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demie90s · 6 days ago

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2 Sexy

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Summary: Diana agrees to one night out with her friends at an upscale strip club—just to shut them up. Her friends pool their cash and convince the club’s owner to book his favorite girl for a private dance.

Genre: Sensual tension · Slow-burn obsession · One night changes everything

Warnings: Smut. Explicit sexual tension, pole dancing, lap dance, implied dom/sub dynamics, reader is a stripper (by choice), Diana is cocky but gagged, eye contact, mild language, mutual obsession brewing

Word Count ~ 6.1k

She didn’t want to go. That was the first thing.

Diana hated shit like this—loud music, overpriced drinks, people pretending to be something they’re not. The club scene had always felt… exhausting. She was thirty-something now. Legacy locked in. Her name rang bells in rooms she’d never stepped foot in. She’d earned the right to disappear after practice, drink something brown, and sleep for ten hours. That was peace.

But tonight?

“Come on, D, one night.”

“It’s not even trashy,” Penny said, sipping from a glass of something clear. “It’s… exclusive.”

“I don’t need ass in my face to feel alive,” Diana muttered.

“You need something in your face,” Megan shot back, laughing. “You been dry since the bubble.”

She rolled her eyes, flipping them off as the car pulled into a discreet valet entrance. Blacked-out SUVs lined the curb. No signs. No bright lights. Just a dark brass plaque on the side of the marble building—FLEUR NOIRE—scripted in cursive, like it was a perfume instead of a private strip club.

The bouncer didn’t ask for IDs. Just looked once, recognized who she was, and nodded.

Inside smelled like cash and perfume. Not the cheap kind either—the expensive, oil-based kind that clung to skin and memory. The floors were velvet black, the walls mirrored in a way that made everything look like it cost too much. It was dim, moody, low-lit like the club was trying to flirt with you before you even sat down.

It was nothing like the places from their twenties. No wrinkled bills. No sticky poles. No “Buy one, get one” Tuesday specials.

This wasn’t for broke men. This was for them.

Every woman on the floor moved like she wasn’t trying to make money—she was letting it come to her. Rich men laughed too loud in corner booths, throwing down cards that didn’t have limits. Athletes, actors, politicians, and the kind of corporate guys who paid six figures to not be touched.

“Is it bougie that I’m impressed?” Penny asked.

“No,” Megan said, grinning. “It’s bougie ‘cause you’re thinking of getting bottle service.”

Diana scanned the room slowly. Dark leather booths with gold accents. Thick curtains. Spotlights that made women glow like walking sin. There were maybe twenty people in the whole place, but every inch of it was occupied with presence. Intent. Lust.

A woman walked by in red—latex, not fabric—her body glistening under the low heat lamps, her walk slow enough to hush a whole section. Men shifted in their seats. One even adjusted himself. Diana sipped her drink.

Still not impressed. That’s what she told herself.

They took a booth, tucked away, close enough to see the main stage but with a view of the private hallway. Every few minutes, a man disappeared behind those thick black curtains. Some returned looking wrecked. Others didn’t return at all.

A man in a navy suit came over. He was handsome but not flashy—salt and pepper hair, smooth voice, and the kind of stillness that meant he wasn’t just management. He ran this place.

“You three good?” he asked. “Drinks okay?”

“They’re great,” Megan said. “We were thinking of getting a private dance for our friend here.”

Diana raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Penny smirked. “It’s tradition. You’re new. You get a dance.”

She waved them off. “No thanks.”

“Come on,” Megan whined. “It’s a strip club! Live a little.”

“She said no,” the man said, then tilted his head thoughtfully. “But maybe she just hasn’t met the right dancer yet.”

Diana scoffed. “Y’all think I’m that easy?”

The man smiled. “Not at all. That’s why I know exactly who to send.”

He didn’t even look at a roster. Just turned toward the back, waved over a girl in black lingerie, and leaned in. Quiet instructions. A nod. The girl disappeared behind a back door, whispering the message to someone unseen.

Penny blinked. “He didn’t even ask what you like.”

“He didn’t have to,” the man replied, smirking. “I know exactly who to send for someone like her.”

Diana raised an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

He just smiled.

Diana felt her lips curl just a little. Fine. One dance. One private room. One night out of her element.

What could possibly go wrong?

I’m 23 now. Legal. Paid. And at the top of my game. This isn’t something I had to do—it’s something I chose. And baby, I do it well.

I move like I own every man who walks in here. Most of them don’t know what to do with me. They think they’ve seen this before, but they haven’t seen me. My sets run like clockwork. Pole. Floor. Lap. Repeat. And I never break rhythm, never break character. They can look, they can beg, they can breathe heavy through a thousand-dollar suit—but they can’t touch.

