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nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 15 days ago

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The Blackline.

Summary: The Blackline is a sultry, tale set in 1929 in the hidden quarters of Little Rock’s Black district, where flappers, vice, and hoodoo tangle in velvet-lit shadows. Violet, a timid Gullah Geechee girl with nowhere else to turn, finds herself working in a brothel run by the enigmatic Stack Moore—a pimp with charm, secrets, and a past steeped in sin. But it’s Stack’s older twin, Smoke, who consumes Violet’s thoughts. A war-worn man of few words, Smoke commands the room with silence alone.

Warnings: SMUT (building tension, soft dominance, Virgin!OC)

Part Four

Part One Part Two Part Three

The sounds of the Juneteenth celebration still hummed through the walls with muffled laughter, the rasp of blues guitar, the clinking of glasses. But in Violet’s room, it was quiet. She stepped inside gently, her pulse still racing. Her thighs ached faintly from the lap dance, but not from exertion, but because of how he had looked at her. Like she was a dream made flesh. Smoke had said he’d come to her tonight. Not for sex, he’d whispered. But he wanted to see her. Hold her.

Violet unfastened her dress with trembling fingers, letting it slip to the floor. She left on the silk panties—still damp and clinging—and pulled her robe around her shoulders. Pale lavender with faint embroidery at the sleeves, the robe fluttered slightly as she walked. She tied it loosely, the silk whispering against her skin. Then she sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her breath unsteady.

She kept thinking about the way Smoke had held her earlier. The way his voice dropped low when he called her beautiful, the way his hands guided her hips when she danced on him. And that kiss—shy, soft, her first real one. His lips had tasted like smoke and something sweeter, something she couldn’t name.

She touched her lips with two fingers, her eyes distant. Then came the knock.

Three soft raps.

Her heart leapt into her throat.

The door creaked open, and Smoke stepped inside, his broad frame filling the space instantly. He was in a white tank, his muscled arms bare, and a pair of black slacks slung low on his hips. His skin glowed golden in the warm lamplight. He looked like he didn’t belong to any ordinary world—all heat, all possession. His gaze scanned her immediately, taking in the robe, the bare legs, the ribbon still tied around her neck.

“You sittin’ here waitin’ on me like that?” he asked, voice low and thick.

Violet nodded, eyes downcast.

“Good. That’s what I wanted.”

Smoke walked over slowly, eyes never leaving her. When he reached her, he brought his fingers under her chin and tilted her face up gently.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Violet smiled faintly.

He sat beside her on the bed, then pulled her gently into his lap. She curled there like she belonged, her legs tucked beneath her side–saddle with one hand resting on his chest. He cupped her jaw, angling her chin up so she’d meet his eyes.

“You alright, little one?” he uttered softly.

She nodded again, though her breath hitched.

“You were somethin’ else tonight,” he added, “Dancin’ on me like that. You remember how that felt?”

She blushed furiously, lips parting.

Smoke leaned in closer, voice honey-thick, “Did you like it? The lap dance?”

“…Yes,” she whispered.

“Did you like how it made you feel?”

She gave a slow nod, breath catching again.

“Did you like bein’ at my command? My hands on your hips, tellin’ you what to do?”

She made a soft, involuntary sound and nodded once more.

“Mm,” He bit his lip just slightly, eyes growing darker, “You want more of that, don’t you, pretty baby?”

Her eyes flicked to his, wide and unsure, but the desire was there.

“I do…”

Smoke exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening around her waist.

“Then let me show you. Let me help you blossom.”

He brought a hand up to her neck, fingers grazing the satin ribbon tied there.

“You always wear this. Why?”

Violet’s throat tightened. Her fingers brushed the ribbon as she answered softly.

“My…my grandmama gave it to me. Back in South Carolina. When I was little. She said it was a protection charm…said I was delicate, but I’d grow into something strong. She told me to never take it off unless I gave it to someone I trusted.”

Smoke stared at her then—long and silent. The heat between them shifted, turned reverent. His voice was low when he spoke again.

“She was right…you are delicate. But you already strong, baby. You just don’t see it yet,” He paused, stroking her arm with his thumb, “You look beautiful in that ribbon, Violet.”

Violet’s breath stilled. Then, slowly, she leaned in. Their lips met again—this time with intention. The kiss was slow, lingering. She pressed her mouth to his like she was learning him by feel. His hand slipped behind her neck, thumb stroking her jaw, and he deepened the kiss with just enough pressure to guide her.

When she whimpered softly against his lips, he pulled back just enough to whisper, “Straddle me.”

Her breath caught. But she obeyed, sliding one leg, then the other, across his thighs. The robe parted slightly, and the silk panties pressed flush against the hard plane of his abdomen. She gasped at the feel of him beneath her.

“That’s it,” he said, voice thick, “You can feel that, baby? That what you do to me. Wanted you the minute I laid eyes on you…”

She swallowed hard, hands braced on his chest. Their lips met again—this time hungrier, but still wrapped in tenderness. Smoke’s hands moved slowly down her sides, caressing the curves of her hips, then trailing lower to her backside. He squeezed gently, pulling her closer.

“You got a body made to be worshipped,” he spoke softly, pressing his forehead to hers, “Soft little hips…pretty ass…you feel so good sittin’ on me like this.”

Violet whimpered again, but her arms wrapped tighter around his neck. Her hips shifted, just a little, responding instinctively.

Smoke smirked against her lips, “That’s it, sweet girl. Just feel. You don’t gotta rush.”

His hands kept gliding over her, learning every inch, coaxing her open like a flower in bloom.

And Violet—silk, trembling, ribboned and radiant—bloomed for him. Violet’s breaths came in little stutters now, shallow and uncertain. Her thighs trembled where they bracketed his lap, but she didn’t move away. She stayed with him. Stayed on him. Smoke kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then lower, just beneath her jaw where her pulse fluttered wild and sweet.

“Feel that throb, baby? That all for you,” he whispered, letting his thumb trace slow, lazy circles into the small of her back, “That’s your body wakin’ up.”

“I…I feel it,” she said, voice paper-thin.

“You ain’t gotta be scared of it. That heat? That ache in your belly?” He pulled back enough to look her in the eyes again, “That’s all you, baby. That’s you learnin’ what you like.”

She blinked at him, her lips parted, eyes full of soft wonder.

“You like my hands on you?”

She nodded.

“You like sittin’ right here, feelin’ how hard you make me? How fuckin’ stiff you make me?”

Another nod, smaller this time. Shyer.

Smoke smiled faintly before biting his bottom lip, one hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, “Good. ’Cause I could sit like this all damn night.”

Violet exhaled slowly, her head falling gently to his shoulder, her heart beating like hummingbird wings. Smoke stroked her back in long, steady motions—fingertips grazing the edge of her robe, the curve of her waist, the rise of her ass.

He tilted his head, lips brushing her ear, “You want more?”

She nodded again, but this time her voice came with it.

“Yes.”

Smoke’s hands shifted. He tugged her closer, until her soaked silk panties rubbed directly against the hardness in his pants.

She gasped.

“Feels good, don’t it? Say, yes Sir.”

“Y-Yes…Sir…”

His lips found hers again, this kiss slower than the rest. He parted her lips with his tongue, tasting her carefully, teaching her how to kiss like grown folks do. She followed him, soft and uncertain, moaning into his mouth when he deepened it. His hands stayed low, gliding over her hips, coaxing a gentle rhythm from her body.

“Let go,” he whispered, “Just follow what you feel.”

She did.

Violet’s hips began to roll in tiny, instinctive movements, seeking friction, connection. Her silk panties were slick now, clinging to her with every slow grind.

Smoke groaned low in his chest,” That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, sweet girl. Look at you.”

She whimpered and pressed her forehead against his.

“Lil’ pussy messy already, ain’t it? Feel how you want it to?”

She gave the faintest nod, panting.

“Good,” he said, guiding her hips again, “You s’posed to…enjoy it, baby…don’t be scared…”

He let one hand drift beneath the hem of her robe, cupping her ass over the silk, then kneading gently. His touch was reverent, possessive. Worshipful.

“Still wearin’ these for me I see,” he graveled, rubbing his thumb across the curve of her backside, “My soft little girl in silk.”

Violet trembled, burying her face in his neck.

Smoke just held her.

No rush.

No pressure.

Just heat and sweetness and trust.

After a long stretch of quiet motion, her riding his lap slow and steady, her panties clinging to every delicate curve—he leaned back to look at her again.

“Stop.”

Violet’s motions paused but her breath was shaky and uneven. Her heart raced and her clit pulsated with need.

“You did good, baby. Let me lay with you,” he said, “Just hold you ‘til you fall asleep.”

Violet nodded. Smoke gently adjusted her, lifting her with strong hands and laying her back across the pillows. He kicked off his boots, removed his tank top, and climbed in beside her.

She curled into him, breath still shaky. He drew her close—one hand stroking her back through the robe, the other resting on her hip.

“You did so good tonight,” he whispered into her hair,“You bloomed just like I knew you would.”

And in the dark, pressed against the thrum of his heartbeat, Violet whispered back.

“Thank you…for seein’ me.”

And not too long after, she drifted off to sleep.

The room was still dark when Violet stirred in the early morning hours. Smoke’s arms were still around her, his scent laced through her robe and the sheets—tobacco, wood, sweat, and something warm, like skin after sun. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep in his arms. But there was something about the way he held her, how he didn’t rush, didn’t ask for anything more than what she gave—that lulled her into safety. The last thing she remembered was his palm on her hip and the soft rasp of his voice against her ear.

Now, in the early hush before dawn, the bed was empty beside her.

Violet sat up slowly, her robe still draped loosely over her body. The ribbon was still around her neck. She touched it, fingers tracing the knot, heart fluttering at the memory of his voice asking where it came from.

She was right. You already strong.

She glanced toward the nightstand and stilled. There, left beside a small tin of peppermint salve, was something that hadn’t been there before. A silver lighter—weathered, warm in tone, engraved with a barely visible mark. A small flame and the initials.

E.M.

It was his. She’d seen him use it dozens of times, flicking it open to light cigars or cigarettes, flipping it shut with that sharp little click. He always kept it in his breast pocket.

And now it was here.

Beneath the lighter, folded neatly, was a slip of brown paper. Violet opened it with care, reading his dark, slanted handwriting:

Sweet girl,

Didn’t wanna wake you.

You looked too peaceful, curled up like that.

Got a job runnin’ me out past the river.

Be gone a bit, but when I get back, you got all my attention.

If you still want more…

I’ll teach you real slow.

All the touchin’. All the ways you like to be held.

Keep the lighter.

Now you got fire close, even when I ain’t.

Smoke

Violet read it twice, her eyes misting. She pressed the note to her lips, then tucked it beneath her pillow like it was sacred. She picked up the lighter next. It was heavier than she expected. Still smelled faintly of smoke and cedar.

And it was warm.

Like him.

With trembling fingers, she slid it into the little keepsake box tucked on her windowsill, beside the ribbon her grandmother had once tied in her hair. Then she lay back down, robe slipping from her shoulder, and pulled the blanket to her chest. The air still smelled like him.

She closed her eyes, whispering softly, “Come back soon.”

The sun rose behind gauzy curtains, casting soft ribbons of light across Violet’s bare legs as she stepped out of the bath. The water had been warm, steeped with herbs from a jar labeled soften & soothe a blend she remembered Aunt Pearl mentioning once. She’d stayed in until the water turned cool, soaking in the silence, the ache still pulsing low in her belly from last night’s closeness.

Her silk robe clung to damp skin as she moved back through her room. She dried off slowly, humming without realizing it, the tune drifting from her lips like steam from the tub. Her eyes were brighter. Her walk—still shy, still soft—held a new rhythm. Something in her had shifted.

She stood before her small mirror and reached for the ribbon. Now she looped it once more around her neck, tying it snug, the bow sitting just beneath her throat like a secret.

She touched it gently.

Fire close, even when I ain’t.

Violet smiled—small but steady.

She slipped into a cotton day dress, pale blue with tiny white flowers, then padded down the back stairs barefoot. The sound of breakfast drifted up. Pans clinking, a radio crooning somewhere low, and the rich, warm scent of butter and smoke and grease.

In the kitchen, Aunt Pearl was tending to a cast iron skillet, flipping cornmeal cakes and humming along to the radio. Her apron was dusted in flour. A pitcher of infused water sat on the counter, lemon and mint floating lazily beneath the glass.

Violet stood in the doorway a moment, soaking it in.

She felt real. Present.

Alive.

“Don’t just stand there starin’, baby,” Aunt Pearl called without turning, “Come get you a cup before it’s gone.”

Violet smiled softly and stepped inside. The floor was cool beneath her feet. She moved to the stove and poured herself some chicory coffee, then helped herself to a small glass of the water too. It was fresh and sharp, the mint making her breath feel cleaner, calmer.

“You eatin’ with us this mornin’?” Aunt Pearl asked, glancing over at her with one of her knowing looks.

“Yes, ma’am,” Violet replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “If that’s alright.”

“Course it is,” Aunt Pearl turned back to the skillet, then paused, “You look beautiful this mornin’.”

Violet froze, then ducked her head, cheeks burning.

“Thank you.”

“Mm-hmm.” Aunt Pearl flipped another cake, the pan sizzling, “Ain’t just the dress. It’s in your eyes. In your shoulders. Like somethin’ bloomed overnight.”

Violet pressed the rim of her glass to her lips and said nothing. Aunt Pearl smiled to herself, quiet now. She didn’t press, didn’t pry. She just added an extra scoop of eggs and grits to Violet’s plate and passed it over.

“Go on. Eat up, sugar. You got a day ahead.”

Violet took her plate and coffee and slipped into the main parlor. The place was quiet this early, just the golden spill of morning sun and the faint hum of last night’s energy still lingering in the velvet drapes. She sat on a low couch near the front window, her food warm in her lap.

And for the first time since arriving at The Blackline, she didn’t feel like a stranger.

She felt seen.

And wanted.

And safe.

She ate slowly, savoring each bite of buttery grits and corncakes, coffee still warm at her side. The sunlight coming through the front windows kissed her skin, caught the delicate sheen on her cheeks, made the ribbon at her throat look like something ceremonial. She didn’t notice the way her glow caught the eye until she heard a whisper and a soft laugh from the staircase.

