mamasturn

[mamasturn]

I finally finished it. I just gotta get the mini graphic together … whenever that is, and we’ll be good to go

[mamasturn]

I love them. And I love when men cry (not in a weird way), because they’re just ready and comfortable enough to be vulnerable. Like, yes! Release everything you’ve been holding on to!

@quietemptydiariess @mamasturn @hnch33rios @abswifey <3 redemption from last week Muah 💋

VII. Something old for someone new

She’s a good girl with bite. He’s a bad idea with a soft spot.

Honey Meyers doesn’t do bikers. She teaches third grade, irons her clothes, and keeps her curls conditioned to perfection. She’s got rules, routines, and a big-boned cat that doesn’t like strangers.

But then Benny Cross rolls in with a crooked smile, one helmet (which he immediately gives her), and a growing obsession he doesn’t bother hiding. He parks across the street from her house just to catch glimpses through her curtains. He reads her annotated romance novels when she’s not home. He learns her favorite sandwich without asking.

And Honey? She swears she doesn’t like him. But the house is starting to. And maybe she is too.

“Benny, ‘m fine,” Honey muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but her voice barely carried the weight. It was more breath than protest, and even she knew how weak it landed. “You’re actin’ like I got shot or somethin’.”

She’d only meant to make lunch—just a simple pan of greens and a pot of grits, nothing that required standing too long. But the second he caught her in the kitchen, sleeves rolled and spatula in hand, the man damn near lost it.

Now she was being ushered backwards like some frail old lady, Benny’s hand splayed wide across the small of her back, guiding her with the kind of gentleness that made her eyes sting.

She scowled.

“Benny—”

“Sit down, Honey,” he said, voice low and sharp enough to cut through steel, though he never raised it at her. Never once did he snap. He just stood there, six feet of tension wrapped in a worn-out shirt and fraying jeans, jaw clenched like he was holding in something volcanic.

She let herself be nudged toward the couch, grumbling the whole way. “You’re overreactin’. I feel fine, my legs work, my hands work—”

“You ain’t cookin’,” he said flatly. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not even next week. I don’t care if you feel fine. That don’t change what happened.”

She dropped into the cushions with a dramatic huff, curls flouncing and lips pursed like she might spit fire. “Three days, Benny. You’ve been treatin’ me like glass for three days.”

He didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t say a word.

He just turned and headed back into the kitchen, the muscles in his back tense, twitching beneath the fabric of his shirt. She watched the way he moved—deliberate, careful, like every step was chosen. Like if he moved too fast, the world might crack.

The sound of sizzling butter filled the air, fragrant and rich. But all she could focus on was him. Her man. The same man who hadn’t let her out of his sight since that night. Who hadn’t touched a drop of liquor since. Who’d answered her work phone for her, arranging three weeks’ paid leave like it was nothing.

He wouldn’t tell her how.

She didn’t need to ask. She had a pretty good idea of what persuasive meant when it came from Benny Cross.

She leaned back against the couch, chewing on her lip. “Three weeks? You threatened someone, didn’t you?”

“Did what I had to,” he muttered without turning around.

“That ain’t an answer, Benny.”

“That’s ‘cause you don’t want one.”

He was right. She didn’t.

She didn’t want to know what lines he’d crossed, what rules he’d broken. Not when it came to her. Not when it meant making her feel safe again. He wasn’t the kind of man who asked permission to protect what he loved.

She watched him in silence. Watched the way he stirred the pot, shoulders hunched, lost in thought. Watched the way he glanced over at her every thirty seconds, like he needed to see her to breathe.

When he finally came back, he didn’t sit. Didn’t speak. Just dropped to his knees in front of her like gravity had pulled him there.

His hands—those big, calloused, ink-touched hands—rested on her thighs. His eyes were glassy, unreadable, but his voice was steady.

“Honey, I know you hate bein’ looked after. You’ve been takin’ care of yourself for so long, you don’t know how to let anyone else do it. But you gotta let me do this. You gotta let me take care of you.”

She blinked, her heart thudding in her chest. “Benny…”

“I wasn’t there,” he whispered. “I should’ve been. I told you to stay in one spot and then I left you there like a damn fool. And now—I can’t sleep without seein’ your face in that hallway. Cryin’. Callin’ for me.”

She reached for him, fingers finding the curve of his jaw, tracing the line of tension there. He leaned into her touch like it hurt not to.

“‘M not broken,” she murmured, voice barely audible. “You didn’t fail me. I’m here. I’m okay.”

“You ain’t okay,” he said hoarsely. “You’ve been flinchin’ in your sleep. You hum that little song when you’re nervous—I heard you hum it last night. You keep checkin’ the locks. And every time a bike rides past the house, you freeze.”

She closed her eyes.

Because he was right.

He saw it all.

“Then just be with me,” she whispered. “You wanna take care of me? Fine. Just don’t leave the room. Don’t sleep in your own bed tonight. Just stay with me, Benny. Please.”

His breath hitched. His hands gripped her thighs like lifelines. And then he kissed her knee. Soft. Reverent. Like he was kissing a temple.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he swore, voice like gravel and honey. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

And when he carried her to bed that night, when he gently tucked her beneath the blankets and climbed in beside her, he didn’t touch her like a man who wanted sex.

He touched her like a man who was terrified of losing the woman he loved.

And she let him.

Because that was the safest she’d felt in days.

Honey exhaled softly, leaning one shoulder against the kitchen doorframe, her arms folded loosely across her chest. From where she stood, the low amber light above the stove cast Benny in golden shadow, illuminating the breadth of his bare shoulders and the easy confidence in his stance.

He moved with a quiet rhythm that surprised her—elbow bent just right, the wooden spoon swirling in a simmering pot like he knew exactly what he was doing. There was steam curling into the air, the scent of slow-cooked grits and garlic butter and pan-seared shrimp warming the room like a memory. He looked… calm. Steady. Familiar in a way that made her chest ache.

She blinked, watching him reach for a pinch of seasoning and sprinkle it in with a practiced flick. It was domesticity, plain and simple. And somehow, it looked right on him.

“…Since when the hell can you cook?” she asked, her voice teasing but tinged with genuine curiosity, one brow arching as she watched him from the doorway.

Benny didn’t turn right away—just gave a low snort of amusement as he stirred again, eyes still focused on the pot. “You think I just survive off takeout and rage?”

She grinned, chin tilting. “I mean… kinda, yeah.”

Now he glanced back at her, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Fair. But nah. My ma taught me. Before she got sick. She always said a man ain’t got no business callin’ himself one if he can’t feed the people he loves.”

Honey went still. The words landed heavy, warm in her ribcage.

Benny’s voice was softer now. “We didn’t have a whole lot, but when she made somethin’ like this—it was an occasion. Meant we were celebratin’ somethin’. Or pretendin’ we were.”

She stepped into the room, slower now, gaze searching. “You doin’ that tonight? Pretendin’?”

He looked at her then, and something flickered behind his eyes—something unspoken but raw. His jaw tightened, not with anger, but with emotion he didn’t quite know where to put.

“Nah,” he said, quietly. “Ain’t pretendin’ nothin’. You’re here. That’s real enough for me.”

She didn’t answer, not right away. Just watched him for a moment as he gently turned down the flame, lifted the skillet from the heat, and plated the food with surprising care—grits spooned in thick and velvety, shrimp golden and crisp, garnished with a flick of chopped scallions and red pepper.

It hit her then. The kind of man Benny Cross really was.

Yes, he was brutal when he needed to be. Protective in a way that could burn down cities. But he was also this—the man who remembered his mother’s recipes. Who stood shirtless in her kitchen, feeding her with hands that had both cradled her face and beaten men bloody for trying to touch her.

He turned toward her and offered the plate like it was a peace offering. Like it was proof.

“I said I’d take care of you,” he murmured, eyes steady on hers. “Let me.”

Honey took the plate with both hands, her fingers brushing his.

“You keep cookin’ like this,” she said, her voice soft, “and I just might.”

He gave her a look—fond and full of something that lingered between love and reverence—and gently nudged her toward the couch with the barest touch to her lower back. “Go sit down before I tie you to the damn cushions.”

She snorted, but obeyed, curling up into the corner of the couch as he followed with a drink in hand and a cloth napkin like he was serving her at some five-star joint.

As she took the first bite, warmth spread through her chest and belly—not just from the food, but from him.

And Benny?

Benny just watched her, elbows on his knees, eyes drinking her in like he was making sure she liked it. Like nothing else mattered.

Because to him—it didn’t.

The plate was warm between her hands, but it wasn’t nearly as warm as the look Benny gave her—quiet, searching, a little amused. He reached out and took it from her gently, fingers grazing hers in the exchange, the kind of touch that lingered long after the contact broke. Honey let her hands fall into her lap, watched him settle in front of her with deliberate ease, like this moment mattered. Like feeding her mattered.

He dipped the spoon into the shrimp and grits he’d made, careful to gather the right balance of everything: a juicy shrimp nestled into the creamy grits, a hint of scallion, a bit of heat from the cayenne he pretended not to use too heavy-handedly. She opened her mouth for him without needing to be asked, lips parting with soft trust, and he fed her slow.

It was good. Like, damn good.

She chewed thoughtfully, watching the set of his jaw, the way the lamp light played across his features—shadows carving out the harshness, softening him where her eyes always wanted to linger.

“You never talk about your ma,” she said, her voice a little slower, rounder, like she was still savoring the bite. Her eyes held his, steady but not prying, just... open.

Benny stilled.

The spoon hovered just slightly above the bowl, and she could see the shift in his posture—the small, almost imperceptible tightening of his shoulders. His gaze dropped, and he focused on the grits like they were easier to look at than her.

“She was a loud kinda gentle,” he said finally, voice gravel-soft. “The type of woman who hummed old gospel songs while scrubbing the porch, who talked to her plants like they were her kids. House always smelled like rosemary and laundry soap. She wasn’t fancy, but she was... good.”

Honey stayed quiet, letting him fill the silence how he needed.

“She kept this jar,” he said, “on a shelf above the sink. Full of buttons. Some she’d cut off old clothes, some she found in the street or on the bus. Said every button meant somethin’. A loss, a change, a story. She liked the broken ones best.”

He scooped another bite, held it out to her. She leaned forward and took it, never looking away from him.

“She made this,” he murmured, gesturing to the food with a glance. “Shrimp and grits. Was the last thing she ever cooked for me. Told me if I ever forgot the taste, I’d be forgettin’ her too.”

His voice went rough around the edges. “I didn’t eat grits again for years. Couldn’t. Then one day, I opened that damn button jar... and I remembered every damn thing.”

Honey reached across the space between them and laid her hand on his thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles through the worn denim. Her eyes stung, but she didn’t let the tears fall. Not yet.

“Did you remember the taste?” she asked.

He looked at her then, really looked. And nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Every bite.”

Honey leaned in, pressed a kiss to his cheek—right below the place where a tear had almost fallen and didn’t. Her lips lingered there, warm and certain.

“You cook like a man who remembers,” she whispered.

And Benny—her Benny—just smiled, a small, crooked thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes but made her heart ache anyway. He scooted closer, their knees brushing, and fed her another bite, slow and gentle and full of a love he didn’t always have words for.

She didn’t need him to say it.

He said it every time he looked at her like she was home.

“And… your dad?”

The question came soft as a breeze, but it cut deep—deeper than she meant it to. Honey hadn't intended to ask it that gently, that tenderly. Like she'd already braced herself for the ache it might pull to the surface. Like she already knew.

Benny froze. Spoon paused mid-air, his eyes dropped to the plate in his lap. His hand stilled. His shoulders went rigid like boards nailed down. And for a moment, it was like the whole room held its breath.

Honey’s gaze didn’t move from his face. She saw the shift happen—slow and seismic. Like something beneath his skin was cracking wide open, something long buried under grit and muscle and the weight of years spent pretending it didn’t exist. She didn’t rush him. She just rested her hand over his, gentle, grounding.

He swallowed hard. His voice, when it came, was thick—rough, like gravel dragged across cement.

“He’s dead to me.”

She didn’t flinch. Just held his gaze, steady and soft.

“He was mean,” Benny went on, and the words sounded strange coming from him—mean, like it didn’t come close to what he really meant, like he’d stripped it down to its simplest form so it wouldn’t knock the wind out of him. “Mean in a way that made silence feel safer than speakin’. Mean like he only felt like a man when someone smaller than him cried.”

Honey said nothing. Just squeezed his hand.

“He used to come home and throw his keys. That was the signal,” Benny murmured. “Soon as I heard ‘em hit the wall, I knew I had about thirty seconds to disappear. If I was lucky, maybe he’d go for the TV or the drywall. If I wasn’t—”

His breath hitched, jaw tightening.

“I was six when I started duckin’. Seven when I stopped cryin’. Eight when I stopped runnin’.”

Honey blinked hard. Her other hand came up to rest on his chest, the steady thump of his heart a reminder that he’d survived.

“Knocked out his tooth one night,” Benny added with a bitter, humorless smile. “Right hook. Clean. He laughed blood in my face and told me I’d just bought myself a lesson I’d never forget.”

She didn’t ask what the lesson was. She already knew. She saw it in the scars he didn’t talk about. The ones that didn’t mark skin but lived in the marrow.

“That man taught me nothin’ but hate,” he said quietly. “Didn’t teach me how to love. Didn’t teach me how to be soft. Just taught me how to clench my fists and swing harder the next time.”

Honey’s voice trembled as she spoke, but it didn’t waver.

“No, Benny. He didn’t teach you that. You survived that. There’s a difference.”

He looked at her then—really looked. Eyes wide and wet, a boy in a man’s body finally being told it wasn’t his fault.

“The way you protect me?” she whispered. “The way you hold me when you think I’m asleep? The way you cook, and clean, and hover over me like I’m the only thing keeping you breathing—he didn’t give you that. You made that. You chose to be more.”

His breath shuddered out. A tear slipped down his cheek before he could catch it. He looked away, ashamed.

But Honey wouldn’t let him hide.

She turned his face back to hers, thumb brushing it away, her other hand fisting the soft fabric of his shirt like if she held tight enough, maybe she could anchor him to something gentler.

“You are not your father,” she said, steady as a heartbeat. “You are your own man. And you’re mine. That’s who you are.”

He broke then. Quietly, completely.

Tears slid freely down his face as he leaned forward, arms wrapping around her waist like she was the only safe place left in the world. He buried his face in her chest, breathing her in, trembling like that boy he used to be, the one who needed someone to tell him he was still good.

And Honey held him. Rocked him slow. Ran her fingers through his hair and pressed kisses to the top of his head.

“I wanna be better,” he choked. “For you. For whatever life we get.”

“You already are,” she whispered. “You already are, baby.”

And in that little kitchen, with leftover food forgotten on the table, they both sat in the quiet that followed—soft, tender, holy.

She didn’t fix him. She loved him. And sometimes, that was enough.

She cupped his face like he was made of something sacred.

Her palms were warm despite the faint ache still echoing in her arms—those bruises hadn’t fully faded, not yet. Soft smears of yellow and violet clung to her skin like unwelcome ghosts, a reminder of how close she’d come to something unforgivable. But she didn’t shy away. Not from him. Her thumbs traced the planes of his cheekbones, slow and tender, like she was learning him all over again with her touch. Mapping him. Reclaiming him.

“You’re so pretty, you know that?” she whispered, the words so quiet they nearly vanished between them, spoken like a secret meant for his ears alone.

His breath stuttered. A single tear slipped free, sliding down the sharp angle of his face—and she caught it with her thumb before it could fall any further. His eyes, pale blue and rimmed red, locked onto hers with a kind of haunted disbelief. Like he didn’t know what to do with her softness. Like he’d forgotten how it felt to be looked at without fear.

“Honey…” His voice cracked.

She didn’t let him turn away.

His jaw tensed beneath her touch, like he was bracing for some kind of punishment—for anger, for blame—but all she gave him was tenderness. Her fingers brushed over his cheek, over the stubble and the heat of him. There was a faint tremble in his chin. Not fear. Not rage. Just something unraveling.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, barely audible.

“Like what?” she asked, brow furrowing slightly.

“Like I’m not broken.”

She didn’t hesitate. “You ain’t broken, Benny. Just bruised.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, like shame was caught in his throat—but she leaned in before he could speak, pressing her forehead gently to his. Her curls brushed against his temple. Her breath warmed his lips.

“You’re still mine,” she whispered. “That’s all I care about.”

His hands—those blood-stained, callused hands—found her hips like instinct. Not to pull her in, not to own her, but to hold. To anchor. Like she was the last soft thing he had in the world and he couldn’t bear to let it slip away.

“I shoulda been there,” he choked out. “I shoulda—God, Honeybee, if I’d been there—”

She pressed her nose to his, brushing it gently, her lashes fluttering against his cheek.

“You came back,” she breathed. “You found me. That’s what matters.”

She kissed his forehead then—slow, reverent, like she was sealing a vow into his skin. He shuddered beneath it, the tension in his spine finally starting to bleed away.

“You don’t have to be a weapon for me,” she said, voice like velvet. “You can just be Benny.”

He swallowed hard, eyes fluttering closed as her words sank deep into the hollow places he tried so hard to hide. In her hands, he wasn’t a monster. Wasn’t a fighter. Wasn’t the blood-slicked thing the world had made him.

He was hers.

And for the first time in days, he let himself breathe like it was true.

She didn’t mean to reach for him—not at first. It just happened. The way he sat there, still and silent, his hands fidgeting with a thread on his jeans like he couldn’t figure out what to do with them, like he was trying to anchor himself to something—anything—before the guilt swallowed him whole.

He’d been crying in secret. She could tell. His eyes were too red, too glassy, too raw to be anything else.

And still, he hadn’t made a sound.

So she cupped his face.

Gently—so gently. Her palms warm against the sharp edge of his jaw, her thumbs brushing along the curve of his cheekbones. Her touch was featherlight, like she was afraid she might scare him off, or worse, break him.

The bruises on her arms were still there—faded now, a sickly yellow blooming over violet—but they didn’t hurt like they used to. Not physically, at least. But they were still there, a silent reminder, and Benny noticed them the second she touched him.

His breath hitched like she’d drawn a knife across his ribs.

“I ain’t worth that,” he rasped, voice rough and hollow. “Not after—”

“Don’t,” she whispered, cutting him off, her voice low and firm. “Don’t say it.”

His eyes searched hers like he was drowning, like she might be the only thing keeping his head above water. Her thumbs swept the tears from beneath his eyes, one after the other, gentle and slow.

“You’re so pretty,” she murmured, the words so quiet they nearly broke apart in the air between them. “You know that?”

He shook his head in disbelief, jaw clenched so tightly it trembled. “Honey…”

“No. Listen to me.” She leaned in closer, her voice thick. “You are. You always have been. You’re rough around the edges, Benny, but you’re mine. You’ve got the kind of soul people spend their whole lives trying to find. You’re fire and fear and all the things that keep the world turning, and I swear to God I’ve never wanted anything more than I want you.”

She pressed her forehead to his. Her nose brushed his, their breath mingling, hearts pounding in rhythm.

He didn’t move. He just sat there, frozen—like a man waiting for the floor to fall out from beneath him again.

Her hands threaded into his hair, soft and slow, curling against his scalp in a gesture so intimate it made him shiver. She closed her eyes, grounding herself in him. In the scent of smoke and soap. In the heat radiating from his skin. In the ache lodged in her chest that told her she loved this man more than she thought she could bear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, lips brushing his. “You hear me? I’m right here.”

And then—finally—she kissed him.

It was soft. Reverent. Nothing like the wildness she’d imagined that first kiss might carry. This was quieter, deeper. Like her lips were telling him all the things her voice never quite knew how to say. Like she was pouring every ounce of safety, of forgiveness, of devotion into him—one heartbeat at a time.

At first, he didn’t respond.

He just sat there and let her kiss him, his lips slack with disbelief.

But then—then—something in him broke.

He kissed her back with a kind of desperation she’d never felt before. A trembling hunger. A need so thick it made her breath catch in her throat. His hands came up, slow and shaky, one curling around her waist, the other cupping the back of her head as if he was afraid she might vanish if he didn’t hold on.

Their mouths moved together like they’d always known how. Messy and imperfect. A little wet from his tears. A little too breathless. But God, it was real.

When she finally pulled back, their lips still brushing, she felt the weight of his stare. His blue eyes wide and wet, like she’d cracked his chest open and made a home inside it.

“Say it again,” he whispered, voice so broken it nearly undid her. “Please.”

She rested her forehead against his, breathing hard. “I’m right here, Benny.”

And with that, he let himself fall into her arms like it was the only place he’d ever belonged.

She felt him grin against her lips—soft at first, then wide and cocky, like the weight of the world had cracked just enough to let some light through. His chuckle followed, low and boyish, and it slipped between them as she pulled back a breath, her face still close to his, eyes searching his like she was trying to memorize the way they looked when they were glassy with emotion, when they were full of her.

“What?” she asked, half breathless, half suspicious, the corners of her mouth twitching despite herself. Her fingers stayed threaded in his hair, and his hands were still splayed across the small of her back, like he was scared letting go would undo it all.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip—still swollen from the kiss—and tilted his head, blue eyes gleaming with something impish now. “Told you,” he said, voice husky but laced with a grin that had too much history in it, “told you you’d marry me.”

Honey’s brows shot up. She barked out a laugh—sharp and disbelieving—but she didn’t move away. “You’re delusional.”

“You’re kissin’ me.”

“Outta pity.”

“You put your hands in my hair.”

“To shut you up.”

He leaned in, brushing his nose along hers in a way that made her heart squeeze, soft and silly and tender as hell. “Didn’t work,” he murmured, voice smug as sin.

She swatted at his chest, but not really—her fingers barely landed before he caught her wrist, tugging her in until she was sprawled halfway in his lap, giggling despite herself.

“You’re such a menace,” she whispered through a grin, eyes bright now, lighter.

“Yeah?” he drawled, tipping his head like he was thinking real hard about that. “Still gonna marry me though.”

She rolled her eyes again, but this time with no heat—just affection and something helpless. “I haven’t even said yes.”

“You kissed me like you did.”

“Maybe I should take it back.”

Benny leaned forward, kissed her once more—slow and sure, like he already knew her answer. It wasn’t rushed or hungry like before. This was steadier, tender, the kind of kiss that left something behind when it was gone. When he finally pulled back, his breath still mingling with hers, that boyish grin gave way to something softer—none of that cocky edge now, just a quiet reverence in his eyes, a worship she didn’t know what to do with.

“I’ll ask proper,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. “One day. With a ring and everything. You’ll say yes then, too.”

And God help her—she knew he was right.

She let out a breath, the smallest crooked grin tugging at the corner of her mouth as she tilted her head at him, playful in that way that always made him lean in closer than he should. “Yeah? Don’t count on it.”

He huffed a laugh, eyes crinkling at the edges as he brushed a thumb along her cheekbone. “Too late. Already do.”

His confidence should’ve made her roll her eyes again, but instead, her chest swelled. She hated how well he knew her sometimes—how he could read her even when she tried to hide. And right now, she wasn’t hiding. She was curled up in his lap, her hands still in his hair, letting him hold her like she was the only thing he ever wanted to protect.

“Gonna be a pain in the ass fiancé,” she muttered, nose brushing his.

He kissed the tip of it. “Already am.”

She laughed, and for a second—for the first time in days—she felt like maybe the world wasn’t ending. Maybe she really would say yes. Maybe she already had.

“Tell me about your family,” Benny asked, his voice low, laced with something tentative—like he was touching a wound he didn’t want to split open. He was sitting sideways in the kitchen chair, elbow on the table, eyes trained on her with that careful softness he reserved for her and her alone.

Honey paused mid-step, the dish towel slack in her hands. The question hung between them like dust in the sunlit air, weightless and heavy all at once.

A slow, far-off smile unfurled across her face—not the bright kind she wore when teasing him, or the sultry smirk she tossed over her shoulder when she had him wrapped around her finger. No, this one was quiet. Private. Lined with love and ache both.

“My little sister, Love,” she began, her voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him. “She’s got a wild streak in her bones. A drifter. Last I heard, she was in Tennessee, renting a studio above a dive bar, singing jazz like her lungs were built for it. Or maybe chasing down some man who said he’d put a ring on her finger and vanished before morning. She doesn’t stay in one place long. Never has.”

She chuckled under her breath, but there was sadness buried in it. “Love’s like a firecracker. Bright, beautiful, loud as hell—and then gone before you can catch your breath. I used to try and chase her down, used to try and bring her home. Gave that up a long time ago.”

Benny watched her, didn’t interrupt. Just kept his hands folded in his lap, watching the light move across her face like it was drawing memory lines.

“She calls me sometimes,” Honey said, gaze dropping to the counter. “Midnight calls from payphones or borrowed numbers. Just to say she’s breathing. That she’s okay. And that’s all I need to hear.”

She moved to sit down across from him then, her fingers tracing invisible circles on the table. Her smile faded. “My mama’s still with my daddy. Same house I grew up in, same porch swing that creaks when the wind hits it right. But we haven’t spoken in a while. Not since… well.” She exhaled through her nose. “Too many things unsaid. Too many things that got said and couldn’t be unsaid.”

Her jaw tightened for a moment, eyes dimming. “My mama loved me best when I was quiet. When I folded myself into something manageable. She couldn’t handle me when I got too loud—too opinionated, too much like her. And my daddy—he just watched. Always watched.”

Benny’s brow furrowed. His hand reached across the table, warm and calloused, and he placed it gently over hers. No pressure. Just there.

She looked down at their hands. “I miss the idea of them,” she whispered. “The version of them I used to make up in my head when I was little. The version that hugged me when I cried and asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.”

“I’m sorry,” Benny said softly.

She shook her head. “Don’t be. They taught me enough to get here. To be strong. To look after Love. To survive.”

He squeezed her hand, just once. “Still. You deserved more than that.”

Honey looked up at him then, and there was something raw in her gaze—like a cut that hadn’t quite scabbed over. “Maybe,” she said. “But I’ve got you now, don’t I?”

Benny’s throat worked around something thick, and he leaned forward, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “Yeah, sugar,” he murmured. “You got me.”

She smiled then, lopsided and beautiful. “God help me.”

He grinned, that crooked, cocky smirk slipping back into place. “Too late for that, baby. Way too late.”

[mamasturn]

I’ll post it just for you

ruby.

pairing: austin butler x black!oc (ruby)

warning: suggestive themes. tooth-rotting fluff. description, minimal dialogue.

song: ruby by george lovett. "deep inside, it's a vibe, it's a journey."

note: i feel like ab is an intense lover to his partner, and this is that interpretation lol. bear w/ me yall, trying to get comfy w/ writing about real ppl. also, this is supposed to be written as an expression of what is going on through austin's mind in regard to his significant other, so it's purposefully written to be jumbled and disorganized.

potential tag list (these people tend to interact the most. let me know if you want to be added/removed): @neeville @dulcewrites @crash-and-cure @cvpidspearl @blackwriter48 @wonderprince @venus2eros @adoreyouusugar @sunshinetoday1 @cosmic-parker

She was a vessel for a lovingkindness and grace that only showered from the heavens above. Wrapped in love and presented as a gift, the desires of his heart heard and answered. He laid at her alter at every opportunity, the yearning to give thanks for all that she was, forever a burning desire.

Ruby. Made for him, she was. Crafted by a hand greater than his own with qualities and attributes worthy of worship and adoration. She was the perfect fit for him. Her warmth sucked him in and trapped him in chains he had no desire to be free from. Bind me until I can’t move, he’d always say. I am forever yours. Wrap your hands around my heart and never let go.

Her presence was calming. One whisper of his name calmed the internal storms within him. A gentle graze of his arm by her fingertip promoted equilibrium throughout his body. The anxiety would flee like a thief in the night and a peace would cover him like a blanket. 

Ruby. His lover and his friend. The one to pick his chin up when his head fell. To jab his shoulder repeatedly until he straightened out and stood as tall as the Empire State Building. To whisper sweet encouragements during the rough times. His partner in crime, the one he called when it was time to seek a new adventure. Did she often think about their zipline through the rainforest for their anniversary? What about the treacherous hike to visit Mt. Olympus? 

She was beautiful. Shone brighter than the gemstone she was named after. With that crooked smile that through him for a loop the first time he saw her. Two deep crevices within her cheeks, beauty marks and scars decorated her skin, gorgeous additions to her canvas. And her body, goodness. He couldn’t wait to wrap his arms around her and hold her close until she begged him to let go. For the beating of their hearts to be in sync as they cuddled and slept to the sounds of the rain. How much longer until she’d return? Patience wearing thin and his heart calling out for her louder than the sound of a thunderclap sounding. 

A knock sounded. He was quicker than The Flash, arriving in front of the door. His hand wrapped around the knob and he pulled it open. A small smile graced his lips as he drank in everything she was. Her suitcase in her hand and a gentle smile on her lips. She waved cutely. 

“Hi, babe.” 

“Ruby…”

[mamasturn]

Honestly same 😭 it’s been difficult. Literally just finished a fic that took like a year…like omg, it was hardly 1k words. 😭😭

ruby.

pairing: austin butler x black!oc (ruby)

warning: suggestive themes. tooth-rotting fluff. description, minimal dialogue.

song: ruby by george lovett. "deep inside, it's a vibe, it's a journey."

note: i feel like ab is an intense lover to his partner, and this is that interpretation lol. bear w/ me yall, trying to get comfy w/ writing about real ppl. also, this is supposed to be written as an expression of what is going on through austin's mind in regard to his significant other, so it's purposefully written to be jumbled and disorganized.

potential tag list (these people tend to interact the most. let me know if you want to be added/removed): @neeville @dulcewrites @crash-and-cure @cvpidspearl @blackwriter48 @wonderprince @venus2eros @adoreyouusugar @sunshinetoday1 @cosmic-parker

She was a vessel for a lovingkindness and grace that only showered from the heavens above. Wrapped in love and presented as a gift, the desires of his heart heard and answered. He laid at her alter at every opportunity, the yearning to give thanks for all that she was, forever a burning desire.

Ruby. Made for him, she was. Crafted by a hand greater than his own with qualities and attributes worthy of worship and adoration. She was the perfect fit for him. Her warmth sucked him in and trapped him in chains he had no desire to be free from. Bind me until I can’t move, he’d always say. I am forever yours. Wrap your hands around my heart and never let go.

Her presence was calming. One whisper of his name calmed the internal storms within him. A gentle graze of his arm by her fingertip promoted equilibrium throughout his body. The anxiety would flee like a thief in the night and a peace would cover him like a blanket. 

Ruby. His lover and his friend. The one to pick his chin up when his head fell. To jab his shoulder repeatedly until he straightened out and stood as tall as the Empire State Building. To whisper sweet encouragements during the rough times. His partner in crime, the one he called when it was time to seek a new adventure. Did she often think about their zipline through the rainforest for their anniversary? What about the treacherous hike to visit Mt. Olympus? 

She was beautiful. Shone brighter than the gemstone she was named after. With that crooked smile that through him for a loop the first time he saw her. Two deep crevices within her cheeks, beauty marks and scars decorated her skin, gorgeous additions to her canvas. And her body, goodness. He couldn’t wait to wrap his arms around her and hold her close until she begged him to let go. For the beating of their hearts to be in sync as they cuddled and slept to the sounds of the rain. How much longer until she’d return? Patience wearing thin and his heart calling out for her louder than the sound of a thunderclap sounding. 

A knock sounded. He was quicker than The Flash, arriving in front of the door. His hand wrapped around the knob and he pulled it open. A small smile graced his lips as he drank in everything she was. Her suitcase in her hand and a gentle smile on her lips. She waved cutely. 

“Hi, babe.” 

“Ruby…”

[mamasturn]

Jet heard the song that inspired this and ugh I love it

ruby.

pairing: austin butler x black!oc (ruby)

warning: suggestive themes. tooth-rotting fluff. description, minimal dialogue.

song: ruby by george lovett. "deep inside, it's a vibe, it's a journey."

note: i feel like ab is an intense lover to his partner, and this is that interpretation lol. bear w/ me yall, trying to get comfy w/ writing about real ppl. also, this is supposed to be written as an expression of what is going on through austin's mind in regard to his significant other, so it's purposefully written to be jumbled and disorganized.

potential tag list (these people tend to interact the most. let me know if you want to be added/removed): @neeville @dulcewrites @crash-and-cure @cvpidspearl @blackwriter48 @wonderprince @venus2eros @adoreyouusugar @sunshinetoday1 @cosmic-parker

She was a vessel for a lovingkindness and grace that only showered from the heavens above. Wrapped in love and presented as a gift, the desires of his heart heard and answered. He laid at her alter at every opportunity, the yearning to give thanks for all that she was, forever a burning desire.