Unless they’re a woman. That’s my only rule. But tonight…tonights different.

Because Papi—that’s what we all call him, even though his real name’s Mateo—comes out the back hyped. He’s calm 90% of the time, but when he gets like this? Something’s up.

“I need you in the back,” he says, smile crooked, arms crossed. “Don’t ask questions. Just know she’s famous and she’s gonna try and act like she’s not impressed.”

I cock my head. “That’s new.”

He chuckles. “You still got it?”

I grin. “Always.”

He turns to head back toward the velvet hallway, pausing just long enough to shoot a look toward one of the servers.

“…she still has to pay, right?” the server teases. “Or does she get it free ‘cause you love her?”

Papi doesn’t even blink. “You know damn well she paying. Especially for you.”

That makes me hum.

I head to the dressing area, grab the heels that bite the hardest, and adjust the outfit I specifically save for high rollers. Tiny. Sheer in places that make people clench their jaw. Straps so thin they could snap if I move wrong. And I move very wrong. On purpose.

The back room is candlelit—luxury hotel vibes. There’s a pole in the center, a curved leather couch, another chair draped in silk. No cameras. Soundproof walls. Just me and them.

I’ve done this more times than I can count. Usually men. The kind that flash money and hide their wedding rings. They talk too much. They think I’m theirs for ten minutes. They leave a little emptier than they came.

But the women? They sit back and watch. Quiet. Curious. Sharp. They don’t touch unless invited.

And she’s invited.

When I walk in, she’s already there—Diana Taurasi, in the flesh, sitting like she owns air. Head slightly tilted, arms draped loose over the couch. Her legs are long, crossed, and casual. She’s got that posture that says this is beneath me.

And I eat that shit up.

I walk to her like I walk to everyone. Controlled. Slow. No smile. Just a look that hooks you without needing words. When I reach her, I tilt my head. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just gives me that stubborn, amused smirk like she’s waiting for me to crack.

I hold out my hand.

“…come on… don’t tell me you’re scared, mamba.”

That makes her laugh. Low and rough. It’s not polite either.

“You really using my nickname?” she says, eyes narrowing like she’s sizing me up.

“I could call you something else,” I murmur, stepping in just close enough that my knee brushes hers. “But I like mamba. It’s Silent. Sexy.”

Her gaze flicks up my body like a warning. Like I’m supposed to back down. I don’t. I just smirk.

“You gonna sit there all night looking cute, or you want your money’s worth?” That gets her.

She leans back—lazy, like she’s got time—and spreads her legs just enough to let me step in. Not much. Just an inch. A challenge.

So I step between them. Game on. She doesn’t move. Not even a twitch. Just sits there all regal and relaxed like she’s the one doing the hiring. Like I’m the show but she’s the main event.

Cute.

So I drop my hand. No big deal. I’m used to that little ego. Used to women like her thinking they can’t be touched—mentally, physically, emotionally. She’s the type that likes to be in control. Which is why I lean in slow, press my palms right on the arms of the chair, and cage her in.

One breath apart. My skin damn near brushing hers. Her eyes track me, sharp, unreadable—but she doesn’t lean away. Doesn’t blink.

“…you prefer your dance here?” I ask, voice low, sweet with a little edge.

My head tilts just enough to let my lips ghost near her jaw.

“I can work with that.”

I keep my eyes on hers, smirking like I already know what’s underneath all that fake calm. She ain’t slick. She’s breathing just a little deeper now. Hands still on her thighs like they’re glued there. Shoulders tensed but mouth stubborn. Like she’s deciding how long she can hold out before she folds.

I drag a single finger up the armrest, close to hers. Not touching. Not yet.

“Tell me when you’re ready to stop pretending,” I murmur. “’Cause I don’t do half-dances, mama. You want the real thing… you gotta act like it.”

And then I push off slow, straightening up, walking toward the pole in the center of the room like I didn’t just read her soul with a whisper. She wants to play cool? Let’s see how long that lasts.

The song starts, and I don’t perform. I exist. That’s the difference. I don’t get on stage to prove anything. I don’t need to. The moment I step into the light, the room just… shifts.

People sit up straighter. Voices drop. Every dumbass with money suddenly remembers how to shut up and stare.

“Like you, like you… like you, ooh-oh…”

Streets by Doja. Mateo ain’t shit for this. He knows what the hell he doing. That man been running this club longer than some of these men been faithful, and right now. He just orchestrated a funeral—for everybody’s self-control.

Because the way I move, the pole don’t stand a chance.

It’s about me. The air thickens. Time drips slower. I make space bend without even touching the pole. I walk the edge of that stage like I’m choosing who gets to breathe tonight.