Peaches was the first to notice. The Georgia girl sauntered in barefoot, wearing a house slip, robe, and rollers in her hair. Sleep still clung to her eyes and the planes of her plump lips as she yawned and her curvy frame silhouetted in the morning haze. She looked Violet over from head to toe, smirking.

“Well, don’t you look like you been fed by somethin’ other than corncakes,” Peaches teased, grabbing a piece of bacon off a nearby plate and popping it in her mouth.

Violet’s face flushed, but she didn’t look away.

Peaches grinned wider, “Mmhmm. Thought so.”

Behind her, Minnie emerged, humming as she stretched her arms over her head, “Y’all smell that breakfast? Aunt Pearl done threw her foot in it this morning.”

Peaches tilted her head toward Violet, “She smell like somethin’ else too.”

Minnie’s brows lifted. Her eyes flicked to Violet, who looked down quickly, lips parted in nervous surprise. Then Lana strolled in, cowrie shells clinking softly in her braids. She caught the shift in energy instantly and narrowed her eyes. Her lips curved into a knowing smile as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Mm,” Lana mused, “Ain’t that sweet. Glow like that don’t come from soap and perfume.”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” Peaches said with mock innocence, licking bacon grease off her fingers, “But somebody’s been touched.”

Violet’s eyes widened. She looked down at her plate, unable to speak, heart pounding. The women all laughed lightly—teasing, not cruel—but it was enough to make her shrink just a little in her seat.

Then the laughter stopped.

Because the front door opened, and Odessa entered.

Statuesque and svelte, with softly flaring hips, a tight waist, and high-set breasts often emphasized by corsetry and stagewear. Skin like creamy bronze with hints of honey-gold—smooth as satin film reel, glowing under powder and gaslight. Cool hazel eyes, lined in kohl, always half-lidded like she’s either amused or just bored. And cheekbones carved sharp as suspicion. Odessa didn’t walk, she glided. Hips swaying, dark lips painted to match her mood: wine-dark and unbothered. Her silk slip dress clung to her like it was born on her skin, and her hair was wrapped high in a patterned scarf that matched her nails—deep red and dangerous.

Her eyes cut across the room, cool and calculating.

And when she saw Violet?

They sharpened.

“Morning,” Odessa said, her voice like velvet with an edge.

“Morning, Dess,” Peaches chimed, suddenly much more demure.

Odessa’s heels clicked across the wood floor as she crossed to the bar cart and poured herself a splash of brown liquor into her coffee. She sipped, slow, then leaned against the counter and finally addressed what everyone was dancing around.

“So. Is it true?”

Nobody answered.

Odessa tilted her head, one brow lifted, “Smoke. And her?”

Violet’s breath caught.

Lana tried to play it smooth, “Now you know rumors don’t mean nothin’, Dess.”

Odessa didn’t look at Lana. Her gaze stayed locked on Violet.

“She don’t look like a rumor,” Odessa said, “She look like she seen the whole damn fire.”

The room fell quiet.

Violet set her plate down carefully, hands trembling just slightly. Odessa walked closer. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to tower.

“Funny thing. Smoke’s never so much as glanced at one of us with heat in his eyes. Never dipped in the house pool.”

Peaches spoke, “Well, that might be changin’.”

Odessa didn’t blink, “Seems it already has,” Her eyes dropped to Violet’s ribbon, “That what got his attention?” she asked coolly, “That sweet little bow?”

Violet stood, sudden but quiet. Her voice barely a whisper.

“Excuse me.”

She gathered her plate and coffee and turned to leave. The room remained still as she slipped through the side hallway, her robe fluttering slightly behind her.

Odessa watched her go, then said, to no one in particular, “Gotta be somethin’ real special about her.”

Her words weren’t cruel. Just cold. Curious. Dangerous.

And the room knew then. Whatever was blooming between Smoke and Violet wasn’t secret anymore.

It was noticed.

The air inside Stack’s office was warm with leftover cigar smoke from the night before. Golden light filtered through half-drawn velvet drapes, catching the glint of his gold cufflinks and the gloss of the black leather couch where Smoke now sat—one leg crossed, hat in his lap, eyes sharp and silent. Stack stood at the liquor cabinet, pouring two fingers of bourbon into mismatched crystal glasses, even though it wasn’t yet ten in the morning.

“Shit’s gettin’ messy,” Stack muttered, voice gravel-thick from sleep and smoke, “We lost Isaiah.”

Smoke looked up. Not surprised. Just still.

“How?”

“Set-up over by the Pine Bluff run,” Stack said, handing Smoke a glass, “Tried movin’ early. Two crates, our best hooch. Gone. Boy bled out in the gravel with a smile still on his damn face,” He sat down across from him with a sigh, “That little bastard always smiled when the stakes got high.”

Smoke took a slow sip.

“Ain’t no ordinary jackboys doin’ that,” he said after a beat, “Somebody knew his route. Knew the time. Knew what we was movin’.”

Stack nodded, “Somebody talkin’. Or watchin’.”

Silence settled thick. The only sound was the ticking of the old wall clock and the low rumble of voices in the kitchen. Smoke leaned back, pulled a folded map from his coat pocket, and spread it across the desk. His fingers still stained faintly from trigger grease—tapped three points: Pine Bluff, Jackson, and a new corner in Helena.

“We cut this corner,” he said, “Bring the dry goods through Helena instead. Have Tiny run the next haul—but only with two others. Nobody new. And we go quiet about the cargo.”

Stack scratched at his jaw, then nodded slowly, “And we start shakin’ our Numbers boys. Somebody’s loose,” he sat back into his chair, “Speaking of the Numbers racket,” Stack added, “That preacher in Crossett’s got his congregation playin’ every damn day. He takin’ a cut bigger than he promised. You wanna handle that?”

Smoke’s lips barely moved, “Yeah.”

Stack smirked, “Didn’t think you’d say no.”

Smoke took another sip, then leaned forward, “We gettin’ too known,” he said flatly, “Bootlegging. Numbers. Girls. Gamblers. Somebody gon’ try us harder than that little ambush.”

Stack stood again, pacing.

“Been thinkin’ the same,” he said, “Which brings me to what I wanted to ask,” He walked to his desk drawer and pulled out a sealed envelope, thick with names and numbers.

“Word is, there’s a man from up Chicago. Friend of Vincenzo’s crew. Specializes in hardware.”

Smoke raised a brow.

“Guns?”

“Tommy guns,” Stack said, voice low, “Modified. Drum-fed. Clean serials.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed—interested now.

“How many?”

“Enough to arm a funeral or a wedding. Depends on how we play it.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of it all heavy between them. Then Smoke spoke.

“We go see him. Not as buyers. As men who already know how to use ‘em.”

Stack grinned and leaned back in his chair, gold tooth flashing, “I knew you’d like that.”

“Start pullin’ cash from the street girls’ side pots,” Smoke said, “I’ll move quiet through Clarksdale this week, see who’s sniffin’ around about Isaiah.”

Stack nodded again, then raised his glass.

“To funerals and weddings.”

Smoke clinked his.

“To the Blackline.”

After another twenty minutes talking business with his twin, Stack stood near the back dressing hallway, sleeves rolled, vest unbuttoned, cigar lit and tilting from his lips. Around him, three of the girls—Odessa, Peaches, and Minnie—stood barefoot in robes, sipping coffee and trading sleepy glances.

“Listen close,” Stack said, exhaling smoke, “Ain’t no more slippin’. We tight now. We hot. That boy Isaiah got hisself buried too early, and if you don’t wanna join him, you do what I say.”

Odessa raised a brow, “You sendin’ me to roll bones or dodge bullets?”

Stack smirked, “Both, if the Lord willin’. You run Numbers tonight. Poker room in Midtown. Use the blonde wig. Take Clyde with you. He ain’t pretty, but he shoot straight.”

Peaches grinned behind her teacup with a sultry gaze.

“And me, Daddy?”

Stack looked her over with a casual drag of his eyes, then tipped his cigar toward her belly.

“That stomach brings in drunks like bees to sweet honey. You workin’ tipsy soldiers tonight. Not too touchy. Make ‘em believe they the ones in charge but don’t let ‘em take nothin’ but a look unless they pay up front.”

Peaches winked, “They don’t get past the look.”

“Minnie,” he turned, eyes softening just a touch, “You stay home. I want you keepin’ an eye on our Violet. She too sweet to sniff trouble when it’s ‘round the corner. And she bein’ watched now. I feel it.”

Minnie nodded, jaw set, “I’ll keep her safe.”

Stack kissed two fingers and tapped them to her cheek, “I know, my Minnie.”

Meanwhile, as the late afternoon approached, in the back of the property, past a false pantry door and down a narrow stairwell, Smoke walked into the safehouse storage room—cigarette dangling, fingers itching. The air was cool. Damp with stone and iron. He moved with practiced quiet, opening crates and drawers, counting stock by memory more than sight.

•Rifles: Three—two bolt-action, one rusted and useless.

•Pistols: Five total, including his. One gone missing.

•Rounds: Enough for a fight. Not enough for a war.

•Cash bundles: Low. Too low. Someone’s skimming.

•Two molasses tins stuffed with fake IDs, calling cards, and coded route notes.

•Two sawed-off shotguns tucked in satin-lined cases. Smoke’s favorite touch.

He paused at the shelf with the moonshine crates.

One was light.

He bent down, lifted it, and saw the false bottom had been pried. Gone. Gone clean.

He straightened slowly, jaw locked, lit cigarette glowing like a fuse.

Someone had been here.

Smoke walked back upstairs, slow and tight, cigarette clenched between his teeth like it was the only thing keeping him from drawing blood. He met Stack back in the hallway, sometime after the girls had scattered.

“One of the crates is light,” Smoke said simply.

Stack nodded once, “I’ll call in Clyde and Alonzo. You bring your gun. We check the fence in North Little Rock tonight. If it ain’t him…”

Smoke looked toward the dressing room, where Violet’s laugh echoed softly with Peaches.

“…it’s somebody closer.”

Stack walked off to prepare.

The door was cracked, and the sound inside was soft. Laughter. Sweet. Light. Like something made of sugar and silk. Smoke paused just outside the doorway, his shoulders still hot with rage, jaw stiff from clenched silence. One hand rested at his side, the other still held the cigarette he hadn’t smoked, just burned down—ash curling, untouched.

Inside the dressing room was Peaches on a stool, laughing full-bellied and warm, her robe hanging loose, hair tied up with a yellow scarf. Beside her, Violet—knees pulled to her chest on the vanity counter, feet bare, ribbon still around her throat.

She was giggling.

Not just pretty giggling—honest, breathless giggling, her face turned toward Peaches, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed. The sound didn’t match the fire in his chest. Didn’t belong in a world where boys were dying in alleys and bullets were missing names by inches. It was too pure.

Too dangerous.

Smoke stepped in without saying a word.

Both women turned. Peaches straightened her back instinctively. Violet’s lips parted, eyes wide—not afraid, but alert, like a doe catching scent of something heavy in the trees.

Smoke looked only at her.

Then to Peaches.

“Give us the room.”

Peaches blinked, “Somethin’ wrong, Smoke?”

He didn’t answer.

She rose slowly, squeezing Violet’s hand, then slipped out, glancing over her shoulder once before the door closed.

Silence.

Just the two of them now.

Smoke crossed the room with quiet steps, boots thudding soft on the old floorboards. Violet’s knees were still drawn up, hands folded over them, fingers wringing each other like nervous ribbons.

“You get my note?” Smoke questioned.

Violet nodded, smiling faintly, “I did. And the lighter,” she glanced down at her knees then back up to meet his gaze through her lashes, “Thank you. How was your run this morning?”

Smoke exhaled, exhaustion lining his features, “Long. Nothin’ to worry your pretty head over.”

“You alright?” she asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her.

At her skin. Her eyes. The curve of her neck above that ribbon. The smell of her—floral, clean, faintly powdered with heat beneath.

Then he said it, voice rough as gravel soaked in slow-poured sugar.

“You laughin’ like the world don’t burn.”

She blinked.

His tone wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t gentle either. Just low. Tired. Wary.

“I didn’t mean to laugh too loud,” she whispered, shrinking slightly.

He shook his head once, “It ain’t that.”

Smoke stepped closer. The tension coiled in his shoulders hadn’t broken—not yet. But now it focused on her. On how delicate she looked in the morning light. On how someone like her shouldn’t be anywhere near the kind of men who move crates of guns and bury boys in back fields.

“I counted two crates light,” he said after a beat, “Safehouse been touched. Somebody inside’s runnin’ they mouth, movin’ hands where they shouldn’t.”

Violet’s brows pulled in slightly, the color almost draining from her cheeks.

“Is it…one of the girls?”

“Maybe,” His voice was quieter now, “Maybe not.”

He stepped in front of her now, so close her knees brushed his shirt.

“You got anyone askin’ questions?” he asked, “Clients gettin’ too close? Anybody follow you?”

Violet shook her head, quick, “No, Sir. Nobody. I swear.”

Smoke studied her face. Not just her eyes. Every little shift—the twitch of her lips, the flick of her lashes, the breath caught in her chest.

She wasn’t lying.

She was just…close.

Too close to all of it.

And too sweet for the kind of storm that was coming.

Smoke lifted a hand, slid it gently up the side of her calf, warm and slow, until he was stroking just beneath her knee.

“Don’t let nobody in your room,” he said softly, “Not without my say.”

She nodded.

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, the strand bouncing free because of it’s thickness, fingers brushing her temple.

“You mine, right?”

She swallowed, “Yes.”

His eyes darkened, but his voice softened again.

“Good. ‘Cause when fire comes knockin’, I ain’t lettin’ it touch what belongs to me.”

He leaned in then—not for a kiss, but just to breathe her in. His forehead nearly touched hers. That ribbon brushed his cheek. And for a moment, the world outside—stacked with bullets and betrayal—fell away.

Her scent wrecked him.

It wasn’t perfume. It was her. Clean skin still warm from sleep, a trace of rosewater on her neck, and something else…something deeper. The sweet, damp heat that came from being near a woman who wanted, even if she didn’t fully know how to name it.

She shifted, breath catching in her throat, and the ribbon around her neck swayed slightly, the end of it grazing his cheek like a secret hand.

It was so soft.

Too soft for a place like this.

