs—recreational or not. And she didn’t care for the herd of titties and ass she managed downstairs. “Tonight of all nights?”

“Especially tonight.”

His cufflinks shone under the weight of the lights belonging to the city on the rooftop. Like they were brand new, because they were. Same as his Tom Ford dress shoes. Even the simplest pieces of his fit—down to the undershirt and the crisp button up—had a name to them. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Every man that crossed his path shook his hand or gave him a nod of acknowledgement. Every woman did a double take. He didn’t pay a single one any more than a millisecond of attention. The one he wanted had already announced she’d be there. But that was almost a half hour ago.

He checked the time on his two toned AP for the umpteenth time. The waitress came by again. Offering him another chance to order a wine he couldn’t pronounce before filling his glass with more water. He declined. Wine wasn’t her thing. And so, it wasn’t his.

The city was just waking up. At the eleventh hour until they spilled into the next day and the clock struck twelve.

They sat him at their usual table. Right by the glass railing of the rooftop, where you could see everything.

Another fifteen minutes came and went. Checking his phone to see nothing from her. He didn’t have the heart to get up. She didn’t call much these days. So, when she did—he came. No questions asked. He’d drop whatever he was doing—and whoever he was doing it with. Just for a night with her.

He heard the fierceness of her stride before she even came into view. It was from behind where the stairs were. Her walk held a certain doom to it. It had a rhythm he memorized. Her hand came over the muscle of his shoulder before she rounded the table.

“Don’t touch that,” he commanded. His chair moaning against the stone textured floor. Hers making the same sound as he pulled it out. “You’re late.”

“I’m never late,” she corrected. A smirk on her full glossy lips. A mask. “Everyone else is just early.” She placed her forearms on the table, leaning into them slightly. The wind whispered and it hit her perfectly. Fucking perfect, he thought. “I thought you would’ve ordered by now.” She grabbed the glass of water that belonged to him, while tucking a piece of her jet black, blown out hair behind her ear, after the wind had led it astray.

“Not really hungry. I already ate.”

Fighting the subtle smile on his face was pointless. Especially when hers was coming to a head.

“You could’ve told me, no.”

He shook his head. No, I couldn’t have, he thought. “You can still eat.”

“I’m not really hungry either,” she confessed. She had no appetite. Wouldn’t be able to keep anything down, anyhow. She scanned the rooftop, somewhat content with seeing the regulars. Mostly white women with their white collar husbands. The small clusters of the younger crowd, that were either a product of nepotism, or were lucky enough to had conjured wealth, cutting through generational curses. Breaking the wheel. The waiters moved swiftly and quietly, as she honed in on the hum of chatter and the clinking of glasses.

This wasn’t the kind of restaurant the young and restless frequented. The couple seated at the balcony, were the sore thumbs there, every time they came.

“How was work?” She asked when her eyes made their way to his again.

“You don’t care about that.”

She let out the softest laugh. At the same time the waitress from earlier—who had no resistance in giving him flirty eyes and switching just a little too hard when walking away from him—now avoided him at all cost—filling her glass with ice water.

“Miss Figueroa, will you be having your regular?” She probed.

Yamille didn’t even look her way before answering, “no.”

Something he had seen before crowning in her eyes. A look he knew all too well. “She’s ready for desert.”

His passion infused with her pain, thrusted the weight of them both into his Biscayne condo. The door had barely been cracked open when he picked her up, her long toned legs wrapping around his torso, as the battle for dominance began. Sloppy and relentless, they feasted on each other.

So submerged in her, one track minded, he couldn’t care less if he closed the door behind them. So, it stayed wide open. He just needed to get to the bed. Any surface would do.

It was dark just as he left it. The balcony on his first floor casted the smallest glow on their brown bodies.

Eyes barely open, mouth full of her tongue, he used his imagination and memory to get them to his King bed up the floating steps. Their heavy breaths and his footsteps the only thing to be recognized in the darkness.

It was when he felt his thigh hit the edge of the bed, that he regrettably threw her on it. She tasted so sweet on his lips. Always. The last thing he wanted to do was let her go. But the stiffness of his dick pressing against his slacks was almost painful. He needed her.

And she was aching for it. Pussy hot and pulsing around nothing. Desperate for something. She nearly moaned at the feel of her stiff nipples sliding against the lace fabric of her jumpsuit. Back already arching off the mattress. Watching him. Like the feline she was.

He was insufferable. Taking his time. Thick tongue swiping across him full bottom lip. Hungry for it. He hadn’t had it in a month. He’d never admit to her that he starved for it. Nothing else tasted quite the same.

The air was smoldering. Thick with desire.

He reached for his belt, pulling it from the loop, never taking his eyes off hers. The thick bulge just beneath it, is what grabbed her concentration and she couldn’t contain herself after that.