Ruby. Made for him, she was. Crafted by a hand greater than his own with qualities and attributes worthy of worship and adoration. She was the perfect fit for him. Her warmth sucked him in and trapped him in chains he had no desire to be free from. Bind me until I can’t move, he’d always say. I am forever yours. Wrap your hands around my heart and never let go.

Her presence was calming. One whisper of his name calmed the internal storms within him. A gentle graze of his arm by her fingertip promoted equilibrium throughout his body. The anxiety would flee like a thief in the night and a peace would cover him like a blanket. 

Ruby. His lover and his friend. The one to pick his chin up when his head fell. To jab his shoulder repeatedly until he straightened out and stood as tall as the Empire State Building. To whisper sweet encouragements during the rough times. His partner in crime, the one he called when it was time to seek a new adventure. Did she often think about their zipline through the rainforest for their anniversary? What about the treacherous hike to visit Mt. Olympus? 

She was beautiful. Shone brighter than the gemstone she was named after. With that crooked smile that through him for a loop the first time he saw her. Two deep crevices within her cheeks, beauty marks and scars decorated her skin, gorgeous additions to her canvas. And her body, goodness. He couldn’t wait to wrap his arms around her and hold her close until she begged him to let go. For the beating of their hearts to be in sync as they cuddled and slept to the sounds of the rain. How much longer until she’d return? Patience wearing thin and his heart calling out for her louder than the sound of a thunderclap sounding. 

A knock sounded. He was quicker than The Flash, arriving in front of the door. His hand wrapped around the knob and he pulled it open. A small smile graced his lips as he drank in everything she was. Her suitcase in her hand and a gentle smile on her lips. She waved cutely. 

“Hi, babe.” 

“Ruby…”

[mamasturn]

Oh this was stellar. The g!n play was a nice touch 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

cross my heart hope to die

Talia Vernon knew better. The moment she laid eyes on Austin, she felt it—that pull. That danger-soaked charm wrapped in suits and sin, the kind of man that makes the whole room tilt around him. She should’ve run. She didn’t.

What followed was a love story carved out of violence, obsession, whispered apologies against bruised skin, and kisses too soft for how cruel the world around them was. But when Austin is sentenced to a decade behind bars, Talia disappears—new name, new life, new man. Clean slate.

Or so she thinks.

Because love like that doesn’t die. It hunts. It waits. It watches.

Now he’s out—and he wants her back. ( inspired by enemies!! i hope austins the gun for hire) tagging the baes <3 happy girlfriends day pookies. @mamasturn @unicoo

Talia had known from the very first moment that she’d gotten herself entangled with a dangerous man. Not just the kind who played with power, but the kind who was power—quietly, thoroughly, irreversibly. The air shifted when he walked into a room, like the walls themselves adjusted to accommodate his presence. Servers sidestepped him instinctively, not out of clumsiness, but reverence. His drink arrived without request, placed on the table with a precision that spoke of long-standing fear and familiarity. No one dared interrupt him, not even with their eyes.

But it wasn’t any of that that truly gave him away.

It was the way he looked at her.

Not glanced. Not noticed. Looked—with the slow, deliberate hunger of a man accustomed to taking things that didn’t belong to him. His icy blue gaze didn’t ask permission. It dragged down the slope of her collarbone, traced the curve of her hips, lingered on the delicate pulse at her throat. And then he smiled—not with warmth, but with the kind of curling amusement that belonged in the darkest chapter of your favorite forbidden romance. The kind of smile that told you he already knew what you looked like undressed. The kind that made your heart race—and not entirely out of fear.

She should have left then.

But instead, she lifted her glass, met his stare, and tilted her chin.

She should’ve run. Should’ve turned away the second his eyes found her across that velvet-drenched room. But she didn’t. No—she lingered, rooted in place like something ancient in her had already made the decision for her. She was drawn to him with the inevitability of a moth to a flame, not out of ignorance, but out of some deeper, darker instinct that whispered he was dangerous in the most exquisite way. And truly, she couldn’t blame herself—not when even the purest of hearts ache for the shadows. Not when even light longs to touch something it shouldn’t. Talia Vernon was no exception. She had walked into that room untouched by violence, untouched by sin, and still—still—she looked at him and thought: mine. What followed was romance in its most volatile, most ruinous form—a brutal alchemy of jealousy, longing, fury, and desire. It was the kind of love that devoured logic, that bled into the bones, that tore through every carefully constructed boundary until there was nothing left but them. Their fights were legendary—doors slammed, voices raised, sharp silences that lasted days. But their makeups were sweeter than sin itself, the kind of apologies that were murmured against one another’s mouths in darkened rooms, all gasped forgiveness and frantic hands. Clothes dropped faster than rain in a thunderstorm, and neither of them could ever remember who said “I’m sorry” first—only the way their bodies always found their way back home.

Talia knew what kind of man he was. Knew what kind of violence his name carried, what shadows clung to his legacy. She knew why he had become the thing the world feared—and how, somehow, she had been the only one to quiet that beast inside him. That foul-tempered creature of blood and vengeance, that monster he’d leashed for her and only her.

And he had ruined her for anyone else.

He had taken her heart, twisted it, set it on fire, and made her thank him for it. He made her mad for love—delirious, feral with it.

So when she stood across from him in that cold courtroom, forced to testify with the world watching and the law pressed against her back, she didn’t need to say a word. Because he was staring at her the same way he always had—like she was his salvation and his curse. And she knew he knew it, too.

He always had.

Her eyes never once met his. Not when they called her name. Not when the prosecution hammered her with question after question, each one laced with implication, each one peeling back another layer of the life they had built in secret. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor—on the cold gray tile beneath her heels, on the trembling edge of her skirt—anywhere but him. Not out of fear. Not even out of guilt. But shame. A deep, agonizing shame that curled in her gut like smoke. She hadn’t wanted to betray him. Hadn’t wanted to be here. But somehow, she had ended up doing exactly what she swore she never would.

She could feel him. Across the room. Watching. Burning holes through her composure with that familiar, unreadable stare—the one that used to leave her breathless when it was just the two of them. The one that said everything he never did.

When the sentence came—ten years, no parole—her breath caught. Her vision blurred.

She didn’t cry like someone innocent. She didn’t collapse like someone who had done the right thing. No, Talia Vernon sat frozen in that witness chair, spine straight, lips parted, and eyes full of tears she refused to let fall. Because she knew, deep down, she had disappointed the only man who had ever truly seen her. And no punishment the court could give him would ever compare to that.

Eventually, she forced herself to see it differently.

Maybe this wasn’t grief. Maybe it was freedom in disguise.

She didn’t have to be his anymore. Didn’t have to press her palm against bulletproof glass or pretend the guards weren’t staring while she stripped herself of dignity piece by piece before every visitation. She didn’t have to wear long sleeves to hide the bruises that were never violent but always possessive—fingertips pressed too hard into soft skin, reminders of the way he clung to her like she was the only thing tethering him to humanity.

She didn’t have to love a man who belonged to darkness anymore.

She was still young. Still beautiful. Men still turned their heads when she walked into a room, still leaned too far out of their chairs to hold a door open for her, still asked her name with that same hungry look. She could have another life. A clean one. A safe one.

So she did what had to be done.

She packed a single bag, the good leather one he bought her in Milan, and left the rest behind. She cashed out everything she had in clean money and vanished—changed her name, her hair, her posture. Talia Vernon became Leigh Johnson.

Leigh, who lived quietly in a modest but sun-drenched apartment in New Jersey. Leigh, who worked at a sleepy bookstore tucked between a florist and a dry cleaner. Leigh, who watered her plants every Sunday and wore oversized sweaters and didn’t flinch when she heard a car backfire in the street.

She told herself she was happy.

But some nights, she still woke up gasping for air—hand pressed to the place on her chest where he used to sleep. And some days, when she passed by the antiques aisle or caught the scent of his cologne on a stranger’s coat, she remembered who she really was. Who she still belonged to.

Even now, even here, he haunted her.

And part of her liked it that way.

She was seeing someone now. A man her age, with kind eyes and a forgettable past. His name was Johnny. He made her laugh sometimes, cooked her breakfast in the mornings, always asked how her day was. On paper, he was good. Safe. Normal.

But his lips were always chapped, and his hands were too rough when he took her from behind—too eager, too clumsy, never attuned. There was no reverence in it. No ache. No silence. Just motion. Just effort. He didn’t touch her like he knew her.

Not the way Austin used to.

Austin’s hands had known every inch of her. He never rushed. He’d smooth his palm down her spine like he was mapping sacred ground, his thumb catching on the curve of her hip just to hear her breathe different. He’d trace the lilies inked along her back with a kind of awe—as if he still couldn’t believe she’d marked her skin for him.

Always lilies. Because they were his favorite. Because she was his favorite.

Austin had never needed to ask what her body wanted. He read her, instinctively, like he’d written the book himself. And when he touched her—slow, deliberate, dangerous—it was never just about pleasure. It was about possession. Worship. Understanding.

And as Johnny moved inside her with all the subtlety of a stranger, she kept her eyes on the ceiling and tried not to cry.

...

It had been a Monday like any other, soft and harmless in the way only ordinary days could be. Morning light filtered through the gauzy curtains, golden and warm, casting sleepy shadows on the floorboards that creaked gently beneath her bare feet. The apartment smelled faintly of lavender fabric softener and dusted bookshelves, the air still and safe—unchanged from the night before. Talia moved through it with the kind of slow, fluid ease that could only come from the dangerous arrogance of not being hunted. From believing, foolishly and fully, that she’d finally been forgotten.

“Meet Me Halfway” echoed through the small space, its thumping beat too bright, too upbeat for the quiet little life she’d built. But she let it play loud anyway, hips rolling lazily to the rhythm as she padded across the floor in nothing but an oversized shirt—one she’d stolen from Johnny’s drawer when he wasn’t looking. It swallowed her whole, thin cotton clinging to the soft lines of her thighs, collar gaping enough to reveal the edge of one shoulder as she moved like no one was watching. The fridge hummed in the background as she pulled out the jelly, slathering it messily onto the peanut butter-soaked toast already waiting on the counter, unconcerned with the smear that kissed the side of her hand.

Her mouth curved into something like a smile, low and tired but real, as she swayed in time with the music. And in that moment—standing in the middle of her modest kitchen, sunlight painting the walls, lips pursed in a silent harmony with Fergie—Talia Vernon believed she was free.

She believed she was alone.

She believed she was safe.

She still believed she was safe.

It wrapped around her like a second skin that morning, soft and deceptive, the kind of quiet safety that settles into your bones after just enough time has passed to make you start doubting your own instincts. She moved slowly through her apartment, hoodie pulled up over her fresh braids, each one sleek and tight against her scalp, the edges laid just right. The cotton brushed her jaw as she adjusted the hood, letting it fall slightly over her forehead in the way she always did when she didn’t want to be seen, not fully. Not recognized. Not remembered.

The air outside was sharp in that clean, autumn way—crisp without being cold, with just a whisper of the coming chill clinging to the breeze. Her sneakers scuffed quietly against the pavement as she crossed the small lot to her car, keys jingling in her palm, the weight of them familiar and grounding. The engine started on the second try, just like it always did, and the heater groaned to life with a low mechanical sigh that filled the car with warmth that smelled faintly of old leather and cinnamon gum she kept tucked in the glove box. She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting in her lap, windows cracked just enough to let the morning in.

The streets were sleepy. Neighborhoods still half-asleep. A jogger here, a trash truck in the distance, the world going about its business like it had nothing to hide. She let the radio play some soft, forgettable song and didn’t bother singing along. She didn’t need music to feel calm anymore. Not like she used to.

The bookstore sat quietly on the corner of a tucked-away street, wedged between a flower shop and a dry cleaner that hadn’t updated their signage since the late '90s. The familiar chime of the little brass bell above the door greeted her the moment she stepped inside, and she smiled before she even saw her.

Mrs. Denise.

Always at the front. Always in the same old armchair that had once belonged to her late husband, patched at the arms and sun-faded at the seams. The bookstore smelled like cedar shelves and paper dust, a little lavender, a little sugar. The warmth of it felt alive, like it had lungs and a pulse. Safe in a way nothing else had ever been.

Mrs. Denise didn’t look up from her crossword puzzle—didn’t have to. She always knew the moment Talia walked in. She could hear her by the rhythm of her steps alone, she said. Like she’d tuned her ears to the sound of her soul.

“Morning, baby,” she said, voice gravel and syrup, one eye squinting over her reading glasses.

Talia—no, Leigh, here she was Leigh—grinned and tugged her hood down, revealing the delicate baby hairs that framed her temples.

“Morning, Mrs D,” she said, already heading toward the back room to hang her bag.

Mrs. Denise had taken her in without asking for anything but honesty. Not truth, not details—but honesty in the quiet ways. Show up on time. Tell her if something was wrong. Speak when spoken to. Be decent. She was Creole, the kind of old-school that believed in spirits and respect, and she could read people the way other women read scripture. She’d hired Leigh when her hands still shook, when her eyes were rimmed with shadows and her voice was low and cracked from too many sleepless nights. She’d offered her tea with honey and silence when she needed it—and a job when she didn’t know how to ask for one.

And in return, Leigh brought gossip.

Small-town scraps she picked up at the market or while waiting in line at the post office—who was getting divorced, who was pregnant again, which man was sneaking around with someone else’s wife. Useless things. Pretty lies. But she told them anyway, because it made Mrs. Denise smile. Even when she claimed she was “too grown for that mess,” she leaned in. Rolled her eyes, muttered prayers under her breath, but she listened. And if Leigh ever went quiet—ever forgot herself and kept the stories to herself—Mrs. Denise would go still and sharp and say:

“Don’t start that silence again, girl. That kind of silence makes ghosts think they got permission to walk through.”

So Leigh kept talking. Kept laughing. Kept smiling through her shift as she organized the displays and re-shelved romance novels and wiped dust from the windows. She greeted customers like they mattered, rang up purchases like she had nowhere better to be, lived her life like it was hers now. Like the past was something you could drive away from if you just took enough back roads and remembered to change your name.

And for a while, in that bookstore with the crooked shelves and the humming radiator and the soft weight of Mrs. Denise’s watchful gaze—Leigh almost believed it was true.

Almost.

“The lawyer said you might be getting life without parole.”

Her voice cracked when she said it—life—like even her mouth rejected the word, like her body understood before her mind could process that this wasn’t a nightmare, not a hypothetical, not a warning whispered in the dead of night. It was real. Tangible. Inevitable. And it tasted like blood.

She was standing now, couldn’t sit, couldn’t breathe properly in the stale, over-lit visitation room that smelled of antiseptic, sweat, and old fear. Her hands shook as they braced against the cold metal table, fingerprints smudged into the surface from where she’d clung to it like it could anchor her. Her hoodie sleeves were damp where she’d been wringing them. Her eyes were red-rimmed, burning from holding back tears she didn’t want him to see. Not him. Not Austin.

“Life, Austin,” she repeated, louder now, desperation curling around every syllable like ivy growing wild, climbing toward hysteria. “Do you even hear what I’m saying? What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? What am I supposed to do with you gone for life?”

Across the table, he sat perfectly still, the shackles on his wrists catching the light, dull steel clinking with each minute adjustment of his posture. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice or plead or fall apart. Of course he didn’t. That wasn’t who he was. That was never who he’d been.

He was born in blood. Molded in violence. A man with rough hands and colder eyes who’d made peace with the devil a long time ago. He didn’t believe in forgiveness. He didn’t believe in grace. He believed in loyalty, in strategy, in retribution and consequence.

And somehow, impossibly, he believed in her.

“I know it won’t come to that,” he said at last, his voice quiet, low, too calm—like he’d already played this entire conversation out in his mind a thousand times and still couldn’t bring himself to change the ending.

She blinked, incredulous, as if his denial alone had cracked something inside her. “How the hell do you know that?” she snapped, the sound jagged in her throat. “How the hell do you know, huh? You’re not untouchable anymore, Austin. This isn’t backroom deals and dirty envelopes and people who owe you favors. This is the state. This is federal. This is real.”

He didn’t move. Just studied her with those pale, glacier-cut eyes—eyes that never missed anything, that had seen murder and mercy and love and worn them all like old coats.

But she wasn’t done.

She stepped back, running her hand through her braids, pacing in short, trembling lines. “They’re trying to make an example out of you,” she whispered. “You’re too loud, too known, you’ve pissed off too many people who finally have the power to hurt you. And I—I testified. I gave them something they could use. And you just sit there and say it won’t come to that like you’ve got some plan up your sleeve when you’re in fucking chains, Austin!”

He tilted his head slightly. Not defensive. Not angry. Just… observing.

“I do have a plan,” he said, the way someone might admit they’d left the oven on—simple, inevitable. “You think I didn’t see this coming? You think I didn’t prepare for this years ago? You think I don’t know how to make the walls bleed when I need them to?”

Her shoulders slumped. Her voice broke. “I don’t care about your fucking plans,” she said, softer now, almost a whisper. “I care about us. About me, sitting in a house that you’re never coming back to. About sleeping in our bed alone until the sheets stop smelling like you. About the children we never had and the mornings we’ll never wake up slow again.”

He exhaled like it hurt him. Just once. Just enough to betray that beneath the calm, the wolf still grieved.

“You don’t have to wait for me,” he said finally, and that’s when she knew—he was already saying goodbye.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no. Don’t you dare do that. Don’t you fucking dare give me permission like this is over. Like you’re some noble man, letting me go. You’re not a good man, Austin.”

“I know,” he said, and this time, it was almost a confession. “I’m not a good man, baby. I never was. I’ve hurt people who didn’t deserve it. I’ve taken what wasn’t mine. I’ve put bullets in heads and lied to their mothers. There’s blood on my hands that’ll never wash off, no matter how long I sit in this box.”

He leaned forward, voice tightening into something almost reverent. “But I was good for you. I was soft with you when I didn’t know how to be soft with anyone. I listened. I remembered. I traced the curve of your back with my mouth and kissed the ink you got for me like it was holy. You made me better. Maybe not a good man—but a man who knew what goodness felt like.”

Talia sank back into the chair, too exhausted to stand anymore, her face crumpling as silent tears fell. Her hands clutched her chest like she could stop her heart from breaking if she held it tight enough.

“I don’t want someone else,” she said. “I don’t want another life. I just want you.”

“And I want you to live,” he whispered. “But if that means another man gets to see you, touch you, love you…” He paused, jaw clenched. “Then let it be anyone—anyone but him. Don’t let him touch your back. That’s mine.”

She sobbed quietly, and for the first time in a long time, Austin looked away. Not out of shame—but because even he, in all his ruin, couldn’t bear to watch her break for him again.

He wasn’t a good man.

But God, he had loved her like he was.

She knew—had always known, somewhere beneath the marrow—he wasn’t calling to check in.

He wasn’t asking about her day or the wind or whether she was eating. That wasn’t the man she’d loved. He was calling to claim his place. To keep his voice living in the corners of her home, curling in the shadows of the hallway, tucked between the pages of books she read to distract herself from the weight of missing him. He was calling to remind her that no matter how many miles or months separated them, no matter how still her life looked on the outside, she belonged to something buried and beating in the dark—and that something was him.

And so he called. Every day. At 8:43 sharp.

Always 8:43.

As if the time had meaning. As if he’d carved it into the rhythm of her days so thoroughly that she’d feel its absence like a phantom limb if it ever stopped.

And every time, she answered. Automatically. Breathlessly.

She would lay still beneath the cool hush of linen sheets they once chose together—his choice, Egyptian cotton, something ludicrously soft with a thread count she never bothered to remember because he had laughed and said, “Just say it’s rich-people fabric, baby,” before tossing her onto them. Now, those sheets were just sheets, washed too many times, stripped of his scent but not his memory. They held the weight of him like a bruise held pressure—quiet, invisible, but still so there.

Sometimes she would press the phone to her ear and listen to him breathe.

Just that. Just breath. Not even words.

And in those silences, stretched long and uneasy across wires and walls and prison bars, she wondered if he knew—really knew—how cruel it was. That their souls, despite everything, were still so devastatingly close, still folded around each other like vines around bone, while their bodies were rotting apart. She wondered if he felt it too, that hollow space in her chest where his presence used to live without asking. She wondered if he could taste the ache in her silences, the heartbreak tucked into her half-formed replies. If he could tell that every time she said “I’m fine,” she meant “I’m unraveling.”

But he didn’t stop calling. Because he didn’t want her to move on. He wanted her to sit beside his absence like a loyal widow, even while the world told her to bury him and start again.

He wanted them to rot together. Two hearts bruised into stillness, blooming inward like dying flowers. Flesh in flower. Decay as devotion. His hand in hers, even if it was made of memory and ghost and promise now.

And for a while, she let him have that.

She held on like it was oxygen. Like if she just kept answering, he might come back. Like if she stayed still, he’d somehow crawl through the cracks in the walls and slip beneath the sheets again, breath warm against her collarbone, mouth at her shoulder, murmuring “You stayed.”

But eventually, silence became an act of rebellion.

And one night, she didn’t answer.

She watched the burner light up with his number—one of many, always changing, always nameless—and let it ring until it died. The sound was louder than she remembered. Shrill. Grating. Almost alive. She lay there in the dark, heart thudding like a warning bell, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it might collapse under the weight of her choice.

She didn’t answer the next day, either. Or the next.

And when the guilt began to sink into her bones like saltwater, she drove—barefoot, sleepless, silent—all the way to the end of the pier, the one just outside the city, where the ocean didn’t care what it swallowed. She rolled the window down, felt the cold slap of sea air against her skin, held the phone in her palm like it was a sacrament. And without ceremony, without ritual, without a word—

She threw it into the sea.

It fell with a soft, unimpressive splash.

There was no storm. No thunder. No bolt of grief striking her through.

Only quiet.

Only wind.

Only the sound of something leaving.

She sat there long after, fingers clenched around the steering wheel, breathing through the hollow ache in her chest, knowing that somewhere, in a cell that could not hold his shadow, Austin was listening to a phone that would never ring again.

And for the first time in years, her silence did not belong to him.

It belonged to her.

“A letter came in for you,” Mrs. Denise said with the same warm cadence she used to announce the weather or restock the peach tea, her voice a low current of familiarity as she reached behind the counter, fingers curled around the envelope like it was any other piece of mail—unremarkable, harmless.

But the moment she passed it across the counter, something in Talia went still.

The paper felt heavier than it looked, heavier than it should have—denser, somehow, as if it carried not just words but consequence. It wasn’t one of those glossy envelopes stamped with bills or crumpled by careless hands. It was pristine, sharp-edged, thick-stocked, the kind of envelope chosen deliberately by someone who understood the gravity of silence, someone who wanted her attention.

And then she saw the name.

Not Talia Vernon, not the girl who vanished.

Leigh Johnson.

Her alias printed cleanly in precise block letters—black ink, centered on the page, too neat to be rushed, too quiet to be casual. No return address. No stamp. No postmark. No smudge. No clue that it had ever touched a machine, a post office, a sorting bin. Just her name, false and yet deeply hers now, held in place like a spell meant to undo her.

It was already too late.

She didn’t reach for it immediately. Just looked down at it, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat, as if the letter might open itself and speak aloud the things she had spent months trying not to remember. The bookstore seemed to pause around her—the air thick with the scent of old paper and wood polish, the ticking of the wall clock suddenly too loud, the space between customers stretching like time itself had slowed to watch her.

Mrs. Denise, still seated at the front counter with her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and her crossword puzzle abandoned mid-clue, tilted her head slightly. Her expression didn’t shift much—just a flicker of something in her brow, like concern wrapped in practiced calm.

“You alright, baby?” she asked, folding the newspaper in one smooth motion.

Talia forced a nod, sharp and shallow. “Yeah,” she lied. “Just… wasn’t expecting anything.”

Her fingers curled around the envelope at last, brushing the paper as though it might bite. And that’s when she smelled it—faint but familiar, clinging beneath the ink like memory: sandalwood, smoke, something warm and masculine and ruinous. Something that didn’t belong in New Jersey. Something that belonged to him.

Austin.

It punched the breath right out of her.

The scent filled her lungs like a ghost’s kiss—too soft, too real. She clutched the envelope against her chest without meaning to, holding it there like armor or prayer, her hand pressed flat over her heart as though she could keep it from beating out of rhythm. She knew this was intentional. Knew it had been touched by him. Found by him. Or someone close enough to carry the echo of him straight to her door.

And the worst part wasn’t the fear.

It was the familiarity.

The way her body remembered him before her mind could catch up—her pulse skipping the way it used to when he entered a room, the cold sweat beneath her arms, the weightless ache that bloomed in her stomach like hunger and dread in equal measure.

It hadn’t been mailed. That was clear. It had been delivered. Placed. Brought by someone who knew how to move unseen.

“Need a minute?” Mrs. Denise asked again, quieter now, the warmth still there but shadowed by intuition.

Talia nodded this time, barely. Her voice came out as a whisper, dry and far away. “Yeah. I’ll take it in the back.”

She walked slowly past the shelves—past the paperbacks and forgotten dust jackets, past the used poetry section, past the sunlit reading table she used to feel safe at. The envelope stayed pressed to her chest the entire time, like she could feel it pulsing through the paper, alive with something she hadn’t prepared herself to face.

By the time she reached the back room, she was breathless.

She sat down in the worn leather chair by the lamp, the one that always buzzed and flickered, her knees unsteady beneath her, the envelope cradled in her lap now like a fragile thing. She didn’t open it. Not yet.

She just stared.

There was no name on the back. No mark. Nothing to trace. But she knew.

She knew.

And somewhere in her gut, she could feel it already: this was not going to be a love letter.

This was going to be a warning dressed in longing. A knife slid between the ribs in the shape of a memory.

And it had come addressed to a name that didn’t even belong to her.

She didn’t open it at first.

She sat there in the dim glow of the buzzing lamp, the envelope resting in her lap like it might grow teeth, like it might whisper her name in that voice she still heard in dreams—low and velvet and slow as honey. Her thumb dragged along the edge, over and over, the soft rasp of paper on skin the only sound in the room beyond the faint creak of the old radiator and the muted murmur of life continuing just beyond the walls.

It wasn’t fear that held her still. Not exactly.

It was the knowing.

The knowing that whatever lived inside this envelope was going to split her open all over again—not violently, not all at once, but slowly. Like a wound re-blooming beneath scar tissue. Like a thumb pressed gently against a bruise.

Still, her fingers moved. Eventually. Slowly.

She peeled the flap back with care, like she was handling an artifact or something sacred. And when she reached inside, she didn’t find a note, or words, or handwriting—nothing she could argue with, nothing she could throw back in his face and call manipulation.

Instead, she pulled out a photograph.

A single, high-resolution, perfectly focused photograph.

And for a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

It was her.

Taken from a distance, but close enough to capture everything—the faint blush on her cheeks from the cold, the way her hoodie framed her braids, the tilt of her head as she looked out toward the sea without knowing she was being seen. Her mouth was slightly parted, caught mid-breath. Her eyes were narrowed at the light. She looked happy. Peaceful, even.

It was a lie.

Not the photo—but the feeling it froze.

Because that day—the day she remembered vividly, with salt air in her lungs and fresh bread in her arms and sunlight slipping down her sleeves like blessing—had felt like the first time she could breathe again. She’d bought oranges and coffee and smiled at the old man selling wildflowers. She’d worn that sweater she only wore when she felt safe.

And all along, someone had been watching.

Someone had been close enough to see the moment she lifted her hand to shield her eyes, close enough to catch the curve of her hip beneath her coat, the quiet lift of her chest as she exhaled.

She turned the photo over with trembling hands.

Nothing. No name. No message. No handwriting. Not even an initial.

But the weight of it was unmistakable.

She reached into the envelope again, slower now, as if touching the wrong thing might shatter the last thread of calm still stretched thin inside her. Her fingertips brushed against something delicate. Paper. Folded.

She drew it out carefully—wax paper, clean and cool to the touch, folded with reverence, not rush. There was no tape. No sticker. Just the weight of precision.

She opened it, her chest tight, her vision tunneling inward.

And inside—flattened, pressed, preserved with almost obsessive care—were three dried lilies.

White. Fragile. Nearly translucent now in the low light.

Lilies.

Not just any lilies—her lilies. The exact kind she’d inked down her back in New York, the ones Austin had traced with his tongue like a man trying to memorize scripture. He used to say she bloomed backwards, that her spine told a story most people were too afraid to read. He used to whisper to them, to her, in the dark: Flesh in flower, baby. You wear life like it hurts, but you carry it like it’s holy.

Only he would’ve remembered the shape. The species. The symbolism. The exact shade.

Only he would’ve chosen silence over a signature.

There was no letter. No demand. No “I miss you.” No “I’m coming.” Because he didn’t need to write it. She could feel it breathing from inside the folds. Could feel him between the fibers. In the clean cuts. In the stillness.

She didn’t cry.

Not yet.

But something inside her shifted—slow and irreversible. The stillness of the bookstore felt off now, warped. Like the walls had heard. Like the shadows had moved closer. Her skin crawled, but her heart ached harder.

It was a message dressed in memory. A warning disguised as devotion.

He hadn’t just found her.

He’d never lost her.

And now, with no more effort than a pressed flower and a picture, he’d reached out across the void and touched her spine all over again.

She emerged from the back room like a woman who had seen a ghost—not the sudden, shrieking kind that tears through a room with fury, but the quiet kind. The kind that lingers at the edges of your vision. The kind that waits. Her movements were slow, distracted, as though she were still floating somewhere else, not quite back in her body. The letter—the photo, the lilies—was gone now, tucked away somewhere safe, somewhere close, but it still clung to her fingers like ash.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Mrs. Denise looked up from the counter and froze, her brow folding into a deep, familiar line of concern that only came out when something wasn’t right. She set her teacup down with a quiet clink and leaned forward, both hands flat on the counter like she was bracing herself for whatever words might come.

Talia didn’t speak, but her face said everything.

Her eyes—usually sharp, usually clear—had that glassy sheen now, like she was underwater, blinking too slow. Her lips were parted, not in surprise, but in quiet disbelief, as if she was still trying to understand something impossible. Her hoodie was rumpled, sleeves pushed to her elbows, arms wrapped around herself like she was cold, even though the store was warm. She looked like someone who had just been touched by the past in a way no one could see.

Mrs. Denise stepped out from behind the counter and came around slowly, not touching her, not yet, but standing close enough to shield her from the rest of the world.

“You look like you seen the devil sittin’ in your kitchen,” she murmured, voice low, calm, careful. “You wanna tell me what was in that letter?”

Talia opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Her throat worked around silence. She swallowed, eyes darting toward the door as if something might come through it—now, soon, eventually.

Mrs. Denise saw the fear for what it was. Not panic. Not drama. Not imagination. But knowing.

She placed a firm, steady hand on Talia’s arm, warm and grounding. “Alright, baby,” she said gently, nodding before Talia could even speak. “Alright.”

And just like that, she made the decision for her.

“You’re not staying today. Go home. Lock the door. Draw the blinds. I’ll tell anyone who asks you had a migraine.” She squeezed her forearm, thumb brushing over the edge of Talia’s wrist where her pulse trembled like a bird in a cage. “And if you need to run—really run—you don’t wait. You go. You understand me?”

Talia nodded, barely.

There were no tears. Not yet. Just the quiet weight of a world that had tilted under her feet again.

Mrs. Denise pulled back, but not without brushing a stray braid behind her ear with the tenderness only older women carry—the kind that says I see you, even when you’re trying to disappear.

“Keys’re in your coat,” she added, already turning back toward the counter. “Text me when you get where you’re goin’. I’ll call it a favor if you do.”

Talia didn’t argue. She didn’t have the strength to.

She just walked to the door like it might open into another life—and hoped, prayed, feared—that the next time it did, he wouldn’t be standing on the other side of it.

…

He waited until the house exhaled her.

Watched from the car, from behind shadowed glass and still air, the sky a bruised lilac above him, the wind just sharp enough to bite but not howl. She stepped out onto the porch with that slow, unbothered gait she’d picked up since moving—hood over her braids, keys between her fingers, head turned slightly, almost on instinct, like a part of her still knew how it felt to be watched.

She didn’t see him.

She never did—too lulled by the softness of a new life, too wrapped up in the poetry of being unknown.

He stayed still until the quiet swallowed her car’s engine, until the curve of her disappeared at the far end of the street and the neighborhood returned to its soft-bellied calm. Birds chirped. A sprinkler coughed to life. Someone’s wind chime moaned a lazy, off-key tune in the breeze.