He let the backs of his fingers trail along her calf again, higher now. Her skin was warm and trembling, like her blood had started to quicken. Every little gasp she gave wasn’t loud, it was tight and shallow, escaping like she didn’t even realize she was breathing for him now. He felt her chest rise near his, the silk of her robe catching faintly against the buttons of his shirt. Her lips parted slightly—not in invitation, but in pure reaction.

She couldn’t help it.

And that alone…

That was enough to make him close his eyes for a beat and press his cheek against the ribbon, just lightly. As if he needed to feel it, not just on his skin, but in his bones. As if her softness could remind him he wasn’t only made of knives.

“You smell like somethin’ sacred,” he spoke with a low gravel, voice hoarse. “Like you was made to be touched slow.”

She let out the faintest whimper—a hiccup of sound, sharp and wet behind her teeth. Her hand moved, unsure, brushing the fabric of his vest before falling back into her lap.

“Smoke…” she whispered.

He opened his eyes, gaze locked on hers—dark, low-lidded, and full of something she didn’t yet have the language for.

He didn’t say a word.

Just watched her chest rise. Listened to that breath hitch again. Felt the ribbon shift against his skin like a kiss too soft to hold. His thumb rubbed over the bone of her knee, a silent reminder that she was still his. Even if the world was unraveling around them. And then—only then—he leaned in close enough to speak at her lips.

“You keep wearin’ that ribbon like this, girl…and I’ma have to show you what happens to pretty little things that keep temptin’ me.”

He didn’t touch her mouth.

Didn’t need to.

She was already trembling for him.

His thumb stilled on her knee.

That ribbon still kissed his cheek.

But Smoke didn’t go any further.

He didn’t part her legs.

Didn’t let his hands slide up to where her heat waited—though every part of him burned to.

Instead, he breathed in deep, one last drag of her scent, like a man pulling smoke into his lungs and deciding not to choke on it. Then he pulled back slowly, deliberately, just enough to look her in the eyes.

She blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, lashes heavy with the weight of unsaid need.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

His voice was low, controlled, like it cost him something to say it.

“Wanna see you come apart, girl. But not here. Not now. Not when I got blood on my mind.”

Her lips parted, a soft breath leaving her like a moan caught in prayer.

Smoke reached up, tugged lightly on the end of her ribbon—just enough to feel it tighten around her throat.

“Next time you laugh like that,” he said, “save a little breath for me.”

Then he dropped his hand, turned, and walked out of the room without looking back.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And Violet was left sitting on the counter, ribbon trembling, legs pressed tight together, mouth open in silence. Her hands curled into the silk at her thighs, trying to hold onto something, anything, that would keep her from falling apart right there where he left her.

And in the silence, the only thing louder than her heartbeat…

was the echo of his voice in her head.

Not yet.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And Smoke didn’t move right away.

He stood still in the hallway, the air around him thick and quiet, lit only by a single amber sconce overhead. His fingers twitched once at his side. Then he raised his hand and pressed it to the spot where her ribbon had kissed his cheek.

It still burned.

Soft as it was, it had scorched him.

His jaw flexed, teeth clenched so tight he could feel the ache deep in his molars. He breathed out hard through his nose—low and ragged—then dragged his hand down his face, slow, like he could wipe her scent from his skin.

He couldn’t.

It was still there. Clinging to him like silk left out in the rain—rosewater, breath, and that faint trace of heat that lived between her thighs. The smell of want. Of innocence. Of something not meant for a man like him but offered anyway.

He swallowed.

Then paced.

Three steps down the hallway. Turned. Three steps back. He was trying to think—trying to clear his mind and make sense of the business, the betrayal, the missing merchandise. But all he could feel was the ghost of her breath on his neck.

You mine, right?

Yes.

Not yet.

He could still feel her tremble.

Still hear that little gasp. The one she didn’t mean to make when his thumb moved up her calf. That soft hiccup of need that no man had ever drawn from her before. He didn’t take her then, not because he didn’t want to, but because he did.

Too much.

Because once he started with her, he wouldn’t stop.

And right now?

He needed his head.

He needed his pistol.

He needed to bury whoever touched his crates.

But damn if she didn’t make it harder to think.

He took the last drag of his cigarette, tossed it onto the floor, and crushed it beneath his bootheel. Then he exhaled one last time and whispered, to no one:

“Next time…I ain’t walkin’ away.”

Then he straightened his collar, ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, and strode toward the back stairs—a man at war with the world and with his own restraint.

About an hour later, Smoke found Stack out back near the shed, sleeves rolled up, arms dusted in dirt and oil as he worked on the handle of the delivery truck. A cigarette hung loose between Stack’s lips, and a bottle of corn whiskey sat sweating on a barrel nearby.

The sun was low, throwing gold across the gravel and long shadows between the trees.

Stack glanced up when Smoke approached, catching the hard set in his brother’s shoulders.

“Damn. You look like you walked outta the chapel wit’ a sin still in your hand,” Stack muttered, flicking ash.

Smoke didn’t answer.

Just said flatly, “It’s time.”

Stack wiped his hands on a rag, tucked it in his back pocket, and pulled the truck keys from the nail on the wall.

“Clyde’s already out front. He got the shotgun under his coat. Alonzo’s meetin’ us at the spot.”

“Good,” Smoke replied.

Stack grabbed the whiskey bottle, took a long pull, and handed it over.

Smoke didn’t drink.

Just stared at the bottle for a second too long—like he wanted to pour it over his head and drown out the feel of her ribbon still brushing his skin.

Then he passed it back and said, “Let’s move.”

They rode in silence for a while, the truck rattling over the worn streets of Little Rock. Sunset turned to dusk, and the sky bled purple behind old brick buildings and railway lines. Smoke drove, both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. Stack loaded the pistol he kept beneath the seat.

“You sure it’s this fence?” Stack asked, voice low.

Smoke nodded, “He was the only nigga that knew Isaiah’s route. Said he’d take ten cases. Got eight. We counted nine goin’ out.”

Stack snorted, “Dumb bastard’s probably sittin’ on ‘em waitin’ for top dollar. We should make an example.”

“We will.”

They pulled up to a run-down warehouse on the edge of the rail yard, the kind used to store cotton before the war and liquor now that times changed. Alonzo stood at the door, chewing a toothpick, already watching for movement. Inside, the warehouse smelled of rust, sweat, and old wood soaked with secrets.

The fence, a weasel-faced man named Booker, stood near a stack of crates, arms crossed, nervous already.

“I ain’t expectin’ both of y’all,” Booker said, eyes flicking from Stack to Smoke.

Smoke walked in first, slow, deliberate, methodical.

“We ain’t expectin’ thieves,” he replied.

Booker stammered, “Th-there a problem?”

Stack stepped in next, lighting a fresh cigarette, eyes gleaming under his wide-brim hat.

“You tell me. You said ten. We gave you nine. Now Isaiah’s dead and we only see eight sittin’ here.”

Booker swallowed hard, “Look, man, I don’t—”

Smoke’s fist landed before the lie finished.

One hit. To the gut.

Booker dropped hard.

Smoke crouched over him, pulled his pistol, and said real calm, “You talk, or you bleed ‘til the rats get curious. Who you sellin’ to?”

Stack leaned against a crate, watching. Cool. Collected.

“I’d talk if I were you,” Stack said lazily, “My brotha’s already holdin’ back a lot today.”

Booker was gasping like a dog in August heat, one hand on his stomach, the other trying to crawl toward the door like that was gonna do anything.

Smoke didn’t let him get far.

He dragged him back by the collar, tossed him flat on his back, and pressed the barrel of his pistol to Booker’s temple.

“Don’t. Lie. Again,” Smoke said, voice like gravel dragged slow,“You know who took that crate.”

“I–I don’t,” Booker wheezed, “I swear I don’t—”

Smoke’s finger tapped once on the steel. Then again.

There was a pause. A stillness that would make trepidation creep through.

“Wrong answer.”

CRACK.

The butt of the pistol connected with Booker’s cheekbone—clean and hard. Blood bloomed under the skin. Booker shrieked, curled in, and spat red onto the floor. Stack didn’t flinch. He just exhaled smoke from his pre-rolled cigarette and leaned back against a crate, hat tipped low, watching like a man at the picture show.

“Booker,” Stack drawled with a sly, dimpled smirk, “you bleedin’ on our investment, nigga.”

“I ain’t—I didn’t know they’d hit the boy,” Booker croaked.

“They who?” Smoke asked, calm again. Too calm. Tilting his head menacingly.

Booker froze.

“Say the name,” Stack said, “Now.”

“Felix Vaughn,” Booker said finally, lips trembling, “From over in El Dorado. He sent word through one of his boys…said he’d pay double what y’all were askin’. I didn’t mean to cross you, I didn’t—”

Smoke stood slowly.

Felix Vaughn.

That crooked bastard had been pokin’ around the Delta for months. Ex-pimp turned runner. Heard he was building a warehouse in Pine Bluff. Now he was trying to edge in on The Blackline’s routes?

“You gave up a Blackline boy for pocket change,” Smoke said coldly.

“I didn’t think—”

“That’s right. You didn’t.”

CRACK.

Smoke’s boot slammed into Booker’s ribs, hard and sharp. Booker howled. Stack finally moved, strolling over and squatting beside the gasping man. He snatched Booker’s handkerchief from his front shirt pocket and tossed it on the ground before Booker’s bloody mug.

“You listenin’, Book?” Stack said, voice suddenly low, conspiratorial, “We gon’ leave you alive. You gon’ bandage yourself up, go back to your hole, and whisper into every damn alley that The Blackline don’t forget. You hear me?”

Booker nodded, coughing blood.

Smoke knelt beside him.

“But first…” Smoke reached into his coat, pulled a switchblade, and flicked it open slow. He grabbed Booker’s hand—the one that signed for the stolen shipment.

And cut off the tip of his pinky finger.

Booker screamed.

Smoke just wiped the blade on the man’s coat, stood, and walked out like he was leaving a barber shop.

Back in the truck, the sun had dipped behind the treetops, and the sky was streaked with blood-orange light. Crickets were just starting to chirp, and the wind smelled like cotton, sweat, and copper.

Smoke sat behind the wheel. Stack beside him, oxfords up on the dash, a new cigarette lit, still calm.

“You alright?” Stack asked after a minute.

Smoke didn’t answer right away. Just stared out the windshield, jaw tight.

“That boy was just a runner,” he finally said, “Didn’t deserve to go out like that.”

“No, he didn’t,” Stack said quietly, “But he knew the work. And he didn’t die soft. That’s somethin’.”

Silence.

Then Stack looked over, smirking slightly.

“You kept it clean. Thought you was gon’ gut the bastard.”

Smoke cracked the tiniest smirk, eyes still cold.

“Still might. But first, I’m makin’ a trip to El Dorado.”

Stack nodded.

“I’ll make the call about the guns.”

Smoke reached into his coat, pulled out Isaiah’s old route ledger—now blood-stained—and tossed it onto the dash.

“Let’s arm up.”

The Blackline was wide awake by the time Smoke and Stack walked back through the front. Things took longer than expected, crime life don’t come easy. The heat of the evening clung to their coats. Bourbon clung to their breath. And blood clung to their boots, drying dark beneath the soles.

Inside, the air was thick—perfume and sweat, perfume and blues, perfume and sex. The velvet-red glow of the parlor seemed deeper tonight, shadows darker, lights warmer. Smoke could feel it in his bones.

The floor was packed.

Laughter rolled under the slow crawl of music—a low-slung jazz trio with a silver trumpet and a whisper-soft piano. Cordelia stood near the bar, hips swaying lightly, speaking to two clients who looked like they’d sell their mother to buy her smile.

Stack exhaled with satisfaction and tipped his hat low as they crossed the threshold.

“Now that’s what the fuck I’m talkin’ ‘bout.”

Cordelia caught Stack’s eye from across the room. She gave him a knowing smile, subtle, sharp, full of unspoken pride—and lifted her glass.

He winked, slow and lazy.

It was thanks without words, the kind of acknowledgment only those who ran empires with charm and iron understood. She had held The Blackline together while they were gone. She always did.

He veered off toward her, walking with that Stack swagger—all silk and shadows.

Smoke didn’t slow down.

He passed the crowd like a shadow sliding through heat, boots silent against the hardwood, coat dusted with the day’s ghosts. He was headed for his office—not the parlor, not the bar, not the women calling to him with their eyes.

But as he turned down the corridor, someone blocked his path.

Odessa.

Leaning against the wall in a backless sapphire gown, cigarette in hand, lips blood-red and eyes lined sharp. She caught him before he could pass, stepping directly into his space.

“You look like you left some poor bastard in pieces,” she purred, “That true?”

Smoke’s jaw clenched, “Outta my way, Dessa.”

She tilted her head, “Don’t ‘Dessa’ me like we strangers.”

He tried to walk past.

She followed.

“Mm. Thought you didn’t mess around with women in The Blackline, Smoke,” she said, too sweet, “That still the rule? Or you just makin’ exceptions now…excuses for soft little things with ribbons on their neck?”

Smoke didn’t stop.

Didn’t answer.

Just moved past her like she wasn’t even there. The smoke from her cigarette curled around his shoulder as he brushed by. Odessa turned to watch him walk away, teeth clenched, cheeks burning behind her rouge. That familiar tight ache settled in her chest—the one that only came when a man she couldn’t break refused to look back.

He entered his office and closed the door behind him, finally exhaling.

The room was dim.

Still.

Quiet.

The only sound was the soft tick of the wall clock and the creak of the leather chair as he sat down. His coat hit the back of it. The pistol came next, laid gently on the desk. He rubbed his temples, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on the worn oak surface.

His bones ached.

His fists still buzzed.

And Isaiah’s scream still echoed somewhere deep in the back of his head.

He didn’t regret it.

But he felt it.

The blood. The weight. The edge of the blade in his own hand.

And now…the pull.

The soft, unrelenting pull toward her.

Smoke slipped into his private room—tucked behind a false panel, separate from the office. No one entered unless invited. He undressed in silence. Set his belt on the chair. His boots at the door. The pistol on the dresser. The blade on the basin edge.

Then stepped into the shower.

The water was hot. Scalding. He needed the burn. Let it strip the day from his skin. Blood, sweat, and memory ran down the drain in long, copper streaks. His hands braced the tile. His forehead pressed against the wall. But in his mind—it was her hands washing him. Her ribbon brushing across his spine. Her breath catching when he touched her the way only he could.