The men in the front. Losing it. One’s gripping his glass too tight. The other already digging for bills, like that’s gonna do anything for him. I like it. Not because I want them—God no—but because I love the power. The silence. The hunger. I like when men tell me how good I look knowing damn well they couldn’t even survive touching me.

‘Cause the thing is—they know they’ll never touch me.

They know this body ain’t theirs to want.

But I’ll take their comments. Their yes ma’ams. Their desperate little dollar-stained praises. I’ll take their cash and give ‘em a memory so vivid it’ll haunt their wives. I’ll take their minds and leave them with nothing but a ruined standard.

Her friends are losing their shit. Penny smacked Megan’s arm and muttered, “Oh, hell no—not that,” like they just witnessed God descend in stripper heels. They ain’t expect this. Didn’t expect me.

Loud. Laughing. Whispering shit and elbowing her like they can’t believe what they’re seeing. They expected someone cute. Maybe hot. Harmless.

Not the woman who walks out and owns the room without blinking. Not the one who doesn’t crack a smile because she already knows how bad you want it. And I love that.

Then there’s her.

Sitting back like she’s above it all. Arms crossed. Legs spread casual. Like the heat in her chest ain’t rising. Like I don’t already have her attention in a chokehold.

My eyes meet hers. I hold them. I let her sit in it. Feel it. And I swear to God—for a half-second—she leans in. Just a little. Almost like her body moved before she told it not to.

That’s all I need. Because now It’s over. She don’t know it yet, but she’s already mine.

After I finish, I don’t linger. I don’t wave or collect bills or blow kisses like the newer girls do. I just walk off—shoulders relaxed, head high, like I didn’t just ruin the atmosphere for every other dancer scheduled tonight.

Backstage, I wipe down. Fix my lip gloss. Adjust a single strap. It’s routine. I’ve done it a hundred times, but tonight’s different. Feels different. Because I already know what’s waiting.

And when I step out, she’s exactly where I thought she’d be—still in that same booth, pretending like she’s not waiting. That stiff posture, that leg bounce, the fake calm expression? All of it screams she doesn’t know how to feel. Which is perfect.

I lean against the doorway, arms folded, amused. Watching her. Letting her sit in it.

Then I raise one finger. Curl it once. Real slow.

A smirk spreads across my lips, because her reaction isn’t immediate—but it happens. She hesitates just long enough for her friends to jump in, bumping her shoulder and egging her on.

“You better go get that.”

“Dee, please. For the culture.”

“What culture?”

“Just go!”

She rolls her eyes but stands. And that’s all I needed.

I don’t say a word—I just walk backward, heels clicking against the dark wood floor like a countdown. She follows. Of course she does. Diana Taurasi may not chase—but she follows. That’s how I know I already got her.

We step through the velvet curtain, and she enters the private room like it’s foreign ground. Like she doesn’t usually give up control. The lights are dim, low and sultry, music humming through hidden speakers. No stage here. No crowd. Just me, her, and a space that bends to my rhythm.

She looks like she’s trying to play it cool, but her hands are shoved in her pockets, and her jaw is tight. So I push her into the seat, palms soft on her chest. Not hard. Not aggressive. Just enough pressure to remind her—you’re not in charge anymore.

I circle her slowly, letting my fingers trail across the chair, behind her neck, down the opposite armrest. She doesn’t look back, but I feel her track me with every step. Like her body’s on alert. Like she doesn’t know what to expect and hates that she’s into it.

“Why so tense, mamba…” I murmur, voice barely above the music. “You can relax.”

I step in front of her, close enough to press my knees against hers. Then I take her hands—slowly, gently, like I’m not in a rush—and guide them to my hips. She doesn’t move them. Just lets them rest there. Still stiff.

“Come on,” I whisper. “You can touch me. That’s the rule.”

Her brows twitch like she’s weighing the cost. She’s trying to act like this doesn’t faze her, like I’m just some girl dancing in a private room.

But she doesn’t pull away. The music keeps playing, low and dark and full of bass, and I sway into it, letting my hips roll into her hands as if they belong there. And maybe they do. Just for tonight.

“If you think you’ll win this…” I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear, “…you’re wrong, baby.”

I press one palm against her chest, then slowly glide it down until I’m gripping her thigh. My other hand parts her knees with the same ease as someone opening a door.

She doesn’t stop me. I sink down between her legs—not in a rush, not to shock her. Just low enough that I can look up from the floor and see the shift in her eyes when she realizes this isn’t about performance anymore.

I drag both hands up the inside of her thighs, slow and deliberate, pausing just below her hips. My thumbs press into the fabric of her pants like I’m memorizing the shape of her. Then I move higher, palms smoothing up her stomach, across the line of her abs, just until I’m hovering again—half-kneeling, half-crouched, face tilted like I’m trying to figure out exactly how she’s holding it together.