Only then did he move.

He stepped out of the car with the kind of deliberate grace that came from years of slipping in and out of places he didn’t belong, the hem of his coat brushing his boots, one gloved hand dragging across the roof of the car as he walked. He didn’t glance over his shoulder. He didn’t need to.

No one here would recognize him for what he was.

The sidewalk beneath his feet had hairline cracks spidering through the cement, weeds poking through like green little secrets. Her garden was small—unimpressive—but he stopped for half a second anyway, crouching down to touch the stem of a marigold she’d forgotten to water. The flower bent slightly under his fingertip, like it remembered who brought her roses in the spring, lilies in the fall, who made her learn the language of blooms before she ever spoke the language of men.

The key was where he expected—tucked in that pathetic little Altoids tin, behind the downspout, beneath the same stone everyone uses when they want to believe they’re safe. His fingers curled around it like a prayer. Like something owed.

The door gave a soft, obedient groan as it opened for him.

And the house—

The house breathed him in like it had missed him.

It smelled like her. Not in the obvious way—perfume or body spray or shampoo—but in the way memory smells. Warm linen. Candle wax. The faint citrus of some hand cream she probably thought no one noticed. The ghost of a late-night bath. A trace of oil from her scalp. All of it clinging to the air like a mouth pressed too long to the same skin.

He stepped inside like a husband coming home from war.

The place was small, but not cramped. Lived-in. Loved. There was a kind of feminine chaos to it—open books in strange places, a cardigan over the arm of the couch, a half-finished puzzle spread across the kitchen table. A mug still in the sink, rim kissed with pink gloss. A grocery bag abandoned on the counter with eggs sweating through the plastic.

It made him smile.

Not with joy.

With something deeper. Something hungrier. The satisfaction of knowing that no matter how far she ran, she could never outrun her softness. That piece of her that craved comfort. That made nests in the quiet. That curled herself into the shape of someone waiting—whether she’d admit it or not.

He moved through the space slowly, letting his fingers brush surfaces like a thief and a lover both. The top of the bookshelf. The back of the dining chair. The faintest mark in the carpet where her knees had pressed when she picked something up. He could tell exactly where she spent most of her time, where her energy collected and pooled. The house whispered her routines like secrets, and he listened.

Then he came to her bedroom.

The door was open. He stood at the threshold and let the silence wrap around him.

The bed was half-made, one side still indented where she slept. The pillow cradling the echo of her head. A pale green throw blanket barely clung to the edge, and a book—something French, untouched—rested on the nightstand beside an old lamp that still flickered when turned on too quickly.

He walked in, slowly, carefully, and sat on the edge of the bed.

Not because he was tired. But because he needed to feel it.

The space she left behind. The warmth that lingered.

He placed one hand on the mattress, then the other, bowing forward slightly, as though in prayer. His eyes slipped shut.

She had been here. Less than an hour ago. He could feel it.

After a moment, he stood and crossed to the vanity.

Cluttered. Of course. Lipsticks, lotions, half-closed drawers. Her reflection lived here, maybe more than she did. He didn’t touch anything—he just looked. Traced her presence with his eyes. His own reflected face stared back at him, unchanged. Tired. Hollow in places. But still hers. Always hers.

And then—tucked behind a bottle of toner and a cracked crystal comb—he found the receipt. Dated a week ago. For flowers.

Lilies.

He exhaled, long and slow, a warmth blooming in his chest like pain.

She remembered.

Even now, even in this new life, even under a name that didn’t belong to her—she remembered.

He left nothing behind.

His smirk faltered the second his eyes landed on the photograph.

It sat too proudly on the shelf, nestled between a chipped ceramic bowl and a flickering candle that had nearly burned itself out—one of those careless, domestic touches she thought might make this life feel real. The frame was cheap. The kind sold in grocery aisles next to batteries and expired mascara. But it was what the frame held that made his jaw tense.

Johnny.

Smiling like he’d earned her. One arm slung lazily around her waist, the other hand tucked too confidently into his pocket, as if he had built this version of her. As if he deserved the softness in her eyes, the closeness of her body, the weight of her trust. Austin tilted his head as he studied it, every muscle in his face tightening as that familiar flicker of something cruel stirred beneath his ribs.

He knew Johnny.

He’d been watching them for weeks. Long enough to learn the shape of their charade, to memorize every falsified rhythm of their intimacy. He’d watched her in the window as she went through the motions, hips moving, fingers curling, mouth open just wide enough to imitate pleasure—but never deep enough to feel it. Her eyes never fluttered shut with bliss. They shut with frustration. With exhaustion. With that quiet, internal scream that only came from enduring someone instead of wanting them.

She was pretending. And that, more than anything, made his skin crawl.

Austin’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the frame, knuckles pale. The weight of it felt offensive in his hand, like it belonged to someone else. Someone small. Someone who could never give her what she needed, no matter how many nights he tried to fit himself into the outline she’d carved for a man that wasn’t him.

“Pathetic,” he spat under his breath, venom slipping past his teeth like oil.

Not because Johnny had her now. But because Johnny never really did.

Because Austin could still see it—in the clench of her jaw when she thought no one was looking, in the way she pulled away just slightly after she came, if she came at all. He saw it in her hands, how they stayed limp at her sides, how they never reached up to hold Johnny’s face like they used to hold his, desperate and trembling, nails digging into his scalp as if anchoring herself to the moment. He saw it in her body. Her body that only ever bloomed for him.

He set the photo down, but not before turning it face down on the shelf.

Out of sight. Unworthy.

Because while the world might believe she belonged to someone new—while she played house in this small, sad corner of New Jersey—Austin knew the truth.

She’d been ruined for anyone else.

And no matter how many times she changed her name, no matter how many blank-souled boys she let climb on top of her, it wouldn’t change one irrevocable truth:

She was his.

And he was coming back for her.

He sat in the armchair by the door like a shadow that had grown a heartbeat.

The lights were low, just enough to bathe the apartment in amber hush, the kind that stretched out time and made every sound feel louder than it should. He didn’t need brightness. He knew this place now—had studied the grooves in the wood grain, the scent that clung to her throw blanket, the worn indentation in the floor where she always kicked off her shoes. This was her nest. Her little corner of the world. And tonight, it was his too.

Austin leaned back, legs spread, elbows resting on the arms of the chair like a king in exile, like someone who had taken back what was his without needing to ask. A soft exhale slipped through his nose as he reached into his coat pocket and drew out the pistol—sleek, black, unremarkable in the way all deadly things are. It caught no light. It made no sound. A whisper of a weapon.

With careful fingers, he screwed the silencer on. Slow. Precise. Like he’d done it a thousand times before—and he had.

Each turn of the metal threaded into place like a ritual. He wasn’t in a rush. There was no urgency, only inevitability. The click of steel on steel echoed softly in the stillness, as delicate and intimate as the pop of a champagne cork. When it was done, he cradled the gun loosely in his lap, one palm resting on top of it like a promise.

He didn’t pace. He didn’t fidget.

He simply waited.

And that was the most dangerous part—how patient he was. How quiet. How still. A man like him didn’t need to chase. He knew she would walk through that door eventually. Knew the weight of the day would make her sigh as she dropped her keys onto the dish. Knew her first instinct would be to kick off her shoes, stretch her arms over her head, maybe hum a little tune to herself if the day hadn’t been too cruel.

And then she'd see him.

Or maybe—just maybe—she wouldn’t.

Not until the door clicked shut behind her. Not until she turned to lock it.

Not until she was close enough to touch.

He flexed his fingers once over the cool weight of the gun, then stilled again, breath deepening as he settled further into the chair, as if becoming part of the room itself.

Let her think she’d outrun him. Let her believe she was free.

That only made it sweeter.

…

He sat in that worn armchair like it belonged to him, like everything in the room did—every book on the shelf, every frame on the wall, every whisper of vanilla clinging to the air—and with the gun resting idly in his lap and the shadows stretched long across the floorboards, he let his thoughts settle into the quiet, slow and heavy like sediment sinking in still water.

She’d really tried to leave him.

Not just run—but disappear. Like she could press some button and erase him from her life, like he hadn’t poured years of himself into her, like his fingerprints didn’t still live in the parts of her she thought were private, sacred, hers. She thought a new name would be enough, that dyed braids and a different zip code would keep the ghosts from knocking. But she forgot who she was running from. She forgot that a man like him doesn’t stop just because someone slams a door—he waits by it. And when she creaks it open again, even just an inch, he doesn’t knock. He walks through.

Because this wasn’t about revenge. No, not really. This was about principle. About loyalty. About what they were to each other—what they still were, whether she liked it or not.

Talia had always belonged to him. From the moment she’d walked into that club in her little black dress with a mouth that never apologized and eyes that burned through men like fire through parchment. He’d known. And worse, he’d felt it. In his bones, in his blood, in that fucked up corner of his soul that only ever quieted when she was curled up against him with those inked lilies blooming along her spine like a warning written in flower.

She was a good girl once—before him. Before he peeled the decency out of her like silk slipping off skin. Before she learned what it meant to love a monster so completely that she began to hunger for his teeth. He hadn’t meant to ruin her. But when he did, he made sure she’d never be satisfied with anyone else again.

And maybe that was the cruelest thing of all. That he made her better—for him. And worse for the world.

So yeah, she tried to build a new life. She tried to move on with some other man who probably called her baby and offered her normality like it was some kind of gift. But Austin had watched that farce—watched her pretend to be small, pretend to be soft, pretend to be someone else entirely. And it disgusted him. Because she wasn’t that. Not anymore. He had dragged the real her out into the open and she had thrived under his hand, bloomed under his weight, cried his name with the kind of surrender that didn’t just come from love—it came from recognition.

So no, this wasn’t about punishment.

This was about taking back what was his.

Because if she thought she could put a state line between them and start over, she’d forgotten one very important truth:

You don’t run from fire and expect not to burn.

Not when the flame loved you back.

The drive home felt longer than it should have, like the roads had stretched themselves just to keep her alone with her thoughts. The envelope sat on the passenger seat, closed again but far from harmless, the photo and pressed lilies inside it humming with the kind of quiet threat that had nothing to do with words and everything to do with him. Every red light felt like a pair of eyes. Every car that slowed behind her made her pulse spike. Even the song on the radio—the one she used to hum without thinking—felt like a warning now.

By the time she pulled into the parking lot of her building, the sun had begun to slip low on the horizon, painting the asphalt in soft orange light that should have been comforting. It wasn’t. The shadows of the nearby trees reached across the pavement like long, skeletal fingers, and she swore one of them twitched when she looked too fast.

She climbed out of the car, hoodie zipped up, one hand gripping her keys too tightly. Her breath hitched as she approached her front door. Everything looked normal. Her doormat was still crooked from where she’d kicked it this morning, the little ceramic pot of marigolds still leaning to one side because she’d been too tired to water them. But normal didn’t feel like safety anymore. Not with that letter in her bag. Not with the lilies pressed against her notebook like a reminder that she was seen.

She unlocked the door with a slow, deliberate turn of the key, pausing before pushing it open. The apartment smelled faintly of lavender from the candle she’d blown out that morning—but beneath it was something else. Something warm. Something familiar.

Her pulse tripped. She couldn’t name it, but her body recognized it before her mind could. Cologne. Sandalwood. Smoke.

Austin.

She stepped inside, heart pounding hard enough to blur her vision for a second. The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. No hum of the fridge. No creak of the pipes. The stillness pressed against her like a weight, making the air feel thicker than it should.

The front door clicked open with the soft, habitual sigh of a woman who thought she was alone in the world. Talia stepped inside, dropping her keys into the ceramic dish by the entrance the way she always did, shrugging off her hoodie with one slow sweep of her arms as if shedding the day’s weight. The evening air was thick with the heat of late summer, the kind that pressed against the skin like an unspoken warning, and she moved through it unbothered, hips swaying slightly, unconsciously, to the soft hum of a memory she couldn’t quite place.

And then she saw him.

He was sitting in her armchair like he’d never left it, one leg crossed lazily over the other, elbow perched on the armrest, his fingers curled around the barrel of a gun that glinted dull silver in the room’s amber lamplight. The silencer was still screwed on, like a promise. Or a threat. His body was all stillness, but his eyes—God, his eyes—followed her like a shadow before she even had time to scream.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t even breathe.

Her blood froze mid-pulse as her limbs locked in place, heart clanging so loudly against her ribs she was certain he could hear it from across the room. She stared at him like a woman stares at a ghost, like something she buried deep had clawed its way back from the earth. His face was the same—those high cheekbones like cut stone, those cruelly full lips, the kind of beauty that made priests weep and women lose sleep. But something in his gaze had changed.

He was quieter now. Meaner. More patient.

Austin stood slowly, the way storms rise from calm skies—deliberate, unhurried, inevitable. The air shifted as he moved toward her, and Talia’s throat constricted like the walls were closing in, like the oxygen had been drained from the room by the weight of him. Her breath hitched, her fingers twitching at her sides, but she didn't move. She couldn't. She was frozen—not with fear, exactly, but with something older. Deeper. The kind of stillness born from recognition.

He stopped when he was close enough to steal her breath, standing so near she could see the light stubble on his jaw, the scar above his collarbone she’d once kissed in the dark. The gun in his hand was lowered, but not forgotten, still heavy at his side like a second spine.

And then, in that impossible hush, he lifted it—slowly, reverently—like a worshipper offering a relic to a shrine. He brought the silencer to her lips, tracing the soft curve of her mouth with the cool, muted metal as if to say: This is what you’ve reduced me to. His eyes never left hers, unreadable in their sharp, glacial calm, like he was memorizing the way her lips parted, the way her lashes fluttered from the contact. She didn't flinch. Didn’t dare.

“I thought you'd scream,” he said finally, voice low and rasped, like gravel under velvet. “Thought you’d run. Fight. Something.”

Her voice, when it came, was barely a breath. “I forgot how to.”

The corner of his mouth twitched into something unholy. Not a smile, not quite. More like an ache he didn’t bother hiding anymore. His fingers brushed her jaw, gun still pressed to her lips, and his voice dropped lower, into something that sounded like prayer. “Look at you. All this space. All this quiet. And you're still mine.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “You don’t own me.”

“You let me in,” he whispered, thumb grazing her cheek now, “and I built a goddamn cathedral inside you. You can change your name, change your hair, change your life—but I live in you, Talia.”

She exhaled sharply, like the air hurt.

“You think I haven’t seen you with him?” he sneered, voice curdling with venom now, all softness gone. “Johnny. Pathetic. You fake your moans like a child saying prayers they don’t believe in. I saw you the last time he touched you. Your eyes weren’t shut from pleasure—they were shut from disappointment.”

Talia swallowed hard. Her throat burned.

“You think you’re free,” he said, quieter now, deadlier. “But you’re just waiting. For me. Always were.”

She hated how her skin still tingled where he touched it. Hated how her body remembered the rhythm of his hands, how her bones still tilted toward him like plants leaning for sun.

“You destroyed me,” she whispered, voice cracking open like a wound. “And I let you.”

His expression shifted—not regret, not pity. Something worse. Something gentler.

“I loved you,” he said, and it sounded like a curse. “Still do.”

And just like that, the dam inside her cracked.

Her fists collided with his chest, once, twice—useless, frantic—but he didn’t flinch. He caught her wrists like he’d done a thousand times before, spinning her and pressing her to the wall, the gun clattering to the floor as his hands roamed familiar territory. Her breath came in desperate gasps, and his mouth found hers not in apology, but in claim.

The kiss wasn’t tender. It was war.

And God help her, she kissed him back.

She didn’t stop him.

She didn’t cry out when his hand wrapped around her throat, large and steady, calloused fingers pressing against the soft column of her neck with the kind of pressure that wasn’t meant to bruise—just to remind. Remind her of who he was. Who she still belonged to. Who she had always been soft for, even now, even after everything. His thumb swept over her pulse, feeling the flutter of her heartbeat like the wing of a dying bird.

“You gonna lie to me, baby?” he murmured, voice low and almost tender, almost loving, as he dipped his head to brush his nose along her jaw, inhaling the scent of her skin like it was something sacred, something he’d been starved of. “You gonna look me in the face and pretend he made you come?”

Her eyes filled with something she didn’t know how to name—shame, rage, desire, grief—but she didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat trembled beneath his touch, her lips parted around a breath that never quite made it out, and still she held his gaze, defiant and wrecked in equal measure.

His grip never tightened. It just held her there—anchored, marked, claimed—as if he could drag the truth out of her by touch alone.

“He ever kiss you like I did?” he whispered, brushing his mouth against her ear now, his free hand finding the curve of her waist like muscle memory. “Ever make you beg the way I did? Cry for it?” His lips curled, bitter. “You cried for me. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

She made a small sound then, half-broken and choked, but not from pain. He would never hurt her, not in that way. He knew the exact pressure her body could take, how far she would bend before she snapped. And this—this was worship disguised as dominance, penance disguised as control. This was him, unraveling at the altar of the only person who ever made him feel known.

Her hands clutched the fabric of his shirt, and she hated herself for the way she arched toward him, how her body betrayed her in real time, how her heart still thudded like a war drum every time he spoke her name like a psalm soaked in violence.

“Answer me,” he said again, firmer now, his grip unrelenting but not cruel, his voice a blade dulled by desperation. “Did you miss me?”

Silence.

“Talia.”

“I never stopped,” she finally gasped, the words slipping from her mouth like blood from a split lip. “God, I never stopped.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.

His hand loosened, sliding down her throat to her collarbone, the heel of his palm resting over her heart. “I’d burn every version of this world for you,” he whispered. “Every name you’ve taken. Every man you let touch what’s mine. You think I didn’t see you pretending? I know your body, baby. I built it.”

And then he kissed her again—slow this time, bruising in its softness, his thumb ghosting over the lilies inked along her spine, like he was tracing a map back to himself.

They were poison to each other. But damn if the taste didn’t linger like honey.

He stepped back with a quiet grace, never taking his eyes off her, the silence between them stretching taut like wire pulled to its breaking point. There was no rush in his movements, no fury, no raised voice. Only that unbearable calm—the kind that came before a storm, the kind that told you this man had never needed to shout to be obeyed. Not when he could command the world with a glance.

His head tilted slightly, lashes low over those pale, pitiless eyes that had once memorized every inch of her body like scripture. And then, with a voice soft enough to be mistaken for something gentle—yet edged with something far more lethal—he spoke.

“Take off your clothes.”

The words weren’t barked. They weren’t desperate. They were spoken with the same certainty of a man who knew he’d be obeyed. A man who had waited long enough. A man who had buried versions of himself for her, suffered years of steel bars and silence, only to return with the same hunger burning beneath his skin.

Talia’s breath caught, her pulse ricocheting like a bullet in her chest. She didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. The command hadn’t been cruel. It hadn’t even been laced with lust. It was reverent. Ritualistic. As though he was asking her to strip down to something holier than flesh—to offer him her truth, unclothed and undeniable.

And God, wasn’t that what this always was between them? A ritual. A ruin. A reckoning.

Austin didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. He just stood there—composed, consuming her with his gaze, every breath she took beneath his eyes feeling like sin. The kind of sin that tasted like salvation in his hands.

She knew what he wanted.

He wanted to see her.

Not the woman she pretended to be in this new life, not Leigh Johnson in her bookstore apron and sensible shoes. He wanted Talia. His Talia. The girl who once let him ink lilies into her skin with his tongue, who screamed his name like it was the only word she ever learned.

And somewhere inside her trembling chest, that girl—the one she buried beneath a new name and a quiet job and all the therapy in the world—stirred.

Her fingers trembled.

Not from cold—but from the knowledge that she couldn’t say no. Not here. Not like this. Not with a gun still warm from his touch, resting like a threat in his hand, silent and silver as moonlight, its silencer catching the overhead light with a glint that made her throat close. He didn’t raise it. He didn’t need to. Its presence alone was a language she understood fluently now—a language of power, of memory, of dominance buried so deep in her bones that even without speaking, it commanded her.

Talia's eyes met his once—just once—and what she saw there wasn't rage, or cruelty, or even revenge. It was worse. It was possession. That dark, terrible kind of love that didn't need forgiveness to stay alive. The kind that turned desire into obedience, and devotion into ruin. The kind that waited in the shadows of prison cells and still called her mine.

Her breath hitched as she reached for the hem of her shirt, her gaze never leaving his, even as she peeled it slowly up over her head, revealing skin he hadn’t touched in two years but still knew better than his own. Her spine straightened out of defiance, but it was hollow, a performance, because her heart was already thrumming in her throat like a snared bird. Her bra fell next, unclipped with unsteady fingers, her arms crossing over herself instinctively before she forced them down, bare under the weight of his gaze.

He watched like a man witnessing the return of something sacred.

Her jeans came off slower, trembling at the button, her breath shallow and uneven as she stepped out of them, piece by piece unraveling in front of him until she stood in just her underwear, exposed under the cheap yellow lighting of her apartment—her sanctuary turned confession booth.

Her voice, when it came, was soft. Cracked.

“Are you going to kill me?”

And he… didn’t smile. He didn’t flinch.

He stepped forward, slow and sure, like the reaper come home to something he never wanted to bury.

“No,” he said, the word landing like a promise and a threat. “I’m going to remind you.”

Then, just like that, the silencer brushed against her lips again, softer this time—an intimate cruelty—and he added, low and deliberate:

“You don’t get to forget me, Talia. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next.”

He let the silencer fall from her lips like a kiss withheld, the weight of it hanging in the space between them as he leaned back just a fraction, head tilted like he was admiring a piece of art he’d commissioned in another life. And then he said it—low, coaxing, drawled in that deep, velvet-wrapped tone she used to feel against the shell of her ear during slower, darker nights.

“Give me a spin, baby.”

The words weren’t barked or sharp; no, they slithered out of his mouth like a purr, laced with nostalgia and menace, like a memory wearing wolf’s skin. It wasn’t a request. It never was. But it didn’t come dressed as a threat either. It was more like an invitation to dance at the edge of something fatal.

Talia hesitated—not because she didn’t know what he wanted, but because her knees had turned to water under the weight of his gaze, and something in her chest felt like it was cracking, piece by trembling piece. Still, she obeyed. Because that’s what he did to her. Had always done. Made her feel like she had a choice when they both knew she never really did.

She turned.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Each movement felt like peeling back layers of herself—turning not just her body, but her history, her sins, her scars. Her braids shifted against the curve of her back, brushing the lilies inked in quiet agony down her spine—the very flowers he once traced with fingers stained in blood and reverence. Her arms hovered at her sides, unsure whether to shield or surrender, but her eyes remained forward, trained on the pale wall in front of her like if she stared long enough, it might swallow her whole.

Behind her, she heard the faint sound of breath—his—drawn in like smoke through clenched teeth. That same breath she used to chase on cold nights when she’d climb into his lap just to feel human again. And now it hovered there, a stormcloud behind her, thick with want and something much, much worse.

“Goddamn,” he murmured, voice barely a sound. “You’re still mine.”

And she didn’t say a word.

Because silence was a confession.

She didn’t turn back around. She couldn’t—not with the way his words still lingered like fingerprints around her throat, invisible and inescapable. Her breath was shallow, chest rising and falling in short, shuddering waves as she stood there in her underwear, spine exposed, the soft glow of the apartment light making the lilies on her back bloom in shades of shadow and gold.

Behind her, the silence thickened.

And then she felt it—him.

His presence, closing in like a shifting tide. A rustle of fabric. The soft thud of the gun set down on the table, deliberate and slow, like a ritual.

Then his hands.

Large. Calloused. Familiar in a way that made her eyes sting.

He touched her like a man picking up something precious he'd lost in a fire. One palm slid down the curve of her back, fingers splaying against her spine, brushing each lily with a reverence that felt more like a prayer than a touch. The other came up—his hand wrapping gently, possessively, around the front of her throat, not squeezing, just holding, like he needed to feel her pulse against his palm to prove to himself she was real.

“You ran,” he said, voice low and thick, almost disappointed. His lips ghosted the shell of her ear. “You disappeared like I wouldn’t come find you.”

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

Because her body was already answering for her—arching slightly into his grip, betraying her, betraying everything she’d built in his absence.

He pressed his mouth against her shoulder, warm breath sending a shiver down her spine. Then his hand tightened—not painfully, not cruelly, but with the weight of memory and ownership. He turned her slowly in his arms until she was facing him, bare and trembling, the gun forgotten but not absent. His eyes burned into hers—those cold, impossible eyes—and he dipped his head.

Not for a kiss.

But to taste her.

His mouth found the side of her neck with a quiet hunger, tongue tracing the beat of her pulse before his teeth grazed her skin—not enough to break it, just enough to make her knees weaken. His grip shifted, one hand sliding down her waist, dragging her closer until she was pressed against him, every inch of her trembling frame trapped against the wall of his body.

“You’re still soft for me,” he whispered against her skin, dragging his hand slowly down her hip, over the curve of her thigh. “Still mine.”

She hated that he was right.

Hated that her thighs parted instinctively at his touch, that her breath caught when his mouth found her collarbone, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. He kissed her like he wanted to brand her, and when she gasped, he laughed under his breath—dark and breathless, as if he’d been starving for the sound.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of her underwear, slow, deliberate, watching her face the entire time. “Let me see if you still cry for me,” he murmured, thumb brushing over the sensitive swell of her heat, voice like velvet and smoke. “Or if you need a reminder.”

And when she moaned—quiet, sharp, involuntary—he smiled.

Not kindly.

But like a wolf who knew his prey had stopped running.

Her breath hitched as he dragged his mouth back up her neck, lips brushing her skin like he was reacquainting himself with every inch he’d missed. And God, had he missed it. Every damn piece of her. The way her pulse jumped under his tongue. The way her body betrayed her—arching into him like she’d never learned how to say no.

She whimpered when his hands hooked under the backs of her thighs and lifted her up like she weighed nothing, pinning her against the cold wall with a quiet grunt, the air thick between them. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, but instead of taking her, instead of pushing inside the place that ached for him, he pressed himself right there—right between her thighs, hot and heavy and cruelly clothed.

He dragged it along her soaked panties slowly.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And she gasped every time like it shocked her, like her whole damn body remembered what he felt like. He rolled his hips between her thighs, not giving her what she needed but making her feel every inch of him anyway. The friction was unbearable. Her panties were drenched, clinging to her like a second skin, and still he didn’t move faster—didn’t slide in. Just kept grinding right there, watching her eyes flutter closed, then open, then close again, her jaw slack with pleasure she shouldn’t be feeling.

“Look at you,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear. “Acting like you don’t love this. Like you weren’t made for me.”

Her nails dug into his shoulders, teeth sinking into her bottom lip to keep from crying out, and still he didn’t stop.

“You think he could ever do this?” he growled, voice rough and ragged as he thrust again, pressing deeper between her thighs, making her shiver. “You think he ever had you like this, baby?”

She shook her head—because it was the truth. Johnny never touched her like this. Never knew her like this. Never made her thighs shake from being teased like a goddamn promise.

Austin pulled back just enough to see her face, to watch her fall apart for him. He dropped one hand between them, brushed the soaked fabric to the side, and dragged his thumb up the length of her heat—slow, indulgent, smirking at how wet she was for him.

“You missed me,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

He withdrew his thumb from her with a grin—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the sound she made when he pulled away. That soft, broken gasp of protest left her lips before she could stop it, her hips chasing him instinctively, greedy for the contact she’d just lost. And that was what did it for him. Not the moans. Not the heat of her wrapped around him. That. The way her body didn’t know how to lie to him.

“Gonna have to work for it, baby,” he murmured, mouth curled into a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, his voice soaked in wicked satisfaction. He leaned in, nose brushing her cheek as he breathed her in like a drug he’d waited years to taste again. “There’s no fun in givin’ it up too early now, is there?”

He bit her earlobe gently, soothing it with his tongue like he hadn’t just said something cruel. Like he wasn’t already hard as hell between her legs, twitching against her soaked inner thigh. And still—he didn’t give her what she needed. He just hovered there, one hand pinning her to the wall, the other gliding down to her ass, gripping it like it belonged to him. Because it did. It always had.

“You used to beg for it,” he whispered, dragging his lips down her throat. “Used to scratch my back ‘til I bled if I didn’t fuck you the second you asked. What happened, Leigh? You get shy now? Or is it ‘cause Johnny couldn’t make you loud enough to remember what your body was built for?”

She wanted to curse him out. Slap him. Leave.

But instead her legs tightened around his waist and her fingers fisted into his shirt like she was trying to anchor herself to something solid—because God help her, he felt like home, even when home was the worst place in the world.

He pulled back just far enough to look her in the eyes—those same eyes that haunted his sleep for months. The ones he imagined when he was locked up in that cold cell with nothing but his fist and his memories. Her face was flushed, lips parted, breath shallow. She was barely holding on.

“Say it,” he said, voice a low command now. The game was shifting.

She blinked, dazed. “Say…what?”

“Say you missed me,” he said, dragging his cock slowly—agonizingly—up her slit without pushing in. “Say you dreamed about me. About this. About how good I make you feel.”

She whimpered, the sound caught in her throat, swallowed down with her pride.

And when she didn’t speak fast enough, he slid the head of his cock against her clit again, grinding slow, cruel circles there until she was shaking.

“I missed you,” she finally breathed out, shame catching on her tongue like barbed wire. “I missed everything.”

“That’s more like it,” he growled, voice rough with possession. “Now beg me, baby.”

Her breath hitched—caught somewhere between a moan and a sob—as his cock kept tracing that maddening path along her folds, thick and heavy and so close to where she needed him most, but never quite there. He was teasing her on purpose, gliding between her slick thighs like he had all the time in the world. Like her desperation was his favorite kind of foreplay.

“Austin, please,” she whimpered, voice broken and sweet, her hands trembling where they clung to his shoulders.

But the second she said his name, his name, everything shifted.

He stilled.

Then he leaned in slow, lips brushing the shell of her ear, the heat of his breath making her knees buckle.

“Austin’s not my name right now,” he said quietly—dangerously—each word sharp enough to carve itself into her spine. “And you know better than that.”

Her lips parted in a breathless, shaky apology, but he was already pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. That look—dark, controlling, hungry—hit her low in her stomach, twisted itself into every place he’d ever touched and marked as his.

“I—” Her voice caught again. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

He smiled.

That slow, devastating grin that always made her feel like she was standing on the edge of a blade. “That’s my good girl,” he said, dragging his fingers down her throat like he was reminding her who owned every inch of her. “Now try again.”

“Please, Sir,” she whispered, her thighs clenching involuntarily around him. “Please, I need it—I need you. I’ve missed you so much, it hurts. I’ve been dreaming about it. About the way you touched me. About the way you used to look at me when you were inside. Please, I can’t take it—I’ll do anything, I swear.”

“Anything?” he murmured, eyes blazing as he reached down and gave her clit one sharp, calculated stroke that made her cry out.

“Yes, Sir,” she gasped, shaking, breathless, beyond shame. “Anything. Just—please—fuck me.”

He groaned low in his throat, finally letting the tip of his cock press against her entrance, slow and heavy and threatening to ruin her.

“You’re so good when you remember who you belong to,” he rasped, dragging his mouth across her collarbone. “Let’s see if your body still remembers too.”

He withdrew from her slow, deliberate, like the loss of him was meant to be felt—deep and empty. She whimpered at the absence, at the betrayal of it, her body aching and clenching around nothing as he ignored her sounds entirely, only wrapping a hand around her wrist to tug her toward the couch like she weighed nothing at all.

And God, she followed. Of course she did.

He moved like a shadow cast in marble, fluid and sharp all at once, peeling off his shirt in one smooth motion. The ink stretched with the taut pull of muscle across pale skin—years of violence carved into his body like scripture, but she only saw her name. Her name. Right there, inked in black just above his heart, the lettering raw and permanent and a little uneven like he’d gotten it done in a rage. Like he needed her on him.

Her gaze drifted lower—to the right forearm, where more ink coiled like a snake around truths he’d never say out loud.

Then he lay back on the couch like he owned every inch of the air she breathed, muscles flexing, jaw set, eyes unreadable but watching her. Always watching her.

And then came the command—low, amused, cruel in its familiarity.

“Ride my abs, baby,” he murmured, voice dark and smooth like smoke curling through silk. “Just like you used to.”

Her knees wobbled.

Her lips parted.

Her pride shattered.

Because she had. Because he knew. Because there were nights she still dreamed of doing exactly that, grinding herself down onto the hard ridges of his stomach until she cried out his name in pieces—before she ever even let him fuck her.

She stood there trembling, breath hitching as her hands moved without thinking, slipping off what little clothing remained. And he just watched—his hands behind his head now, his abs flexing with every breath, cock hard and heavy against his thigh, untouched.