He washed himself slow. With intention.

Then dried, shaved, and dressed in silence.

A clean white button-down, pressed crisp

Simple black slacks, the waistband sitting just right.

Black leather oxfords, polished, quiet.

His chain, tucked in.

No cologne. Just soap and skin and cigarette smoke and control.

He looked in the mirror.

And for a moment…he didn’t see a killer.

Just a man.

A man walking toward something that made him feel clean again.

He ran a hand over his slicked hair, straightened his collar, then stepped out.

Toward her.

She’d been sitting in the alcove for over an hour.

Perched on a velvet bench tucked behind layers of sheer drapery—red on black, like dusk layered over smoke. From where she sat, she could see the main parlor ripple and pulse with laughter, low jazz, bodies moving like heat waves. She liked it here—half-visible, half-forgotten, a place where she could be part of the rhythm but untouched by it.

Except tonight, she didn’t feel still.

She felt like a bell strung too tight.

Because she was waiting for him.

Her hair had been done hours ago by Peaches—a soft, updo, pinned carefully at the crown of her head, but loose enough to let delicate tendrils fall. One brushed her temple. Two curled down the nape of her neck, sticky with sweat and anticipation. She wore a cream silk slip dress—low at the back, lace at the bust, clinging to her waist like whisper-thin sin. The hem stopped mid-thigh when she sat, and her stockings shimmered subtly under the gaslight. Her ribbon was tied around her neck, soft against her pulse.

She wasn’t serving drinks. Wasn’t dancing.

She was just…waiting.

Watching the front.

For him.

She saw him before anyone else did.

He came through the side hall, crisp and clean, his body carved in shadow beneath a white button-down and black slacks. His walk slow, heavy, deliberate, like the floorboards owed him something.

And then, he looked up.

Straight through the haze.

Straight through the drapes.

Straight at her.

Her breath caught.

He saw her the second he stepped into the room.

That ribbon. That skin. That silk.

The way she sat like a girl who didn’t know what power she held—and also like a woman who was waiting for the exact man she’d chosen to give it to. The light caught in her hair just enough to turn those tendrils into fire. The rest of her was already glowing.

And she was his.

There were bodies moving all around them. Laughter. Music. Talk.

But all of it faded.

Smoke’s pulse slowed. Focus sharpened. Nothing else mattered.

Not the stolen crates.

Not Booker’s blood.

Not Felix Vaughn.

Just her.

He started walking.

Didn’t say a word. Didn’t glance sideways. Just moved toward her like he was being pulled by a thread tied to her ribbon. Violet’s chest rose as he neared. Her legs shifted, thighs pressing close, her breath unsteady. She tried to straighten—but she didn’t move from the alcove. She stayed seated. Waiting.

She didn’t have to rise.

He came to her.

He stopped just outside the drapes, eyes locked on hers.

And then, with one hand, he reached forward and parted the fabric. The velvet hush of it felt like the start of something holy.

He stepped into her space.

She whispered his name, “Smoke.”

He didn’t reply.

Just stood there, taking her in up close. Her breath. Her dress. The curve of her knees. The tremble in her fingers.

Then, low and thick in his chest, he spoke his command.

“Come on with me.”

And she did.

She rose from the alcove like silk lifted by steam, her hand slipping into his like she’d always belonged there, and followed him into the dark. They moved slow. Measured. The sound of her heels a soft click behind his oxfords. His hand held hers steady, but not too tight—just enough to remind her: you’re mine.

They passed through the main parlor, bodies parting like fog around them. The music dipped low—a hush of bass and piano—and the air was thick with perfume, bourbon, and the murmur of desire.

People watched.

Of course they did.

Cordelia caught a glimpse and smiled to herself. Peaches tilted her head, whispering something behind a fan. Even Stack—leaning against the bar—tapped ash from his cigar and didn’t interfere.

But Violet didn’t see them.

She only felt the heat of Smoke’s hand.

The weight of his presence.

The press of his thumb at the back of her knuckles as he walked her past the velvet curtains, past the locked doors, past the places where other men waited for what he was already claiming. Her ribbon—the only ribbon she wore, the one her grandmother gave her, frayed but sacred—fluttered slightly at her throat as they moved through the dim corridor.

He glanced at it once.

Then down at her legs, the way her thighs brushed with each step under that cream silk. And when they reached the back hall—where only he and Stack held keys—Smoke opened the door to his quarters with a slow twist of the wrist.

He stepped inside first.

Then turned.

And waited.

Violet stood in the doorway, heart thudding, lips parted.

She knew the moment she crossed the threshold, she wouldn’t be the same.

Smoke curled his fingers in a come-higher motion, “Come in,” he said low, like a command and a promise in one.

And she did.

The door closed with a quiet finality.

The click echoed like a match struck in a cave.

She stood still at first, just past the frame, the shadows curling around her like velvet. The lamplight was dim, golden. His bed sat in the far corner—dark wood, crisp white linens, a folded towel at the foot like he’d been planning this.

Smoke turned the lock.

Then faced her again.

His white button-down was still crisp, sleeves rolled to the forearm. The muscles in his chest moved as he walked toward her, slow, not like a man rushing hunger—but like a man who already owned what he was about to touch.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Not until he reached up and ran his fingers along the ribbon.

“Still wearin’ this one,” he spoke soft and hungry.

She nodded.

That made him pause.

Just a flicker.

Then he spoke, voice low, “Good. I like knowin’ it’s the only thing you wear for me.”

He slipped one hand around her waist, the other up to the back of her neck, just beneath the curls pinned there. His thumb grazed her hairline. Her breath caught.

“I’m gon’ touch you slow,” he said, “’cause you deserve to be handled like you cost more than any man can pay.”

Then he kissed her.

And the world burned down soft.

He kissed her slow.

Deep.

His mouth lingered at the corner of hers, then traced down to her jaw, tasting the nerves that pulsed beneath her skin. Violet melted into him, hands fisting the front of his shirt, unsure where to put her want—so she let it live in her breath.

Smoke pulled back just enough to look at her.

He hooked one arm beneath her thighs and the other around her back, lifting her clean off the floor. She gasped—soft, startled—but trusted him. Her arms looped around his neck as he walked them across the room toward the bed. He sat down at the edge, settling her into his lap, facing him, silk dress bunching slightly beneath her thighs. Her knees straddled his hips, trembling just faintly. He looked up at her—dark eyes full of restraint, but need too. Need and command and something close to worship.

He kissed her again, hands sliding over her body with slow purpose—one traveling up her back, the other down over her hips, then circling to stroke the front of her thigh through the silk.

“You shakin’,” he spoke softly against her lips.

“I can’t help it,” she whispered, “It’s not bad. I’m just…”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, “I know.”

His hand moved higher.

The strap of her slip slipped easily beneath his fingers. He let it fall from her shoulder, slow, the way a man unravels prayer beads—with tenderness, not rush.

She gasped.

A true sound.

Startled, breath caught behind her teeth. Her hands paused mid-clutch at his shirt.

Smoke stopped immediately.

Tilted her chin toward him, thumb brushing just below her lip.

“Look at me,” he said.

She did.

Eyes wide. Laced with fear and longing.

His voice dropped low.

“It’s okay, sugar. You ain’t gotta do nothin’ you ain’t ready for.”

She swallowed.

He ran his thumb slowly along her collarbone, then back to the ribbon at her throat.

“I just wanna see you,” he spoke with a hush tone, “Just a little more. You can keep your silk on. Please? You ain’t gotta go full butt naked for me.”

His hand grazed down to her hip, fingers brushing the outline of her panties beneath the slip. He kept his eyes locked on hers then his tongue swiped his bottom lip ever so slightly.

“…For now.”

A beat.

Then she nodded.

Soft. Shy. Certain.

“Take my shirt off first, baby…can you do that for me?”

Violet gave the faintest smile, “okay…”

Violet raised her fingers, latching onto Smoke’s shirt again.

“Remember…slow…steady…we got all the time in the world, pretty thing.”

Violet exhaled.

And drew her gaze to her fingers.

She undid his buttons. The sensation of the faint pluck as the fabric parted to reveal flesh causing her breath to hitch. Smoke’s torso isn’t chiseled like a sculpture—it’s worn-in, worked-over, and quietly devastating. His shoulders are broad and strong, the kind that stretch a shirt at the seams, shaped by years of carrying weight—physical and otherwise. They roll when he moves, smooth and deliberate, like he knows just how much space he takes up and dares you to question it.

His arms are thick and muscled, but not for show—earned, not carved. Veins sometimes rise beneath his forearms when his fists clench, when he’s holding back, or when he’s pointing his pistol, or when the tension climbs just beneath the surface. There’s a softness at his inner arms and at the curve where his biceps meet his chest—warm places, meant for shelter, for holding, for comfort.

His chest is wide and heavy, the kind of chest that pillows you if you sleep there, but could crush a man in a fight. It’s covered in a light dusting of hair, tapering in a trail down the center. His nipples are small, dark, sensitive to the right touch—but ignored by most because Smoke doesn’t ask for pleasure. He just gives it.

Below the chest, his torso narrows into a tapered waist, still strong, but with a slight softness that comes from good food, long nights, whiskey, and the comfort of not needing to prove anything to anyone. Not sculpted—but thick, solid, and real. His stomach flexes when he moves—rolling muscle beneath skin—but it’s not flat like a pageant man’s. There’s something human about it. Something touchable. Something hungry.

Her eyes trailed lower, past the slow rise of his ribs, down to the soft dip of his stomach. He wasn’t hard like marble. He was soft in the way a man is when he’s lived and survived—a body made of fire, smoke, and all the things that burn beneath skin.

And still…he looked at her like she was the one worth trembling over.

When she reached out—just her fingertips, shaky—her hand barely grazed the slope beneath his ribs. The heat there was startling. Alive.

Smoke didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tease.

He just sat there and let her see him.

And Violet—trembling, ribbon fluttering, heart hammering behind her ribs—fell harder than she knew a body could bear.

“You like what you see, baby?”

Violet gave Smoke a slow nod, lips parted slightly, eyes soft as she studied the stroke of her fingers gently grazing his skin. Warm. Soft. Scarred. Violet smoothed her fingers over his abdomen before drawing back. She peeked up at Smoke timidly.

“Can I see you now?”

Violet swallowed, then nodded.

Smoke’s hands moved slowly—one pulling the other strap down, the fabric sliding along her warm skin. The slip fell to her waist like it was meant to be draped at his lap, puddled and light, baring her chest to the cool air and his hungry eyes.

She trembled.

Harder now.

Not in fear. In the quiet quake of surrender.

Smoke leaned back just enough to take her in.

Her breasts were perky and full, sitting high with a natural curve that fits perfectly in a man’s hand, glowing in the lamplight. warm brown areolas with nipples peaked under his gaze, her breath unsteady, mouth parted like she might cry just from being looked at. Her breasts rose and fell sweetly when as she breathed, round, not heavy, but soft enough to press against a lover’s chest and stay there.

He didn’t touch her. Not yet.

He just watched.

Studied.

Admired.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, “You the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on.”

And Violet—blushing, trembling, wide-eyed and breathless in his lap—believed him. She sat in his lap, trembling and bare from the waist up, her slip bunched soft around her hips like silk rain. Smoke leaned back slightly, his hands resting gently on her thighs. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just grounding her, steady as stone.

His eyes stayed on her chest—slow, unashamed, worshipful. Not just because of the way her breasts rose with every breath, or the way her skin looked in the golden lamplight, but because of how she tried to hide herself from his gaze and couldn’t.

Her arms fluttered like she might lift them—cover herself.

He caught her wrists, tender but firm.

“Don’t,” he said gently, “Don’t hide what’s mine to look at.”

She froze.

Then let her arms fall.

The shyness in her eyes lit something in him he didn’t expect. He wasn’t used to softness. Not like this. Not paired with trust. Not paired with trembling grace.

He could feel her heartbeat through her thighs.

His voice was rough with restraint.

“They perfect…soft…full. Look like they’d overflow my hands if I tried to hold ‘em.”

He raised one hand then—slow, from her hip up to the underside of one breast. He didn’t grab. Just cradled. Brushed his thumb along the slope.

“This what men kill each other for,” he said low, “And you just sittin’ here lettin’ me look. ‘Ppreciate you, sweet baby…”

She whimpered softly at the praise, eyes fluttering down, her lashes thick with heat and nerves.

“Don’t look away,” he said, “Wanna see how you take it.”

She tried.

Tried to hold his gaze while he stroked his hand across the curve of her breast, brushing the pad of his thumb slowly, teasingly over her nipple. It hardened under his touch, and her breath hitched in her throat.

That sound?

It nearly undid him.

But Smoke swallowed his hunger and kept it slow.

Then, finally—he moved.

He lifted her gently off his lap, like she weighed nothing, and laid her back against the cool white sheets. She arched slightly at the temperature shift, silk rustling softly as her slip stayed bunched around her hips. Her thighs squeezed together, still hidden beneath the fabric. Smoke sat beside her at the edge of the bed, one hand trailing up the inside of her stocking clad calf, over her knee, then resting at the top of her thigh—not touching where she was soaked, but close.

Close enough that she knew he could feel her trembling still.

He leaned down and kissed her chest right between her breasts, then lower, the slope of one, then the other.

“You so soft,” he whispered, “Could stay here all damn night.”

And maybe he would.

Because right now?

She wasn’t just in his bed.

She was in his care.

Her breath feathering shallow beneath the warm light. Her curls had loosened from their pins, falling around her temple, clinging faintly to the sweat at her brow. That ribbon still clung to her throat like a whispered promise. Smoke sat beside her, hand slow over the top of her thigh, eyes taking her in like a man savoring the sight of something he’d waited his whole life for.

But then his gaze drifted back to her chest—those perfect, trembling breasts, flushed and full and rising with every breath.

“Can I suck ‘em?” he asked, low.

Violet froze—eyes wide, lips parted—but she nodded.

That didn’t satisfy him.

He leaned down closer, his hand pressing gently into the side of her thigh. His voice came next, gravel-soft but edged with that dangerous, quiet command that made her body ache.

“Nah, baby. Not your head. Not your eyes. I’m gon’ teach you how to use your words. You want me to put my mouth on you, you say so. Say it with a yes, sir.”

Her breath caught again. A flush spread over her chest. She blinked—flustered, trembling.