Spoiler: she’s not.

“You’re breathing different,” I say softly. “You trying not to react?”

She doesn’t answer. Her jaw clenches.

“You think I haven’t seen that look before? That stiff, don’t-break composure?” I smile. “It’s cute. But it never lasts.”

I press higher, fingers trailing the bottom edge of her shirt now, just enough to make her nerves jump. And all the while, I keep looking at her. Only her.

“I’ll break you.”

I say it like a promise. Like a quiet storm. Like it’s already happening.

And then I stand. Smooth. Tall. Confident. My hands slide back to her shoulders, pressing her back into the chair as I climb up, knees bracing each side of her thighs, hips hovering just above her lap. My face inches from hers.

Still no rush. Just presence. Just heat. And she’s frozen—somewhere between fight and surrender. Exactly where I want her.

She’s loosening up now.

Breathing easier. Shoulders down. Hands not clenched in her lap like she’s scared to move. I can feel it in the way her knees shift, just slightly wider. The way her eyes follow my hands instead of the floor.

So I smile, soft and amused. “See… not so hard.”

Her voice is low. “What’s your rule?”

I don’t even turn around. I just hum.

“…You already know.”

I take a step back, let the distance stretch for half a second before I soften it with a teasing little whine—playful, cocky, like I’m daring her to miss me already. My body rolls with it. Smooth, fluid. That’s my best weapon—being sensual without effort. Being a problem without ever raising my voice.

I lean back into her, slow like molasses, turning so my back presses to her chest. My hand finds her knee—she’s already sitting wide, practically begging—and I lower myself down into her lap, full weight, deliberate.

It’s not rushed. It’s intimate. Claustrophobic in the best way.

I let my head tilt back, just enough that my hair brushes her collarbone. My thighs fit between hers, one hand resting on her knee like I’m claiming the territory she forgot was hers to give. She doesn’t stop me.

Her breath warms my ear. Slow. Hesitant. So I guide her.

I take one of her hands, soft at first, and lay it flat on my stomach. She tenses. Holds it there. But when I don’t stop her? When I don’t pull away?

She squeezes. Not rough. Not horny. Curious. Like she’s trying to learn something she thought she already knew.

And when I still don’t stop her—don’t even flinch—she does it again. This time letting her hand slide lower, to my thigh, dragging her fingers lightly like she’s trying to memorize texture. Her other hand follows, finding the opposite leg, gripping it. Palming it. Like she’s testing if I’ll let her.

I do.

I arch just enough to deepen the contact, then roll my hips slow—not grinding, not yet. Just a suggestion. My hands glide down her arms, fingertips brushing hers. And then I feel her move.

Her hands come up, hesitant but bold, sliding along my waist until she’s cupping my breasts through the thin fabric of my top. She pauses—like she can’t believe she’s doing it. Like she’s expecting me to flinch or scold.

But I chuckle. Low. Sweet. A little cruel.

“See?” I whisper, turning my head just enough for her to hear it in her ear.

“I don’t bite… mamba.”

She exhales. Real slow.

I can feel her jaw shift against my cheek, the tension melting into something else. Something needier. Hungrier. Her thumbs move, brushing over me gently, more confident now. She still doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. Her hands say enough.

I just smile. Because now she’s here.

I settle fully in her lap. No space left between us. No more teasing like I might stand up again. I’m here, soft and heavy and deliberate. Her hands are everywhere—waist, hips, ribs, thighs. Wandering. Not greedy, but steady. Like she can’t decide where she wants to keep them because she wants all of it.

My head tilts back slightly, brushing her shoulder as I look up at her. Her face is right there. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to bite. But I don’t—not yet. I just let her feel the weight of me. Let her feel what it’s like to be the one touched and touched back.

I grind against her slow, barely-there pressure, just enough to remind her what I’ve got. My hips roll once, lazy and calculated, the seam of my body angled exactly where I want it. Right where her center’s pressed between my thighs. I lean forward a bit, just enough that her grip shifts, slides to hold my hips again.

I know what I’m doing. I love women. I’ve studied every twitch, every breath, every slip of control. This is a language I speak fluently—and she’s starting to understand it.

“Too much?” I ask, voice soft, lips close to her jaw. A little pout on purpose. Just for the contrast.

“…not enough.” She doesn’t hesitate.

That answer hits low. Deep. Like a crack in the foundation. My smile sharpens, slow and wicked, and I roll my hips again—this time a little deeper, a little heavier. Let her feel it. My body dragging slow friction right over the spot she didn’t mean to tense for.