“Well?” he drawled, tilting his head, gaze dragging over her with possessive heat. “You wanna come, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer with words—her body spoke for her.

She stepped forward like something sacred and doomed, her breath trembling as she mounted him, legs straddling his waist and knees pressed into the soft cushions beneath. Her thighs trembled from anticipation alone, heat already pooling so thick between her legs it felt shameless. She hovered above his abs, eyes locked with his, and in that moment it wasn’t just lust—it was memory. Every night she swore she'd forget. Every night she failed.

Austin—no, not Austin now—watched her with quiet hunger, like a lion stretching beneath its prey, amused that she still obeyed without needing more than a command. His eyes didn’t blink. They burned. He flexed his stomach slightly, enough to remind her what she was about to do, and her body remembered.

Slowly, she lowered herself, her bare cunt brushing the ridges of his abs, slick already painting him. She shivered at the sensation—hot skin, unforgiving muscle, the deep line of his core that gave her friction just cruel enough to edge her forward without mercy.

She started to move.

Gentle at first. Hips swaying forward, grinding herself along his stomach with quiet moans slipping past her lips. It was obscene, the sound of her slick dragging across his abs, but he didn’t stop her. Didn’t touch her.

Just watched.

“You remember what you said the first time you did this?” he asked quietly, voice dipped in that same lazy threat he always used when he was holding back.

She couldn’t answer—could barely breathe. Her rhythm stuttered as she gripped his wrists above his head to steady herself, using the tension of his flexed arms like handlebars.

He reached up lazily, cupping her breast, thumb brushing her nipple until she gasped and almost lost her rhythm.

“You said—” he murmured, eyes locking with hers again, “—Sir, I think I’m gonna come like this.”

She whimpered, nodding, mouth falling open as her hips stuttered and ground down harder, chasing it with a hunger she hadn’t felt since the last time he’d touched her.

“Say it again.”

She didn’t hesitate this time.

“Sir, I think I’m gonna come like this,” she cried, hips trembling, her whole body flushed and clenching, thighs slick with need. “Please don’t make me stop.”

He groaned, his voice low and ragged, hands gripping her hips now, dragging her forward and back along the lines of him like she was nothing but need.

“Don’t stop, baby,” he growled. “You wanted to run? Then run yourself on me. Come on my fucking abs like the little mess you are.”

She came like she was breaking—hips stuttering, mouth slack, moans tangled with sobs that sounded more like apologies than pleasure. Her thighs trembled, her hands dug half-moons into his chest, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed forward, boneless, like the climax had stolen her spine.

He didn’t let her rest.

Didn’t even give her a second to catch her breath.

In one fluid motion, he sat up—wrapped an arm around her waist and flipped her, her back hitting the cushions before she could blink. Her gasp was swallowed by his mouth pressing into hers—hot, hungry, ruthless. There was no tenderness in the kiss, only possession. Only punishment. Only his.

“I let you go once,” he muttered against her lips, voice sharp and heavy with something darker than lust. “You won’t get that luxury again.”

He shoved her legs open, dragging her down the couch so her hips were at the edge, knees over his shoulders as he kneeled in front of her. His hands gripped the backs of her thighs like restraints, holding her wide and still, her pussy still fluttering from the aftershocks as he stared down at her like something he owned.

“You think I didn’t watch?” he growled, voice low, eyes narrowing. “Think I didn’t see that man touch what only I get to touch?”

She tried to answer—but he slapped the inside of her thigh. Not hard. But hard enough to make her flinch and bite back a moan.

“You think those moans you gave him were real? Baby, your body tells the truth. Your mouth lies.”

She whimpered.

“You wanna lie again, Talia?” he sneered. “You wanna look me in the eye and say he ever made you feel like this?”

Her voice cracked as she shook her head, “No—n-no, Sir.”

He leaned down, eyes never leaving hers, lips brushing against the inside of her thigh before he pressed a kiss right where she still ached. “That’s right,” he whispered, venom and reverence tangled in one breath, “Because he doesn’t deserve you. He never earned you.”

Then, like he had all the time in the world to unmake her, he spat onto her already wet cunt and used his fingers to smear it over her, slow and messy, watching her squirm like it brought him peace. His tongue followed—lazy, torturous licks that never quite gave her what she wanted, just enough to tease the high without ever letting her have it.

“You think you can run, start over, change your name, change your life,” he murmured against her, his breath hot and cruel. “But your body’s still mine. Still recognizes me. That little cunt of yours, she never forgot. She just waited.”

He slid two fingers into her without warning, curling them deep, thumb stroking her clit with maddening control as he kissed the inside of her knee, almost lovingly.

Then he looked up at her, and it was Austin again—but only just.

“You gonna come again for me, Talia?”

She nodded desperately.

“Say my name.”

She hesitated—eyes wide, breath shaking, the fear and arousal tangled too deep to separate.

His hand stilled.

“I said—” he growled, curling his fingers threateningly, “—say. My fucking. Name.”

She cried out, “Sir— please—Sir—I’m yours—”

He smiled like the devil finally getting his due.

“I know.”

The couch hadn’t even gone cold beneath her thighs before he dragged her off it.

Not harsh—never to hurt her—but with the kind of dominance that made her knees weak before they even hit the ground. The kind of touch that said: you’re mine, that said this is happening whether you’re ready or not, because her body had always been his before her mind ever caught up.

The hardwood floor was cool beneath her spine, but he was already between her legs, hands bruising her hips, not letting her shift or squirm or catch her breath. Her back arched off the floor, only for him to shove her down again with a palm spread flat across her sternum, pressing until she stilled like a dog told to heel.

“You don’t run from me,” he murmured, voice low, rough, and close enough that she felt it against her lips before she tasted it. “You don’t start over. You don’t get to forget me.”

He leaned in, kissed her—slow and filthy. Tongue in her mouth like he was reclaiming territory. Teeth dragging her bottom lip until she whined into it. Then he pulled back, eyes locked on hers as he lifted her thighs over his shoulders and slid in slow.

All the air left her lungs.

He didn’t thrust yet. Just stayed buried inside her, deep enough to make her feel every breath he took. Deep enough that her walls clenched like she’d never get used to him. Deep enough that the burn turned into a plea.

He leaned down, lips brushing her ear, the sweat from his chest smearing against hers as he said: “You feel that? That’s what home is, Talia. That’s what you tried to leave behind.”

And then he moved.

Deliberate. Measured. Cruel. Each roll of his hips was meant to etch himself back into her, to erase every memory of Johnny, to punish her for every second she’d spent pretending she could live without this—without him.

Her head tipped back, teeth sinking into her lip as tears welled in her eyes. From the stretch. From the overwhelming pleasure. From the guilt. From the truth.

“I missed you,” she choked, voice cracked and broken.

He grinned, but there was no joy in it—just hunger.

“I know you did, baby.”

His pace grew harsher, grounding himself with a hand around her throat—not to choke this time, just to hold. Just to own. His thumb brushed the corner of her jaw with something like reverence as he ruined her from the inside out.

“Missed you too,” he breathed. “Missed this pussy. Missed those little whimpers you make when you’re close. Missed how you beg.”

She was falling apart beneath him—clutching at his arms, her legs trembling around his shoulders, mouth open in a silent scream as her body surrendered. And still, he didn’t let up.

He reached between them, rubbed her clit in tight, rough circles that made her cry out.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Come on, baby. Mark my floor.”

And when she came, she screamed.

Back arched. Nails raking. Legs kicking.

He held her through it—watched her unravel. Watched her give in.

And then he slowed. Just for a second.

Bent down to kiss her, slow this time. Like he had all the time in the world. Like she wasn’t a girl who ran. Like she hadn’t thrown him into the ocean and hoped he’d drown.

“I’m still yours,” he whispered. “Even after all this time.”

Then he moved again.

And this time? He didn’t stop.

He didn’t say a word when he pulled out—just flipped her like she weighed nothing, like his hands had memorized her bones, like this was second nature.

Her cheek hit the cold wood floor with a soft exhale, her bare hips in the air before she could even catch her breath. She started to rise on her elbows, but his palm pressed between her shoulder blades, pinning her down.

"Stay right there," he muttered.

And then?

She felt it.

That warm drag of spit landing between her shoulder blades—right where the lilies were inked in deep black, the ones she’d gotten for him, the ones he used to trace with his lips when she was half asleep and glowing in post-orgasm silence.

His hand smoothed it in slowly, fingers reverent, almost tender. His palm flattened over it like a seal, rubbing it in like a ritual.

“Still mine,” he whispered. “Even after all that time, even after you left me to rot—you still walk around with me on your skin.”

His grip on her hips was bruising now, pulling her back until the head of his cock kissed her entrance again, slow, teasing, unbearably thick.

“You branded yourself for me, Talia. You really thought I wouldn’t come back for what’s mine?”

And then he slammed back into her.

No buildup. No warning.

Just raw possession—his hips slapping against her ass with unforgiving rhythm, his name falling from her mouth in broken gasps and muffled moans. She clawed at the floor, her legs trembling, eyes glassy, tears slipping free from the sheer overload.

He fucked her like she owed him a debt.

Like every thrust was a punishment and a prayer.

Like she could repent by taking all of him, over and over, until she was too wrecked to even remember the name “Johnny.”

“Say it,” he growled, leaning down until his chest was pressed to her slick, shivering back, lips at her ear. “Say who you belong to.”

She shook her head, mouth open, whimpering—defiant even now.

So he drove deeper. Harder. Unrelenting.

“Say it,” he hissed again. “Or I’ll keep going till the sun comes up.”

She sobbed once, hands clawing uselessly at the wood.

Then—

“You!” she cried out. “It’s you—it’s always you—”

And he fucking grinned.

“That’s my girl.”

She was limp beneath him now—body wrung out and trembling, legs no longer strong enough to hold her weight. Her face was pressed to the floor, cheek damp with sweat and tears she hadn’t even realized had fallen. Every inch of her ached, her breath coming in shallow pants as his pace finally started to slow.

And then she felt it—his grip tightening at her hips, the stuttering roll of his thrusts, and the low, guttural sound that escaped him as he spilled inside her, raw and possessive and final.

He stayed there for a second, buried so deep she swore she could feel his heartbeat inside her. One hand slid up her back, not gentle but not cruel either, pressing between her shoulder blades like a brand.

When he pulled out, she whimpered—emptiness rushing in like a cold wind—and before she could so much as twitch, he flipped her onto her back. Her legs fell open instinctively, and he looked down at the mess he’d made: his cum already dripping out of her, slicking her thighs, staining the floor.

His fingers traced her inner thigh slowly.

“Go on,” he said, voice low, soft, almost cruel in how calm it was. “You know what to say.”

She blinked up at him, lips trembling, defiance flickering and dying under the weight of her own desire.

He cocked his head, watching her closely, waiting.

“Thank you,” she whispered, shame hot in her chest.

He leaned down, breath brushing her lips. “Say it right.”

“…Thank you, sir,” she gasped, and her eyes fluttered closed in humiliation, in surrender.

He kissed her.

Not soft. Not brutal. Just sure. His tongue slid against hers like it had every right to be there. Like she’d never left. Like he never planned to let her leave again.

And when he pulled back, his hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face to his.

“That’s my girl.”

The tub steamed as he turned the faucet off with a click, the silence that followed almost holy in its stillness. She stood at the threshold of the bathroom, wrapped in nothing but one of his old shirts—something he must’ve stashed in her drawer when she wasn’t looking, years ago, as if he’d always known he’d come back.

He didn’t ask. He just stepped over, took her hand, and guided her in.

The water was hot, wrapping her legs as she sank into it, slow and shaky. He climbed in behind her, pulling her into his chest, letting her body rest against his—spine to ribs, shoulder to collarbone. His arms came around her with the same quiet possessiveness he’d always held her with, as if she was something delicate the world hadn’t yet earned.

The silence stretched.

Until finally, he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

“I’m sorry.”

She froze.

“For what?”

He was quiet for a beat. The kind of silence that vibrated.

“For gettin’ caught.”

She turned her head just enough to see him. “Not for what you did?”

“No,” he said simply, dragging a washcloth down the length of her arm, slow. “I’d do it again. I’d do worse.”

She swallowed hard.

His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “But I’m sorry I left you alone. Sorry I let anyone else touch what’s mine. Sorry I didn’t protect you from all of it, the way I said I would.”

The washcloth trailed up her neck, brushing over the edge of her jaw. She shivered, not from the heat, not from the water—but from him. Always him.

“You’re coming home,” he murmured, as if it was fact, not request. “Soon as we get outta here, I’m takin’ you back with me. Back where you belong. No more hiding, no more running, no more faking smiles for men who don’t know how to keep you.”

Her breath hitched.

He pressed his mouth to her temple. “You hear me, baby? You belong to me. You always did.”

She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just let herself sink deeper into the water, into him.

Into what she always knew was waiting.

And then—barely above a whisper, like it scared him—he added:

“I love you. God help me, Talia, I love you.”

She didn’t speak for a while. Just let herself melt back into him, the way she used to on quieter nights—nights when there wasn’t blood on his hands or fire in his eyes. When he wasn’t the monster the world knew him as, but just a man who made her tea when she got cramps, who tucked her feet under his thighs on the couch without a word. The man who worshipped her, in his own violent, broken way.

The steam curled up around them, dampening her braids, fogging the mirror across the room. The kind of heat that made it hard to breathe.

“You ruined me,” she whispered finally, so soft he almost missed it.

He froze behind her, fingers still on her arm.

She turned slowly in the tub, water sloshing gently between them as she knelt and faced him, straddling his thighs beneath the surface.

“You know that, right?” she murmured, voice shaking. “No matter who touches me… no matter how far I run… it’s always you. It’s always you.”

His breath left him.

“I love you,” she said, eyes glimmering with something halfway between sorrow and surrender. “God help me… I love you.”

And then she kissed him.

Not frantic. Not angry. Not even lustful.

It was soft. Gentle. Like a prayer passed between trembling lips.

His hands came up to cradle her face, slow and reverent, like she was something holy and he’d forgotten how to worship. Their mouths moved together like muscle memory, like home. There was no rush—just the wet heat of their skin, the slow ache of forgiveness blooming in their chests.

When they finally pulled back, foreheads resting together, her breath stuttered against his.

“You’re mine again,” he said softly, with a quiet smile against her mouth. “Ain’t lettin’ you go this time.”

And for once, she didn’t argue.

[mamasturn]

[mamasturn]

season one westallen how i love you

[mamasturn]

I wanna write but I’m stumpedddd and idk if I can get 1k+ words out 😭😭😭😭

[mamasturn]

Good on JaNa for letting that nigga goooooooooo. My heart hurts for her though :( like dang, just love a Black woman right!!!

[mamasturn]

Aye Cherry needs to be dealt with IMMEDIATELY! Envy will have you do some crazy things but sis is literally bonkers.

Poor Honey :( but Benny don’t play about his girl and her chosen family will go to war for her…PERIOD

@quietemptydiariess @mamasturn @hnch33rios @abswifey(don't hate me pls)

VI. You know i'm no good.

She’s a good girl with bite. He’s a bad idea with a soft spot.

Honey Meyers doesn’t do bikers. She teaches third grade, irons her clothes, and keeps her curls conditioned to perfection. She’s got rules, routines, and a big-boned cat that doesn’t like strangers.

But then Benny Cross rolls in with a crooked smile, one helmet (which he immediately gives her), and a growing obsession he doesn’t bother hiding. He parks across the street from her house just to catch glimpses through her curtains. He reads her annotated romance novels when she’s not home. He learns her favorite sandwich without asking.

And Honey? She swears she doesn’t like him. But the house is starting to. And maybe she is too.

“Eatin’ bugs is just like eatin’ a raw steak. Texture’s damn near the same. The roaches though—those pack in the most protein,” Cockroach said with a wide, toothy grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, like he knew exactly how much he was gettin’ under her skin.

Honey stared at him like he’d sprouted a second head, lips curled in a slow, deliberate sneer. Her half-eaten sandwich was paused mid-air, forgotten in her hand as her stomach gave the faintest lurch.

“Cockroach,” she said slowly, with all the patience she could muster, “I am not eating a bug.”

He just chuckled, shoulders shaking as he leaned forward with that ragged, street-worn charm of his, elbows planted on the scarred tabletop. “Well, Honey… if you tried it—just once—you’d see what I’m talkin’ about. S’good for your immune system. Builds resilience.”

“I got resilience just fine without chewin’ on somethin’ that crawled outta someone’s damn shower drain,” she muttered, wrinkling her nose.

“Protein’s protein,” he shot back with a shrug, like he wasn’t trying to corrupt her entire digestive system. “And besides, Benny’d try it if you asked him to.”

Honey snorted, rolling her eyes as she broke the sandwich in half and wordlessly handed a chunk to him anyway—her way of keeping the peace. “Benny don’t count,” she mumbled, her eyes drifting across the lot toward where he stood with the others, shoulders relaxed but gaze steady like he could feel her watching him. “He’s already lost his damn mind.”

Cockroach grinned wider, practically beaming with that crooked, shit-eatin’ smile of his. “Then y’all are perfect for each other.”

Honey rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck in the back of her skull. She tore another bite from her sandwich with a dramatic sigh, chewing like it took effort not to respond.

“You’ve tried to convince me to eat bugs twice now,” she grumbled, voice low and dry as a summer drought. “You know how insane that sounds, right? Like, real certifiable mess.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest like a man pleased with himself. “Ain’t insane if it’s factual. Science backs me up. Y’ever read about how they eat crickets in Thailand? Crunchy like kettle chips.”

“I’m not in Thailand,” Honey deadpanned, wiping her fingers on a napkin, “I’m in Chicago. With access to supermarkets. And dignity.”

Cockroach let out a wheezy laugh, slapping the table with the flat of his hand. “Girl, I swear, if Benny don’t wife you up soon, I’m takin’ applications.”

“Right,” she muttered with a tight smile, tilting her head. “Just as soon as you brush the roach dust off your breath.”

That shut him up, if only for a beat—long enough for her to pop the last bite of her sandwich in her mouth and glance over her shoulder toward Benny again, as if her body just naturally oriented in his direction these days.

And like clockwork, he was already looking at her. Always watching, always steady. Like she was the only real thing in a room full of noise.

“See?” Cockroach whispered, nudging her arm with a sly elbow. “Perfect.”

The meeting had gone off the rails before the second beer was cracked. What was supposed to be a club sit-down—tight, focused, and efficient—had unraveled into noise, smoke, and reckless laughter by nightfall. And the worst part? It wasn’t even in the garage this time. It was in Kathy’s pristine, two-story home. Her space. Her clean floors. Her beige throw pillows that were now being crushed under the weight of biker boots and grimy denim.

She hadn’t wanted to host. Not really. But she'd sighed through her nose like it pained her to even consider saying yes and, with a resigned hand, passed out coasters like they were shields—some desperate hope that they’d at least respect her furniture. Of course, they didn’t. Not a single one used them. One guy even set a sweating bottle of beer right on her coffee table in front of her like he had a death wish. Kathy muttered something so low under her breath it sounded like a curse—and it probably was.

Honey showed up late, riding in on the back of Benny’s bike with the wind still clinging to her skin. She wore one of her shorter skirts—black and scalloped at the hem—and a sleeveless blouse that fluttered at her waist when she moved. Her curls were tucked up into a scarf, gold hoops swinging from her ears, and her lip gloss shimmered under the porch light. She hadn’t planned to turn heads.

But she did.

And that’s when she felt it. The stare.

It hit her the moment she stepped over the threshold—sharp, cool, and unmistakably feminine. She glanced toward the kitchen archway and saw her. The blonde. Tall, lean, and too put-together for someone trying so hard not to look pressed. She had a cheap leather jacket thrown over her shoulders like armor, and her jeans clung to her hips like a second skin. Her mouth was painted a cherry red, matching her nails wrapped possessively around a glass of whiskey she hadn’t sipped once. Her eyes? They were glued to Honey like a loaded weapon. No smirk. No pleasantry. Just quiet, seething recognition.

Honey didn’t flinch. She just adjusted the strap on her shoulder bag and let Benny’s hand find the curve of her waist, steady and familiar. She didn’t lean into him. Didn’t smile like she had something to prove. But she also didn’t move away. That was enough.

The room was thick with heat, perfume, pot smoke, and old secrets. New faces had filtered in tonight—fresh recruits, green as grass and too high to notice the tension thrumming beneath the surface. They reeked of weed and cocky ambition. One of them tripped over Kathy’s ottoman and called her “ma’am,” which nearly earned him a slap.

The music had changed somewhere between introductions and the third round of drinks. First it was Otis Redding, slow and soulful. Then someone switched to something rougher—an old Creedence record with grit in its teeth. But now it was just noise. The kind that shook the baseboards. Someone had taken their shirt off. Someone else was trying to light a joint off the gas stove. Carmen was dancing barefoot, cackling with a bottle of tequila in one hand and a cigarette tucked behind her ear.

And that woman was still watching her.

Honey shifted her weight on the armrest where she sat, thighs crossed neatly as Benny leaned back beside her, legs splayed and relaxed. His hand—still at her hip—drifted slightly lower, thumb grazing the hem of her skirt with casual claim. She said nothing, just took a slow sip of her beer, eyes flicking to the side where the blonde still stood like she was weighing her worth.

She didn’t know who the woman was. Didn’t care to. But she knew the type. The kind that used to make her shrink in rooms like this. The kind that mistook attention for ownership and history for entitlement.

Honey wasn’t going anywhere. And from the way Benny looked at her like she was the last good thing in a world that had taken too much, it was clear to everyone in that room—including the blonde with the fire in her eyes—that he wasn’t either.

Granted, Benny’s protectiveness wasn’t just about the car parked across the street like some goddamn specter—it was also because of the new blood in the club. He’d been grumbling about them all week, ever since they were patched in. Said they were wild in all the wrong ways—loud, impulsive, violent without cause or code. Said they didn’t understand what the club stood for. That it wasn’t just about the bikes and the booze and the brawls—it was about brotherhood, about loyalty, about having each other’s backs without tearing up the world just for the thrill of it.

Honey knew better than to interrupt when he got like that. He wasn’t the kind of man who needed fixing, just someone to be heard.

So she listened. Let him talk. Let him vent all his frustration while his head lay heavy in her lap and her fingers threaded gently through his hair. Her nails scraped lightly over his scalp as he talked, not even realizing how the touch soothed him, how it kept that hot-blooded temper of his from boiling over.

He’d lay there stretched out across the couch like a man too tired to carry the weight of his name, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, his boots still on, his voice low and gravelly as he muttered about how he didn’t trust them—about how they looked at her like they didn’t know who the hell she belonged to.

“They’re gonna ruin everything, baby,” he’d said once, voice slurred with exhaustion but sharp with conviction. “This ain’t what it was supposed to be. Wasn’t never about bringin’ in wolves who don’t know how to hunt. Just tear and tear until there’s nothin’ left.”

And she’d murmured back something soft—something only half-heard—as her thumb brushed along his temple, her heart aching for the way he always carried the weight of things that weren’t his fault.

She didn’t press him to define whatever it was between them—friend, lover, partner, fiancé, all the blurred in-betweens they kept dancing around. But the truth was, Benny Cross had already made a home out of her lap, her living room, the sound of her voice calling his name. He belonged to her in ways neither of them had the courage to say out loud yet.

So she let him ramble, let him rage in that quiet, bitter way he did when the world didn’t make sense. Because if it meant he’d feel just a little safer—if it meant she’d feel his hand on the small of her back when they walked into rooms full of smoke and stares—then she’d keep listening every night ‘til it all burned clean.

“Who’s that?” Honey asked, voice quiet but edged with curiosity, her tone dipped in velvet but laced with steel. She didn’t look directly—just angled her chin ever so slightly, her dark eyes cutting sideways through thick lashes toward the blonde across the room. She didn’t have to point much. Her gaze spoke volumes.

Cockroach followed it and winced like the air had turned sour. “Ah, hell,” he muttered, his shoulders slouching back as he scratched at the stubble on his jaw. “That’s Cherry.”

Honey hummed, tilting her head as she studied the woman. She stood out like a bruised thumb in a room full of grit and denim—her bleached hair curled in perfect ringlets that were too styled to be effortless, her makeup layered thick and deliberate, mouth glossy like a warning. She was draped across the arm of one of the older members’ chairs like she was born there, legs crossed high, cleavage on full display, and eyes cutting sharper than broken glass. Her gaze flicked to Honey and lingered.

“She always look at folks like that?” Honey asked, low under her breath, the kind of tone reserved for judgment she hadn’t decided to pass down yet. But her body shifted—almost imperceptibly—standing a little straighter, her spine lengthening as she met Cherry’s stare without flinching.

Cockroach gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Only when she feels threatened,” he said, cracking his knuckles idly. “Which—judgin’ by the way she’s starin’ at you like you walked in wearin’ her nameplate necklace—I’d say she feels mighty threatened.”

Honey didn’t say anything for a beat. She just stared, slow and unbothered, watching the way Cherry tossed her hair back and leaned in to whisper something to the man beside her—something sharp and saccharine, like she was trying to sweeten her spit with poison.

“She his ex?” she asked finally, voice flat but not cold. She wasn’t jealous. She was informed. That was different.

Cockroach chuckled, a dry, wheezing thing. “Nah. Not officially. But she tried. Back in the day, she’d crawl across broken glass just to suck the dirt off Benny’s boots. Never quite got what she wanted, though. He didn’t bite. She was everyone’s for a while, but she wanted to be his—and that never sat right with her.”

Honey’s lips curled, slow and deliberate, like molasses sliding down warm bread. “That so?”

“Mhm. Got passed around more than a rolled blunt at a campfire,” he muttered. “Still hangin’ on like someone’s gonna spark her up again.”

Honey’s grin unfurled slow, crooked, and deliberate—more a warning than a smile—as she tilted her head and looked Cockroach dead in the eye. The low hum of the party buzzed behind them—liquor sloshing in red cups, boots scuffing Kathy’s poor hardwood, someone laughing too loud in the living room—but in the kitchen, under the pale overhead light, it felt like time paused for just a second.

"You ever take a hit from that blunt then, Cockroach?" she asked, voice smooth and honey-thick, but there was a bite under it. Like a blade dipped in syrup.

Cockroach damn near spat out his beer. He slapped a hand over his mouth, coughed, and doubled over in a wheezing fit of laughter, thudding his fist against the side of the fridge like he needed to knock some sense back into his brain. When he finally straightened, eyes watering, he wiped them with the back of his wrist, grinning like the devil himself.

“Shit, Honey,” he wheezed, still catching his breath, “you tryin’ to get me jumped? Nah, sweetheart. I got standards—low ones, sure—but that girl?” He leaned closer, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. “She ain’t a blunt. She a whole damn ashtray. Half the club’s stubbed out somethin’ in her.”

Honey let out a snort, her hand covering her mouth briefly as her eyes flicked toward the hallway where Cherry had slithered off—no doubt still lurking like smoke in a room that wouldn't clear. She turned back, her face composed now, sharp, elegant, lips still curled in that smug little smile that made men nervous.

“You a damn fool,” she muttered, shaking her head and leaning back against the kitchen counter. Her skirt rode up just a touch higher on her thigh, and she made no move to tug it down. Her nails tapped rhythmically against the countertop, long and painted blood-red.

Cockroach raised his brows. “You jealous, Honey? Think I got some stories worth tellin’?”

She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes, the gold hoop in her nose glinting under the light. “Please. If I wanted stories, I’d ask her gynecologist. Or her pharmacist.”

He let out a bark of laughter, nearly dropped his beer. “Goddamn, girl. You cold.”

Her eyes shifted then, drawn instinctively across the house to the living room—where Benny stood like a sentry by the arm of the couch, talking to Johnny but not really listening. His fingers twitched near his belt buckle, restless. He was watching her. Watching Cherry too, probably, because he always did keep one eye on the threat and one eye on his woman.

Honey’s voice dropped lower. “Cold?” she murmured, eyes still on Benny’s profile. “Nah. I’m just honest.

She watched as Johnny leaned in toward Benny, a hand braced on the back of the couch like he was telling a secret that wasn’t meant for anyone else in the room. The murmur between them was quiet, buried beneath the hum of laughter, music, and clinking glasses—but Honey didn’t need to hear the words to feel them ripple across the room. It was in the shift of Benny’s mouth, the way his lips pressed into a hard line. The slow draw of breath that made his shoulders lift, then fall, like he was taming something inside of him before it showed.

His eyes flicked to her then. Just a glance—but it landed heavy, like a hand gripping the back of her neck. She felt it in her bones. He nodded once, silent and sure, and Johnny gave a parting clap to his shoulder before slipping away into the crowd.

Benny stayed where he was for a moment. Still. Watchful. Like a man standing at the edge of a cliff and listening for something just beyond the drop. Then he started walking toward her, weaving through bodies and smoke with that quiet, cutting sort of presence that parted space for him without needing to say a damn thing. Every step was deliberate. Heavy. Protective.

Honey straightened up from the counter where she’d been sipping something sweet with too much ice, her back warm from the heat of the room and her pulse ticking up without permission. She didn’t pretend she wasn’t watching him approach. She never could, not when he looked at her like she was his tether to earth.

He stopped just in front of her—close enough that she could smell the leather on his jacket, the smoke on his skin, the salt of sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat. Close enough to count his breaths.

“I’m goin’ outside for a bit,” he said, voice low and firm. The kind of low that meant he was trying to keep something in. Not for his sake, but for hers.

Her brows twitched slightly. She didn’t respond right away.

He leaned in, gaze dark and intent, cutting a little deeper as he said, “Stay here, yeah? No wonderin’, Honeybee. I mean it.”

The way he said her name—Honeybee—made her stomach flutter in spite of the weight in his tone. It wasn’t a request. It was a promise threaded through a warning. A line in the sand. Whatever he was walking into, he didn’t want her stepping near it.

He reached up, brushing his knuckles along the curve of her jaw, gentle and absentminded, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Like he needed to touch her before he turned his back to the room.

And then he was gone—boots heavy against the tile, shoulder brushing the frame of the back door before it creaked open. The sound of it swinging shut behind him felt louder than it should’ve been.

Honey stood there, frozen in the moment he left behind. The air around her felt colder without him in it. The laughter and music blurred together again, but she barely heard it.

Her fingers tightened around her glass. She didn’t move.

Because when Benny Cross said no wonderin’, it didn’t mean he thought she was reckless.

It meant he knew something was out there that didn’t belong.

And he was going to deal with it. Alone.

Cherry Hilton never thought things through enough—never paused long enough to weigh the consequences of her words or the tremors they might send through a room like this one. She was impulsive, thoughtless in that sharp, dangerous way. A wildfire, chaotic and bright, the kind of blaze men thought they could enjoy for a night without getting burned, only to wake up with ash in their lungs. And she knew it. She played her part in the club like it was second nature, wearing the title of “club whore” with the same careless grin she wore her lipstick—bold, bleeding at the corners, and never quite smudged enough to wipe off.

The way she saw it, she was just doing what the boys did. If they could lie to their women, toss around promises they never meant to keep, and ride off into the night with whiskey on their breath and guiltless hearts, then so could she. Equal footing, even if it was muddy and cracked beneath her heels.

She leaned against the wall of Kathy’s kitchen, nursing a bottle she hadn’t paid for, her gaze sharp and mean as she surveyed the party. Her boots were scuffed, her jeans painted on, and her hair hung like spun gold over her shoulders—perfectly disheveled, like sin bottled up in tight denim and a push-up bra.

“Cherry, you puttin’ out today?” one of the new guys called, his voice slurred and loud from across the room. He was leaning back in a kitchen chair, beer dripping down the side of the bottle clenched in his fist, eyes glassy with a smirk that dared her to answer.

Most nights, she would’ve tossed something flirty back. Maybe winked, maybe offered a lap and a laugh and called it a game. But not tonight.

Not with her here.

Not with the girl in the short skirt.

Honey Meyers, radiant and calm, with her thick curls and honey-rich skin and eyes that made Benny Cross—cold, closed-off, fucked-up Benny Cross—look soft.

And maybe that was what burned worst of all. That Benny, the only one who’d ever turned Cherry away, didn’t just ignore her now. He looked past her. As if she were no more than cigarette smoke curling in the air. As if Honey was the only thing that existed once she walked into a room.

So Cherry smiled. Sweet. Venomous. An idea sparked behind her lips—quick, cruel, and untamed.

“Nah,” she purred, loud enough for half the room to hear, her gaze locked right on Benny’s back, “but the girl in the short skirt is.”