But her voice came.

Soft at first. Then clearer.

“Yes, sir.”

Smoke smiled. Not cruel. Not smug. Pleased.

“That’s it. You gon’ learn to tell me what you want. Where it feel good. When to keep goin’. When to stop. You keep quiet with the rest of the world, but with me?”

His thumb brushed her bottom lip.

“…You gon’ speak.”

Then, slow and fluid, he reached down, caught the silk slip at her hips, and pulled it down over her thighs, past her knees, until it slipped off her feet. He tossed it onto the bed beside them—a pale heap of silk, trembling like her. Now, she lay there in nothing but her ribbon and her soft silk panties, breath shallow, legs pressed tight, chest rising high and sweet.

He took one more moment to look.

And then he dipped his head.

His lips brushed the underside of her breast first—a warm, open-mouthed kiss that made her gasp. He shifted slowly to the other, doing the exact same. Taking his time with his tongue and lips. He would lick, then pucker his lips, then nibble with his teeth to tickle. All of this caused her nipples to react. They poked out more. Stiffer. A little achy. Sensitive. Smoke peppered kisses up and up until he circled the tip slowly with his tongue, his palm kneading gently at the other. Her back arched slightly, legs tightening as a soft, broken moan slipped from her mouth.

“That feel good, baby?” he coaxed against her skin.

“Y-yes, sir…”

He smiled against her breast.

“Where else you want me?”

Her lips trembled, “I—I don’t know…”

“You will,” he said.

Smoke sucked her nipple into his mouth—deep, slow, wet, tongue flicking, mouth claiming. He would suck and draw back, releasing with a soft pop. Each time Violet would whimper. That little noise trapped in her throat, as if that ribbon prevented her from speaking, drove Smoke fucking crazy.

Her hands curled into the sheets, her thighs shifting open slightly without her even realizing it. Her panties were damp, soaked through with how much she needed him now. And Smoke could smell it. Feel it. Taste the ache in her breath. He moved between her legs, still kissing and sucking her nipples, still whispering to her while she squirmed and gasped.

Then his hand drifted down. He paused before his hand was given the gift of warm, wet pussy through soft silk.

“Violet,” Smoke sounded out, “I need you to tell me with words and not a nod, baby. Is it okay if I touch on your little pussy through your silk?”

She fought to speak, still delirious from the way his mouth devoured her breast. She looked down at him with glossy eyes and wet lips.

“Violet.” He drawled.

Smoke couldn’t believe how gahdamn stiff his dick is. He had a thing for edging. He enjoyed the ache. The pain that came with being too solid and too constricted. He loved the way his dick would throb and pulse while tucked to the right. Always to the right. It didn’t help that his balls were just as heavy. He needed to touch her. And if he came in his pants? So be it.

It’s been too long since he’d felt like this for a woman. To clarify, he can’t recall ever feeling this much intensity for a gal. He’d had his share of good rumps between sheets and banging iron bed frames, but this…

“Words, pretty girl…”

A breath later she parted her lips.

“Yes, Sir.”

Smoke moaned. A foreign sound. But her consent did something dangerous to him.

His hand moved to the silk between her thighs again.

He stroked her slowly through the fabric, fingers pressing just enough to make her cry out.

“Thank you, baby…” he said, voice thick, “I’m gon’ make you cum just like this. Right through the silk.”

Smoke didn’t rush her.

Didn’t take her apart all at once.

He kissed her breasts for long minutes, slow and wet, sucking and licking while one hand stayed low, rubbing gentle circles through the silk between her thighs.

He was in no hurry.

His touch was confident, firm without being rough, just enough pressure to drive her mad but not enough to let her slip away too fast. Violet gasped and writhed, her legs twitching, her hips arching into his hand. She was already so wet—the silk clung to her folds, soaked, sticky with heat and wanting.

Smoke groaned low in his throat.

Her moan answered him.

“You feel that? How hard you pressin’ into my fingers?”

She nodded—then remembered.

“Yes, sir…”

That made him smile dark. And he rarely smiled. Smoke slid his fingers deeper into the crease of her panties, rubbing tight, lazy circles over her clit, feeling the silk pull slick beneath his knuckles.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he whispered, “You like bein’ touched with your panties still on, don’t you? Like me rubbin’ you slow while you tremble for me? Huh? I’m strummin’ that button? That fat button? You like it? Want more from your Sir?”

“I—I do,” she gasped.

“I know you do. You so sensitive, baby girl. Got this pretty little pussy cryin’ through silk.”

He kept his eyes locked on her—watching her mouth fall open, watching her hands fist the sheets, watching her thighs shake.

“You gon’ cum for me, baby? Huh, good girl? Cum for me?”

“Yes, sir—yes—please—”

“That’s my girl. Give it to me. Let me feel it.”

And she did.

She came hard, grinding helplessly against his hand, panties soaked, thighs shuddering around his wrist as her head tilted back and a strangled moan tore from her chest.

Smoke didn’t stop touching her until the tremors slowed.

Until she was panting—soft, ruined, stunned.

Then he moved.

Down between her thighs.

“Goddamn, baby…you drippin’ for me. Can I see?” he asked, voice suddenly lower, “Through the silk. I just wanna see how you look right now.”

“Y–yes…”

He kissed her knee first. Then her inner thigh. Then ran his hands beneath her legs, lifting and opening her softly, possessively. His hands smoothed down the fabric of her knee highs, enjoying the texture beneath his fingertips.

And there she was.

The wet patch soaked through her panties.

Silk clinging to every curve, every swollen fold. He could see the triangle of hair at the top—dark, soft, pressed flat by the wet fabric. Her clit was outlined sharp. Her lips plump and sticky, begging through the silk.

He groaned low and leaned closer.

One hand came up and pulled the panties taut, pressing her open even more so he could see the shape of her clearly through the silk.

“Look at you,” he rasped, “You see what I did to you?”

She was trembling again.

Watching him.

He looked up at her from between her thighs, his voice low, and filthy.

looked up at her.

Still holding her open—panties pulled taut, her slick heat glistening through the thin barrier, the triangle of soft hair at the top glistening with moisture.

She was perfect. Ruined. Beautiful.

And waiting.

Smoke ran his hands slowly along her thighs, then up to her hips, curling his fingers into the elastic of her panties, but not moving them yet.

“Tell me,” he said low, “Tell me I can taste what you gave me. Please? It’ll feel so good…”

Her breath stuttered. Her hands clenched the sheets.

“Yes, sir…”

“I can’t wait to see you,” he said softly.

The panties were delicate, nearly sheer—and visibly wet.

Smoke let out a low, aching groan.

“Goddamn, baby…”

She tried to look away.

“Uh-uh,” he said, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “You stay right here. I wanna look at you.”

He knelt beside the bed, large hand sliding slowly down her thigh.

“Open wider for me baby…”

She did—slow and timid, the silk stretching across her soaked folds, the damp fabric clinging to every curve, every soft dip of her heat.

Smoke’s breath hitched.

“Fuck…Look at this.”

He leaned closer, eyes fixed between her thighs.

“You see this?” he whispered, “This is what heaven look like. This little pussy all swollen and wet, beggin’ through silk. You know what that does to me?”

She covered her mouth, blushing deep.

“Don’t hide,” he said, “Let me talk to her.”

He dragged two fingers slowly over the fabric—just enough to press, not enough to tease.

“She so soft. So wet. I can see every bit through this little thing. You wore this for me? You naughty little thing…”

She nodded.

He leaned in and kissed the inside of her thigh.

“Prettiest thing I ever seen. All this slick, just from thinkin’ ‘bout me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, barely audible.

Smoke kissed higher. His voice dropped even lower, “You nervous, baby?”

She hesitated, “A little.”

“You ain’t gotta be. I ain’t gon’ rush you. But I’m gon’ tell you the truth. I wanna taste her right through this silk first. Then I’m takin’ these off with my teeth.”

Her thighs tensed.

“And then I’m gon’ spread you open and make you feel so good, so full, you forget your own name.”

She moaned—soft, shaking.

“But not yet,” he said, voice velvet, “Right now, I’m just admirin’. ‘Cause this view?”

His fingers stroked slowly down the center of the silk, the fabric wet and clinging.

“Hold still for me, baby. I ain’t gon’ rush this. This view is mine.”

And then he pressed his mouth to the silk.

Violet gasped—sharp and helpless—as his tongue flattened over the fabric, dragging slowly up the soaked seam. It wasn’t even skin-to-skin, but it lit her up like flame. The wet silk warmed under his breath, and she could feel every stroke through it—soft pressure, firm licks, the drag of his tongue following the curve of her.

“You tastein’ this sweet through layers,” he growled into her, “What you think gon’ happen when I pull ‘em off?”

She writhed, her thighs trembling, hips lifting toward him—but his big hands pinned her down.

“Don’t you run. You stay right there and take it.”

He licked her again, slower. Then sucked the soaked fabric into his mouth, tongue pressing right over her clit, the silk pulling taut between his lips.

Violet cried out, her hands flying to the sheets. She was still sensitive from his fingers touching her through her panties and making her pussy cum. Smoke was insatiable. The texture of the thin silk in his mouth and against his tongue had her dripping profusely. Her inner thighs trembled and her moans—soft and sweet—couldn’t be contained. She tried to stop her moans but it was out of her control.

Her whole body shook under the worship of his mouth.

“Let me hear you,” he said, looking up, his mouth wet, “Don’t you ever hide that sound from me. You know what that moan do to me?”

He kissed her inner thigh, then bit it gently, “Gettin’ this wet from just my mouth on silk? That’s power, baby. That’s yours.”

Then he pulled back, voice low and dark.

“You let me pull these to the side and taste you, baby? You tell me yes, sir…yes, sir, please…and I’ll make your pretty wet pussy cum on my tongue ‘til you forget every name but mine.”

Violet nodded with a quiver of her lip and sweat dripping down her chest.

“Words, pretty girl.” Smoke said.

“Yes Sir…please.”

“Good girl.”

Smoke peeled her panties to the side with his teeth—slow, steady, dragging the damp silk across her folds. They clung to her before letting go with a soft, obscene sound.

Her pussy was soaked. Glowing. Pink and dripping. The heat poured off her in waves.

Smoke groaned deep in his chest.

“You see what you do to me, little one? Fuuck. This pussy so mothafuckin’ beautiful.”

She whimpered.

He leaned forward, lips hovering.

“You gon’ let me be your Sir?” he whispered, “Your daddy?”

She gasped. The word hit her like lightning.

“Y-yes, sir. Please…”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“Yes, daddy…”

That sound.

That surrender.

He didn’t wait another breath.

His mouth was on her in seconds.

Hot, deep, open.

Tongue dragging from base to clit, slow at first—teasing, tasting, taking in the slick sweetness like it was the only thing he’d been hungry for in years.

She cried out, hips jerking.

He didn’t let her move.

His hands came up and pinned her thighs open, spreading her wider than she thought she could go. And she gave—flexible, open, trembling.

That made something primal growl low in his chest.

“Look how bendy you are, baby…” he rasped between strokes, “You was made to be opened.”

His tongue circled her clit slow. Then again. Then faster. Then slow. Then picked up speed again to feel it grow and twitch against the tip of his tongue. Then slow and back and forth. Then up and down swipes that started under the hood of her clit where she’s most sensitive to the top ridge that hardened. He sucked—hard—then flicked it fast until her thighs shook. Then he sucked slow, delicate. He’d admire his work between savors then delve in for more sucks.

Then he’d repeat.

From the top.

Over and over.

Violet was a wreck beneath him.

“Tell me,” he growled, “Tell me how my tongue feel. How my lips feel. How that pussy feelin’.”

“So good—oh God—so good, sir—”

“Where it feel best, huh? Here?” His tongue moved lower—thicker, flatter strokes between her lips, sounding like a dog lapping up water from a bowl, “Or here?” Back to her clit, tight, quick pressure, flicking, pointed tongue teasing, tasting her shake. Back and forth. Over and over.

She sobbed. Sobbed so pretty. Body trembling.

“There, daddy—p–please there—don’t stop—”

He moaned into her.

She opened even more. Her legs pulled back, thighs trembling.

Smoke released her clit and looked up at her. He took in the sight of her mouth hanging open. Smoke reached up and pushed two thick fingers into her mouth to suck. She wrapped her lips around them instinctively, sucking softly, whimpering around his digits.

That made his dick strain harder. Made his tip leaky and sticky.

“Open.”

She obeyed, a trail of her spit clinging to his fingertips. Smoke slid one finger down, gently grazing her entrance.

“You ready to be stretched for me, baby?” he growled, “You want your daddy’s mouth and hands makin’ you come again?”

“Yes, sir—yes—please—”

His tongue didn’t stop.

Smoke pulled back to watch as he gently pushed his finger in. He did it with care. Eyes flicking up to watch her reaction. She clenched down on him tight.

“You alright, baby?” Smoke asked.

“Y–yes…”

“Does it hurt?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Good.”

He licked her until she was writhing, gasping, begging, her hips fighting the air, her hands digging into the sheets. Stroked her little hole with tender care. Loving the warmth and creamy feel of her walls.

“You cummin’?”

“Yes, d–daddy—”

“You ready to cum on my tongue?”

“Please.”

“Beg better.”

“Please, daddy, sir, can I cum on your tongue!”

And when she came again, thighs locked around his head, sobbing his name through her cries—Smoke stayed there, licking her through it, praising her softly between filthy words.

“That’s it, little one…that’s my good girl. Taste so sweet, You mine now. Ain’t nobody touchin’ this but me.”

Violet was still shaking.

Her thighs trembled around his shoulders, and her fingers clung to the sheets like they were the only thing keeping her anchored. Her skin glowed with the sheen of release, and her ribbon fluttered faintly with each shallow breath.

Smoke lifted his head slowly from between her legs.

His mouth was slick with her, lips swollen from how hard he’d kissed her there—claimed her with his tongue, again and again, until her sobs turned to whimpers and her body melted into his hands.

He leaned over her now.

Big, warm, solid.

But soft.

So soft.

He braced himself over her with one arm, and with the other, he gently brushed back the damp curls from her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed, and a few tears had streaked down, not from pain—but from everything. The way it felt. The way it broke her open.

Smoke kissed those tears one by one.

“Shh…you did so good, baby.”

Another kiss—this one to the corner of her mouth, slow and sweet.