Her fingers flex at my hips. Hold tighter. She doesn’t pull me closer—but she doesn’t stop me either. She doesn’t have to. She’s giving it away.

“Mmm,” I hum, low in my throat, still moving. “You sure? I could stop.”

She exhales through her nose. Sharp. Annoyed. A silent don’t play with me. So I lean in again—this time my mouth barely an inch from her ear.

“Good,” I whisper. “Because I haven’t even started.”

Her hands grip my hips now—not tentative anymore, but firm. Like she’s giving in. Letting me move, letting me guide the rhythm, but needing to feel it. Needing to hold something while she falls apart slowly.

I smile to myself, eyes half-lidded, the corner of my mouth curling like I already know what’s coming. Her jaw’s tight. Clenched. Like her whole body’s working overtime just to keep from reacting too fast.

And I love it.

I keep grinding slow, just enough friction to keep her focused. Just enough pressure to make her forget where the line is. My hips roll steady into her lap, warm and soft and controlled—like sin wrapped in velvet.

She lets out a groan. Low. Right against my ear. The kind that escapes before she can trap it. Her breath is hot, and her grip on my waist tightens again, anchoring herself like she’s seconds from slipping.

I chuckle softly—breathy and smug. Not cruel. Just knowing.

One of her hands leaves my hip. Slides up my body, confident now. Over my side, across my ribs. It finds my breast again, fitting her palm there like she finally figured out what she wants to do with it. She squeezes, slow and careful, thumb brushing across me through the fabric.

My breath catches just slightly—not because I’m surprised, but because I like it. Because now I know for sure: she’s gone. I’ve got her. And she’s holding on like she needs to.

Her other hand never left my hip, though. She grips it tighter, using it to guide my rhythm, like her body’s responding before her mind can catch up. Her legs are wide under me, her thighs flexing every time I roll just right over her.

“You good?” I murmur, glancing over my shoulder, voice lazy and teasing like I’m not sitting directly on top of everything she’s trying to control.

She exhales hard. Doesn’t answer. Just keeps touching me.

So I smirk again and roll slower, deeper, my body fitting into her like we’ve done this a hundred times.

But we haven’t. She just wants it that bad.

I push off her lap and stand, slow and smug, watching the way her body reaches for me without meaning to. Her breath stutters, and if I blinked, I’d miss it—but there it is.

A little pout. Not dramatic. Just a flicker of disappointment. Hunger.

“Awww, what’s wrong, baby?” I coo, tilting my head with mock concern. “Thought you’d win something?”

I drag my finger across her shoulder as I walk around her, circling slow, eyes locked on the way her legs still won’t close. She’s hot. Bothered. Chest rising and falling just a little too fast. Trying to hold composure that doesn’t belong to her anymore.

And just as I drop low again, just as I let the silence stretch between us, her hands find my waist—bold now—and pull me right back onto her lap.

I let it happen. Let my knees slide wide, thighs snug around hers. Straddling her again, this time with her chest pressing up into mine, her hands gripping the curve of my hips like she owns them.

“Mmm… touchy now, huh?” I murmur, smiling.

“Shut up.”

“Oh?” I laugh softly, settling in. “Or what?”

She glares, jaw tight—but her grip doesn’t ease up. She ain’t got a comeback this time. No smartass reply. Just those hands flexing on my body like she’s trying to get a grip on her sanity.

Too late.

I tilt my head slowly, daring her. Then I reach up and grip her jaw—not rough, not sweet either. Just firm. Steady. I tilt her face up, force her to look at me.

This… this is new.

I don’t kiss clients. I don’t touch like this. Not for real. I dance. I tease. I push them to the edge and leave them there. Get them wet and wrecked and begging, then disappear. That’s the job. That’s the art.

She make me want to.

So I smile. Real slow. Her hands slide down to my ass, full and sure, like she’s not asking permission anymore. Just taking what I’ve already given.

I lean in, slow enough to make her wait, and kiss the corner of her mouth. Just that. Soft. Just enough heat to sting.

“…That allowed?” She’s whispers.

“You care?” I smirk.

“…Do it again.”

So I do. I kiss her again—this time lower. Her jaw. Her neck. I trail heat down to that spot right below her ear, where her pulse jumps, where her hands grip me harder and her thighs tense beneath mine.

She starts moving me. Hands on my hips again. Rocking me slow against her like she can’t help it. Like if I stop, she’ll fall apart. Her shoulders shift. I can feel the strength in her arms as she rolls my body into hers like she’s trying to memorize it.

I pull back just enough to look down at her, my hand still under her jaw, lifting her chin like she belongs there.

“Mamba…” I say with a slow, wicked smile. “You gave in.”