Yanking the collar of his dress shirt, she pulled him down until he took her place on the bed. She relieved herself of the lace material, not caring if it snagged or tore, leaving her in absolutely nothing. Double D’s moving with her. Climbing on top of him, to finish the job he was taking too long to complete. It was torture. Like hanging a steak in front the cage of a monster that hadn’t ate in days.

His breath of amusement at her impatience was cut short at the feel of his head sliding into that cave he always lost his mind in. Dripping, scorching hot and tight as ever. No warm up. She was warm enough the minute she saw his figure from behind at the restaurant. His fingers dug into the skin of her ass, as they hissed in unison at the feeling they both had been craving.

“God damn,” he huffed once she got it all the way in. Impatient as fuck. She hadn’t even fully finished the job he started. Only unbuckled the designer belt and pulled him through the hole.

She stayed there for a while. Kiss swollen lips slightly parted, feeling all of him and taking none of it for granted.

Then she started. Her waist and hips whining at a pace so slow—it felt too good and didn’t feel good enough. That tightening sitting at the rim of their cores made it wrenching, but they couldn’t rush this. Yeah, they had all night—but when all you have is the long night, it feels like a mere minute.

The acrylics of her nails dragged against his smooth skin. From his pelvis that housed veins as thick as the ones on his shaft, then up the dress shirt he still had on. She did the honor of yanking it apart, making buttons fly and drop on the bed around them. The ridges and valleys of his abdomen exciting her. Turning her on and making the place where they connected, catch even more heat as she sped up. Whining in a deeper line, rolling her hips at sharper angles.

The sight of her—all woman, skin smooth as peanut butter with lines and curves everywhere he liked it—was enough to make him bust on command. The muscles of her core tightening and the jiggle of her breast with every movement against his firm body was like a scene from a movie. Straight cinema. It was as if she was making love to herself and he just so happened to be there.

All with his door still wide open downstairs. And at that realization he had the urge to put on a show for anyone who might hear. His strong hands found a spot on her soft skin where he could control her, as he drove up and dragged her up and down on his thickness.

“Ughnn!” The silkiness of her thick hair cascaded down her back as she let her head roll. Her eyes followed suit and her mouth was stuck wide open. He was hitting that spot dead-on that made her feel a tingle everywhere. “Fuck!” She panted. “Fuck me—fuck me—fuck me.”

She was leaking. The material of his pants were soaked with traces of her. So potent, the smell made his mouth water and his dick grow stiffer inside of her.

Moans growing louder as his strokes grew more feral. The slapping of their skins was ferocious.

“You look so fucking good, Ya,” he strained. “Pretty ass fucking titties.”

He grabbed them to feel the plushness under his palms, thumbing over the hard peaks. They distracted him from driving the show as his hips came to a stop, prompting her to continue rocking against him to her own rhythm.

A wicked grin she contained with a bite to her bottom lip, had him laughing to himself. He was drunk on her. Fascinated with her power and femininity. She lived for the thrill—danger, power and fucking.

Her dainty hands covered his as they gripped her breast. Bouncing up and down on him, not caring much for savoriness anymore. She just wanted what she came here for.

“Come on,” he pushed. Recognizing the curve of her brow and the vein pulsing on her forehead. He knew she was close. He knew her body like a preacher knows the word of god. He could feel the squeeze of her muscles tightening around his shaft—still, the flood making it easier to slide in and out. “Come on, mami,” he nearly begged. “Make a fucking mess. Come on,” he said fiercely through clenched teeth.

Her gaze shot up to the ceiling once more. She closed her eyes, but the darkness was susceptible to images of him. The gloss in his eyes as her finger grazed the cold trigger. Her eyes shot open just before another image of Reign’s smirk flashed.

A sound mixed with pain and pleasure erupted from her as her body shook against him. It all hit her in overpowering waves—stealing all her senses. He guided her through it. Hips grinding up, a slave to the pressure.

“You okay?” He whispered. She didn’t answer. It’s like she was hypnotized by something. “Yamille.” He caught her chin in his hand forcing her to make eye contact with him.

She blinked a few times before shaking his hand away. Easing up off of him and immediately feeling the void. She crawled next to him, positioning herself so that her perky ass sat high up in the air for him. She knew it was his favorite.

Trying not to dwell on where she went a few seconds ago, he pushed himself up and off the bed. Stepping out of his soaked pants and rolling the dress shirt off his arms and back to reveal even more muscle. She watched the show from where she laid her head, still in position.

He disappeared behind her. She bit her lip anticipating the bed dipping, but all she got was the yank of her ankle until she was on the edge, with her legs hanging off. His hand gripped her hips, leaving a small space between her pelvis and the soft mattress—pulling her up just enough to get a peak at her glistening folds.

He groaned at the sight. Jaw working as he fought the urge to not taste it. He ran a hand up the dent of her back, mesmerized not just by the lines of her body, but the lines of the ink branded on her. A serpent—with intricate black scales drawn with the finest of ink—from the base of her neck, down the length of her back, stopping right at the top of her left ass cheek.