“So fuckin’ good. Took everything I gave you. Let yourself fall.”

He kissed her jaw next. Then her ribbon.

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy, dazed.

“Breathe, little one,” he purred, stroking her hip, “Just let me take care of you now.”

Then he slipped away from the bed.

She whimpered—soft, like a baby bird missing the warmth of the nest.

But he was back a moment later, a bowl of warm water in one hand and a soft cloth in the other.

No rush. No words.

Just care.

Smoke knelt beside the bed and gently cleaned between her thighs, murmuring quiet things as he moved—reassuring her with his hands. His touch was slow, warm, deliberate. He dabbed carefully where she was most tender, wiping away the shine of his own desire, the mess of her pleasure.

“You still with me, sugar?” he asked softly.

Violet nodded. Voice gone. Breath slow.

When he finished, he set the bowl aside, lifted her hips gently, and pulled her silk panties back into place, smoothing them over her soaked skin.

“There,” he whispered, “Back where you belong.”

Then he climbed into bed beside her, pulling her into his arms like he couldn’t stand to be more than inches away. One arm hooked under her head. The other draped over her waist, holding her close.

He kissed her again.

This time on her temple.

“Sleep if you need,” he said against her hair, “Ain’t no rush. I got you.”

And wrapped in his arms, with the scent of him still on her lips and the silk clinging to her thighs, Violet finally let herself fall all the way apart—right into his hold.

The sheets were still warm beneath them.

Violet lay curled against his chest, her cheek resting on the slope of his shoulder, breath soft and slow as she recovered. Her bare body felt small wrapped in his arms, and the ribbon at her throat rose and fell with every quiet breath.

Smoke held her close—one arm around her back, the other stroking down her spine, slow and calming. His fingers traced the dip of her waist, the softness of her hip, the warm place behind her knee where her leg draped across his.

He kissed her forehead.

Then again.

“You alright, baby?”

She nodded against his chest, cheeks warm, lips swollen from soft cries. She still hadn’t said much—not out of fear, but because she was so full she had no more words left.

Smoke chuckled low, chest rumbling beneath her.

“You enjoyed that?”

Her voice was barely above a breath.

“Yes, sir…”

He tilted her chin up, just enough to see her face, her lashes heavy and her mouth still parted with the memory of him.

“Good. That’s what you get with me. Every time. When I touch you, I take care of you. I know what you need.”

She flushed again, looking down.

And that’s when her eyes caught the shape of him, still hard beneath the fabric of his slacks—thick and long, pressed against his thigh, tenting the material in a way that was impossible to ignore.

He saw her eyes linger.

Saw the way she looked, then glanced away. Then looked again.

“You keep lookin’ like that,” he said, voice low, “and I’m gon’ think you wanna touch.”

Her breath caught.

She hesitated.

Then…nodded.

“I do,” she whispered, “If…if that’s okay.”

Smoke searched her face.

“You sure, little one?”

“Yes, sir.”

Her hand was trembling when she lifted it, fingers hovering just above the fabric of his slacks. She paused—shy, nervous, blushing like fire.

Then she touched him.

Just her fingertips at first—pressing gently over the heavy outline of him through the pants. She stroked up, then down, fingers barely grazing the ridge of his length where it strained against the fabric. She felt him twitch beneath the pads of her fingertips. She held her breath for a second, then released.

Smoke groaned softly—not loud, just a deep sound from his chest, and his eyes dropped half-lidded.

“That’s it, sugar. Just like that.”

Violet kept her hand moving—slow, tentative strokes, watching her own hand with wide eyes before she tucked her face away against his chest, hiding her fluster behind her ribbon.

He let her.

“Feelin’ me like this,” he said, his voice curling hot against her hairline, “just means you curious. That’s good. That’s sweet.”

His hand rubbed slow circles into her back while she stroked him.

“But you don’t gotta rush, baby. You already gave me more than enough tonight. You makin’ me proud just lettin’ yourself learn.”

She kept her hand there a moment longer—testing the pressure, marveling at how warm and solid he felt even through the fabric.

Then he gently took her wrist, brought her hand to his lips, and kissed her fingertips.

“Next time,” he promised, “When you ready, I’ll let you take care of me proper.”

She nodded, breath soft.

And Smoke pulled her close again, tucking her beneath his chin, whispering low against her crown.

“You mine now, little one. All this…starts and ends with me.”

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

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cinnxmxngxrl · 2 months ago

Text

“Domesticity”

Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

Part six of Camden’s sin but can be read as a stand alone

Check Alfie’s Masterlist here to read the previous parts

Summary: You and Alfie are officially together now, and living with him meant two things: discovering his softer, more domestic side… and getting bent over every surface in the house.

WC: 7.3k

Warnings: intense smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, fingering, dirty talk, oral (f&m!receiving), creampie, face riding, alfie is sweet in his own way, reader is Tommy Shelby’s sister

After the night Tommy found out about you and Alfie, you stopped hiding—there was no need to anymore. It was official now: you, a Shelby, were Alfie’s girl.

It was raining the first time Alfie took you out in public. He looked at you like you’d been carved out of something holy. Your dress was silk, low-backed and clinging, in a shade of blood-wine red that made his knuckles twitch the whole drive there. Your lips matched. Your hair was pinned, a few defiant strands curling loose at your neck

“You planning on staring all night?” you teased.

“No, no,” he replied, voice thick. “Plannin’ on makin’ everyone else stare, yeah? And then I’ll bloody kill them for it.”

The club was crawling with familiar faces — gangsters, smugglers, business sharks in tailored wool, girls with flapper bobs and diamonds sharp enough to cut.

And Alfie, ever the king of contradictions, didn’t just walk you in. He announced you. Arm wrapped tight around your waist, he muttered through clenched teeth to anyone who dared look too long, “Yeah, that’s right, mate. That’s mine. She’s mine.”

He introduced you like royalty. “This is her. This is my girl. No, no— don’t just look. Take it in.” Like your presence beside him made him ten feet taller. Like you gave him license to glow.

All the men around would look at him and politely say ‘Congratulations, Alfie. She’s beautiful.’”

Alfie barely restrained himself and bark after they walked off “Course she fuckin’ is,” he muttered. “What, he think I was gonna shack up with a goat?”

You snorted.

“You really love showing me off, don’t you?”

He turned toward you then. Fully. His face softened — not weak, never — but something real shone through all that bravado.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, love. I fuckin’ do.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

He answered instantly.

“Cause you’re the best fuckin’ thing that’s ever looked in my direction. Let alone chosen me. Let alone let me put my hands on you. Let alone let me love you, right? So yeah. I want every bastard in this city to see it. To see you. And to know I get to go home with you.”

Within fifteen minutes, every glass in the club was full. Champagne, whiskey, gin, and whatever else the barkeep could pour fast enough. Alfie stood on a bench, arm around your waist, pulling you up with him so you were taller than the crowd.

He lifted his glass and shouted:

“All right, you cunts! Shut your traps, right? I got somethin’ to say.”

The room hushed.

You tried to step down, already mortified. He didn’t let you.

“This woman — this woman here — she’s my girl. You believe that? Mine! Look at her. Now look at me. What the fuck is that? That’s a miracle, that is!”

Laughter. Cheers. Whistles.

He grinned like a lunatic, beaming, sweaty, overwhelmed with his own joy.

“So you’re all gonna raise your fuckin’ drinks, yeah, and you’re gonna toast to her. Not to me — fuck me. To her. The most beautiful, most fuckin’ clever, sharp-tongued, impossible, perfect woman this city’s ever been cursed with.”

He looked at you, softer now, voice dipping low, but still for everyone to hear:

“And I get to have her. Me.”

“So — drink to her, you lot! Drink to the Queen of Camden!”

The room roared. Glasses clinked. Everyone drank.

You stared up at him, dizzy and flushed, and whispered against his shoulder, “You’re mad.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your temple. “Mad about you, love.”

For the last couple of weeks, you’ve slept in Alfie’s bed every single night. His house had become yours too.

It was quiet. He didn’t like having people around; you were the only exception. Alfie’s house was bigger than people would expected. A house meant to impose, to display wealth. But it wasn’t posh; it was lived in. Stone, wood, and brass. A little neglected even—but it was his. And now, for whatever godforsaken reason, it was yours too.

There were papers strewn across every surface, the scent of tobacco clinging to the air like a second skin. Brass fixtures dulled by time, floors that creaked under your bare feet in the morning. It was chaos and quiet and the pulse of something ancient—like the house itself had been waiting for someone like you.

You haven’t heard about your family ever since, and honestly you preferred it that way. You still couldn’t shake off Tommy’s last words “Tell Alfie to watch his back.”

They echoed sometimes—when the house went too quiet, and you’d hear it again, that cold finality in your brother’s voice. The weight of it. You knew Tommy, knew he wasn’t one to rush things, he would wait for the right moment to make his move.

But you were too occupied with your new life next to Alfie. If Tommy wanted war then he’d have one. You’d already chosen your side.

Three days ago, one rainy afternoon, you were curled on the couch, reading a book. The house was quiet—Alfie had already left, said he had some business to take care of back at the distillery.

Then a loud knock startled you. Sharp. Heavy. No rhythm. Not Alfie.

You tightened the knot of your robe, heart already ticking faster, and made your way to the door.

Polly stood on the other side. Her eyes sharp, her expression unreadable. You blinked once before pulling her into a hug without thinking. She smelled like cigarette smoke and perfume. Familiar. Home.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, giving you a once-over. “Look at you, like bloody Mrs. Solomons.”

You pulled back, eyes wide. “How did you—did Tommy tell you?”

“Oh please, don’t be daft,” she scoffed, brushing past you. “I knew the moment you came home stinking of rum and cock. Your brothers were just too thick to put two and two together.”

You closed the door and gestured toward the lounge. Polly hesitated for a moment, gaze sweeping over the foyer like she was stepping onto enemy territory. Then, finally, she crossed the threshold. Her heels echoed on the wooden floor. Her shoulders tense. Like the walls themselves might whisper back to Tommy.

“If you knew… why didn’t you say anything?” you asked, following her.

“Because I thought it was just a fuckin’ phase. A week. Maybe two,” she said coolly. “But now you’re here. In his house. Walking around in his bloody robe like you’ve been here forever.”

“Are you angry with me?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

“Angry? No. I’m past angry. Bit disappointed, maybe. Out of every man in England, him? Alfie Solomons? I raised you better than that.”

“I didn’t plan for it to happen…” you murmured. “I really tried to stop it. For a long time.”

She exhaled, her tone softening. “Does he treat you well?”

“Like a queen,” you said instantly, without hesitation, and a smile flickered across your face before you could stop it.

Polly narrowed her eyes at you. “And in bed?”

Your smile turned into a smirk. “He’s amazing. God, he’s like—”

“Alright, enough.” She waved you off, face contorting. “I don’t need details about Solomons’ cock, thank you very much.”

You laughed lightly, but it didn’t last. Your smile faded. “Is Tommy too angry? Has he told the others? Arthur?”

“Love,” she said carefully, “Arthur? If he knew, he’d have knocked the fuckin’ door off the hinges by now. No. Tommy’s keepin’ it quiet. For now.”

You nodded and Polly continued: “He doesn’t like the way Alfie’s parading you around like you’re his.”

You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t flinch.

“I am his.”

Polly’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, more like a flicker of something between pity and grudging respect.

“It’s all about power, love. Tommy thinks it makes him look like an idiot—that Alfie’s flaunting you around like you’re already married,” she continued. “It makes the Shelbys look like we’ve lost our edge.”

Your brow furrowed. “How does that even make sense?”

She rolled her eyes, taking a drag from her cigarette. “Because now the word out there is Alfie got you. That he took what the family couldn’t keep. You know men and their bloody pissing contests, always trying to measure who’s cock swings lower.”

“Polly…” you stepped closer, eyes pleading. “You need to help me. Talk to him. Make him come to his senses before he does something stupid.”

She looked at you for a long moment. That unreadable expression back in her eyes.

“You put too much trust in me. You know what he’s like—He doesn’t listen to reason, he listens to himself. Always has. You should be the one talking to him.”

“I tried,” you said, voice catching. “I love him, he’s my family. But Alfie… Alfie’s the man I want a future with. And I’m not giving up that future. Not even for Tommy.”

Polly didn’t argue. She just looked at you with something between resignation and reluctant understanding.

“Look, I need to go,” she said finally, straightening her coat. “I’ll see what I can do. But don’t hold your breath.”

You pulled her into another hug, briefer this time. Tighter. She squeezed you back, kissed your cheek, and then she was gone.

Living with Alfie was strange sometimes. You were so used to seeing him in two moods: either completely focused on business and the violence that surrounded it, or totally unhinged and desperate for you.

But now you were seeing a different part of him—sleeping at night and snoring like a bear, sprawling, muttering filth in his sleep. But if you moved too far away in the bed, even for a second, his arm would shoot out, dragging you back to him. Sometimes he’d wake halfway through, groggy and possessive, tugging you tight against him with a rough sound in his throat—like even in sleep, his body knew exactly where you belonged.

Trying to make a decent breakfast for you, shirtless, glasses crooked on his nose, squinting at a recipe book while trying to make tea and toast without burning either. He looked ridiculous, domestic in the most terrifying way—scars on display, grumbling at a jam jar like it was a personal enemy, muttering your name in every complaint, like you were both the problem and the solution.

He let you see him. Not just the part that barked orders and threatened the living daylights out of other men. But the part that sang badly under his breath while chopping carrots. The part that forgot where he put his spectacles. The part that grumbled when his joints ached and let you press warm cloths to his knees while pretending not to enjoy the care. The part that read the same newspaper three times because he kept getting distracted thinking about something you said the night before.

Living with him also meant seeing a softer side of him, a side that was all about the little things. Like him reaching over you in the morning to shut the window because the air might be too cold. Like his giant hand resting absentmindedly on your thigh while you ate breakfast. Like him growling when you were doing the dishes, calling you a fucking queen and insisting you sit down.

“I ain’t lettin’ the woman I fuckin’ love scrub me bloody pans, am I?” he scoffed, brow raised like you’d insulted him. “Nah, treacle. I’ll get someone else to deal with that shite, yeah? You—” he waved a hand at you, eyes softer now—“you don’t touch the pans. You touch me.”