I lean in close, nose brushing hers. “Look at you…”

And she does. Eyes dark, lips parted, throat tight

Her hands move up my back—no hesitation now, no testing. Firm. Hot. Possessive. She pulls me closer like she needs me there. Like not having my body against hers is suddenly a problem.

Her breath brushes the shell of my ear, and I can feel it—tight, ragged, uneven. She’s holding on by threads. So I lean in, real low, lips brushing her skin but not kissing.

“Gonna beg me?” I whisper. She stiffens.

“No.”

I smirk. That denial came too fast. Too tight. That’s the pride talking—not the heat pooling in her stomach, not the grip on my waist, not the way she’s practically rocking against me now.

“Ohh come on…” I purr, sliding my hips forward, slow and deep, letting the friction hit just right between us. “You’re Diana Taurasi… you’ve worked for shit before, right?”

I let that hang in the air for a beat—just long enough to let her feel it. Then I shift like I’m about to leave. Start to push off her lap, slow, smooth, nonchalant. Like I could go.

Like I would. And that’s when she panics.

She grabs my waist. Strong. Too strong. Damn near slams me back down into her lap. My eyes widen slightly—not out of fear, just amusement.

Instant ocean. I raise an eyebrow, watching her jaw flex like she’s choking on the one thing she’s never had to say out loud.

“…Please.”

Soft. Rough. The kind of whisper you say through gritted teeth when you hate how bad you mean it. My smile spreads.

“Mm,” I hum, dragging my nails lightly up her arms. “I’ve heard better, mamba.” I rock once. Deep. Slow.

“Say it like you mean it… or I’ll walk out of here so wet for you it’ll haunt you for the rest of the season.”

And her fingers dig in like she knows I mean it.

Her grip tightens like her life depends on it. Like letting me go now would mean bleeding out. And I can feel it—the tension in her thighs, the ache in her fingertips, the shallow drag of her breath like it’s scraping up from somewhere deep.

But she still hesitates. Still clings to that last sliver of control like it matters.

I roll my hips once more, slower this time—sinking right down into her lap, giving her every inch of that friction she didn’t earn. My hands cradle the sides of her face, thumb dragging across her cheek like I’m comforting her. Like I care.

“I said say it like you mean it,” I murmur. My voice is silk, but the command in it? Cold steel.

She swallows hard. I don’t move. I just wait. Still. Straddled over her. Breathing steady while hers stutters. Then finally—finally—she looks at me.

Eyes glassy. Dark. Almost angry at herself. Like her pride is choking her on the way out. And then she says it.

“Please.”

But this time it’s real. Quiet. Raw. Like she hates how much she means it. And baby… it breaks her. My smirk softens into something else. Not pity. Not victory. Something deeper. Almost dangerous.

“There she is,” I whisper.

I lean in slow. Let my lips brush hers, not quite a kiss—just a burn. A warning. Then I drag my mouth down the line of her jaw, across the curve of her neck, until I find that spot pulsing under her ear. I kiss her there. Once. Slow. Then again. Open-mouthed.

She groans.

Her hands slide from my waist to my ass, gripping like she needs to anchor herself to survive this. Her legs flex underneath me. She starts moving me again—guiding my hips with a rhythm that’s messier now. Needier. She’s not in control anymore, she’s chasing.

I pull back, just enough to look her in the eye. My breath fans her lips.

“Look at you,” I murmur, sweet and sinful. “Begging.”

And then I kiss her. Really kiss her. Full mouth. Full pressure. Like she’s mine already and always has been. The way she kisses back. Baby—she’s gone.

She’s not asking anymore. She’s begging. And it’s not just once—it’s spilling. Low, hoarse, under her breath like it’s involuntary. Like every second she doesn’t feel me move is a punishment.

“Please…”

“Don’t stop…”

“Fuck—please…”

Each one softer, wetter, more pathetic than the last. And I just sit in her lap like a throne, hips rolling in slow, exact circles. Feeding her just enough pressure to keep her throbbing, just enough friction to feel it everywhere.

I ain’t rushing it. Why would I? She’s already mine.

I lean in, lips at her ear, letting my breath tease every time she tries to speak. Every time her voice cracks or her nails press harder into my thighs.

“You like that, mamba?” I whisper, teasing her as I grind. “You like beggin’ for it?”

She groans, hips bucking up helplessly. Her hands are all over now—gripping my ass, my waist, my back like she can’t decide what to hold onto. Like her body’s short-circuiting.

“I’ll do anything,” she mutters. That makes me smile.

I slow your hips. Real slow. Just enough to make her whine. Then I grip her jaw again, tilt her head back like before, but this time there’s no warning.

I kiss her like a reward. Full, deep, tongue in her mouth while she moans into it like she’s gone stupid. Her legs are shaking under you. She’s grinding up like her life depends on it. Like she’s so close she could fall apart right there, with just me riding her lap and whispering filth in her ear.