Giovanni’s line of work made him familiar with the mark of the Figueroa Dynasty. Striking and sly—they were. Not to be fucked with. A clear sign of danger that he took no heed to.

Instead he worshipped it. Even pressed soft kisses to it while grabbing himself in hand. Lining up—sliding through the wetness and teasing first with his lips still pressed to her damp back. Soliciting a whimper every slide past her turgid clit. Her hands gripped the sheets losing control as her hips shifted to feel it more.

He allowed his teeth to sink into the skin of her back at the same time he pushed all the way into the softest place on earth.

They went at it all night like rabid animals. She came twice and was already halfway to her destination of chasing that feeling—that high, for a third time. Two, let alone one, just wasn’t enough. Not for a girl like Yamille. It was never enough.

She reached out to him with this exact expedition in mind. The first in a month, that she had seen his heart-throbbing face and she could only focus on one thing. Getting hers. She wanted—no needed him to fuck her until she came so hard—so long—so intense, that she couldn’t think straight. Until she forgot.

“Say my name,” he urged. She had no fight back, but she couldn’t comply either. Her voice had been captured by the feel him snapping into her. All she could manage to get out was a clipped rush of breath. “Say it,” he warned.

“Ugh!—fuck! Gio,” she gasped. “Ay, qué rico, papi.”

“Mmhm,” he agreed. “Good fucking girl,” he chuckled to himself. Even the most powerful women were a mess in his domain. Giovanni Blackwell was a force. Black, educated, ambitious, and sitting on a hell of a lot of money to show for it. A lot of men didn’t make it here. He did, by any means necessary.

The bachelor of all bachelors. He had a face you didn’t ignore. Much like the woman under him. Skin bronze with the body of a greek god, that even the most expensive designer suits couldn’t conceal. He lived his entire life with style and didn’t settle for anything but the best.

A hot commodity. His money came with access. That, combined with his attractive aura, and the sway of his walk that let you he was packing something heavy, was enough to make the most brilliant woman turn stupid. It was a game he had grown tired of playing because he always won. He didn’t want any of them. None of them made him feel like the one in his bed tonight.

It was that tired instance that plagued most men at one point or another in their lifetime. He wanted her because he couldn’t have her. Yamille Figueroa wasn’t a woman to be had. She was an idea. A fantasy. A statue in the grand halls of some historic museum. A myth you told men to make them their sharpest self, thinking one day they could domesticate someone like her.

He had never met someone—let alone a woman like her before in his life. She had him in a chokehold that she hadn’t even intended to put him in. But he stayed confined in all that is her, willingly. Even knowing they were stunted. They could only reach a certain height because that’s how she orchestrated it to be.

As he lay—hot body tangled in his cool sheets—eyes fluttering open to watch her watch the view—he couldn’t help but to be grateful. Trying to roam his mind and pin-point the moment he got so lucky to even just have this. A long night.

Yamille hadn’t slept at all. She didn’t like the things her mind was doing in the idle darkness. The silence. The space to think.

It was easier to stare out the window of his condo—where the lights shone and there was life at every turn—and imagine the scenario of every car driving by or every dot that resembled a person. She played a game in her head, guessing who they were and where they were on their way to or coming from. A chef leaving his first big gig at a Michelin Star restaurant. A girl who works in corporate and never has time to curate a stable love life, leaving her first successful date in months. She kept going and didn’t stop. It was something she did since she was younger. Other people’s lives always seemed easier. More digestible. Normal.

She wished she could stay there. In bed. In his condo where she didn’t have to watch her back. Where she wasn’t forced to take every encounter as a possible threat to her safety. Where brutality was foreign to her. Where she didn’t have to be strong and always hold her own weight.

Out there—outside—she was somebody completely different. A girl he wouldn’t even recognize. With him, she could pretend. She could be soft. She could let go. She could just be.

She mourned for the girl she never got to be.

Her lips curved into the softest smile at the feeling of his fingers in her hair until he yanked gently. She craned her neck the opposite way to see his chiseled features in the dark. His hand, larger than her entire face, smoothly made a trail to cup the side of it.

He looked at her like she was the grandest gift he had ever been given. And she knew that couldn’t have been true, for gifts are meant to be kept. Staring back into his brown orbs, she pressed the side of her face into his hand. Playing into it. Just for the night. Because she knew when the sun rose again, she’d have to be someone else. Herself.

“Don’t leave without waking me up,” he demanded in that sleepy voice. Making her have to push away the idea of climbing on top of his hard body again.

They were from two different worlds that orbited dangerously close to one another. The kind of man her father probably wished for her. Used to beg her to pursue. Even if Yamille was the kind of girl to value love and intimacy—it couldn’t be something she shared with Gio. Their worlds clashed. She knew he loved what he did and as did she. They agreed upon that much. And it was enough for them to never see daylight together.

“I won’t,” she lied.

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