It was chaos too. It was breakfast sex and broken dishes and lectures on Jewish philosophy at three in the morning. It was threats to your enemies and kisses on your ankles. It was a man who would kill for you, die for you, and still complain if you left crumbs on the counter.

It was love, in its most fucked-up, beautiful form.

You saw that one night, when he came up behind you while you were combing out your hair in the bathroom mirror. His arms circled your waist, lips brushing the curve of your neck.

“Stayin’ here’s done somethin’ to me fuckin’ head, right?” he muttered, brow furrowed like the thought offended him. “I used to be alright on me own. Fuckin’ liked it, actually. Thought all this… intimate bollocks, yeah? Waste of bloody time.”

You glanced at him in the mirror. “And now?”

“Now I think if I come home and you ain’t here, I’ll burn the whole bloody city down.”

“You’re getting soft,” you teased.

He looked up, eyes sharp, lips twitching with something feral. “Now listen, right—I ain’t gone soft, yeah? Let’s get that straight. What I am is possessive as fuck. You’re mine. That don’t change just ‘cause I’m not railin’ you up against a fuckin’ wall this second.”

And there it was—that violence tucked beneath the tenderness, the threat that sounded like worship. The only kind of love a man like Alfie could give.

…

One evening a few days ago he was feeding you bites from his spoon. In between, he had told you about the man he’d threatened that morning, about the dog that wandered in from the street, about the girl who sold flowers and winked at him, and how he didn’t like that one bit. No, he fuckin’ did not.

“So I bought all her fuckin’ stock,” he said, smirking.

“Why?”

“Yeah, so she’d fuck off, right? Before I did somethin’… inadvisable. You don’t get to smile at Alfie fuckin’ Solomons like that when he’s already spoken for, do ya?”

You blinked. “You bought her entire cart of roses just so she’d go away?”

He shrugged. “They’re on your pillow.”

You laughed so hard you almost choked.

He liked that. He told you so—told you he’d kill a man for your laugh, that it was the sound of God forgiving him for every sin.

But his filth didn’t stop either. If anything, it got worse now that he had access to you the entire time.

Like when in the morning, after you wake up his first words aren’t good morning or anything sweet. It’s him telling you the wet dreams he had of you during the night.

“I had a dream you were wearing nothin’ but pearls, lookin’ like a fuckin’ goddess. I nearly came in my sleep.”

You chuckled as his hand made its way in between your thighs “Alfie…”

“You’re in my bed now, darlin’. That means I get to touch what’s mine whenever the mood takes me. And this mornin’, it’s taken me fuckin’ hard, yeah.”

“You know what this is, right?” he growled, hand dragging slow up your thigh like he owned the whole bloody map. “This—this is mine now. You live here, yeah? My bed, my food, my fuckin’ shirt. You even breathe in my space like it’s your birthright. So all o’ this—” his hand slid between your legs—“belongs to me now, don’t it?”

…

Or another day, when you were sitting at the little table by the window, reading one of his ledgers. You’d taken over part of his accounting, mostly to keep yourself occupied—and because you liked the way he looked at you when you made sense of his messy, scattered books like it was the easiest thing in the world.

You were wearing nothing but a slip. Thin. Ivory. Your legs curled up on the chair. And he just stood there. Staring. His hand sliding up your ankle, over your calf, to your thigh.

“Can’t concentrate with you dressed like that,” he said.

He pushed the ledger aside, sat on the chair, and pulled you forward until you were straddling his lap. And just like that—without warning—he was inside you.

“Yeah,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips. “That’s what I fuckin’ needed.”

You moved like that for a while—slow, grinding, the kind of lazy morning fuck that felt endless and indulgent. The kind where your fingers laced behind his neck, his eyes half-lidded, lips brushing your collarbone between praises and curses. Every inch of him pressing deep inside you with reverence and need.

…

You also remember that morning you were in the kitchen, making breakfast for him, before he had insisted on hiring a cook so you didn’t have to get your hands dirty. He didn’t want you lifting a finger.

He was close. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, naked behind you, breathing slow and heavy.

“I been starin’ at your arse for ten bloody minutes, love.” His voice was thick, indulgent, edged with amusement. “That robe’s a suggestion, nothin’ more. Might as well’ve wandered down here wrapped in fuckin’ hope and sin.”

“Alfie—”

“Shh,” he muttered.

His hand slid around your waist. Down.

“Let me finger you,” he said flatly, like he was asking for the butter dish. “It’s the domestic routine now, innit? You make the tea, I get me fingers in your cunt while the kettle has a bit of a scream. That’s life, that is. That’s livin’ together.”

“Apparently,” you whispered, already arching back into him.

Your robe slipped lower as he pinned you to the counter, his fingers pushing deep, curling up as your thighs trembled and your breath fogged the window.

He fingered you hard, one arm locked around your waist, the other fucking into you like he owned you—and he did. In that moment, you were his. Every breath, every whimper, every drop of slick that soaked his hand.

You came before the kettle stopped.

…

He would also leave letters around the house now. Filthy, deranged little notes in his scrawl—tucked in the breadbox, in your coat pocket, under the soap. One morning you opened the wardrobe and a crumpled sheet fell out:

“Treacle—

I fucked you in my dreams and woke up angry that it wasn’t real.

Wait for me in bed by the time I get back, or I’ll lose what’s left of my fuckin’ mind.

Yours,

Your mad bastard.”

You found him in the hallway later, grinning like a demon.

“Did you like it?” he asked, arms out, tone cheeky and dangerous all at once. “Bit o’ romance for the mornin’, yeah? Alfie-style. Comes with a side of cock and compliments.”

“You’re insane,” you said.

He kissed you. “Only for you.”

You laughed, but your thighs pressed together under your nightgown. He noticed. Of course he did.

…

Other random evening, you found him sitting at the kitchen table long after you’d gone upstairs—shirt undone, sleeves rolled up, ink smudged on his fingers. He was writing. Not business. Notes. Filthy notes for you.

He didn’t notice you until you leaned against the doorframe.

“What?” he barked, brows lifting. “Man can’t compose his own fuckin’ thoughts in peace now, yeah? Can’t write down a few words without bein’ spied on?”

“You’re writing me another filthy note, aren’t you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “It ain’t filthy. It’s romantic. Poetry for you.”

You walked in, pulled the paper toward you. He reached to stop you, but not fast enough.

“You’ve got the kind of cunt a man builds a fuckin’ synagogue around, yeah, and worships till his knees give out. If God exists, he’s a bloody pervert for makin’ you, ‘cause no holy thing should smell like that or sound like that when I’m inside you.”

“Told you it was romantic,” he said.

You would argue some days. Alfie wasn’t a man made for peace. It sat on him wrong—like an ill-fitting coat.

Sometimes it was over books; he still pretended not to understand numbers.

“Why the fuck would I care?” he asked once, feet up on the table, one hand lazily stroking your bare thigh. “You’re the one who’s good at the maths, darlin’. I’m just here to make sure no one dies slow unless I want ‘em to.”

“You’ll care when the distillery budget collapses.”

“Nah,” he muttered. “You’ll care for me. That’s what you fuckin’ do. That’s what wives do, yeah?”

“Not your wife, Alfie.”

“For now.”

…

Other times he’d grumble about your perfume being too sweet, then leave his shirt collar open for it to cling to. He’d snap about you using his straight razor to shave your legs, then leave it cleaned and waiting for you the next morning. He’d scoff every time you read in bed, then fall asleep with your book tucked against his chest.

He’d kiss you harder after fights. Grip your jaw like he needed your mouth to shut him up before he said something he’d regret. And he always softened. Always gave in. Eventually.

…

Some other days he was a nightmare. He’d pace the length of the house like a lion in a cage, cursing at the walls, talking to ghosts only he could hear.

He’d come home soaked in rain, blood on his cuffs, something wrong behind his eyes—and you’d know before he opened his mouth that it would be one of those nights.

Nights where he couldn’t sit still. Where he needed the gramophone blasting, needed every candle lit, needed something to throw across the room or slam down on the table just to feel something through the rage curling inside him like smoke in his lungs.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to me, treacle, not now.”

He’d snap like that. Bare teeth. Wild-eyed. Then he’d apologize not long after. Usually with his mouth between your legs or a ring you hadn’t asked for tossed onto the bed.

…

You’d learned to read the signs. The twitch of his jaw. The shake in his hands when he couldn’t light his own cigarette. The way he gripped his cane just a little tighter when something was wrong.

Some nights he’d wake you, dragging you into the lounge because he couldn’t sleep. Because he needed to talk. Or pace. Or fuck. Or just be near you like the silence would eat him alive otherwise.

“I can’t do it without you, d’you understand me?” he rasped, breathing ragged. “I’m too far in, yeah? Too fucked up. You’re the only thing left that feels like—like it ain’t all rottin’ from the inside.”

You’d pull him into your lap like a wounded animal. Stroke his back, run your fingers through his beard. Let him rest in your shoulder, even if he cursed himself for being so weak while shaking.

…

One night, after a particularly nasty shouting match in the distillery with a supplier who’d shorted him, he came upstairs, shaking. His hands were covered in someone else’s blood.

And when he saw you waiting by the foot of the bed, silent, calm, he didn’t speak. Just walked to you, dropped to his knees, and pressed his forehead to your belly like a penitent man.

“Please,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, raw as gravel. “Please just—just tell me you fuckin’ love me.”

“I love you, Alfie,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his curls.

“And you won’t ever leave?”

You tilted his chin up. Looked him dead in the eyes.

“I won’t.”

This morning Alfie found you sitting on the kitchen counter, bare-legged, still in one of his shirts—buttons uneven, collar too wide. You looked like sin after sleep.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, look at you,” he growled, voice low and near reverent. “You wearin’ my fuckin’ shirt again, treacle? What—you tryin’ to kill me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s mine too now. Is there a problem with that?”

“Problem is,” he murmured, dark eyes dragging down your body, “I’m gonna rip it right off, yeah? Then fuck you right here—on the floor. Don’t even care if the bloody tiles are cold.”

You blinked slowly. “Maybe after breakfast.”

His grin widened—wolfish.

He leaned in close, hand firm on your waist, nose brushing your cheek. “I am your breakfast,” he muttered. “An’ that cunt? That’s my breakfast.”

“Alfie,” you warned.

“It is, though,” he insisted, brushing his lips against your cheek, trailing them toward your ear. “C’mon, sit on me face. Let me make you scream before your tea goes cold.”

Your stomach clenched. Heat surged. But you bit your lip. Smiled through it.

“Tea first,” you said. “Then maybe.”

“No. No time for fuckin’ tea,” he growled, voice rough with need. There was a fire in his eyes.

He grabbed you by the arm and dragged you to the living room. His grip was firm, not cruel—desperate. You stumbled after him, pulse already thundering in your ears, heat coiling low and tight in your belly.

He laid down on the couch, head resting on the arm of it. Sprawled like a king, or a beast.

“Oi—get over ‘ere,” he said, patting his mouth with two fingers. “C’mon now, ride me fuckin’ face, yeah?” His voice was low, rough as gravel, already thick with anticipation.

You climbed over him, moving up his body until your knees were bracketing his head, heat pulsing between your legs as you hovered over that greedy, unshaven mouth. His eyes locked on yours, wide and wild like he couldn’t believe his luck.

“God almighty, would you look at this,” Alfie groaned as you moved toward him. “I could eat this sweet little cunt ‘til I fuckin’ drop dead—face first, no regrets, right?”

You stayed there for a moment, cunt just inches above his mouth but without touching him yet.

“Nah, don’t get all shy on me now,” he rasped, eyes locked on yours, voice molten. “Sit down proper, treacle. Don’t hover—I want all that weight, yeah? Wanna feel you fuckin’ smother me. Want to forget how to fuckin’ breathe.”

You let yourself sink down. His tongue met you instantly—wet and hot and already groaning into you like a madman. Tongue flat and heavy as it licked a long, slow stripe through your folds, pausing to suck your clit into his mouth until your legs shook.

“That’s it,” he choked out with a wicked grin as you sank onto him. “Fuckin’ hell—sit on it like you mean it, yeah? Wanna choke on you, love. Ohh, what a way to fuckin’ go, suffocated by a cunt like this—fuckin’ poetic, innit?”

His beard scratched perfectly against the insides of your thighs, and his hands gripped your ass tight, pulling you down like he needed you there.

Alfie’s tongue moved everywhere—through your folds, sucking your clit in between his lips, spreading you open and devouring like he hadn’t eaten in days. He alternated between slow, wet drags of his tongue and tight, desperate sucks on your clit, making obscene noises as he slurped and groaned like a man starved.

You started grinding without thinking—hips rolling slow over his face, using his mouth, riding it.

“Yes—fuckin’ yes, just like that,” he moaned, voice muffled against your heat. “Go on, use me. Use me for it, darlin’. That’s what I’m here for, innit?”

“You’re so fucking good at this, Alfie. It’s disgusting how good you are…” You moaned louder now, hand buried in his curls as you rode his face.

You braced your hands on the couch, moaning, gasping, hair falling wild around your face as you rode him—back arched, thighs shaking. His tongue flicked fast, then slow, then hard pressure right where you needed it, like he knew every inch of you already.

“You hear that?” he growled between frantic licks, tongue relentless. “That right there, that sound—you fuckin’ whimperin’ on me tongue, yeah? That’s what heaven sounds like, love. That’s music to me ears, that is. You drippin’ all over me fuckin’ beard.”

“Fuck—your tongue, Alfie… don’t stop… don’t you dare stop…”

He couldn’t have if he tried. He was possessed, moaning filthy praises into your cunt, drinking you in like he wanted to die that way. His hands gripping your ass tight, helping you grind his face faster.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, barely pausing for breath, reverent in his filth. “This cunt—this fuckin’ cunt—just sittin’ on me face like it belongs there. And it does, don’t it? Fuckin’ made for me, yeah? Tailor-fit from the bloody angels.”

You were shaking now—hips stuttering, thighs clenching as your orgasm started building fast. He felt it too. Started sucking your clit harder, tongue flicking rough and desperate, one hand slapping your ass as you rode out the waves.

“Go on then,” he snarled, voice nearly feral. “Cum all over me fuckin’ face. Do it. Let me taste it—every fuckin’ drop while you fall apart on me mouth.”

You cried out, body locking up as you came—soaking his beard, grinding down on his face like you were trying to fuse into him.