“That wallet real nice,” I murmur between kisses. “Might keep you just for that.”

I feel her grip tighten like she liked that too much.

“And you?” I add, lips brushing hers. “You real fine.”

She whimpers. Literally. Head falls back. Eyes fluttering. She’s chasing something. Maybe a nut. Maybe just me. Either way—she’s fuckin’ desperate.

I lean back slightly, watching her crumble, my hands on her shoulders to pin her just enough.

“Damn, mamba… you ‘bout to cum from this?”

I grind deeper once—perfectly—and she chokes on a breath.

“God—yes. Please, please, I’m—”

I hush her with your mouth. Biting her lip just enough to shut her up. Then grinding again, eyes locked on her as her back arches and her hands tighten, trying to make it last, trying not to embarrass herself—

But it’s too late. She’s trembling under me. All while I’m still fully dressed. Calm. Smiling.

Mission. Accomplished.

Her chest is rising like she just finished running suicides, lips parted, flushed all the way up to her ears.

I lean in, slow and smooth, letting her catch your scent again—your lip gloss, your heat, the faint sweat at your collarbone.

I kiss her. One more time. But it’s not needy. Not even sweet. It’s final. Soft, full, and dangerous. A kiss that says “You did good.” A kiss that says “But don’t think it meant more to me.”

I pull back, one hand grazing her cheek, eyes unreadable. I stand. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just step off her lap, adjust my top, and walk toward the curtain like I didn’t just bring one of the most dangerous players in the game to her fuckin’ knees. I didn’t look back.

Can’t let her see that I enjoyed that more than she did. It takes a minute, but eventually she walks out too. Her friends light up, all of ’em ready to clown.

“So? How was it?”

“Dee, tell me she didn’t ruin you—”

“You good??”

But Diana was dead silent.

Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just walks straight past them—jacket in hand, head down, face unreadable—and straight out the door like nothing happened. Like that wasn’t the best thing that’s happened to her in years. Like she didn’t almost come in a fuckin’ chair.

Back inside, Mateo comes stomping up to me, waving a receipt like it’s the winning lottery ticket.

“Yo,” he says, wide-eyed, grinning like a madman. “Yo.”

I raise a brow, unbothered.

“She left a tip so fat I thought it was a fuckin’ typo. Cash. Like cash cash.”

I smirk, biting your lip.

Mateo shakes his head, half-laughing, half-hyped. “I love basketball. God bless America. You? You just made the hall of fame, baby.”

You wink. “Told you I never miss.”

He throws his hands up and walks off still muttering, “I gotta get that jersey signed or somethin’.”

I just sit back in my seat, relaxed, untouched, legs crossed like nothing happened.

That’s enough for tonight. Until next time, mamba.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan

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demie90s · 17 days ago

Text

Youngin

Kahleah Cooper x Rookie!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE | Part 2

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You’re 20, cocky, and convinced you can handle a woman like Kahleah.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Slow-burn smut, tension, age-gap energy

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Language, age gap (20+), dom!Kahleah, bratty!reader, explicit content (eventually)

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 6k

(gotta make a part two. I’m outta town.)

ᴠɪʙᴇ: “You grown? Prove it.”

I was a rookie. No shit. Born knowing I’d be great. Not humble about it either—why would I be? Valedictorian in high school. Top recruit coming out of Cali. Ran USC like I paid rent there, then bounced early, just to get drafted and drop jaws in the W. Rookie of the Year runner-up. And fine. Like real fine. God took her time on me.

So yeah, I’m cocky. Loud with it. Post up in the common area like it’s my living room. Walk through the facility like it’s mine. Cameras love me, fans scream for me, and half the league want my number—on or off the court. But I only got eyes for one. And she don’t give a damn.

Kahleah Copper.

She’s the one. Smooth, seasoned, and unbothered. She been in the league, stacked rings, stacked respect. I grew up watching her highlight reels like they were gospel, and now I sit three chairs from her like that don’t mean something.

Except it do.

I flirt every chance I get. In post-practice interviews? I shout her out. At lunch? I sit a little too close. When she walks into a room? I don’t just look—I stare. She notices. Of course she does. But every time I get a little bold, every time I drop a line she should be biting on, she shuts it down.

“You just a baby.”

“Ain’t nobody studying you.”

“You ain’t got no clue what to do with me.”

And that would humble most people. But me? I just grin. That’s the problem with women like her. She thinks just because she’s older, wiser, that I’m not built for her. She don’t get it. I’m not chasing her for fun—I’m chasing her like I already know what I’d do if she let me catch her.