The words hung in the air like broken glass.

And Cherry? Cherry just sipped her drink and watched the match catch fire.

…

It had been over an hour since Benny disappeared outside, and Honey's patience—normally quiet, steady, and forgiving when it came to that man—was fraying. She’d checked the back door once. Then again. Nothing but smoke curling from the moonlit porch and the dull hum of the road beyond. She told herself he was probably just cooling off, maybe arguing with Johnny again about the new recruits, the ones he’d been grumbling about all week.

But still, something in her chest stirred restlessly.

The house was hotter now, swollen with bodies and noise. Kathy’s two-story had become an unholy thing—walls sweating, carpet sticky beneath boot soles, the air soured by too many cigarettes, too much weed, too many voices talking over each other. Laughter turned meaner with the hour. Someone smashed a bottle in the kitchen and no one flinched. The music bled into the floorboards, and Honey, perched uneasily in a corner of the living room, realized that this wasn’t the same crowd she’d grown to trust. This wasn’t her people.

She rose from her chair and muttered something about looking for Kathy, weaving through the bodies with practiced ease. She passed Wahoo and Cal—old dogs she knew by name and heart—and their warm nods settled her nerves for a beat. But then she turned down the hallway and saw them. The new ones.

They weren’t wearing smiles. Just grins. Wide. Sharp. Full of teeth.

She clocked them instantly—the way they spread out just enough to box her in, how their bodies tightened like coils, how their eyes moved not to meet hers, but down. Down her frame. Down the legs exposed beneath her skirt.

Honey kept walking. She didn’t look afraid.

She smiled.

Just a small one. A polite one.

And that was the mistake.

Fingers snatched her arm like a trap snapping shut. She was yanked back mid-step, her breath leaving her in a sharp oof as her back collided with one man’s chest.

“Where you runnin’ off to, sweetheart?” someone drawled behind her ear. The reek of stale beer clung to his breath.

Another hand slid against her waist, rough, greedy, pressing close. A third man blocked the hallway ahead.

Her body tensed, instincts roaring to life. “Let go of me,” she snapped, voice tight, trembling. She twisted hard, only for someone’s fingers to dig cruelly into her hip, pinning her.

“Relax, darlin’,” the one holding her wrist murmured, his voice low and amused, “We just wanna show you a good time…”

“No—get off me!” Honey snarled, panic seizing her throat. She shoved hard at the man’s chest, her fingernails catching on leather, trying to rake, trying to hurt, but he was laughing now, the sound thick and ugly.

They started dragging her backward.

And she saw the door. Closed. Waiting. A bedroom. Dimly lit.

Her heart climbed into her throat.

She knew what waited on the other side.

“Benny!” she screamed, her voice ripping from her like something feral. “BENNY!”

They didn’t stop. Not at her voice. Not at her fists.

She thrashed like a thing possessed, clawing, kicking, elbowing, teeth bared. Her foot connected with one man’s shin and he cursed viciously, yanking her arm hard enough she felt something pop in her shoulder.

But she screamed again.

“BENNY!” The scream ripped from her lungs, fractured and ragged, splitting the still air like lightning. “BENNY, PLEASE—!”

Her voice cracked under the weight of it, barely recognizable as her own. Every inch of her body trembled, her lungs straining for breath she couldn’t catch, her heart thundering so hard it drowned out all thought. Her fingernails scrabbled at the doorframe like claws, splinters biting into her skin, palms slick with sweat and mascara and panic. She could barely see—her vision swam, watery and warped with tears that streaked down her cheeks in thick, trembling lines, dragging her makeup with them.

The hall was dimly lit, shadows long and menacing. The men dragged her backwards, one arm crushing around her waist, another hand yanking her wrist too tight, their laughter cruel and breath foul as they murmured promises she refused to process.

“Ain’t nobody comin’ for you, sweetheart,” one of them sneered, low and oily in her ear.

“Let’s take her upstairs—”

“Don’t fight, doll. Might like it.”

They were trying to carry her. Toward a room. A door. A bed. If they got her through that threshold—

No.

No.

She kicked harder, screamed louder, nails raking across the wall until they split, until the paint peeled. “BENNY!” she shrieked, voice pitch-shifted into something primal, guttural—feral. “PLEASE!”

And then—a bang.

A door flew open like a shot.

Heavy boots slammed against the floor, fast and furious. Not stomping—charging.

And like a specter summoned by blood and terror, Johnny appeared. His leather jacket flared behind him like wings of vengeance. He didn’t shout. Didn’t hesitate.

He just struck.

The first man never stood a chance. Johnny’s fist connected with the side of his face in a sharp, bone-snapping crack. The man hit the wall hard, blood spattering in a fan across the plaster as he collapsed, unconscious before he hit the floor.

The second one kept his grip on Honey, still dragging her by the waist. That was a mistake.

Johnny slammed into him like a freight train, his shoulder driving through the man’s chest and sending them both crashing through the nearest bedroom door. The wood exploded off the hinges, a violent eruption of splinters and screams. Grunts. Punches. Flesh on flesh.

Honey dropped to her knees, breath gone, body shaking so hard she barely noticed the bruises forming along her arms where they’d grabbed her. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, her chest heaving like she was breathing fire instead of air. She was still sobbing, hiccuping now as shock began to spread through her limbs.

And that was when the third man tried to flee.

But he’d waited a second too long.

From the far hallway came a blur—barefoot, bare-chested, jeans slung low on his hips, a silver chain swinging around his neck as he charged.

Benny.

His eyes locked onto Honey, her broken sobs, her trembling figure—and then to the man running.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t speak.

He tackled him with the force of a truck, the two of them slamming to the floor in a bone-shattering crash. Benny straddled him in one brutal movement, pinning him to the ground, and then—

The fists started.

And they didn’t stop.

Each hit landed with a sickening thud, a wet snap of bone and cartilage. Blood sprayed from the man’s nose, then his mouth, then his eyebrow. He thrashed under Benny’s weight, but Benny only leaned harder, teeth gritted, mouth curled in a snarl of white-hot fury.

“You touched her?” Benny’s voice was low, broken, trembling with rage. “You put your filthy hands on her? You motherfucker—”

Another hit.

And another.

His fists were coated in blood now—his knuckles skinned raw, and still he didn’t stop.

“You think I won’t kill you? You think I won’t fucking kill you?”

Behind them, Honey didn’t move.

She couldn’t. Her legs had given out. Her hands shook. She could feel her own heartbeat in her ears, in her throat, in her fingertips. The hallway spun and dipped and curled at the edges of her vision.

That’s when Johnny appeared again, breath ragged, his face splattered with someone else’s blood. His gaze swept over her like a searchlight, frantic, and when he saw her crumpled against the wall, he rushed forward.

“Honey,” he said, kneeling, catching her just as she started to slump.

“I-I—” Her voice was barely there, shaking like a leaf.

“I got you,” Johnny murmured, pulling her into his arms, shielding her from the chaos still raging at the end of the hall. “I got you now. Don’t look, baby girl. You don’t need to see this part.”

But it was too late.

She’d already seen enough. Johnny didn’t waste time with questions. He saw her and he knew—the way a man knows when a storm’s about to break, when blood’s been spilled, when something precious has been defiled. Honey collapsed into his arms like a puppet whose strings had been cut, her breath hitching in shallow, stuttering gasps against his shoulder.

She didn’t sob. Not at first. She just shook.

He wrapped his arms around her like armor, one hand gripping her waist, the other cradling the back of her head with a gentleness that almost looked foreign on him. Her curls were damp at the roots, sticking to her temple with sweat, and her lashes were clumped with mascara—smudged black streaks trailing down her cheeks like scars that hadn’t healed yet. Her blouse was tugged off one shoulder, the buttons straining. Her knees were scraped raw where she must’ve kicked or been dragged.

And she smelled like fear. Not sweat. Not smoke. But pure, instinctive terror.

He didn’t speak again. He just moved.

Johnny cut through the crowd like a blade, Honey tucked close to his chest, ignoring the thump of music, the beer-fueled laughter that suddenly felt like an insult to everything holy. No one stopped him. Not when they saw his face. Not when they saw hers.

His boots pounded against Kathy’s hallway floor like war drums. He could feel her trembling in his arms, the way her breath caught with every step, the way she clutched him like she was terrified he might let go and she’d vanish. Like she was still trying to outrun the moment she’d screamed his best friend’s name into the dark.

When he reached the guest room, he didn’t knock.

He kicked the damn door open.

Kathy shot up from where she’d been perched on the bed, her glass of red wine forgotten, mouth already opening to snap about the door— Until she saw what he was carrying.

“Honey?” Her voice went soft and panicked at once.

Honey didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. Her head stayed buried in Johnny’s chest, shoulders shaking with silent, exhausted sobs that had nothing left to give.

“She needs Carmen,” Johnny said, his voice so low it scraped the floor. “Now.”

“But—Johnny, Carmen’s not here tonight—”

“Call her. You tell her Honey needs her. She’ll come.”

Kathy nodded, already reaching for the phone with trembling hands.

Johnny brought Honey down to sit on the edge of the bed, his arms still around her even as her hands fell limply to her lap. She didn’t fight him. She didn’t move at all. Her eyes were unfocused, lips parted just barely—like she’d gone somewhere deep inside herself and hadn’t found her way back yet.

His voice softened for her, even though his knuckles were white with rage. “You’re alright now, baby. You hear me?” he whispered. “I got you. Ain’t nobody touchin’ you again.”

She blinked slowly, like it took effort. Her lips moved, voice barely there, ghost-thin.

“…Where’s Benny?”

And for the first time, Johnny’s throat tightened.

Because he could hear him. Benny was still down that hall. And by the sound of things—something breaking, someone screaming— He wasn’t done.

Not by a long shot.

“I’m gonna go get him yeah, jus’ stay here.”

“C’mere, sugar,” Betty murmured, her voice thick with something soft and sturdy—like velvet wrapped around steel—as she stepped forward and eased Honey from Johnny’s arms with a practiced kind of grace. “I’m gonna put you back together, yeah?”

Honey didn’t resist. Couldn’t. Her body folded into Betty’s like she had no bones left, like everything in her had gone limp from the inside out. Her breath still came in short, jagged inhales, and her knees buckled slightly as Betty guided her to the edge of the bed, lowering her down like she was glass that had already started to crack.

Johnny stood there a second longer, fists clenched and jaw ticking as he watched. When Kathy brushed past him, nearly knocking into the dresser in her scramble for the phone, he finally moved—storm energy bleeding off him in waves, a storm that hadn’t broken yet, but would. Soon.

Betty smoothed Honey’s hair back from her face, her calloused hands feather-light, thumbs brushing gently beneath her tear-streaked eyes. “There we go, baby girl,” she whispered, crouching down in front of her like a mother tending to her child. “It’s alright now. You’re safe. Ain’t nobody got their hands on you. Not anymore.”

Honey blinked at her, slowly, lashes wet and trembling. Her mouth opened—then shut. She tried to speak but the words caught in her throat, lodged like splinters. She shook her head weakly, fists still balled in the fabric of her skirt, as if she was bracing herself for something to still come.

“They didn’t touch you, did they?” Betty asked quietly—firm, but not forceful.

Honey shook her head again, this time harder, more frantic. “No,” she rasped. “No—but they—they were gonna, and I—”

Her breath broke then. Cracked right down the middle. She brought her hands up to her face and let out a sound—half sob, half scream—raw and splintered. Betty didn’t flinch. She just reached up, pulled Honey’s hands away from her face, and cradled her jaw gently, grounding her.

“You got out,” Betty said, voice unwavering. “You fought. You made it loud, you made it clear, and you called for him. That’s what saved you. You hear me? That’s what saved you. Ain’t no shame in shakin’. Ain’t no shame in bein’ scared.”

Behind them, Kathy’s voice rose on the phone. “Carmen, it’s Honey. You need to come now—yeah. Now.”

The bedroom door clicked shut as Johnny stepped out, likely heading back down that hallway where the shouting had started, where someone had screamed in a way that made even Kathy freeze in place.

Honey stared at the closed door like it might open again.

Betty followed her gaze, then reached for a blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Don’t you worry ‘bout him,” she said, tucking the fabric around Honey’s shivering frame. “He heard you.”

Honey’s eyes shimmered, wide and glassy.

“I think… he’s gonna kill ‘em.”

Betty didn’t lie. Didn’t sugar-coat. Just tucked a stray curl behind Honey’s ear and said, quiet and steady:

“Good.”

…

Benny had always carried a particular kind of rage—an old, mean thing that had lived in him since he was a boy. It gnawed at his insides like a starving dog, snarling and restless, snapping at every hand that reached too close. Nobody had ever really tamed him—not teachers, not cops, not the club. He was fire without a furnace, always on the verge of bursting.

But then there was Honey.

And somehow, somehow, she’d made a home for the beast in him.

She didn’t shrink from it. Didn’t flinch when the fury lit behind his eyes. She saw it. Understood it. Loved him anyway.

She was his girl. His woman. His wife in every way that counted, ring or not. The one he wanted to build a life for. A family with. That’s why he’d gone legit—working as a mechanic during the day, grease under his fingernails, clocking in and out like a man with a future. Saving every penny toward a house with a porch and a nursery and enough room for a dog that wouldn’t growl like he did.

But make no mistake.

That dog wasn’t dead. He was just chained.

And tonight, the chain had snapped.

The room was still except for the wet, ragged breathing of the man beneath him—if you could call what was left a man. Benny straddled his chest, fists soaked to the wrists in blood. His knuckles were raw, split open, pieces of skin stuck in the other guy’s teeth. Blood was on his jeans, his forearms, even splattered across his throat like some warpaint he didn’t know he’d earned.

The others—those who’d laid hands on Honey—were crumpled in the corners like discarded paper. Breathing. Maybe. He didn’t know. Didn’t care.

This one had begged. He remembered that. Begged with a mouth full of broken teeth and a nose flattened sideways.

It hadn’t moved him.

The door creaked open behind him.

Johnny stepped in, quiet as death, the room heavy with copper and vengeance. He didn’t speak at first. Just shut the door gently behind him, glancing at the mess—then at the man still breathing, barely. A pillow in one hand, a silenced pistol in the other.

“Back away, Benny,” Johnny said low, firm. “You did enough.”

Benny didn’t move at first.

Just sat there, chest heaving, the wild still in his eyes.

“She was screamin’, Johnny,” he rasped. “She was screamin’ for me.”

“I know,” Johnny murmured, stepping closer, the barrel disappearing beneath the pillow. “And you came.”

A beat passed.

Then Benny stood slowly, every joint stiff with rage, shoulders rolled back like he was ready to fight God if He walked in next.

He looked down one last time.

And then he turned, wiping his hands on his shirt like the blood didn’t matter, like nothing could ever clean them anyway.

Johnny knelt beside what remained of the man and pressed the pillow down.

Benny didn’t stay to watch.

He was already walking back toward Honey.

His girl. His reason. And the only thing in this world that ever made the dog sit.

…

Betty’s heart broke right in her chest.

She knelt in front of Honey gently, steady hands cupping the younger woman’s cheeks like she was made of glass—glass that had just been dropped, cracked at the edges, held together only by the thinnest threads of will. Honey’s lashes were wet, clumped with tears and mascara, and her voice shook like it was trying not to collapse.

“H-he told me not to go anywhere,” Honey whispered again, a tremor riding through every syllable. “Said ‘don’t wander, Honeybee’ and I did. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t’ve—”

“Oh, baby,” Betty murmured, thumb brushing the damp tracks beneath her eyes. “None of this is on you, you hear me? None of it.”

“But I wandered,” Honey croaked, voice rising in guilt and panic as her lip trembled. “‘S my fault—”

“No,” Betty said, firm now, but still gentle. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, Honey. You smiled at some men and looked for your friend in a house full of people you should’ve been safe around. That ain’t a crime. That ain’t a sin. That’s just bein’ a girl in a world that don’t know how to treat one right.”

Honey blinked hard, more tears slipping free. Her shoulders curled in on themselves, and Betty wrapped her up before she could spiral further—pulled her against her chest like a mother would, arms encircling her tightly as Honey broke all over again. The sob that left her was high and thin, a cracked-glass sound that seemed to echo in the walls.

“You’re safe now,” Betty whispered into her hair. “You’re safe and you’re here and he’s gonna be back any minute. And when he gets here? You ain’t gonna have to say a word, baby girl. He already knows.”

Honey nodded into her shoulder, the weight of the night still sinking in, her breath still hitching. She could still smell them. Still feel hands that hadn’t quite touched her, but almost had.

Almost had was too close. It was enough.

But she was here. Still here. And Benny was coming.

She just had to hold on long enough to see his eyes again. To let herself fall apart in the only place she’d ever felt truly held.

Carmen sighed, a deep and shaky breath that trembled out of her like it had been trapped in her lungs for too long. Her eyes, usually sharp and quick to catch onto the smallest details, were glassy now—rimmed red, shining with unshed tears that clung to her lashes like dew. She hadn’t spoken much since she’d arrived, since Kathy’s call tore her from her quiet evening and dropped her into the center of this nightmare.

Now, standing just outside the bedroom door where Betty was holding Honey together piece by fragile piece, she turned toward Cal, who lingered beside her like an anchor, as if he could keep her from floating off into fury or grief.

“I should’ve come tonight,” she whispered, voice raw. “I knew somethin’ was off. I felt it in my bones, Cal. The minute you said the new ones were comin’—the minute I saw their faces last week—I knew.”

Cal’s jaw tensed, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Ain’t your fault, Carm,” he muttered, though even he didn’t sound sure. “Ain’t no one expected this. Those boys—those animals—they crossed a line we didn’t even think we had to draw.”

“But I knew,” Carmen insisted, her voice cracking under the weight of her guilt. “I should’ve been here. You know she listens to me. If I’d just been here—if I’d stayed close—I could’ve stopped it.”

Cal reached for her, strong hands wrapping around her shoulders as he pulled her close, grounding her. “You listen to me right now, Carmen. Those sons of bitches didn’t get what they came for. Honey’s alive. She’s in one piece because she fought like hell. Because Johnny heard her. Because we got here.”

Carmen blinked fast, tears slipping free now, running hot down her cheeks. “She’s just a girl, Cal. She’s so young. That could’ve been—” Her voice failed her.

“I know,” he whispered.

They stood in the hallway for a moment, grief and rage burning like twin flames in their chests. From inside the room, they could hear Honey crying—soft now, exhausted, muffled against Betty’s chest.

Carmen wiped her face with the back of her hand and straightened her spine. Her tears still clung to her chin, but her jaw was set now. Cold. Sure. “I want names. Every last one of ‘em. The ones who stood there. The ones who touched her. The ones who said nothin’. I want names, and I want them gone.”

Cal looked at her—and in that moment, he didn’t see his wife. He saw the woman who’d survived too many nights like this. The woman who once kicked in a man’s teeth for laying hands on a girl half his size. The woman who would burn this entire club to the ground before she let Honey cry like this ever again.

“You’ll have ‘em,” he promised. “By the time Benny gets back in this house, I swear to God, we’ll have every last one.”

… When Benny came for her, the house had fallen under a hush so thick it felt like grief. A breath held too long. A silence that crawled across walls and wedged itself into corners.

He didn’t storm in. Didn’t shout or slam. The fury that had torn through his fists earlier—leaving men bloodied, broken, breathing barely—was gone now, buried under something heavier. Something deeper. Something that buckled his knees before he even reached the bed.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Honey sat motionless under the low glow of a bedside lamp, wrapped in a throw blanket that looked too thin for the kind of shivering happening in her bones. Her legs were pulled close to her chest. Her arms, knotted tight around them. Her face blotched from crying, lips swollen from biting back sobs, dried streaks of mascara tracking down the soft curves of her cheeks.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t flinch.

She looked like a ghost of herself.

And Benny—Benny dropped.

Right there, on the floor, knees crashing to the hardwood like penance. Like punishment. He didn’t ease down. He fell. Hard. His palms hit the floor before he could catch himself, and then he was kneeling in front of her, his chest heaving as if the weight of not being there was pressing into his ribs with a vengeance.

He had blood on him. On his knuckles, on his jeans. Someone else’s and maybe some of his. He didn’t care. All he could see was her.

“Honeybee…” His voice cracked on her name, just a breath, just a prayer. “Look at me, baby. Please.”

She didn’t.

His throat bobbed, and his breath stuttered as he reached out—then drew back. He didn’t touch her. Not yet. Didn’t want to hurt her worse.

“I shoulda been here,” he rasped. “I told you I’d never let nothin’ touch you. I told you I’d keep you safe. That I’d be there. And I wasn’t.”

She still didn’t say a word. But her knuckles, wrapped around her own arms, had gone white.

Benny swallowed hard. “You were callin’ for me. Wailin’ my name like it was the only thing you had left. And I wasn’t there. I was fuckin’ gone, off tryin’ to play smart and fix shit on my own—meanwhile, my girl was gettin’ dragged by the goddamn wolves.”

Her shoulders shook, barely.

“I let you down.” His voice caught—sharp, sudden, helpless. “I let you down so fuckin’ bad, Honey. And I know—I know sayin’ sorry ain’t enough. It’ll never be enough. But I am. I am so—” He broke off, eyes clenching shut as a tear slipped down his bruised face. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I left you alone. I’m sorry they scared you.”

She finally looked at him.

And it wrecked him.

Her eyes were raw, red-ringed, shining with all the fear and hurt she hadn’t spoken aloud. Her lips parted like she might speak, but no sound came. And when his gaze dropped to the curve of her neck, to the faint mark where someone had grabbed too hard, everything inside him snapped again.

“I shoulda killed ’em,” he hissed. “Shoulda done worse than I did.”

Her breath caught. Her face wobbled—just a little.

He reached for her then, hand trembling as he brought it up slow, slow, so she could pull away if she needed to. But she didn’t.

She let his rough fingers brush her cheek. His thumb catching a tear.

“I would burn the fuckin’ world down if you asked me to,” he whispered. “I’d do it with a smile. For you. Always for you.”

And then he said it—really said it.

“Please forgive me, Honey. I’d get on my knees a thousand more times if that’s what it took. I’ll earn you back if I have to. I’ll rebuild every part of you that broke tonight with my bare fuckin’ hands.”

Her lip trembled.

Then, finally, her arms uncoiled. She slid off the bed—quietly, shakily—and into his lap. And Benny caught her like something sacred. Wrapped both arms around her and pressed his face into the crook of her neck like he was coming up for air after drowning.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured over and over, into her hair, her shoulder, her throat. “You’re safe now. I swear it, Honeybee. I’ll never let go again.”

“Do you wanna go home?” Benny asked softly, his voice stripped bare, nothing but gravel and gentleness.

Honey didn’t say a word—just gave the smallest, most fragile nod, like her head was too heavy to lift any higher. Her limbs moved like they weren’t fully hers, like she was still underwater, still stuck somewhere between fight and freeze. She shifted on Kathy’s bed with effort, hands pressing into the mattress to steady herself as she pushed herself upright.

Benny moved to help, but paused, giving her the room to choose.

She stood on her own.

But she was trembling.

The throw blanket around her slipped from one shoulder and he caught it, wrapping it back around her with care, his fingers brushing her bare skin like he was scared to touch too hard. Like she might break.

“Okay,” he said, voice catching in his throat. “Let’s get you home, Honeybee.”

She leaned into his side as they walked out, her small frame tucked against his like a bruise being shielded from the wind. He held her close, protective, reverent. And when they passed through the hallway, past Johnny and Cal and the bloodstains already being scrubbed out of the wood, no one said a word.

Because they all knew.

She didn’t need vengeance. She needed peace.

And Benny Cross was going to give her nothing less than everything.

…

The ride back was quiet.

Too quiet.

Honey curled against Benny’s back on the bike, her arms wrapped around his waist, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket like she was afraid he’d disappear. The wind whipped through her curls and stung at her face, but she didn’t flinch. She just pressed her cheek against his spine and closed her eyes, trusting him to take her home. Trusting him.

When they reached her place—their place, really, though neither had said it aloud—Benny eased the bike to a stop. He didn’t rush her off. He sat there for a moment, letting the engine tick into silence beneath them, his hand resting over hers where it clung to him. Then, gently, he dismounted, turned to help her down, hands soft as they held her steady.

She looked small under the porchlight. Still in the same short skirt and scuffed-up boots. Mascara smudged down her cheeks, her eyes too wide, too tired.

He unlocked the door with the key she gave him weeks ago, held it open for her like always. But tonight, she didn’t glide through the doorway with that usual sway in her hips. She walked slowly, shoulders hunched, fingers still brushing his as she passed him.

Once inside, Benny locked the door. Deadbolt. Chain. Everything.

Then he turned to her.

“You wanna get cleaned up, Honeybee?” he asked, voice low, like speaking too loud might shatter her.

She nodded. Barely. “Yeah.”

He helped her to the bathroom, flipped on the light, and wordlessly reached for the warm washcloth he always used on her when she was drunk or sick or had a rough day at the school. He ran it under warm water, wrung it out, then turned to her—gentle, careful, so reverent it hurt.

She stood by the sink, quiet, waiting.

He lifted the cloth to her cheek, dabbing softly at the mascara trails. Her skin was warm beneath it, flushed from crying.

“I should’ve been there,” he murmured as he worked. “I shoulda never left you alone.”

“You didn’t know,” she whispered.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, dipping the cloth again. “I promised I’d keep you safe, Honey. That’s all I care about. You—you’re all I care about.”

He knelt in front of her, wiping down her scratched knees, careful not to press too hard. Her thighs were still trembling. His hands lingered around her calves, grounding her, always letting her see what he was doing.

“Arms up,” he said gently.

She obeyed, and he peeled her out of her shirt, moving slow. Then he turned to grab the softest of her sleep shirts from the nearby hamper—the one he always saw her wear on rainy days—and slipped it over her head.

He stood there for a beat, heart aching.

“You want water?” he asked, trying to keep busy.

She shook her head, barely above a whisper: “No.”

He waited.

Then she stepped forward and placed her palm on his chest, over his heartbeat.

“Don’t go to your room,” she said quietly. “Not tonight.”

His breath caught.

“Stay with me,” she added. “Just... stay.”

Benny didn’t speak—just nodded. One sharp, quiet nod. Like a vow.

He turned off the light, led her to bed, pulled back the sheets, and helped her climb in before slipping in beside her, fully clothed. She curled into his chest like she was trying to crawl inside him, to feel safe, to feel his warmth, and he held her like he never planned to let her go.

His hand rubbed slow circles on her back until her breathing evened out.

And long after she drifted off, Benny stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, the weight of what nearly happened carved into his chest.

But she was safe.

In his arms, in his bed—safe.

And for now, that was enough.

[mamasturn]

Her face card is literally insane

Olandria

https://www.instagram.com/x__0lan?igsh=MXg5OHcxNzE0ODkyOA==

[mamasturn]

Forwards hat? smash, backwards? double smash

[mamasturn]

YAAS

And trust a fic will be written- Hank and emerie WILL be making their return

[mamasturn]

I know this is Dune but the history major in me is quakingggggg

feyd rautha x oc! celeste lioran tags @mamasturn<3 new fic cutie!!

Celeste Lioran was meant to be a diplomat’s daughter. A scholar. A bride to the golden boy of House Atreides. But fate—cruel and cosmic—tore her path apart the day House Lioran pledged allegiance to the Harkonnens in a bid for survival. Now she walks the blackened halls of Giedi Prime, engaged to the brutal Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, heir to a legacy soaked in blood and ambition.

Their union was meant to be strategic. Political. A sealing of power. But ancient prophecies whisper of a child born from shadow and starlight. And Feyd—ruthless, hairless, lethal—becomes obsessed with her.

She's poised and sharp-tongued, he’s a storm barely held in check. She jokes about taking a concubine, and he nearly draws blood. She flinches. He notices. She runs. He hunts. And when they collide, it’s never gentle.

Torn between the ghost of Paul Atreides and the force that is Feyd, Celeste must navigate love twisted with violence, destiny marked in blood, and a planet ready to devour them whole. On Arrakis, where the sand remembers everything, their fates entwine under two moons—one watching, one waiting.

House Lioran never concerned itself with the affairs of those beneath it. Such was the legacy of their line—a truth upheld for eons, carved into sunstone and scripture alike. Their isolation, so often mistaken for cold detachment or arrogance, was in fact a mercy—one few recognized and fewer still deserved. To draw the attention of House Lioran was to stand beneath the gaze of something ancient and celestial, something that did not interfere with mortal politics because it had no need to.

For generation upon generation, House Lioran endured—untouched by conflict, unmoved by treaties, and uncaring of the petty wars that razed lesser bloodlines to ash. When the Harkonnens carved through Arrakis and left its deserts hemorrhaging spice and blood, Lioran did not stir. When House Atreides was dismantled, its bones scattered beneath the weight of secrets and the soft-footed knives of the Bene Gesserit, Lioran remained silent, cloistered behind its gilded gates and veiled rituals.

They chose nothing. Sided with no one. Answered to none.

But now, for the first time in recorded memory—in living memory, in ancestral memory—the gates of House Lioran have opened.

Not to welcome, but to obey. Not out of grace, but necessity. Not from vision, but from violence.

The cause was neither political nor prophetic. It was a blade—simple, crude, real—held to the throat of Daeron Lioran, the Solar Patriarch himself. The Emperor did not whisper. He commanded, and the stars that once bore Lioran’s mark bowed instead to imperial decree. What had once been a house apart, a house above, was dragged—luminous and seething—into a war it had never sought.

And so, the privilege of neutrality, a birthright guarded since the First Convergence, was stripped away like silk from skin.

And with its loss, something older, colder, and far more dangerous begins to stir— a house of light, not humbled, but unleashed. A power forged in sunlight and silence, now forced to burn.

Daeron Lioran, for all his faults, loved his daughter. His only daughter. His jewel. The pride of his ancient line and the apple of his storm-wearied eye: Celeste Lioran.

To love her was, in truth, his final undoing. For all his political cunning, for all the centuries of Lioran resolve pulsing through his blood, nothing had prepared him for the silent violence of signing her name away—to a land so utterly foreign to everything that had ever touched her skin. He had promised her to another world, and in doing so, shattered the delicate illusion that he could keep her untouched forever.

For Solaraeth—their home, their sanctuary—was no mere planet. It was a hymn written in light. A world where the sun reigned, not as tyrant, but as guardian—its warmth omnipresent but never cruel, never blistering. Its glow kissed the marble cities and terraced spires without searing them. The sky wore its radiance gently, the way one wears silk, and never threatened to burn.

Solaraeth was a land of abundance, a cradle of divinity. Milk and honey ran through its valleys, not metaphorically but truly—its soil so fertile, its air so blessed, that even the birdsong sounded sacred. The wildlife thrived in symbiotic elegance, multiplying without fear, untouched by predators or war. The spice there grew not from desperation, not from the grinding bones of empire, but in gentle exuberance—sweet, golden, and humming with purity. And the water... the water flowed like memory. Endless, clear, and cool. It had never been rationed. It had never been weaponized.

How then, Daeron wondered, could he ever explain to her the world she was being given to?

How could he offer Celeste of Solaraeth—soft-voiced, sun-blessed, born of stillness and ceremony—to a place like Arrakis, where even the sand cut skin, where the heat punished, and where names meant less than survival?

It was not a marriage. It was an exile. And Daeron, despite his centuries of political neutrality and gilded detachment, felt the guilt coil like a serpent around his heart.

For what is light, he wondered, when it is cast into a land with no sky?

Daeron Lioran had promised Celeste to Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. The agreement was sealed not with celebration, nor with strategy—but with blood and grief, in a quiet chamber heavy with incense and death.

From the moment Celeste was born—slick with afterbirth and screaming so loudly it was said the sound echoed through the marble halls and into the sky itself—Daeron knew she was not ordinary. Hers was no newborn cry. It was a wail—a thunderous, god-challenging thing that seemed to split the golden air of Solaraeth in two. A sound so fierce, so defiant, he swore it stirred the heavens, woke the dormant gods, and forced them to bless her just to make her quiet.

But in that same moment, her mother died.

Seren Lioran—his beloved, his balance, his bride—was lost in the very act of giving their daughter life. The healers could not save them both. Her blood poured like a prophecy unfulfilled, soaking the temple linens with a silence so final Daeron thought it would split him open.

And so he made a choice.

They had told him it would have to be one or the other. Seren or the child. He chose the child.

He chose Celeste—her mother’s light, her father’s last hope, the heir to a house that had never bowed to war or whim.

But he knew what her survival would cost. The Emperor’s eye had already begun to turn toward Solaraeth, hungry for its spice, its water, its ancient neutrality. There would be a price to protect her. A bond strong enough to shield the child from the chaos gathering in the outer spheres.