He held you there. Didn’t stop. Just kept licking through it, swallowing every drop, making filth-soaked sounds like he was in ecstasy.

You lifted off, with the little strength you had left on your shaky legs. Your thighs trembled as you rose, every nerve still sparking.

You looked at him, mouth, nose, beard, even cheeks glistening, completely soaked with your slick. His eyes were half-lidded, dazed, drunk on the taste of you.

“Shit— you look a mess,” you tried to say. Your voice was hoarse, ragged at the edges, like it had been wrung out of you.

“No, no, treacle,” he said, voice thick, lips shiny with your slick. “I look like I’ve been baptized, yeah? Baptized by your fuckin’ cunt. Holy fuckin’ spirit in me beard, innit?”

He grinned—lazy, filthy, triumphant—as if he’d just tasted proof of God. His lips glistened when he licked them again, slow and indulgent, dragging his tongue across the corner of his mouth like he wanted to savor every drop, like he wanted to keep the memory of your taste alive on his tongue. He leaned back on his elbows, chest rising and falling with slow, worshipful rhythm—like he’d been through something holy.

Slowly Alfie stood up from the couch. His fingers moved to his belt—yanking it open, pulling his trousers down with rough impatience. His cock sprang free, already hard, already leaking. It slapped up against his belly with force, thick and veined, tip flushed an angry pink. The head glistened with pre-cum, a fat bead pooling at the slit before it trickled down the shaft.

“You see this?” he said, stroking himself, towering above you. “This cock’s fuckin’ mad for you. Hasn’t been the same since the first time I put it in that filthy sweet cunt of yours.”

His fist wrapped tight around the base, pumping once, twice, slow and mean, like he was daring you to look away. His eyes never left yours. “It’s yours, innit? Always fuckin’ has been.”

You looked up at him, breath catching at the sheer size of him, the thickness of it in his hand, veins throbbing, the tip flushed and glistening like it was weeping for you. Your thighs rubbed together instinctively.

You removed his hand from his shaft, falling down to your knees, eyes wide, lips already parted.

“Wanna return the favor.” You said it softly, but the hunger in your voice made him twitch in your hand.

“Yeah? Yeah, I fuckin’—I’ll let you then, won’t I? Look at that—look at you, down there, all eager like, yeah? Fuckin’ beautiful, innit? Like some bloody angel just—kneelin’ for the devil, yeah?” he muttered, breath shallow, voice thick with reverence and filth.

You kissed the base of him first, right where the coarse hair met thick, veined skin. Then your mouth trailed upward, lips dragging along the underside, tongue tracing every ridge. You heard the sharp inhale above you—his hips jerked, one hand gripping the armrest with white knuckles.

“Ohhh, f—fuck me, yeah, that’s it, darlin’—fuckin’ hellfire, that’s it right there.”

You wrapped your lips around the head and sucked, slow, steady, swirling your tongue as you took more of him in.

“Mouth like velvet, yeah? Fuckin’ velvet.” He laughed breathlessly, full of awe. “You were designed, right? Purpose-built—fuckin’ engineered by someone clever—just to do this to me.”

You moaned around him, taking more, eyes locked on his face—his mouth slack, eyes nearly rolling back, jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

“That’s it, take it—take all of it, love. That’s my girl, innit? Look at you. Fuckin’ takin’ it like the dirty little miracle you are.”

You bobbed your head, slow and steady, spit trailing down your chin, his cock glistening as you worked him with your mouth and hand in tandem. You hollowed your cheeks, sucked harder, and he swore, the filth falling from his mouth thick and unchecked.

“Oi, look at me,” he groaned, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “Come on—look at me while you do that, yeah? ‘Cause I need to see it, don’t I? Need to watch you ruin yourself for me. Fuckin’ glorious, that is.”

Your eyes flicked up through your lashes, meeting his—dark, wild, rimmed red and soaked in awe. That look of a man being undone by pleasure. Of a man who still couldn’t quite believe this was his.

You moaned again, low and sweet around his cock, and the sound nearly broke him.

“Fuuuckin’ ’ell,” he hissed, hips stuttering. “You hear that? Hear yourself, yeah? Sound like you’re enjoyin’ it more than me—an’ I’m ‘ere tryin’ not to fuckin’ die.”

You flattened your tongue along the underside, dragging slow as you pulled back, then sank down again—deeper this time. His thighs trembled under your palms.

“Jesus Christ—fuckin’ hell, deeper, yeah, just like that, just like that. Gonna ruin that pretty little throat, ain’t I? Not that I’m complainin’—fuck no.”

You hummed around him, the vibration making him growl, his grip tightening in your hair—not pulling, just grounding himself.

Your jaw burned. Spit slicked his cock, dripping from the corners of your mouth. Your hand pumped at the base, wrist flicking in tandem with the bob of your head, a perfect rhythm of filth and focus.

You pulled off with a wet pop, tongue dragging across your lips. His cock twitched again, glistening, and you smiled, breathless, wicked.

“Couldn’t help myself.”

Alfie stared at you like you were God’s last good idea—and his dirtiest. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your chin, eyes filled with something between awe and animal hunger.

“Aight, hands and knees on the couch,” he said, voice gruff with need, “and keep that pretty arse up.”

Your knees hit the cushions before he even finished speaking, spine arching, skin prickling with anticipation. You felt him behind you—close enough to taste the heat coming off him—his breath like a growl at your back. You could hear him breathing—sharp, ragged, like it took effort not to take you in one brutal stroke. His hand came down to grip your arse, spreading you open like he was starving for the view.

“Most beautiful cunt I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice breaking. “Like a fuckin’ miracle between your legs. Look at that—look at that, yeah? Shinin’ for me. Beggin’ for me.”

He spit—hot and filthy—right between your cheeks, then smeared it in with his thumb, slow and deliberate, like he was blessing you with it. You gasped, your breath catching in your throat as his tip found your entrance, dragging through your slick folds with a possessive hunger.

He grunted, hips twitching as he lined himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging against your dripping hole like it was the first fuckin’ time all over again. “Christ almighty,” he murmured, breath shaky, “you’re so ready—like your body’s got its own memory of me, like it knows what’s comin’. Fuckin’ welcomes me home.”

And then—without warning—he pushed inside. The stretch stole your breath. It always did. The first inch felt like a burn, like your body had forgotten how to take him and was relearning every inch of him by force.

Your walls clenched tight, fighting the intrusion and welcoming it in the same breath. You keened into the cushion, hands clawing at the fabric as your body fought to accommodate him.

“Jesus, Mary, and fuckin’ Joseph—” he gasped, bottoming out. “Tightest—wettest—fuckin’ perfect, love, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

His hips stuttered, forehead falling to the base of your spine for a moment as he tried not to cum too fast. “Every time—every bloody time—it’s like this cunt’s fuckin’ new.”

“Move, please, Alfie” you begged, already clenching around him. Your voice broke on the plea, needy and half-wrecked. “Need you to ruin me—fuck me like you mean it—please, Alfie, please.”

He pushed all the way out, the head of his cock glistening as it hovered for a moment, and slammed back into you like he was punishing himself for wanting you so much. The force of it knocked the breath out of you, his cock battering your insides, pushing you open all over again like he hadn’t already ruined you.

Each thrust sent the couch creaking, your cries muffled by the cushion as you buried your face in it, trying to hold yourself together. You were drooling, gasping, broken open for him, cunt stretched wide and slick, gripping him like a vice.

His pace was brutal, relentless, like he was trying to chase every thought out of your head but his name. Skin smacking, wet and obscene, filled the room like music made just for the two of you.

He was grunting behind you now, half-growl, half-moan—feral and starved.

“Fucking hell, listen to you,” he rasped, “drippin’ on me cock like that, makin’ that sweet little noise every time I slam into you. Like your body begs for it. Like you need me to ruin you.”

You whimpered at that, cunt fluttering around him, your thighs slick with your own arousal and the proof of how good he made you feel.

You were begging for it, in every way your body could.

He looked down between you, at where you took him to the hilt like you were made for it, like no one else ever could.

“No one else gets this, yeah?” he growled, eyes wild. “No one else gets to see how good you look takin’ me. No one gets to fuck the most beautiful cunt in the whole bloody country—England’s treasure, right here on me cock.”

His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise. He was panting now, fucking you like a man unhinged. His thrusts grew rougher, almost desperate, like he was trying to carve himself into you, like he needed it to stay. Like if he fucked you hard enough, you’d never be able to take anyone else again. And he was right.

It was a rhythm now, like he was orchestrating sin itself—your slick folds catching every stroke, the lewd slap of your soaked cunt meeting his cock, your strangled moans swallowed by the room. You were soaked, ruined, dripping down your thighs, and Alfie groaned when he looked down to see how wrecked you were for him. His cock was glazed with you, every inch coated, your hole red and raw and greedy around him.

“Cunt’s the tightest, prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever had,” he panted. “Made just for me. You ruined me, woman. D’you hear me? You fuckin’ wrecked me.” He gasped again, kissing your jaw, your temple, your mouth in frantic bursts. “You’re it. I’ll never touch another. I’ll never want another. You hear me? You’re it for me. You fuckin’ are.”

Your vision blurred. Your mouth hung open, drooling into the cushion as your orgasm built—hot and inevitable—tightening in your gut like a coil about to snap. Your whole body was one trembling nerve. The rhythm of him inside you pushed you closer, closer, until you could barely form words.

One of his hands slid up your back, palm flattening between your shoulder blades, pressing you down further into the cushions, forcing your arch deeper so he could drive in even harder. The angle was brutal. Perfect. Devastating. You sobbed into the cushion, tears streaking your face from how good it was.

You could feel how far he reached, how full he made you. You were stretched wide, raw, desperate—and he still wanted more.

“Stay right fuckin’ there,” he growled, voice low and guttural. “Arch that back—yeah, like that. Let me see it, let me see this perfect fuckin’ cunt swallowin’ me whole.”

“Please—don’t stop. I need it, Alfie. I need you.” You moaned. “I don’t wanna feel anything but you.”

He leaned over you, chest to your back, teeth dragging along your shoulder as he muttered filth into your ear—things that made your toes curl and your pussy clench tighter around him.

“You’re fuckin’ mine, y’hear me? Makin’ it fit, makin’ it stay. Gonna stuff you full, treacle—gonna make it take.” His thrusts were erratic now, driven by hunger and love. It was obsession, pure and feral.

His breath came in ragged bursts, teeth clenched, a string of curses and praise pouring from his lips as he drove himself into you over and over again. His thrusts grew rougher, almost desperate, like he was trying to carve himself into you, like he needed it to stay.

“Come on, treacle,” he growled, voice rough and ragged. “Cum for me. That’s it, yeah—let this cock fuck it out of you.” His hips slammed forward with each word, punctuating them like a command, fucking the orgasm from you before you could resist.

His hand reached down, finding your clit with ruthless precision, his fingers circling it in hard, fast motions that bordered on brutal. “Give it to me,” he commanded, voice breaking again. “Let me feel you break for me. Let me feel what I do to you.”

And you did. With a scream that sounded more like a sob, you came around him—body seizing, back arching, muscles clenching so tight around him he nearly lost it too.

You gushed around him, soaking his cock, the couch, everything—your cunt milking him like it knew what came next.

The world shattered in white heat. You were nothing but sensation, a pulse around his cock, your cries muffled by the cushions as he fucked you through the aftershocks.

“Shit— fuck—,” he breathed, slamming once, twice more before groaning like something broke inside him. You felt the heat of him spill into you, thick and endless, filling you up until it dripped out of you.

His hips jerked uncontrollably as he emptied himself inside, growling through clenched teeth, fingers leaving fingerprints on your hips.

He sank to his knees behind you again, groaning like a man possessed, one hand spreading you open while the other slid between your thighs—slow, deliberate, hungry. His breath hitched as he watched it—his cum, thick and white, dripping down your inner thighs, shining on your skin like something sacred.

“Look at that,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “Fuckin’ painted you, didn’t I?” He swiped a thumb through it—slow and greedy, gathering the mess he’d made of you, eyes locked on the slick that glistened across your folds, mixing with your arousal like it belonged there. Like he belonged there.

“All of this,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, “every last drop—mine. You fuckin’ keep it, yeah? Carry me with you.”

Then his fingers were at your mouth, two of them slick and shining as he pressed them to your lips.

“Open,” he rasped. “Be good for me. Taste what we did.”

You obeyed, and he groaned, watching as you sucked them in, your tongue lapping up the mix of both of you—his cum, your slick, your ruin.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he breathed, his cock twitching again, half-hard already. “That’s it, love—take it. Don’t waste a fuckin’ drop.

“My cunt,” he whispered, eyes locked on the mess between your thighs. “Most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen. More sacred than shul. Holier than bread and wine. I’d die for it. I’d fuckin’ die worshippin’ between your legs.”

He kissed your folds, your thighs, your trembling ass—like he was making offerings at an altar.

You let out an exhausted chuckle, the kind that trembled through your sore, spent body. “You’re insane.”

Alfie didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. Just pressed a kiss to your spine, reverent and aching.

“Yeah, and you keep sayin’ it like it’s some bloody revelation, right? Ain’t exactly news, is it?” he muttered.

For a long moment, the room was quiet—just the sound of your breathing, the distant hum of London outside, and the soft kiss of skin on skin as he held you like he couldn’t bear to let go.

Alfie nuzzled into the curve of your neck, his voice softer now, almost shy. “D’you know how long I prayed for somethin’ like this? Somethin’ real. Somethin’ holy.” He kissed the back of your neck again. “And it turns out God was listenin’. Gave me a fuckin’ miracle with a filthy mouth and the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen.”

You smiled, breath hitching with emotion. “You’re a poet when you’re cunt-drunk. A mad one.”

He huffed a low laugh, burying his face in your hair. “Nah. I’m just honest.”

He kissed the top of your head—rough lips gone tender, his big hands still cradling you like you were something precious, fragile, something that could shatter if he let go.

And then there was only the quiet.

The world beyond your house—beyond the warmth of him, the sweat drying on your skin, the evidence of your bodies still clinging to your thighs—ceased to exist.

You stayed there, tangled in each other’s limbs, your breath slowing in time with his, your heart tethered to his like a secret vow.

No words. Just the weight of it. The raw, unspoken promise curling between you like smoke—unchangeable, immovable, eternal.

You were his. And he was yours.

And not even God would dare touch that.