And so he offered her—promised her, bartered her—before she’d even drawn a second breath.

To House Harkonnen.

To the very bloodline that had poisoned empires and salted planets to dust. To a boy Daeron had never seen, but knew by name. To Feyd-Rautha—a child of violence, raised in smoke and blood. A perfect match, they said. Opposites attract, they said. A holy sun offered to a sharpened blade.

And Daeron agreed.

Because what was love, if not sacrifice?

What was fatherhood, if not damnation?

Truthfully, Celeste had not been their first attempt at parenthood. She was not their first hope. Not their first prayer. She was simply the first to stay.

Before her, there had been others—fragile flickers of life that never made it past the womb, or that slipped silently into the night before they’d ever taken a breath. Tiny coffins wrapped in ivory silk, buried beneath Solaraeth’s sacred olive trees. Names whispered and then never spoken again. Daeron and Seren had mourned each one like an eclipse—brief, blinding, and absolute.

It seemed, sometimes, that the Mother Above—the divine force all Solaraeth-born children were consecrated to—loved their children more than they ever could. Loved them so much, in fact, that She kept calling them back. Back to the stars. Back to the heavens. Away from their arms.

She took so many of them.

And in the quiet between losses, Seren would place her hand on her swollen belly and murmur through her tears, “If She wants this one too, I won’t fight Her.”

So when Celeste came into the world—screaming, alive, defiant—it wasn’t joy that filled Daeron’s chest. It was terror.

Because she had survived. And survival, in their house, was not a promise. It was a challenge.

…

“Father, I truly do not understand why you won’t simply hand them one of your whores,” Celeste said, her voice curling like smoke as she paced slowly through the gilded antechamber, skirts brushing the marble like whispers of silk. “Dress one of them in my colors, teach her to hold her breath and blink twice a minute, and I promise you—no one would be the wiser. They’d thank you for the trade.”

The citadel, usually a sanctum of sunlit stillness, had become a hive of strained ceremony. Servants hurried back and forth in hushed pairs, hauling in arrangements of glass fruit and gold-threaded linens, polishing the already-pristine stone with a fervor that bordered on madness. The scent of honeyed wine and steeped lavender clung to the halls like incense, meant to mask the quiet truth beneath all of it: this was not a celebration. This was a surrender, dressed in candlelight.

Celeste stood near the open archway, where the heat of Solaraeth’s ever-gentle sun filtered in and kissed her bare shoulders, though even the light could not soothe her. Her expression was a mixture of disdain and exhaustion—one perfected over years of public poise and private rebellion. She watched the scurrying staff with narrowed eyes, as though she might learn something from them—how to vanish into movement, perhaps. How to disappear beneath someone else's command.

She had avoided this day with every excuse she could conjure. There had been headaches, of course—mysterious and persistent ones that no healer could quite identify. There was the matter of her advanced studies in governance and astronomy, which she insisted could not be paused. There were her needlework obligations, her ceremonial fasts, her monthly pain—each one an ironclad reason to refuse the Emperor’s summons, to delay introductions with the boy they meant to chain her to. A boy she had only ever known through sketches, sent to her on crisp parchment once a year like threats dressed as diplomacy.

In return, he’d requested pictures of her. Not letters. Not offerings of thought. Portraits. Commissioned by the finest artists House Lioran had ever trained—men who knew how to flatter bone structure and smooth over scowls with well-placed shadow. And every year, like clockwork, Celeste would sit for the artist, shoulders drawn back like a queen already mourning her throne, lips pressed into a defiant line as her eyes seethed with controlled fury.

Karena, her instructor—her minder, her quietest source of affection—would hover just beyond the artist’s eye, hands folded, eyes sharp. And when Celeste's expression remained too severe, too honest, Karena would step forward and pinch the soft underside of her arm, just once, just enough to startle the fire into stillness.

“Wipe that frown off your face, girl,” she would murmur, voice clipped but not unkind, mouth never moving. “You may hate this, but you will not do it ugly. Not for them.”

And so, Celeste would lift her chin. She would soften her mouth into something palatable. She would pretend, for the length of time it took to immortalize her face in ink and gilding, that she was willing. That she was perfect. That she was his.

But today, on the cusp of it all—on the edge of being made someone else’s possession—she fe n lt the lie catch in her throat like bone.

The feast was to be held at dusk. An announcement of unity, a binding of legacies, a formal, fragrant knot tying House Lioran to House Harkonnen.

Light to shadow. Gold to blood. Daughter to executioner.

And Celeste, sun-born and unwilling, would be expected to smile as she was delivered into the hands of a man she’d never seen—only imagined. A boy raised in brutality, painted in her mind with cruelty carved into his jaw and hunger in his eyes.

All she could hope was that he choked on the wine the moment he saw her.

Granted, she had been promised to him upon the arrival of her first blood—a cruelly traditional benchmark etched into Solaraeth’s ancestral law, the sacred moment when girlhood was considered complete, and a daughter, no matter how young, became eligible to be bartered like starlight in exchange for power. That threshold had come early for Celeste, marked not with celebration but a cold silence that hung thick in the perfumed air of her bedchamber, where the midwives exchanged glances and Karena had gently smoothed Celeste’s hair from her sweat-damp brow with a tenderness she did not understand at the time.

She remembered lying there, dazed and aching, staring up at the carved sun on her ceiling—the one her mother had chosen before she was born—and wondering why the light suddenly felt heavier, why the warmth of her world now sat like a stone in her stomach. Somewhere down the hall, her father had been told. Somewhere far above her, a man she had never met was waiting to claim her.

But surprisingly—mercifully—the wedding did not come then.

Her father had contested it. Fiercely, it was said. And what surprised the court even more was that House Harkonnen, brutal and unrepentant as they were, did not argue. It was not softness, of course—they had none of that. No, their agreement came from calculation, from blood-drenched pragmatism. They did not want a trembling girl-child, all bone and innocence, fresh from the tutelage of wet nurses and courtly handlers. They wanted something stronger, something sharper, someone who might stand at the side of a prince whose name was already being whispered in the same breath as knives.

For all their cruelty, the Harkonnens understood this much: a bride meant to stand beside Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen could not be soft, could not be untouched by politics or palace fire. She would need wit and steel beneath her silk. A girl fresh to womanhood would break within weeks—no matter how royal her blood.

And Daeron Lioran, for all his isolationist pride, could not bear the thought of handing his last living child over to a house that sharpened its heirs like weapons and burned the weak to ash for sport. Whatever vows he had made, however binding, however ancient—he would not see her hollowed out before her bones were done growing. Not while he still drew breath.

So the pact was amended. Quietly. Strategically.

The marriage would wait. The union would be sealed only when Celeste turned twenty-two—the age of the twin moons, the sacred turning point in Liorani belief, when a woman’s star was said to align with the eternal flame of their ancestors. She would be grown. She would be prepared. She would no longer be anyone’s child.

By her calculations, Feyd-Rautha would be twenty-seven—a number that rang too old and too young all at once. Old enough to have made enemies. Old enough to have silenced them. Old enough to know precisely what it meant to be given a girl raised in light and ritual and solitude. She had never seen him, not in the flesh, but his name had long since taken shape in her mind—Feyd, like a blade drawn in a dark room, like a fever she could not sweat out. She had seen sketches of him—propaganda, mostly—eyes sharp, mouth curled in something too practiced to be called a smile.

And she knew, without question, that whatever promises had once been made between men long dead or dying, Feyd Rautha would not be the kind of man who took things gently. Certainly not a crown. Certainly not a throne.

And absolutely, unflinchingly, not a bride.

“None of them could ever mimic your grace, my beautiful girl,” Daeron murmured, his voice low and smooth like aged wine as it echoed gently through the sun-dappled corridor of the citadel, the two of them walking in step, their shadows stretched long across the mosaic floor beneath their feet. His tone held that quiet reverence he rarely allowed himself to show in front of the court—a softness reserved only for these rare moments, when it was just the two of them and the weight of the world felt briefly suspended between breaths.

Celeste rolled her eyes without turning her head, her gold-dusted lashes fluttering as she exhaled a sigh through her nose, not quite annoyed, but too practiced to be anything close to charmed. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Father,” she said coolly, though her lips betrayed her with the ghost of a smile, the corner of her mouth twitching like it had been caught in a memory she didn’t want to revisit.

The hall they walked through was older than memory—older than Solaraeth’s current sun, some said—with high-arched ceilings that caught the afternoon light in quiet halos, casting soft golden reflections against the ivory stone and carved reliefs of gods long forgotten by the outer worlds. Between the columns, the scent of lemon blossom and smoked resin drifted in from the open balconies, the air warm but not stifling, touched by the same eternal breeze that had always whispered through the royal quarters of House Lioran.

Their steps echoed faintly, measured and unhurried, as though neither of them wanted to reach their destination too quickly—as though reaching it meant admitting that time was running out. Servants bustled somewhere far behind them, preparing for the feast with the urgency of people who did not dare to look the future in the eye.

Daeron tilted his head slightly to glance at her, his expression unreadable save for the unmistakable affection that lived in the lines around his eyes—eyes that, though dulled by age and grief, still held that fierce, solar pride that had once made men tremble at court. “I say only what is true,” he murmured. “They could dress another in your silk, train her in your mannerisms, powder her face to reflect the morning light just so—but they would fail. Because there is only one you, and even the gods, in their envy, took all our others just to make room for you.”

That silenced her.

For a breath, for a blink, Celeste’s defiance faltered. Her hand tightened around the cuff of her sleeve, and she looked away, out toward the gardens where the silverleaf trees swayed gently in the distance, their branches heavy with fruit that would never be served at this feast. She hated when he spoke like that—like she was the last of something rare, like he was already mourning her before she had even left.

“Then you should have kept me,” Celeste said, her voice barely above a whisper, but each word falling with the weight of stone dropped into still water—soft, but irrevocable. It lingered behind them as they walked, curling into the sun-warmed air like perfume, like mourning dressed in velvet.

Daeron did not answer right away.

He didn’t stop walking, either. His steps were slower now, measured with a kind of reluctance that wasn’t visible unless you knew him—unless you’d seen him at his wife’s deathbed, holding her hand as her light flickered out, and later, cradling a screaming newborn wrapped in the blood-soaked linens of a woman he could not save. He kept his gaze forward, toward the golden archway that led into the heart of the palace, where preparations for the engagement feast were being finalized—silverware arranged like weapons, flower petals scattered like offerings at an altar.

At last, he spoke, and though his tone was quiet, it was laced with something brittle, like glass held just too tightly. “Duty, my child…” he began, as though the word itself could explain away centuries of sorrow. “We all have our roles to play.”

He said it like a priest reciting scripture, like a man reminding himself as much as her. Because he did believe it—had to believe it. That they were not gods, only stewards. That to lead was not to choose freely, but to accept the burdens handed down by blood and time and the machinery of empire. That Celeste’s hand, delicate as it was, had never truly been hers to offer.

But in that moment, the words felt hollow. Useless. They did not soothe. They did not absolve.

Celeste didn’t reply. She only walked beside him in silence, her spine tall, her eyes far away. And in the way she held herself—in the perfect stillness of her face, the regal tilt of her head, the stubborn set of her jaw—he saw both her mother and himself. And it filled him with pride. And shame.

Because even as she walked toward the gilded noose of alliance, she did so with grace. With duty. With the unbearable dignity of someone who knew they were being given away—and went willingly anyway, because no one had ever shown them another choice.

…

Feyd-Rautha despised House Lioran. He had said it before, openly and without hesitation, even in rooms where such opinions were meant to be tempered. Their unwavering neutrality, their curated isolation, their sanctimonious refusal to choose a side—he considered it not diplomacy, not strategy, but cowardice draped in golden robes. He did not trust people who worshipped balance; he trusted fire and blood and ambition. He trusted the hunger that made men move.

And yet, here he was. Wrapped in his formal black, the fabric heavy and tailored, soaking in heat he could not ignore as he moved through the sun-drenched corridors of Solaraeth’s ancient citadel. The architecture around him seemed designed to irritate him—arched ceilings built to draw in light from all directions, mosaic floors patterned in sacred geometry, the kind of sterile perfection that felt more like a tomb than a palace. Everything gleamed. Everything was too clean. There were no shadows deep enough to hide in, no corners for scheming, no flaws to exploit. It offended him.

He had been to many planets—seen cities built into the bones of asteroids, hives of steel and smoke, palaces carved from obsidian, war zones paved in blood and radiation—but none had quite the ornamental flair of House Lioran. It wasn’t just style. It was religion. It was choreographed reverence, light used as law, and walls that whispered prayers whether you asked for them or not.

It bored him.

The kind of boredom that crept up his spine like a sickness, made his jaw tighten, made him crave destruction just for the relief of it. He had half a mind to push a statue over, just to see if the servants would scream.

The sun, while not oppressive, was ever-present, the kind of warmth that didn't scorch but clung, that nestled into his skin with a smug gentleness. It softened everything in a way he found unnatural. His pale skin, usually untouched by light unless filtered through stained glass or fire, now carried the sun’s quiet brand, and his robes—dark, ceremonial, ill-suited for this terrain—drank in the heat like punishment.

Still, he walked with the same confident gait he carried through blood-soaked arenas and velvet war rooms, as if daring the gods of Solaraeth to call him unwelcome.

As he passed beneath a high-arched doorway framed in gold and polished onyx, he paused—not because he was awed, but because something had caught his eye. A gallery. A hall of ancestral portraits.

He turned his head just slightly, scanning the paintings that lined the corridor—faces rendered in luminous detail, their expressions caught between stoic pride and detached serenity. Generations of Lioran blood looked down at him with eyes full of sunfire and sanctity, painted with halos of light behind their heads as though they were not people but prophets. Saints of neutrality. Martyrs of decorum.

Feyd scoffed beneath his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. "All this holiness, and still they bleed like anyone else," he muttered, more to himself than to the silent royalty watching him.

But then he saw her.

Tucked between the older generations, more recent. A portrait done in soft earth tones and gold leaf, the subject seated, posture poised, expression unreadable. Her mouth was set in something close to serenity, but the eyes—those sun-scorched, amber-ringed eyes—were defiant. Even in stillness, they dared him.

Celeste.

The bride. The prize. The girl who had refused to meet him. The girl whose silence had reached him all the way across space, louder than most screams.

Feyd tilted his head ever so slightly and stared, not in admiration, but calculation. And then, slowly, a smirk pulled at his lips—one that held no joy, only curiosity sharpened into something dangerous.

The painting dominated the far wall of the citadel’s ancestral gallery, bathed in golden light that filtered down from the stained-glass dome overhead, catching on the luminous oils and giving the subject an ethereal glow—as if the canvas itself radiated warmth. It was a portrait of Celeste Lioran, unmistakable even from across the hall, rendered in astonishing detail with brushstrokes so fine they captured the stillness of breath, the deliberate set of jaw, and the incorruptible weight of blood-born authority.

She sat not as a girl, not even as a woman, but as a sovereign force—a figure of impossible poise framed against a backdrop of crimson velvet and solar-threaded brocade. The throne beneath her was carved from the gold-veined stone found only in Solaraeth’s oldest temples, its lion motifs subtle but undeniable, etched along the armrests with mouths half open, not in snarl but in warning.

Her gown was a masterpiece in itself: a pale ivory fabric, heavy and noble, embroidered with sacred Liorani sigils and starlike florals in muted gold and blue—symbols of continuity, of divine right, of a bloodline untouched by conquest. Draped over her shoulders was a ceremonial cloak, lined in moon-white silk, so delicately painted that even the folds captured the illusion of weight and movement. It pooled around her like fog stitched with starlight, softening nothing, only elevating.

Her hands, folded neatly at her lap, bore no jewelry save for a single ring—the Lioran signet, wrought in ancient sunstone, the same her father once wore before surrendering it to her. Her neck was adorned with a simple strand of Solaraeth diamonds, not to distract, but to draw the eye upward.

Because it was her face—her expression—that held the room in place.

Her lips were closed in a perfect line, not cruel, not inviting, but aware. Her chin was lifted with that particular pride only children of legacy carried without question. And her eyes—those eyes, wide-set and searing—were locked forward, daring the viewer to look too long. They held the fury of restraint, the clarity of vision, the weight of prophecy. They were not the eyes of a woman soon to be married. They were the eyes of a queen who had already decided who she would be, and dared the world to meet her there.

Feyd stood before it longer than he meant to. Longer than he ever had for any portrait, any legend, any prize.

And in the quiet, with the soft rustling of courtiers beyond the hall and the faint scent of sweet oil from the lanterns lining the gallery walls, he realized—this was no painting of a bride.

This was a warning.

His lips curled slowly, languidly, into a shape that might, at a distance, have passed for a smile—but upon closer inspection, it was something far more primal, far less civilized. It bloomed with a kind of feral amusement, drawn not from humor or charm, but from that delicious, guttural place within him where control and cruelty met and made a home. It was the smile of a man who delighted in being provoked, who found pleasure not in compliance, but in the tantalizing promise of resistance that might take its time to break.

His black-painted teeth—lacquered to a ceremonial sheen, sharp beneath the flicker of the citadel's golden torchlight—caught briefly in the light as his jaw tightened with slow, simmering satisfaction. There was something grotesquely beautiful about them, the way they gleamed like polished obsidian in the hollows of his mouth, making him look half-devil, half-aristocrat. And yet, the grin that spread across his face was not meant for charm. It was reverent, almost sacred in its savagery. It was a response born not from fear—but from awe, dark and trembling.

Because the idea that she—this sun-wrapped daughter of light, this creature sculpted from sanctity and tradition—might glare at him not with terror but with contempt, that she might stare him down like a sovereign and not a sacrificial lamb, did not unsettle him.

It delighted him.

That painted scowl—rendered in soft strokes and glinting pigments, frozen forever on the canvas—held more power than most blades ever had. It was not meekness hidden behind civility. It was fury. It was will. And it dared him to try her.

And Feyd, ever the lover of conquest, felt something coil and tighten beneath his skin—not lust, not yet, but something far more dangerous. Curiosity sharpened into appetite.

The notion that she might frighten him—him, whose hands had closed around throats with less hesitation than most men offered a greeting—was so absurd it almost made him laugh. Instead, he exhaled once, the breath slipping through his teeth like smoke through iron bars, and let the silence stretch.

“Good,” he murmured at last, voice a low rasp that barely touched the air. “Let her glare. Let her curse my name with those priestly lips and pretend she does not bleed like every other daughter ever given away.”

His eyes remained on her, drinking in every nuance of the portrait—the set of her shoulders, the quiet steel in her mouth, the sunlit arrogance of a girl who had never been told no and meant it.

“Let her hate me,” he whispered, almost lovingly. “I’d rather be scarred by her rage than kissed by her obedience.”

Because Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen did not crave a docile wife or a quiet alliance.

He craved something untamable. Something divine and unbreaking. Something that burned.

[mamasturn]

I am speechless. SPEECHLESS

can you do something where austin is with a woman who really takes care of him?? like she wears the pants in the relationship, walk him like a dog vibes lol, but they’re actually cute snd they just work

@mamasturn enjoy pookie <3

Everyone say thank you noonie ! Lmao

part one is here

worst behaviour

The air in Cannes was thick with perfume and ocean breeze, the kind of golden, shallow glamour that clung to the skin like sweat. Evening light kissed the cobblestones outside the Palais, and inside, the red carpet unfurled like a vein—bold and open, bleeding beneath the press of designer heels and flickering camera flashes. Kama Devereaux stepped onto it like she belonged there, because she did—her frame cloaked in vintage Galliano, something sheer and whisper-thin, black as spilled ink, sliding over her body with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what men imagined when they looked at her.

But Kama wasn’t thinking about the men staring. Not really. Not even the producers or the critics whose names she knew but pretended not to. Her mind—traitorous, stubborn—was snagged elsewhere. On a different kind of gaze. A different kind of heat.

Hours ago, she’d been in his bed.

Austin Butler.

The name alone rang through her like a chord plucked too hard. A man she hadn’t expected to mean anything. A moment she’d promised herself would burn hot and fast, then vanish like smoke the second morning came. And yet—

His absence that morning had hollowed her out more than she liked admitting, a deep, strange ache beneath her sternum where logic should’ve been. He had left early. No note. No message. Just her, alone in the white sheets, still tasting him on her tongue, still aching between her thighs, still breathing like his weight was on top of her.

He’d walked out like he’d never planned to look back.

Which was fair. She wasn’t new to this. Kama had long mastered the particular ache of fleeting pleasure—of nights that burned too brightly and left ash in their wake. She’d convinced herself she liked it that way. Control was easier than vulnerability. Intimacy, when measured and contained, was manageable. Safe.

So why now, standing under the harsh, glittering lights of Cannes, did she feel so off-kilter?

Because across the carpet, in a perfect storm of sharp tailoring and tousled hair, he was there. Laughing with someone on his team, radiant and unreadable and so utterly him, Austin Butler turned his head—and stopped.

Their eyes met.

And in that single moment, the chaos of Cannes blurred into silence. The cameras might as well have stopped flashing. The voices around her could’ve belonged to ghosts. Because the look he gave her—unplanned, unguarded—was not the look of a man remembering a casual tryst. It wasn’t cool or detached or even curious. It was raw. Heated. Something caught between disbelief and hunger.

As if he didn’t want to see her again so soon.

As if seeing her here made him feel something he wasn’t ready to admit.

Her stomach flipped, and she hated it.

He was supposed to be a memory by now. A name she could smile about in passing. A night of sweat and tangled sheets and nothing more.

“Kama Devereaux, Austin Butler. Two of the most talked-about names at the festival. You’ve gotta be introduced,”

a festival PR rep chirped, cutting through her daze with a rehearsed grin and a clipboard tucked against her chest like armor. The woman clearly had no idea she was stepping between a live wire and a powder keg.

Introduced. Introduced.

As if they hadn’t already learned each other’s bodies in the dark, over and over, gasping each other’s names into cotton sheets. As if her legs hadn’t been wrapped around his waist just hours ago, his voice hoarse in her ear, his hands trembling like he hadn’t touched anyone in months.

Kama gave the woman a practiced smile—tight-lipped and precise. Her mask slid back into place effortlessly. “Of course,” she said smoothly, though she could feel her pulse thudding behind her knees.

Austin was already walking toward her, leaving his handlers mid-sentence. His strides were deliberate but slow, like he was reorienting himself in real time. Like the sight of her had knocked something off its axis.

He looked different in the daylight. More exposed, somehow. The sharp angles of his face a little softer without the shadows of a hotel room to carve them. The tux fit like sin, tailored to command attention, but his eyes—God, his eyes—they were locked on her like she was gravity and he was falling fast.

He didn’t offer his hand. He didn’t need to.

He leaned in like a man who still remembered what her skin felt like under his palms, what she tasted like when she moaned his name, what she looked like when she came apart for him.

“Kama,” he said, voice low, quiet, but unmistakably intimate—her name reverent in his mouth like a confession he hadn’t meant to make.

“Austin,” she replied, standing her ground, spine straight, lips slightly parted—not from surprise, but restraint. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much it rattled her to hear him say her name like that, like it meant something.

He studied her for a beat. Maybe two. His expression unreadable except for the tension in his jaw, the way his gaze lingered on her mouth like he’d almost said something else and swallowed it instead.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she said finally, voice velvet-wrapped steel, polished but unmistakably edged.

He smiled then—not for the cameras. For her. A real one. Crooked. Slow. Like he didn’t know what to do with it. “Neither did I,” he said. “I didn’t plan to.”

Her breath caught.

“This is supposed to be professional,” she murmured, glancing sideways, aware of the watching eyes, the clicking shutters, the heat crawling up her spine.

“So was last night,” he said, and the way he said it was like peeling skin—honest, bare, and sharp around the edges. “But that didn’t stop us either.”

Kama’s lips parted on a quiet inhale. The spell between them pulsed—tangible, charged, and just one breath short of something dangerous.

And then he leaned in closer, voice barely a breath, just for her.

“You’re not just a reprieve, Kama. You never were.”

She didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

The lights went off like lightning behind her eyes, and the cameras kept flashing as if nothing was wrong. As if the world hadn’t just tilted beneath her heels.

Granted, he almost had her—just for a second. Just long enough for her pulse to betray her, for her breath to snag in the cage of her ribs, for her body to remember the way his voice sounded in the dark, wrapped around her name like a secret he hadn’t meant to say aloud. Just long enough for her to feel the phantom press of his hands, the way they’d trembled when they gripped her hips, how he held her like she was the only thing in the world still tethering him to the present.

He almost had her.

Almost.

But Kama Devereaux was not a woman easily undone. Not publicly. Not by a man who’d slipped out while the sheets were still warm, who’d left without so much as a text or a note or even a breath of goodbye. She had learned a long time ago that power was never given, only taken—and right now, on this over-lit carpet where the air smelled like wealth and ego and desperate ambition, she was more than willing to take her power back.

So she smiled, slow and sharp, her lip gloss catching in the light like lacquered temptation, the soft gleam of it framing her mouth in a way that made men forget what they were saying mid-sentence. Her teeth flashed behind that carefully lined smirk, a glint of pearly warning beneath the playfulness, and she let her body shift forward—not in submission, but in calculation, every movement measured like choreography. Her fresh install was pristine, a halo of sleek, cascading hair that brushed her collarbone as she tilted her head ever so slightly, letting the scent of her perfume—dark florals twisted with something spiced and slow-burning—reach him like a whispered memory.

And then she leaned in.

Just enough.

Just enough for her lips to skim along that vulnerable sliver of skin below the shell of his ear, the very same place she’d kissed last night when his breath was ragged, when his hands were trembling and his mouth was on hers like he needed her to survive. The exact spot that had made his knees go slack for half a second before he buried his face in her neck and groaned her name like a man half out of his mind.

This time, the contact was featherlight. Barely there. A brush. A suggestion. But it was enough to pull a reaction from him—subtle, but not imperceptible—the sudden tightening of his jaw, the faint shift in the way he stood, like gravity had just yanked him an inch closer to her before he even realized it.

And Kama pulled back, her smile blooming wider now, slow and feline and devastating. There was something dangerous in her eyes, something knowing and unbothered, like she was the only one who remembered exactly how he had sounded when he came undone—and she wasn’t afraid to bring it up in polite company.

“Oh, I bet, baby,”

she murmured, her voice a honeyed blade, sweet and sharp all at once, sliding effortlessly between them like silk through a clenched fist. She watched the way his expression shifted, how he struggled—just slightly—to keep his composure, to hold onto whatever image he thought he’d walked onto the carpet with.

She let the silence breathe for a moment, let the tension soak into the air between them like humidity before a thunderstorm.

Then she tilted her head, eyes sparkling with something wicked, her tone coiling tighter, a quiet purr behind her words that was almost cruel in its precision.

“Tell me…” she said, drawing it out, the pause deliberate, the smile sharpening at the corners like glass, “How hard was it for you to leave this morning?”

And there it was—that look.

The flicker.

The crack.

The flicker of something hot and aching behind his eyes, something he hadn’t planned on feeling and certainly didn’t know what to do with now that it was bleeding through the seams. It was the look of a man who thought he’d left clean, who thought walking out would make it easier to forget—but now, staring her down in the blinding flash of a hundred cameras, he knew. He knew he’d left something behind.

Her.

He swallowed hard—slow, as if trying to buy time. As if trying not to give her the satisfaction of seeing just how thoroughly she still had him by the throat.

And Kama?

She stood there glowing, unbothered, exquisite in her knowing silence, the leash in her hand invisible—but tight all the same.

Her voice was velvet, slow and deliberate, threaded with the kind of softness that only made the blade beneath it cut deeper. She didn’t blink when she said it, didn’t flinch, didn’t soften her stance—she simply leaned in again, letting her smile bloom like a sin in slow motion, her lip gloss gleaming beneath the press lights, the scent of her perfume curling around him like a phantom he couldn’t outrun.

“Tell me,”

she murmured, her voice curling at the edges like smoke, barely more than breath, yet heavy with the weight of knowing—that intimate kind of knowing that only comes from skin pressed to skin, from mouths parted in the dark, from moans bitten back and whispered names soaked into cotton sheets.

“How bad did you want me one last time… or was I too much for you?”

The smile she wore was dangerous—effortless, lethal, intimate. The kind of smile that made men forget their names and sins in the same breath. It curled at the corners like an invitation wrapped in barbed wire, lips parted just enough to hint at memory, to remind him exactly what it had felt like to have her under him—and then on top of him, and then wrapped around him in a way that had left him breathless and ruined and aching.

She could see it in his posture—the shift in his jaw, the quiet tension in his hands, the way he still hadn’t answered. Because the question wasn’t a question.

It was a test.

And she hadn’t finished.

Kama moved even closer, not because she had to, but because she could, her mouth barely brushing the edge of his ear now, her breath warm, her words deliberate and slow, every syllable sliding down his spine like heat.

“How bad did you want me to take care of you again?”

she whispered, voice lower now, grinning as she said it—grinning, because she knew exactly what she was doing to him. Because she knew that no one else could make the phrase take care of you sound like both a promise and a punishment.

Her grin widened just enough to let her teeth show.

“Because you begged so pretty last night,” she added softly, cruel in her gentleness, letting the silence hang thick between them, letting the words echo in his memory like a touch he still hadn’t gotten over.

And he still hadn’t said a word.

Because what could he possibly say?

What words could hold their own against her?

Her eyes, dark and lined in a way that made them look almost otherworldly, flicked toward the edge of the carpet, drawn by the movement of bodies, by the rising hum of press and chatter, by the rhythm of Cannes spinning around her like orbit—and yet when she turned her gaze back toward the cameras, it wasn’t distracted. No, Kama Devereaux met the chaos head-on with the calm of a woman who had nothing to prove and still made everyone else in the room feel like they should apologize for breathing the same air.

She smiled for them.

That soft, controlled, devastating kind of smile that didn’t beg for attention, but commanded it all the same—the kind that wasn’t performative, but still left people leaning closer, aching to be seen by her the way the camera lens was lucky enough to be. Her lips parted just slightly, gloss gleaming under the flashes like something edible, and Austin felt it like a punch to the gut.

She hadn’t even touched him this time.

But God, he felt it.

Almost hypnotic, she moved like a dream carefully built from satin and fire, a presence that shouldn’t have belonged in reality, and yet there she was—poised, composed, floating just inches away, and entirely untouchable. And he wanted her. He wanted her with a kind of ache he didn’t know he was capable of—something raw and brutal and impossibly tender all at once. Something greedy, yes, but also reverent, like she was art that had come to life and asked him to sin with her.

And he would. He had. He still would.

But this wasn’t just about sex anymore. Not really. Not after the way she’d looked at him. Not after the way she’d spoken into his ear like she knew she’d never leave his bloodstream. He wanted more—more and more and more—like a man dying of thirst who didn’t know what water tasted like until last night.

She turned her head slightly, laughing at something a photographer said, the sound soft and controlled and just loud enough to make the people around her lean in. She hadn’t even glanced back at him since she whispered those words, but that didn’t matter.

Because she knew what she’d done.

And so did he.

He wanted her in ways that made him uneasy, in ways that felt uncontained, wild and vulnerable and unfamiliar. He wanted her in ways that cracked something open in his chest—ways that made it hard to remember what he was supposed to be doing here, what the next step in the night was supposed to look like.

All he could think about was her mouth, and the way she’d said “take care of you again” like she had him wrapped around her finger—and maybe she did. Maybe she had since the moment he touched her wrist in the dark, and she didn’t pull away.

And he knew—he knew—if she turned her head just a little bit, if she looked at him again with even half the heat she’d given him before, he would do something reckless.

Something permanent.

Because he could still feel her.

Not in the vague, fading way you might remember a kiss or the sound of laughter echoing in the morning—but in the visceral, inescapable way that lived in his body like a brand. Like she had carved herself into him, and now every inch of his skin was haunted by the memory of her touch. Beneath the clean, structured lines of his tuxedo, under all the polish and poise and pretense expected of him here in Cannes, there were bite marks blooming across his chest like bruised fruit, fading fingerprints ghosting down his hips, and the sting of her nails still etched across the ridges of his abdomen in raw, red trails.

Every time he moved—when he shifted his weight, when he breathed too deeply, when the fabric of his dress shirt dragged against one of the deeper scratches—he winced, just slightly. But worse than the pain was the response. The automatic way his body twitched, the way heat flared low in his stomach, a pulse of arousal sparked not from sight or sound, but from memory.

Because last night wasn’t ordinary.

It wasn’t transactional. It wasn’t forgettable.

Last night had wrecked him.

She had ridden him like she owned him, lips slick with sweat and spit, fingers tangled in his hair, voice thick and low in his ear whispering things he didn’t even realize he needed to hear until they left her mouth. Kama had touched him like she knew exactly what kind of man he was beneath the polish—like she could see the tension wound tight beneath his skin, the exhaustion behind the golden boy grin. And she had unraveled him, slowly, thoroughly, with a kind of mastery that left him trembling, dazed, grinning like a fool when she finally slid off him, breathless and smug.

And for the first time in years—maybe since the attention started, since the award buzz, since the film roles turned him into something glossy and untouchable—he’d felt free.

He had felt reckless. Young. Alive.

Not choreographed. Not controlled.

Just a man in a room with a woman who made him feel like something more than curated charm and magazine spreads. Kama had peeled him open without asking, taken what she wanted without flinching, and somewhere in the middle of all that sweat and heat and breathless, frantic pleasure, he’d let her—had wanted it, begged for it, ached for it.

And now, standing here in the heat of the red carpet, the weight of the tux pressing against his skin like a cage, all he could think about was more.

More of her.

More of that unhinged, breathless, sweat-slicked chaos.

More of her mouth, her thighs, her voice in his ear.

More of the way she looked at him when she was on top, smirking like she was above it all, like he was the one being devoured.

He wanted to fill himself with that sensation again—to drown in it, to crawl back to her on hands and knees if that’s what it took, just to feel her again. To taste her on his tongue one more time. To feel her wrapped around him again—tight, warm, impossibly soft and velvety—the kind of feeling that didn’t leave you after the morning, the kind of high that stayed in your bloodstream like a drug you weren’t ready to give up.

And standing there, back straight, cameras flashing, he wondered how long he could keep pretending like last night hadn’t shifted something tectonic inside him.

Because every nerve ending in his body was screaming for her.

“Kama.”

Her name, sharp on her publicist’s tongue, sliced through the tension hanging between them like a silk-draped blade, tugging her out of the smoldering stillness where she and Austin stood, not quite touching but dangerously close. She didn’t resist the pull—but she didn’t rush, either. Kama turned her head just before being led away, her gaze drifting over her shoulder with a slow, deliberate ease that felt like a dare wrapped in velvet. Her eyes met his once more, just for a beat, just long enough for the damage to be done.

And Austin?

He looked.

God help him, he looked—really looked—and it was a mistake, the kind of mistake you don’t get to make twice. Because Kama Devereaux wasn’t merely wearing a dress.

She was wearing destruction.

The gown shimmered like the surface of poured cream, spun from the kind of silk that moved like water, clinging to every dip and curve of her body with an intimacy that made his throat go dry. The color—a decadent champagne gold—glowed against her skin, that rich, warm brown tone kissed by undertones of bronze and honey, radiant and alive beneath the press lights, like the sun had followed her into the night just to be close.

The bodice, tightly corseted and boned to perfection, hugged her waist and drew the eye upward—embroidered with soft, delicate foliage in thread just slightly paler than the satin itself, creating the illusion of golden vines climbing up the smooth slope of her chest. The neckline dipped low, artfully, daringly, but never carelessly—it was sculpted to her like it had been designed on her body, as though the fabric itself had chosen her and no one else.

Her shoulders were bare, collarbones gleaming, and the strength of her form—the way she held herself with elegance and complete control—made the look feel less like fashion and more like mythology. She was no woman in a dress.

She was a goddess in silk armor.

The skirt fell from her cinched waist in heavy, liquid folds, pooling at her feet and trailing behind her like worshippers desperate to follow. The fabric swayed with every step, catching and releasing light as if the dress was breathing—and beneath it, the soft trace of her hips, the length of her thighs, the slow grace of her movement haunted him with every second she pulled further away.

Her back was bare. Smooth. Unbothered. That silhouette, that command, wasn't something a designer could replicate—it came from her. That Black woman power, carved from resilience and sensuality, from grace sharpened into something that could slice a man open just by turning her head.

And when she did—when she turned her head and looked back at him, lips curling with a knowledge that made his gut twist—he felt the fabric of his self-control tear straight down the middle.

Because the gown wasn’t for the cameras.

It was for him.

And it mocked him, the way it moved with her, the way it had touched every part of her body he’d worshipped hours earlier. He could still feel her under it, still taste the heat of her skin, still remember how her thighs had locked around him, how her fingers had raked down his stomach until he was arching into her touch like a man coming undone.

And now she was walking away like none of it had touched her at all.

But Austin knew better.

And he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop until he had her again—had her moaning in silk and shadow, until the satin was wrinkled under his hands and her name was the only thing he remembered how to say.

…

It had been roughly an hour since he last saw her—sixty long minutes that had blurred into a carousel of forced smiles and red carpet rituals, interview after interview where his voice stayed steady, where he answered questions about the film’s inspiration, the cast’s dynamic, the long shooting days in Morocco, about craft and process and transformation. All while trying not to wince from the scratches hidden under his shirt. All while pretending his entire body didn’t still hum with the ghost of her touch.

He’d smiled so much his cheeks hurt.

He’d laughed on cue, deflected compliments, shaken hands he didn’t remember gripping, but all of it felt distant, background noise to the memory still clinging to his skin—her. Kama. The shape of her above him, the feel of her breath against his jaw, the way she’d whispered filth into his mouth with a grin that made it feel like scripture.

And now, as he finally sat down in the grand, dimmed cinema where the premiere of Eddington was set to begin—surrounded by co-stars, producers, executives, the hum of whispered French and the rustle of designer fabrics—Austin assumed he’d be seated next to one of the usual suspects. A castmate. A director. Maybe even a well-connected critic.

But his breath caught halfway up his throat and stayed there when he saw her approach.

Kama moved like the air parted for her, the ambient light from the aisle catching the satin of her gown in slow, glimmering waves. Her hips swayed just slightly, enough to make heads turn, enough to pull his full attention to her again like she was gravity and he was always meant to fall. And when she reached his row—his row—his pulse jumped before he could catch it.

She didn’t say anything right away. She didn’t have to.

With the elegance of someone born to unsettle men, she slid into the seat beside him, every motion fluid and slow, her gown sighing as it settled around her legs. She crossed them with purpose, smoothed the fabric at her hip, and turned to him with that same devastating little smirk she’d worn the moment she’d gotten up and left him in bed with nothing but wreckage and memory.

There was a faux innocence stretched across her face now, lips parted just slightly, eyes wide enough to feign sweetness—but it was a performance. And Austin knew it. If he hadn’t known her—if he hadn’t had her—he might have believed it. Might’ve thought she was just another guest, another actress dressed to impress and looking for a quiet seat.

But he had known her.

In every way a man can know a woman when she’s riding the edge of control, when she’s got one hand on his chest and the other tangled in his hair, whispering things that left marks more permanent than bruises. He’d heard her come apart, felt her lose composure, tasted the heat of her as she begged and taunted him in the same breath.

So no—the innocence didn’t work. Not on him.

She glanced over at him then, just a flick of her gaze sideways. She didn’t say his name. Didn’t greet him. Didn’t offer even a whisper of explanation for her presence. She just… was there. Fully. Calmly. Like she belonged beside him.

And it undid him more than he’d ever admit.

He swallowed hard, shifting just slightly in his seat, his tux feeling suddenly too tight, too warm, like the air had thickened between them again—and maybe it had. Because in that darkened theater, with the rest of the world watching the screen, Austin wasn’t thinking about the film, or his performance, or the prestige of the moment.

All he could think about was how close she was.

And how badly he wanted to drag her out of that seat and kiss her until she forgot how to smirk like that.

The theater was hushed now, velvet-draped and reverent, the kind of silence that settles in just before the first frame flickers to life. All around him, the room exhaled as the opening titles began to twitch and dance across the screen, delicate white lettering flickering like ghosts in motion. But Austin wasn’t watching the screen—not really.

He was watching her.

Not obviously, not head-on, not in a way that would draw attention—but in those stolen side glances that meant everything. The ones you only make when you're starving for something deeper than applause. Kama sat beside him in effortless elegance, legs crossed, hands relaxed on her lap, the satin of her gown catching the faint glow of the projection. Her profile was sharp, unbothered, composed—but he knew her tells.

He was watching her mouth, the corner of it curling upward when Vernon, his character, first stepped on screen. Watching her pupils dilate just slightly when he delivered that first scene with that dry, simmering anger his director had loved so much. Watching the way her lashes dipped lower, her body leaning in just slightly as the dialogue thickened and Vernon’s tension deepened.

She wasn’t just watching the film. She was watching him.

And Austin felt it like a current under his skin, electric and desperate.

Because her reactions—so small, so subtle—meant more to him than anything the critics would write. He was almost embarrassed by how much he wanted her approval. How deeply he craved it. Like a hound waiting at his master’s heel, tail still, ears twitching, not for a treat—but for a look. A sound. A sign that he’d done well.

And she gave it.

Not with words. Not with applause. But with that slow, sly grin that tugged at her lips when Vernon let loose in the second act, when he slammed the table and delivered that monologue in a way that had felt raw and wrong and right all at once when they filmed it.

He felt her react beside him—felt the subtle shift in her breath, the way her lashes fluttered like she was blinking back something real, something visceral.

And God, that was it. That was all he needed.

Because in that moment, in the dark, surrounded by people who wanted things from him—praise, performance, politics—she didn’t want anything but to watch. And he let her. Let her see him. Let her take it all in without flinching.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he wasn’t acting anymore.

As the final act began to unfold on screen and the pacing shifted—quieter now, the kind of emotional wind-down that signaled his character wouldn’t be returning—Austin felt the familiar thrum of anticipation begin to settle into something else. Acceptance, maybe. The slow fade-out of performance. The end. He leaned back into his seat, jaw unclenching for the first time since the film began, chest lifting with a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

But before he could exhale fully, he felt her.

Kama’s hand—cool, poised, and slow with intention—drifted from where it had rested delicately against her own thigh, moving with a subtlety that was almost imperceptible to anyone else in the room. No one else was looking. No one else could see the way her fingers glided over the fabric of his trousers like a whisper, trailing a barely-there line of heat down the inside of his leg.

And then—

She found him.

Found him already half-hard and straining beneath the weight of his own restraint, found him twitching with the memory of her, the sound of her breath still echoing in his mind from the night before. Her fingers grazed him—grazed—and he nearly lost the breath he'd just taken. Just the gentlest pass of her hand over the shape of him, enough to make him stiffen instantly, to remind him just how close she'd been, just how thoroughly she’d ruined his ability to sit through anything without wanting her all over again.

She didn’t grip. She didn’t stroke. She didn’t press.

No, Kama let her palm rest there—lightly, like a whisper of claim—her fingers curled slightly, thumb dragging the faintest line up the crease of his thigh, settling possessively just above the pulsing heat of him like she had every right to be there. And maybe she did.

Because Austin didn’t move. He couldn’t.

He sat there, mouth slightly parted, his entire body drawn tight like piano wire, heat flooding his bloodstream with dizzying speed as her touch burned through the thin barrier of his trousers. She didn’t look at him. That was the worst part. Or maybe the best. Her eyes stayed forward, focused on the glowing screen ahead like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Like her hand wasn’t resting over his cock, unmoving, steady, knowing.

And Austin?

He felt every second like a lifetime.

Every second her hand stayed there was a taunt, a memory, a promise.

And he was coming undone in the dark, silently, deliciously, completely at her mercy.

He hadn’t moved.

Not when her hand settled on him like it belonged there, not when her fingers had traced the ridge of him through the fabric of his trousers, not when heat bloomed beneath his skin so fast and so deep he thought he might choke on it. Every nerve in his body was standing at attention now—hyperaware, hypersensitive, straining against the confines of the velvet theater seat and the pretense of stillness. His jaw was tight. His breath uneven. He hadn’t dared look at her.

And then she moved.

Slowly, deliberately, she leaned in—so close he felt her breath before he heard her voice, warm and sweet and ruinous against the shell of his ear. Her lips didn’t touch him, not quite, but they hovered just enough to send a violent shiver rolling down his spine. Her scent wrapped around him—sweet spice, soft musk, something warm and woman and familiar—and it was all he could do not to make a sound.

“Wanna touch you again…”

Her voice was soft, coiled, the kind of whisper that sounded less like a suggestion and more like a command dressed in velvet. It wasn’t needy. It wasn’t pleading.

It was precise.

Measured.

Deadly.

He twitched under her hand, breath catching as blood surged downward so fast it made his vision blur. And still, she wasn’t done.

She paused—just for a heartbeat—then let the grin slip into her tone as she added, low and silken,

“Right now… can you be a good boy for me?”

He nearly groaned.

Everything inside him buckled—because God, the way she said it, so calm, so confident, like she knew he would obey, like she already owned that part of him, the part no one else got to touch. She didn’t need to ask for control. She just took it.

He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths, trying to maintain some semblance of composure in a room full of people completely unaware of the fact that he was seconds away from falling apart.

Her words lingered in his ear like a brand, echoing through him in waves, and his body gave the only answer it could—his cock pulsing beneath her palm, twitching like it recognized its master before he could.

And he nodded.

Tiny.

Barely perceptible.

But it was enough.

Because Kama had already decided.

And Austin knew, without her having to say another word, that he was hers for the rest of the night.

Maybe longer.

He nodded—just once, barely there, just enough for the tiniest movement of his jaw to give him away. And that was all she needed. Kama didn’t praise him. Didn’t reward him. She didn’t even glance at him again, not right away. She simply sat back, crossed her legs tighter with the fluid grace of a woman who knew she had him at her mercy, and let her hand stay exactly where it was.

Palm to thigh.

Fingers curled slightly over the hard shape of him beneath his trousers.

Nothing moved. No stroke. No squeeze. Just heat. Just pressure. Just presence.

And that was the worst part.

The stillness.

Austin sat stiffly beside her, breath low and tight in his chest, a muscle ticking in his jaw as the film carried on before him like nothing had happened. The surround sound wrapped the room in a cocoon of orchestral tension, the screen flickering with war scenes and strained dialogue, but all of it felt impossibly far away—like he was submerged underwater, his world narrowed to the dark theater, the too-warm air, and her palm, still right there.

He could feel his pulse hammering beneath the surface, his cock straining fully against the expensive fabric, growing almost painful with how hard he was now. And still—still—she hadn’t moved.

The tension was maddening.

And then—just when he was about to squirm—she curled her fingers.

A slow, delicious flex.

Not a stroke. Not even a full grip. Just enough to remind him.

And he jumped.

Just slightly, just enough for the movement to shift his jacket, for someone a row behind them to glance forward—nothing suspicious, nothing obvious—but it was enough for heat to bloom across his face like shame. Like lust. Like surrender.

Kama turned her head then, barely, her mouth hovering just close enough to him that he could feel the smile curling on her lips.

“Still with me, baby?”

she whispered, barely audible beneath the hum of the score onscreen.

He grunted low in his throat, a sound meant only for her, and she laughed—quiet, soft, cruel in its sweetness.

Her fingers shifted again, just slightly higher now, closer to the tip where he was aching, throbbing—her nails dragging lightly over the fabric, just enough to make him flinch, his thighs tensing like he could will himself still.

“You’re doing so good,”

she murmured like a secret, eyes still forward as though nothing at all was happening, as though she wasn’t teasing him within an inch of his self-control while sitting in a room full of his colleagues and critics.

“No one knows, Austin. They’re all watching the film. But I know… I know how much you want it. How much you want me.”

He clenched his fists in his lap, white-knuckled, eyes fixed on the screen like it was salvation—but it wasn’t. Not when she was there beside him. Not when every twitch of her fingers sent lightning straight through his spine.

And then she did it again.

A full stroke this time—slow, deliberate, from base to tip over the fabric—so restrained and subtle that from a distance it would look like nothing. Like she was merely adjusting her posture.

But Austin’s breath caught. His entire body jolted.

He turned his head to her, finally, voice low and frayed.

“Kama…”

She looked at him with mock surprise. Raised one perfectly arched brow.

“Hmm?”

“You’re gonna make me—”

“I know.”

That smile again. That fucking smile.

And then her hand stilled once more. She didn’t move it. Didn’t let him go.

She just left him there.

Hard. Helpless. Aching.

Ruined in a velvet seat in a Cannes theater, with the whole world watching the screen and not a soul realizing that he was watching her.

He couldn’t do it anymore.

The tension had reached a fever pitch inside his body, a low, blistering throb that bordered on unbearable—his cock painfully hard beneath the expensive fabric of his tailored trousers, straining for any friction, any contact, any relief. Her hand had been resting there for minutes that felt like lifetimes, teasing him with its stillness, with the maddening weight of presence but no pressure. She sat beside him in perfect composure, eyes still trained on the screen like she was watching the film—but he knew better.

Kama knew exactly what she was doing.

And that made it worse.

Every time she shifted, even subtly, even if it was just to cross her legs or sweep a loose curl behind her ear, it sent a tremor through his system like lightning against soaked ground. Her perfume was thick in the air—sweet, spiced, and low-smoked—and it settled into his lungs like something illicit. His body was humming. His skin felt too tight. He had never needed something so badly while surrounded by so many people.

He swallowed hard, dragged a trembling hand down over the front of his suit, and then—without ceremony, without pretense—he moved.

There was no dramatic flourish, no whispered warning. He reached down and, with the strained focus of a man one step from unraveling, began to unfasten his belt. The click of the metal buckle was sharp and soft all at once, drowned beneath the theater’s soundtrack but thunderous in his own ears. He moved carefully, fingers nimble but shaky, popping the button of his pants and tugging the zipper down with a soft, breathless hiss. The tension in his thighs radiated upward, full-body and electric.

She still didn’t stop him.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask questions.

She just waited—like she’d known this moment was inevitable.

He shrugged off his jacket with one shoulder, then the other, and draped it over his lap in one clean movement. The wool was warm, heavy, a poor disguise for what was happening underneath—but it was all the cover he had. He adjusted it until the folds of the fabric pooled just right, and then he reached for her hand.

Not gently.

Not playfully.

He grabbed it—fingers tight around her wrist, not to hurt, but to plead—and guided her down, slowly, deliberately, pressing her hand into the open vee of his pants, beneath the waistband of his briefs, until her palm met hot, aching skin. His cock throbbed against her touch the moment she reached it—thick, flushed, already slick at the tip—and his whole body jolted like it had been struck.

His head tipped forward, his breath catching somewhere between his chest and his throat.

“Please,”

he whispered, voice barely there, shattered and soft, the word spoken like a prayer torn from the rawest, most desperate part of him. There was no pride in it. No show. Only need. The kind that had festered since the moment she first touched him. The kind that burned.

And she didn’t hesitate.

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease—not yet.

Instead, her fingers curled around him with the kind of slow, measured grace that only made it worse—like she had all the time in the world to ruin him, like she’d done this a thousand times before, like she owned this moment and knew exactly how to make it last. She ran her palm down the length of him once—once—and he nearly folded in on himself.

His thighs tensed. His breath stuttered. His eyes fluttered shut for a beat too long.

He was already trembling.

“Good boys say please,”

she murmured, her voice like syrup poured straight into his ear, soft and laced with condescension so gentle it could be mistaken for affection if not for the devastating grip of her hand moving slowly, torturously, beneath the cover of his jacket.

He nodded—frantic, breathless, like the motion alone would keep him grounded in a moment that was quickly spinning out of control. She stroked him again, slower this time, the pad of her thumb circling the head just once, just lightly, before retreating down the shaft like a cruel promise.

And still—somehow—she kept her eyes forward.

Still watching the screen.

Still playing the part of the composed, elegant guest at a film premiere, while underneath the soft folds of his coat, she held Austin Butler in the palm of her hand—hard, flushed, twitching against her fingers like he belonged there. Like he'd always belonged there.

And she smiled. Barely.

Because she felt him pulse beneath her touch—knew just how close he was. Knew that he was hers now, no longer that perfectly poised actor grinning through red carpets and rehearsed answers. No—he was just a man now.

A man undone in the dark.

For her.

He was shaking now—visibly, undeniably, shamefully—and yet he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t look away from the screen. Couldn’t draw a full breath. Not with Kama’s hand moving slowly beneath the cover of his jacket, not with her fingers wrapped around his cock like they’d been made to fit. Every stroke was slow and devastating, measured out with cruel affection, like she wanted to feel him lose it in increments, like dragging it out was her favorite kind of art.

And he was falling apart.

He wasn’t even pretending anymore—wasn’t acting, wasn’t charming, wasn’t polished. His mouth had gone dry, jaw slack, fingers digging into the plush armrests on either side of him just to keep from bucking into her hand like a man starved. His hips twitched involuntarily every time her thumb slid over the head, teasing the sensitive tip with a soft, knowing twist that made his thighs tremble and his vision swim.

She leaned in again, not saying anything this time—just close enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath, the weight of her presence pressed right up against his spiraling restraint.

And he whispered it again.

“Please…”

Broken now.

Just that one word, nearly soundless, the last thing tethering him to the illusion of control.

Kama’s lips curled into a smile he couldn’t see but could feel, and she gave him what he wanted—not a mercy, but a gift she’d decided he’d earned. Her pace quickened slightly, just enough to undo him, to tip him over the edge she’d kept him dangling on for far too long. Her hand tightened around him in that final, focused rhythm—slick, firm, devastating—her fingers expertly wringing out every ounce of tension that had built inside him since the first moment she touched him.

And he came.

Hard.

Silently.

Violently.

His head fell back against the seat in a barely-contained jolt, jaw clenched so tight it ached, chest convulsing with a choked breath he couldn’t release. His thighs trembled, his body tensed, and hot release spilled into her hand in thick pulses—messy, uncontrollable, ruinous—his cock twitching helplessly under her fingers as he desperately tried not to moan. Not here. Not now.

He bit his tongue.

Bit his lip.

Failed.

A soft sound—just a breathy, low grunt—escaped him anyway. Kama heard it. Kama felt it. And God, did she love it.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t recoil.

Instead, she stroked him through it—gently now, milking the last shudder out of him with obscene tenderness, her thumb rubbing lazy circles over the soaked, sensitive tip until he whimpered and tried to shift away from her touch, his body too raw to handle more.

Only then did she withdraw her hand.

She slipped it out of his pants, smooth and unhurried, the movement so clean and elegant it would’ve gone unnoticed by anyone not already watching.

But he was watching.

Dazed. Glassy-eyed. Chest heaving shallowly beneath the theater’s glow.

And Kama… Kama held her hand up just slightly, just between them, the soft sheen of his release glistening across her fingers in the darkness. She tilted her head and looked at it, admiring it like art, then slowly—intentionally—slipped two fingers into her mouth.

And sucked.

Not quickly. Not coyly.

But deliberately.

She licked them clean, tongue curling between the knuckles, savoring the taste like it was expensive, like he was something rich and forbidden she’d earned the right to devour.

Austin nearly groaned aloud.

And then, before he could recover, before he could say a word, she turned his face toward hers with two slick fingers beneath his chin and kissed him.

Mouth open. Tongue deep.

She kissed him the way she touched him—confident, slow, possessive—pressing his own taste into his mouth like she wanted him to remember it, like she wanted him to wear it.

He gasped against her lips, stunned, weak, drowning in her.

And Kama smiled into the kiss.

Because he was hers now.

Utterly.

“You okay, baby boy?”

Her voice came soft and slow, blooming against his lips like warm silk and shadow, whispered into the space where their mouths had just collided—his breath still caught, hers steady as ever. Her words were gentle, but the control threaded through them was undeniable, the kind of quiet command that left no room for retreat.

But he didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

His ears rang faintly, as if submerged underwater, the muffled pulse of the film’s ending score drifting somewhere in the distance while his body sat wrecked and weightless beside her. His limbs felt like static, every nerve frayed open and buzzing without direction, every inch of him tender and raw, like she had peeled him back layer by layer and now nothing was left but sensation. He could still feel the aftershocks—warmth pooling under the jacket in his lap, his skin slick with sweat beneath the silk lining of his shirt, his thighs twitching involuntarily every time her breath hit his cheek.

He was floating.

No—he was scattered.

His spine curved slightly, shoulders slumped forward as if he couldn’t hold himself up any longer, breath shallow and shaky like he hadn’t yet relearned how to breathe properly. And Kama—always composed, always watching—noticed. Of course she did.

Her fingers came up and found his jaw, slick from her mouth, her grip gentle but firm as she turned his face to hers. Her thumb grazed the corner of his lips, then pressed softly into the underside of his chin, tilting it just enough to make him meet her eyes.

“Words, baby,”

she murmured again, her voice velveted with care but grounded in expectation, like she was coaxing something important out of him—not just consent, not just awareness, but presence. His eyes fluttered open slowly, pupils still blown wide, glazed and unfocused, like he was only just returning to his body after falling into hers.

He blinked once. Twice.

His lips parted, but no sound came out at first. His tongue felt thick. His throat dry.

She waited.

Not impatiently.

But attentively.

Like he mattered in that moment more than the entire crowd seated around them, more than the credits rolling on screen, more than the prestige of the evening. He mattered. His voice. His ability to come back to her.

He swallowed.

“Y—yeah,”

he finally rasped, hoarse and soft and full of awe, like he wasn’t quite sure how to form the syllables.

“I’m okay…”

She smiled, slow and radiant, like he’d given her exactly what she wanted.

And then she leaned in again—not to kiss, but to press her forehead to his, grounding him there, skin to skin, breath to breath, letting him rest in the silence of what they'd just done. Her fingers slid into his hair at the nape of his neck, stroking softly, grounding him with every pass, and he melted into it—body slack, nerves buzzing, heart pounding like he’d just run a race only she could have started.

Kama didn’t need a round of applause.

She didn’t need to be thanked.

She just needed to feel him breathe again.

And he did.

Because she told him to.

“Did so good for me, hmm?”

Her voice was syrup-slow, the kind of quiet praise that made his skin burn more than any shout could have. She whispered it like a lullaby, lips brushing the edge of his ear, still so close he could feel the shape of her smile against his cheek. He was slumped slightly in his seat, legs loose, arms heavy, blinking slow like he’d just come down from something chemical—and maybe he had.

His body was still thrumming.

Her hand moved with expert calm, slipping beneath the jacket that draped over his lap, adjusting the fabric of his briefs with gentle precision, tucking him back into the safety of his trousers with a kind of care that felt intimate—not sexual, not rushed, just hers. She was methodical, like she’d done this a dozen times before: cleaning up her good boy after he gave her everything, right there in public, without hesitation.

She zipped him up with care, did the button with a soft little click, and smoothed down the lap of his pants like she was straightening a wrinkle no one else could see.

He couldn’t look at her. Not yet.

Not when his pulse was still skipping, not when the back of his neck was hot, not when he still felt the echo of her hand inside him and the taste of her kiss on his tongue.

And then—

“’M gonna need you to stand,”

she murmured, her tone lilting, almost singsong, like she was coaxing a shy animal out of hiding.

“They’re gonna wanna applaud you, baby.”

He winced at the words—applaud—like the reminder of where they were hit him all at once. Because the credits were rolling now, swelling music rising in surround sound as the audience began to stir, murmurs of approval swelling into something louder. People were starting to clap.

And he was the star.

He was the one they'd come to celebrate.

But all he could think about was the way Kama’s fingers had wrapped around him like a secret. All he could feel was the soft slick of his own release still drying beneath his clothes. All he could hear was her voice in his ear telling him to be a good boy—and God help him, he had been.

Kama looked at him again, her lashes low, her smile too soft for the filth she’d just committed. She reached up and smoothed his hair—just a bit—thumb brushing his temple like she was brushing off something invisible. And then she leaned in and kissed the edge of his jaw.

It was slow.

Proud.

Private.

“Up you go.”

He swallowed hard and stood.

Legs trembling. Heart still galloping in his chest. Knees loose beneath the weight of what he’d just done—and what she’d just made him love.

And beside him, Kama stood too.

Unbothered. Poised. Elegant in her champagne silk and sin.

She clapped lightly for the screen like she hadn't just made him come in the dark.

Like he hadn’t just given her everything.

And he stood there, dazed and aching, while the crowd applauded him—

unaware that the only praise he really cared about had already been whispered against his skin.

…

The afterparty was in full, decadent swing—soft golden light bleeding from overhead chandeliers, music pulsing low under the din of champagne laughter and congratulatory chatter. Crystal flutes clinked against each other like background percussion. Perfume hung heavy in the air, mingling with the warmth of too many bodies pressed too close, and someone had already kicked off their shoes by the velvet banquette in the corner.

Austin stood near one of the standing tables, shoulders relaxed enough to pass for calm, exchanging pleasantries and trade secrets with Robert Pattinson, who leaned in with a crooked grin and an easy charm that had the group around them rapt. They were trading praise, laughter slipping between them like smoke, their conversation a blend of old camaraderie and career talk that should’ve kept Austin grounded in the moment.

But he wasn’t really there.

His eyes kept darting—every few seconds, every chance he thought he could get away with it—toward the bar.

Toward her.

Kama.

She was perched there like something painted in warm light and gold thread, one elbow on the bar, her back arched in a way that was both effortless and deliberate. Her gown still shimmered like liquid fire with every movement, the low lights catching on the silk as she tilted her glass to her lips. A cocktail—something dark and citrusy—glistened between her fingers, ice cubes clinking faintly as she sipped. She looked relaxed, untouched, laughing at something the bartender said, but the second her gaze flicked up and saw him watching her—

Everything shifted.

Her smirk faded. Her eyes softened.

And without breaking eye contact, she downed the rest of her drink in one smooth, unapologetic motion and turned slightly, tapping the bar again—this time for a glass of water. No words exchanged. No gestures.

Just intention.

He excused himself from the group without fully hearing the last sentence Robert said. He muttered something like back in a sec, already moving, the tension in his chest rising again, tightening in that familiar way that only she could trigger. His steps weren’t rushed, but they weren’t casual either—there was a pull now, a gravitational tether between them that couldn’t be ignored or talked over.

By the time he reached her, Kama was already holding the glass of water in both hands. The condensation had just started to bead along the rim, and her fingers were splayed elegantly, nails glinting under the light as she extended it toward him.

“Drink,”

she said softly, not loud enough for anyone else to hear, but firm and calm and low in that voice that made him feel small in the right way. Her tone wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t motherly or patronizing. It was care—stripped of sentimentality, delivered with control. The same voice she’d used when she’d pressed her forehead to his in the theater. When she’d told him he’d done so good.

He took it with both hands.

She didn’t let go until he looked her in the eye.

And then she released it.

Austin brought the glass to his lips and drank deeply, grateful for the coolness sliding down his throat, for something to anchor him in the room that suddenly felt too warm, too loud, too full of eyes that didn’t see him the way she did.

Kama watched him as he drank, her eyes scanning his face, measuring the flush still painted across his cheekbones, the faint tremble in his hand, the post-release haze still hanging in his bones.

He drained half the glass before he stopped. Looked at her.

She smiled slowly, then reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear with a tenderness so subtle he nearly missed it. But it was there. Intimate. Real.

“Better,”

she murmured, and there was so much weight in that one word—pride, approval, maybe even affection. Or at least her version of it.

And Austin felt it like a balm. Like praise he hadn’t known he still needed.

She watched him drink like it mattered, and maybe it did. Every sip was steadying him—cool water washing the heat from his throat, calming the thrum of blood still pulsing between his legs. But even as the glass lowered from his lips, he could still taste her. Still feel the ghost of her fingers wrapped around his cock in that darkened theater, her mouth pressed to his, her voice a velvet ribbon tightening around his spine.

And she just stood there—calm, composed, a drink tucked neatly into her history now, posture perfect and gaze unreadable, like she hadn’t just undone him in public and made him thank her for it.

She was elegance incarnate, the silk of her gown catching the amber light, her eyes half-lidded and knowing, her mouth still faintly parted like she dared him to move.

So he did.

It started with a look—his gaze locking on hers with a heat that hadn’t quite been there before, not like this. Not after release, not after vulnerability. This wasn’t desperation anymore.

This was intention.

His hand reached for her waist, fingers brushing just above the curve of her hip, finding the edge of that silky fabric where it hugged her body like a second skin. His touch was gentle, but there was nothing tentative about it.

Kama arched a brow, lips curling into something faintly amused, faintly curious.

“You need something, baby?” she murmured.

And Austin—God, he didn’t answer.

He just leaned in close, his breath warm against the shell of her ear, jaw tight with restraint he no longer planned to honor.

“Come with me,”

he said, low and quiet and solid, like he couldn’t stand another minute of air between them. He didn’t say please. Not this time. He wasn’t asking for permission.

She blinked, just once, sharp and feline.

And then he took her hand.

He didn’t yank—he wasn’t rough. He didn’t make a scene. He just wove his fingers between hers and tugged gently, insistently, like gravity had tilted in his favor now. And Kama—poised, calculating Kama—let him. Her heels clicked softly as she followed him away from the bar, away from the swirl of cameras and clinking glasses, deeper into the venue where the light dimmed and the hallway narrowed and the velvet ropes gave way to something quieter.

They passed the restrooms.

He kept walking.

Down the hall.

To a door slightly ajar.

It wasn’t glamorous—not another suite, not a lounge—just a coatroom or staff corridor bathed in dim amber light. But it didn’t matter. The second they stepped through it and the door clicked closed behind them, Austin turned to her like he’d waited hours for the silence to fall between them.

He stepped forward, pinning her lightly between his body and the wall—not forceful, not dominant, but urgent, like he couldn’t stand not touching her anymore. His mouth hovered just above hers, breathing in her breath, eyes flicking between her gaze and her lips.

“I want more.”

His voice broke at the edges—raw, stripped-down, hoarse from the silence he’d been holding since the theater. And then his hands slid down her waist, gripping her like she was the only solid thing in the world.

“I need more.”

The moment the door sealed shut, she could feel the shift in him—that delicious, trembling need humming just beneath his skin, like his body had never stopped vibrating from before, like he’d only just caught his breath and now she was taking it from him again.

He had her against the wall—hands urgent, voice rough—but Kama didn’t flinch. She didn’t move, didn’t yield an inch, not even when his grip turned hungrier or when he pressed in like he needed to crawl inside her to survive.

Instead, she tilted her head, soft and slow, lips parting on a breathless hum as her fingers rose—cool and graceful—to cup his jaw.

“Shhh,”

she whispered, like calming a frightened thing, her thumb brushing over the edge of his bottom lip, her lashes low and heavy. She kissed the corner of his mouth, not with heat, but with something thick and luxurious, dragging it out, letting him ache.

“You got me all worked up in there,”

she cooed, as if he were the one who’d orchestrated the whole thing. Her tone was liquid silk, warm and syrupy, teasing but not mocking—because she liked him like this, trembling and helpless and looking at her like she was divinity made flesh.

“Let me look at you again, baby. C’mon.”

She stepped back, guiding him with one hand on his chest—two fingers pressing gently, like she was taming a wild thing with a single gesture.

“Take it off. Slowly.”

Her voice was still quiet, but now it had a command threaded into the velvet, a thread he was desperate to follow. She eased him down onto the low bench against the wall, her body still untouched, untouched, untouched, as she stood before him fully clothed and completely composed.

And Austin—oh, Austin obeyed.

He shrugged off his blazer, his fingers clumsy as they fumbled at the buttons of his shirt. He couldn’t look away from her. Every time his gaze dipped to her legs, the slit of that liquid-gold gown parting just slightly, or the soft swell of her chest barely shifting as she breathed, he got slower—dizzy with it. Her eyes stayed on his, unblinking, soft as candlelight.

She let him undress like it was a performance for her and her alone.

By the time he was down to nothing but his briefs, sitting back with his thighs spread and chest rising unsteadily, Kama smiled like a woman who had just received an offering worth more than gold.

She stepped forward.

Lifted her gown slightly—just enough to straddle him and settle into his lap without hesitation, the fabric pooling around her like molten heat, like temptation itself had draped itself over him.

She wasn’t rushing.

She wasn’t rushing.

Her thighs bracketed his, her hands smoothing over his bare shoulders, and her hips shifted just enough to make him feel her—warm, clothed, deliberate.

He let out a breath like a prayer.

“Kama—”

“Shhh,”

she whispered again, her mouth brushing the shell of his ear, her fingers trailing up the nape of his neck into his hair.

“You did so good for me tonight, baby. So patient. So sweet.”

And then she rocked once.

Just once.

Just enough to make him twitch beneath her, to hear that pathetic, beautiful whimper break in his throat.

“Kama, please—please, take it off,”

he gasped, head falling back against the wall as she tilted her hips again. His hands hovered at her waist, trembling.

“Wanna see you,”

he breathed.

“Wanna feel you—all of you—please, I wanna—”

“Hmm?”

she murmured, her voice as thick as honey as she kissed just under his jaw.

“Want me to strip for you, baby boy?”

She giggled then, low and soft, because she loved it—the way he begged like this, like worship.

She hummed when he begged, soft and sweet like she hadn’t just ruined him an hour ago, like he wasn’t already trembling from the weight of her in his lap.

“You want me naked already?” “After everything I just gave you?”

Her voice was velvet with a blade underneath, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth, then down to his jaw, then not quite to his throat. She kissed him with air—barely there, like he wasn’t even worth the press of her lips yet.

She rolled her hips, slow as molasses, letting the thick gold satin of her gown rustle as it moved against his skin—all fabric, no skin. Her dress was still high-necked, long-sleeved, sheer in some parts and decadent in others, clinging to her body like it was in love with her. His fingers itched to peel it from her.

He gasped.

“Kama—Kama, please—”

“Please what, baby?” “Use your words. Or are they still caught in your throat like earlier?”

Her palm splayed across his bare chest, fingers spread, nails gently dragging along the planes of his body, just enough to make his stomach flex. He jerked under her. She didn’t stop moving—kept her rhythm steady, slow, almost lazy. She was setting a pace meant to make him sob, and it was working.

Austin clenched his fists at his sides, knuckles pale. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to see her. But she hadn’t let him. Not yet.

He didn’t dare move.

“I wanna see you,”

he choked out finally, his voice small, wrecked.

“I need to see you—please, let me…”

His hands hovered at her waist again, not daring to grab her. Asking. Always asking. Her control of him was total, and it was making his cock twitch against the fabric of her gown.

She reached up, dragging one long nail down her own collarbone slowly, slowly, eyes locked on his face. He followed the movement like a starving thing.

“You think you’ve earned that, sweetheart?” “After one little climax in a cinema seat?”

She smiled then, cruel only in how gentle she was being, how she didn’t need to raise her voice or taunt him—she just kept stroking him with her voice, with her body, with the knowledge that she owned him in this moment.

And then she finally moved.

One arm reached behind her, slow and elegant, unzipping the back of her dress with a whisper of sound. The gown loosened—but didn’t fall. No, she kept it on, just enough, the neckline slipping off one shoulder, revealing the satin sheen of her brown skin, one collarbone glowing in the low light like carved gold.

Austin whimpered.

“Kama…”

“That’s all you get for now, baby,” “You want more?”

She bent, close to his mouth, lips brushing his without kissing him.

“Then beg me better.”

His hands trembled as they hovered beside her thighs, fingers flexing against the urge to grab hold of her. To cling. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not with the way she looked at him, that one shoulder bared like a slow undressing of power itself. Kama didn’t need to be naked to ruin him. She never had.

She kept rocking—slow, consistent, torturously gentle. Her hips moved in perfect rhythm against his, the fabric of her gown swishing between them, cool against the heat of his flushed skin. The contrast made him twitch beneath her again, his breath hitching in his throat as he tried—tried—to hold it together.

But he was losing.

He was failing.

“Please,”

he whispered, the word escaping like smoke. He shook his head, eyes fluttering shut as he struggled to breathe around the knot of need in his throat.

“Kama—please, I don’t—fuck, I can’t—”

His chest rose in shallow bursts, like his lungs had forgotten how to work without her permission.

She touched his face then. Just one hand, warm and soft and grounding, cupping his jaw. His eyes opened, wide and glassy, his pupils blown.

“Can’t what, baby?”

Her tone was low, soothing, almost maternal, which only made him whimper louder. His hips jerked beneath her involuntarily and she still didn’t move faster.

He leaned into her touch like a man starved for it.

“I can’t—I need you, please—I’ll do anything, I swear I will—I need to see you, I need to feel you, I—fuck, Kama, I love you—”

It slipped out of him like a confession, ragged and trembling and unplanned.

The second it left his mouth, his face crumpled. He let out a broken sob—quiet, shameful, like the weight of everything he’d tried to hold back had finally split wide open at the seams.

And Kama…

She smiled.

Not mocking.

Not smug.

But soft—devastatingly soft, like she’d been waiting for that moment, like she knew.

“There he is,”

she whispered, brushing her thumb across his wet cheek.

“That’s my sweet baby boy. That’s the voice I’ve been waiting for.”

She kissed him then.

Finally.

Mouth to mouth, lips parted, tongues slow and searching. She swallowed that little sob, kissed the wetness off his cheeks, pulled him deeper into it like she wanted to drown in him—and let him drown in her.

And when she pulled back, her gown still on, her body still mostly hidden beneath silk and shimmer, she took his shaking hands and guided them to the zipper again.

“You wanna see me?”

A kiss to his temple.

“Then take your time. Unwrap me slow.”

His hands rose to her zipper like they were guided by prayer—not urgency, not lust, but a kind of holy reverence. His fingers trembled as they brushed the fine gold teeth of the zip where it rested just below the small of her back. She watched him, arms draped over his shoulders, hips still nestled in his lap, eyes heavy-lidded but steady, soft.

“Go on, baby,” “Take what’s yours.”

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His mouth was open but no words came—just the sound of his breath catching in his throat as he slowly pulled the zipper down. It gave with a sound like silk sighing, revealing inch after inch of rich brown skin underneath, the smooth line of her spine emerging like scripture, holy and untouchable.

She didn't help him.

She didn't move.

She just let him—let him be the one to take it all in.

He leaned forward as the dress loosened, pressing his lips to the top of her spine, breathing her in. One kiss. Then another, lower. Then one to her shoulder, his lips hot and damp and desperate.

“You're so beautiful,”

he whispered hoarsely, more to himself than her, like he needed to say it just to stay grounded.

He slid the sleeves down her arms next, carefully, painstakingly slow, baring the curve of her shoulders, the line of her collarbone, the swell of her chest encased in a silk-trimmed bra she’d picked knowing he wouldn’t survive it.

And he didn’t.

He kissed her chest, right between the cups, as the dress pooled at her waist.

“You don’t understand,”

he whispered against her skin,

“I’ve been thinking about this since the second I left—since I opened that hotel door—I didn’t even want to—couldn’t—”

Kama's hand cupped the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair gently.

“I know, baby. I know.”

He eased the gown down her hips, reverently, exposing her inch by inch, unable to take his eyes off her skin, like it burned to look at and healed at the same time. Her thighs. Her belly. The curve of her ass beneath matching golden panties. The dress slipped down to her knees and he lifted it over her feet carefully, folding it and setting it aside like it was precious.

Now she was bare but for the delicate lingerie and jewelry still clinging to her—bracelets, anklet, a thin gold chain around her waist that shimmered when she moved.

And he just stared.

He didn’t even touch her.

Just sat there, breathless, eyes wide, undone.

“Say something,”

she murmured, voice thick with heat but still composed.

Austin swallowed, jaw trembling.

“I’d die for you,”

he said, almost ashamed at how fast it came out.

“Right here, right now.”

She saw the way he was looking at her—like a man on the edge of starvation, lips parted, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling in shallow, reverent breaths. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure, trembling with the weight of want he hadn’t yet earned the right to touch.

She was still seated in his lap, all curves and gold and dark silk, skin glowing in the low light like dusk made flesh. Her thighs straddled him with natural ease, and even with her dress in a soft puddle on the floor, she hadn’t lost an ounce of power.

If anything, she looked more dangerous like this.

And he… he just looked up at her.

Austin Butler. Hollywood’s golden boy. All bone-deep longing and quiet ruin under her palm.

She smiled slow, one hand sliding down his chest, brushing along the line of his jaw, guiding his eyes back to hers.

“Take what you need, baby,” her voice was low, velvet and warm, like a flame curled around his spine. “You’ve been so good today.”

And just like that—he broke.

A noise escaped him, guttural and soft all at once, something between a whimper and a sob, and then his hands were on her. Desperate, aching, reverent. He started at her waist, fingertips brushing that golden chain, before moving up—splaying wide across her ribs like he was trying to memorize the shape of her from the inside out.

He kissed her chest again, not frantic, not rushed—just deep. A press of his mouth right over her heart like he needed to know it was still beating, needed to feel it under his lips.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice hoarse and cracking. “Fuck, thank you.”

His mouth moved lower, dragging reverent, open-mouthed kisses down her sternum, her stomach, her hips. His hands cradled her thighs as though she were breakable, tilting his head up to look at her with glassy eyes and flushed cheeks, his voice barely more than a breath—

“Tell me if I do anything wrong.”

“You won’t,” she said, gently stroking his hair back from his forehead, “You’ve earned me. Every inch.”

And so he worshipped her. With his hands. With his mouth. With everything he’d kept caged inside him since the second he’d walked out of her hotel room that morning.

He didn’t mean to pull her down with him. Not at first.

But something about the way she looked—bare, golden, thighs wrapped around him like benediction and judgment all at once—made something snap inside him. There was no plan. No finesse. Just a sound in his throat, raw and urgent, and the next thing he knew, he was sliding them both to the floor, arms wrapped tight around her hips as he kissed her like it would kill him if he stopped.

The rug was plush beneath them, the room still echoing with soft music from downstairs, but none of that mattered. Not when she was straddling his lap again, breath warm against his cheek, her body moving with slow, cruel grace against his.

He kissed her like she was water and he’d been drowning for weeks.

Like he didn’t know if he deserved another taste.

“God, Kama—” his voice cracked, wet and broken, “I missed you. I missed you and it’s only been hours—fuck, what’s wrong with me?”

But she just smiled. Leaned down. Brushed his hair from his forehead and kissed him again, slow and open-mouthed, dragging her nails down his bare chest as his pants dug into his knees.

“Nothing’s wrong with you, baby,” she murmured. “You’re just hungry.”

He moaned at that, actually moaned, the sound punched from deep in his chest as he slipped his hands under the backs of her thighs and turned her gently, lowering her onto the soft carpet with a care that bordered on religion.

He spread her legs slowly, like unveiling something sacred. Kissed the inside of her knee. Her thigh. The crease where skin met silk. Everywhere but where she ached. Everywhere but the heat. Because he wanted to take his time, to prolong it, to savor her.

To earn her.

“You’re shaking,” she said gently, eyes soft, lips parted.

He was.

His hands trembled on her thighs. His lashes were wet. He didn't even try to hide it.

“I just—I love you.” It tore out of him, a whisper soaked in panic. “I didn’t mean to but I—fuck, I do.”

His voice cracked on the last word as he kissed the inside of her thigh again, lips trembling against her skin, his breath hitching.

And she let him.

Let him cry against her skin, soft, stuttering sobs as he kissed the path upward. Not loud. Not ugly. Just raw. Just overwhelmed. Just undone.

Then his mouth met the fabric of her panties, and he moaned again—full-bodied, deep, wrecked. Pressed a kiss there like it was holy.

“Please,” he whispered, “Can I—?”

“Take your time,” she said, arching her hips ever so slightly, eyes heavy with want, “You’ve earned it. Go ahead, baby. Eat.”

And he did.

Fell to his knees between her legs and worshipped her with a mouth that couldn’t get enough, fingers gripping her thighs so tight it hurt, tears drying on his cheeks as he drowned in the sound of her, the taste of her, the feeling of her thighs tensing and her voice catching as she moaned his name like benediction.

He wasn’t just giving her head.

He was giving her everything.

His face was already wet, but not from her—not yet. His tears had dried sticky on his cheekbones, a few caught in the edge of his lashes, but he didn’t care. He couldn't. Not with her thighs framing his face, her scent on his lips, her fingers curled lightly in his hair—not to guide him, no. Just to feel him.

He didn’t even touch her with his hands at first. They were too busy—trembling, digging into the rug for purchase as his tongue pressed flat and slow against her through the now-drenched lace, breath hitching as he tasted her through the barrier. A small, guttural moan escaped him at the first stroke. His hips flexed downward involuntarily. He was hard, embarrassingly so, untouched in his slacks, but it didn’t matter.

She mattered.

“There you go, baby,” she murmured, her voice syrup-slow, one leg draped lazily over his shoulder. “Nice and slow. You were so patient for me. Go on, eat.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a permission. And he took it like gospel.

He peeled the lace down her thighs like it was fragile, like it would disappear if he moved too fast. And when she was finally bare to him, the sound he made wasn’t even human—it was something deeper, something feral, half-moan, half-broken sob. He didn’t even wait—just pressed forward with his whole face, mouth open, tongue greedy, the kind of kiss that devoured her.

He licked like a man dying of thirst. Like he could crawl inside her and never come back out.

And Kama?

Kama didn’t falter. She just exhaled slowly, the kind of breath women take when they’re being adored properly. Her head tilted back slightly, a soft smile curving her lips as her fingers tightened in his hair, not to control—just to remind him she was pleased.

“Mmm, just like that. Right there,” she cooed, a slow burn building in her voice. “Don’t stop now, you’re doin’ so good.”

Austin whimpered against her, hips grinding into the carpet, rutting like a dog without even thinking. He didn’t care how it looked. He didn’t care that he was trembling all over, or that his mouth was wet with her, chin slick and flushed red from stubble burn.

All he cared about was her thighs squeezing just slightly, her moans catching in her throat, that slow roll of her hips when his tongue hit the spot she liked—

And when she tugged his hair, sharp and sudden?

He cried again.

A single, fractured gasp broke from him as his whole body shuddered, like he might come just from this—from tasting her, from pleasing her, from knowing that he was allowed.

“You wanna come, baby?” she asked, voice thick with velvet and smoke, “Just from eatin’ this pussy?”

His hips stuttered. He nodded desperately against her heat, eyes squeezed shut, tongue still working through the tears and the ache and the overwhelming need.

“Go ahead then,” she purred, “Come just like this, on the floor, with your mouth right where it belongs.”

The moment the words left her mouth—“go ahead then, come just like this”—something in him snapped.

His entire body jerked like it had been struck by lightning, a low, strangled moan breaking free from his throat as he thrust helplessly against the floor, pants still half-on, cock swollen and leaking where it pressed against the seam of his briefs. He didn’t touch himself. Didn’t need to.

The taste of her was enough.

The sound of her voice, the way she gasped and laughed, softly, wickedly, when she realized what was happening, that was enough.

“Oh, baby,” she purred, voice silk-wrapped satisfaction, “You really couldn’t wait, huh?”

He came with a sob in his throat, hips twitching hard into the carpet as his mouth never stopped moving. He kept licking through it, through the trembling in his thighs and the heat soaking into his spine, through the wet stick of fabric now ruined under him—he licked like he didn’t know he was allowed to stop. Like he couldn’t stop.

And Kama let him.

Let him shake. Let him fall apart with her between his lips. Let him embarrass himself, ruin himself, leave a mess in his pants like some desperate, touch-starved boy who’d never tasted anything so good.

She smiled down at him, hand stroking through his hair, hips rolling slowly against his mouth as his body began to settle in shuddering waves.

“There we go. That’s it. That’s my good boy.”

He whined at that—actually whined, a broken sound of overwhelmed pleasure, the tremble still in his hands as they clutched at her thighs, grounding himself in the softness of her skin.

She leaned forward, slow and syrup-sweet, eyes hooded as she brought a finger to her folds and traced it along the wetness he left behind—then slipped it into her mouth with a sigh, watching him with hooded eyes.

“Still hard,” she murmured, glancing down at the ruined mess in his pants, “Greedy thing. You want more?”

He nodded, dazed. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

And Kama just smiled.

“Then get back to work.”

It took him a moment to come down.

To remember where he was—knees raw against the floor, pants sticking to his thighs, jacket still crooked over one shoulder. His face? Glossed in her. Lips wet. Breathing uneven. His eyes were glassy, red-rimmed with bliss and reverence as he looked up at her like she’d hung the fucking moon.

And she—Kama—was still above him. Regal, untouched in her control, the picture of composed indulgence.

But she hadn’t come yet.

And he knew it.

“You gonna finish what you started, baby?” she asked softly, voice like velvet over smoke, her fingers resting lightly against his jaw. “Gave you your reward. Think it’s time you earned mine.”

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Just nodded, fervent and eager, and pressed his face right back between her thighs like it was instinct, like his soul had found its true north.

But now?

Now he took his time.

His mouth softened at first—pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses into her inner thighs, reverent and worshipful, tongue dragging in long, molten strokes like he was savoring her. He wanted to taste everything, wanted to learn what every breathy sound she made meant.

She started slow—hips shifting, thighs tightening, a quiet gasp slipping out when he flattened his tongue against her clit and held it there, pulsing the pressure just right.

“Mmm, that’s it baby… don’t stop, you hear me?”

He groaned into her, like she’d blessed him.

And then he doubled down.

His tongue was relentless, lapping in rhythms that matched the roll of her hips. When she whimpered, he focused there. When her fingers tangled in his hair and pulled, he took that pain like praise and moaned for it. She tasted sweet, tasted like heat and honey and power—and he devoured her with everything he had left.

The moment her breath caught, he felt it. The way her thighs trembled. The way her hips stuttered and ground against his face, her moans getting shorter, higher, more frantic.

“Just like that, baby,” she gasped, her voice starting to unravel, “Don’t you dare stop, I’m so close—”

And then it hit her.

Her back arched. A deep, broken moan tore out of her, and for a second, everything around them disappeared. It was just the heat of her, the wet quake of her body, the grip of her thighs around his head, and the muffled sound of his name slipping off her tongue in the middle of her orgasm.

He didn’t stop.

Not when she came. Not when her legs shook. Not even when she gripped his hair hard enough to make him wince. He stayed, licking her through the aftershocks, moaning like it hurt him not to.

She was still trembling when she reached down and tugged him up by the collar, kissing him hard, tasting herself on his lips and groaning into his mouth.

“Fuck,” she whispered against him, palm against his cheek, “That’s what I needed.”

And the way he looked at her—eyes flooded, lips swollen, mouth still wet—you’d think he just got handed the keys to heaven.

He was still kneeling when she reached for him, slow and unhurried, her palm warm against his flushed chest as she coaxed him upright. His legs were shaky—hell, he was shaky—but he let her lead, stumbling a little, dazed and overwhelmed, his breath still uneven as she walked him back across the room with nothing on but her bra and that air of silken command.

“Sit for me, baby,” she murmured, voice like a balm, “Let me show you how good you’ve been.”

She eased him into the armchair like he was something delicate—something to be taken care of—and the second his back hit the plush upholstery, his hands instinctively went to her hips, needing her close, needing her on him.

And she obliged.

The way she lowered herself onto him was slow, almost taunting in its reverence—like she wanted him to feel every inch, every second of her enveloping him, hot and tight and dragging around him like molten velvet. His breath hitched with each impossible centimeter, his fingers trembling where they gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles whitening as if anchoring himself to the only reality that made sense anymore: her.

And she was divine.

Her skin glowed, lit by the low warmth of the room’s overhead lights, casting her in gold and honey. Her bra had long since fallen somewhere beside them, and her bare breasts swayed gently with every motion—full, soft, his—and when he reached up to cup them again, she let him. Encouraged him. Leaned into the way he groaned softly, almost brokenly, as his thumbs brushed over her sensitive nipples, lips parting in worship.

“That’s it, baby,” she purred, grinding her hips down in a slow, wet roll that made his back arch off the chair, “Take all of it. You can take all of me, can’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” he stuttered, voice hoarse and shaky, “God—Kama, fuck—I can’t…”

“Shhh,” she whispered, one hand slipping into his hair while the other smoothed over his heaving chest. “You can. You will. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

She set a rhythm—slow at first, deep and rolling, the kind of grind that made her clench around him with each downstroke, pulling soft, needy sounds from the back of his throat. His hands wandered helplessly, reverently, like he didn’t know what part of her to worship first—her breasts, her thighs, the sweat-slick dip of her waist. Everything about her felt like too much and yet never enough.

“You feel so good, baby,” she moaned lowly, her breath hot against his cheek as she leaned in close, her fingers cradling his jaw, “You’re so deep inside me. Filling me up just right. This is where you belong.”

That undid him.

His arms wrapped around her waist, holding her impossibly tighter, like if he let go, she might vanish. He buried his face in her chest, gasping raggedly against her skin, his mouth pressing frantic kisses to the soft curve of her breast while she rode him harder now—her rhythm building, her thighs tensing, the sound of their bodies meeting thick and wet and obscene.

He was whining now, real, helpless little noises—hips bucking up to meet her, eyes glassy, mouth slack with pleasure he couldn’t contain.

“Kama,” he gasped, voice shattering at the edges, “I’m—I’m gonna come, I can’t—I can’t stop it—”

“Then don’t,” she whispered, her voice velvet and smoke, “Give it to me, baby. I want it. You’ve been so good tonight, you’ve earned it—come inside me. Fill me up.”

He broke.

A raw, desperate cry tore from his throat as he came hard, deep inside her, hips jerking, whole body convulsing as he emptied himself into her in waves—long, shuddering, gut-punching waves. And she rode it out, whispering praise into his ear, moaning at the way he pulsed inside her, the way he whimpered her name again and again like a prayer that might save his soul.

She didn’t let go. Didn’t rush.

She held him there—on her, in her—as he trembled and gasped, arms limp around her, lips brushing her collarbone as he tried to come back to himself.

“That’s it,” she murmured, kissing his temple softly, “You did so, so good for me.”

And he couldn’t speak. Could only cling. Could only breathe her in like she was the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

Because maybe she was.

His breathing was still uneven, fractured into shallow gasps that barely filled his lungs, as if his body hadn’t quite caught up to what had just happened. He was trembling beneath her, arms loose around her waist, lips parted in a daze, eyes glassy and wet with tears that hadn’t yet dried. Kama's fingers were gentle, brushing through his sweat-damp hair, her voice low and loving as she kissed the side of his head and whispered praise into his skin—praise he barely registered through the rush of overstimulation clouding every corner of his body.

“Okay, baby,” she murmured, pressing her cheek to his forehead, “That’s enough. You’ve done enough for me. Let’s stop, yeah? Let’s breathe.”

And she shifted, her hips lifting slightly as if to pull away—but the moment she moved, something inside him snapped awake.

It wasn’t panic, not exactly. It was something deeper. Sharper. A realization that speared through the haze like a knife through silk.

She hadn’t come.

He could feel it. Could sense it in the way her body had trembled with care, but not with release. In the way she held back, held him, let him fall apart in her lap while she stayed firm, steady, soft—putting his pleasure before hers like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

“Wait,” he croaked, his voice hoarse, throat raw from moaning and gasping and sobbing her name, “Wait, don’t—please, don’t get up.”

She stilled immediately, her eyes scanning his face, confusion tugging gently at her features as she cupped his cheek, thumb tracing the tear-streaked line down his jaw.

“Austin,” she said softly, “Baby, it’s okay. You’re spent. Let me—”

“No,” he rasped, cutting her off as his arms tightened around her waist, holding her in place, holding her close like she might float away if he didn’t anchor her down, “No, I felt it. You didn’t finish. You were just… you were taking care of me and I—I can’t. I can’t let you walk away without—”

His voice broke on the last word. Another tear slipped down his cheek, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead between the swell of her breasts, grounding himself in the scent of her skin, in the warmth of her body still wrapped around him.

“Please,” he whispered, barely audible, “Please let me give you this. I need to make you come. I need to feel it. I need to know I made you feel that way too.”

And her heart stuttered—because even though his body was visibly trembling from overstimulation, his lips swollen and red, his cock still inside her and aching with sensitivity—he was begging her for permission to keep going. Begging her not because he wanted to take, but because he wanted to give.

And Kama, beautiful Kama with her hips still pressed against his, her heart beating a little faster now, couldn’t deny him.

“Okay,” she whispered, cupping his cheeks in both hands, wiping the tears gently from his face, “Okay, sweet boy. You want to give it to me?”

He nodded—quick, desperate, his eyes huge and shining and full of nothing but her.

“Then give it to me,” she said, voice velvet-soft as she rolled her hips—slowly, purposefully, a deep grind that had his head falling back, his lips parting in a gasp so wrecked it sounded like a prayer, “Make me come, baby. Be a good boy and give it to me.”

And he did.

God, he did.

Even though every thrust sent white-hot lightning shooting through his nerves, even though his entire body was screaming from overstimulation, even though the tears started falling again from the sheer intensity of it all—he planted his feet, grabbed her hips, and began to move.

Up into her. For her.

Each motion was unsteady, a little clumsy, but soaked in devotion—raw, broken, real. His mouth found her throat, her collarbone, her chest, her jaw—pressing wet, desperate kisses everywhere he could reach, moaning softly against her skin like the sound alone might carry her over the edge.

“Kama—Kama, fuck—” he sobbed, his body jerking with every movement, “Please, please come—I need to feel it, I need to feel you lose it—please—”

“You’re doing so good, baby,” she gasped, her hands clutching his face, her hips beginning to meet his now, hard and fast and perfect, “Just like that—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—oh, you’re gonna make me come, baby—gonna make me—fuck—”

And then she did.

Her whole body snapped, locking around him like a vice, her nails digging into his shoulders as a loud cry tore from her throat—her climax crashing over her like a wave she couldn’t fight, only ride, and she did, grinding down against him with shaking thighs and a trembling jaw as she shattered in his lap.

And he just held her through it.

Tears still falling. Lips parted. Body utterly wrecked.

But his eyes never left her face.

And when she collapsed against him, spent and panting, he whispered with the softest smile imaginable:

“Thank you… thank you for letting me.”

His body was still shaking, the overstimulation sending quiet tremors through his limbs even though they weren’t moving anymore. His chest heaved against hers in rapid, shallow breaths, his hair damp with sweat where it clung to his forehead, the glow of exertion still painted along his cheekbones. His arms were limp around her waist now, holding her only because she hadn’t moved yet. And he was crying again—not sobbing this time, but soft, stuttering tears that leaked from the corners of his eyes and slid down his temples like he didn’t even notice they were there.

Kama noticed.

She always noticed.

She brushed a kiss to his cheekbone, soft and slow, and whispered,

“Shhh, baby. I got you. Breathe with me.”

She shifted gently, careful not to pull away from him too quickly, even as he whimpered at the change in sensation. His hands instinctively tightened on her hips, like he didn’t want to let her go, like he wasn’t ready to return to the world yet.

“It’s okay,” she cooed, cupping his jaw with both hands, thumbs brushing his tear trails with delicate, worshipful precision, “You’re okay. You did so good for me. You were so good.”

He nodded, barely, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath, eyes fluttering under heavy lashes. Kama kissed his forehead again—then his nose—then his lips, featherlight.

When she finally pulled back, she reached for her purse where it had been abandoned near the armchair earlier. She dug through it like a woman on a mission, her movements graceful and unhurried, then pulled out a small packet of tissues and an almost-too-small travel pack of gentle wipes.

“Let me take care of you now,” she murmured, kneeling between his legs, her expression soft as spring rain, her every movement slow and deliberate, made to bring him back down inch by inch.

She started with his face first. Tender hands cradling his jaw, she wiped away the tears that hadn’t stopped falling, tracing over the flushed heat of his cheeks, dabbing at the corners of his mouth where he’d bitten down on his own lip too hard. Her voice was a whisper now, more lullaby than words.

“There he is… look at you,” she breathed, “Still so pretty. My sweet boy.”

Then she moved lower.

Carefully, reverently, she used the wipes to clean him up—between his thighs, over his stomach where her body had pressed against him. Her touch was featherlight, knowing how sensitive he was, but still intentional—like every inch she touched deserved to be honored. He flinched once or twice, gasped again when she brushed against him, and she soothed him with kisses to his knees and quiet shushing noises like he was a livewire being gently powered down.

“You did so good,” she whispered again, her voice growing even softer, “I’m right here. You’re not alone. You can come back now, baby.”

He blinked, slow and heavy, eyes finally starting to focus on her, hands reaching for her as if he couldn’t stand to not be touching her.

“Kama…” he breathed, voice hoarse.

She climbed back into his lap, still nude, still warm, and gathered him close, letting him tuck his face against her neck as she held his head to her collarbone and whispered something sweet and slow into his hair. Her fingers drew slow circles down his back, over the lines of tension still trembling through his spine.

“I know, baby,” she murmured, “It was a lot. But I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

She rocked them gently, her chin resting on top of his head now, as his breathing slowed, as the tears dried, as the fire slowly faded into warm, glowing embers.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” she told him, her fingers stroking through his curls, “You already were. Let me hold it now.”

And he did. Let her. Let her gather every shattered, overstimulated piece of him and tuck it into her chest, into her skin, into the soft sound of her heartbeat where nothing else existed but her voice and her warmth and her hands, telling him again and again that he was safe, he was good, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

[mamasturn]

Hank Thompson | Caught Stealing