Today, I’m lounged across the arm of the couch in the facility lounge, legs stretched out, hoodie rolled up, sports bra peeking just enough to start shit. She’s sitting across from me with her AirPods in, scrolling her phone like I don’t exist.

I know she can hear me.

“I got practice footage,” I say, loud enough to carry. “Dropped thirty-four last week. Y’all seen it?”

A couple teammates nod, laugh. Kahleah? Don’t even flinch. So I push.

“She prolly got it saved. Watch it before bed like a highlight mixtape.”

That gets her. She looks up slow, eyes like heat. Not a smile—just a twitch of her lips, like she wants to laugh but won’t give me that.

“You talk too much,” she says.

“And you listen,” I shoot back.

Silence. Then her head tilts, lazy and amused.

“You really think you grown, huh?”

I smirk, tongue in cheek, and nod. “Grown enough to know you want me.”

She leans back, one brow arched, lips parted like she’s trying not to laugh. Her eyes drag over me once—real slow, real subtle. And for a second, I swear she looks where she shouldn’t.

But then she scoffs. Sharp.

“Girl, please. Give up.”

Just like that. No smile. No wink. Just straight disrespect with a shoulder check as she walks past, brushing me like I’m in the way.

I let her go, eyes still locked on her back, the way her hair swing when she moves. And right when she’s almost out of earshot, I mutter just loud enough:

“You gon’ be mad when I stop trying.” She doesn’t turn around.

Just lifts her hand, waves me off without looking back—like I’m the problem and she knows it.

I smile. She ain’t ready.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

I was mid-bite, walking into the team kitchen with a protein bar in my mouth and the devil in my smile. Real casual. Oversized tee, shorts low on my hips, socks dragging like I owned the whole damn building. It wasn’t even about being seen—I just knew if she was in there, I’d make a moment of it.

And there she was.

Kahleah, leaned back at the table, arms crossed, scrolling through her phone like she ain’t the baddest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. Her skin glowing, lips pressed, eyes focused—but not too focused. She saw me. I know she did.

I dropped into the chair next to her like I’d been invited. One leg wide, elbow propped, still chewing slow. Real smug.

“Wassup, baby?” I said, mouth half full, all confidence. “Miss me?”

She didn’t look up at first. Just kept scrolling. Then finally, finally, her eyes flicked up, heavy-lidded and unreadable.

“You bored?” she asked.

“Nah,” I said, licking my thumb and wiping a crumb from my lip like I was trying to piss her off. “Just wanted to see what you was doing. You stay ignoring me, I was starting to feel neglected.”

“You need attention that bad?”

“From you? Hell yeah.”

That made her pause. She set her phone down slow, turned her full body toward me, and gave me a look that felt like fire on bare skin. She leaned in, elbows on the table, real close.

“You talk like you ready for something you can’t handle,” she said, voice low and smooth like a dare.

I blinked once. Kept my mouth shut. Couldn’t let her know how fast my heart was thumping or how my throat got tight just from her being this close. I never broke eye contact, but I didn’t move either.

She smiled like she saw everything.

Then—quick as hell—her hand slid up my thigh, slow enough to make my breath catch but firm enough to say she wasn’t playing. She leaned even closer, her mouth damn near at my ear.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” she whispered. “You just a kid. Act like it.”

Then she pulled back. Calm. Cool. Collected. Got up. Grabbed her water bottle.

And walked out like she ain’t just shake my entire world with one touch and a sentence. I sat there frozen, bar half-eaten, ego bruised, thighs still tingling. But I kept my mouth shut. This time.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

It was late. Gym mostly cleared out except for me, some janitor pushing a mop, and Kahleah on the court stretching like she didn’t just run the whole team ragged. She had her headphones in, sweating under those low lights, and the music from her phone bled faintly through.

She looked good. Like too good. Sports bra clinging to her back, shorts hanging low on her hips, and that focus? Lethal. I was leaned against the wall, pretending to scroll, but my eyes weren’t moving from her. I don’t think they ever did when she was in the room.

She finally caught me. Pulled her headphones out, sweat glinting on her collarbone. “You good?”

I shrugged, slow. “You tell me.”

She let out a little breath, like a laugh, but it didn’t reach her lips. Then she walked toward me—calm, unbothered, like I wasn’t already standing at attention. She stopped right in front of me, bent down to fix her sneaker, and glanced up like she knew I’d been staring this whole time.

“You always watching,” she said, voice low, like a secret. “You gon’ keep frontin’, or you finally ready to admit what you want?”

I didn’t say shit. Just stared back at her, jaw locked but my eyes… man, they probably said too much. Because truth was? If she told me to get on my knees, I would’ve. No hesitation. Not out of weakness—out of worship.

She stood up slow, brushing the sweat off her neck with her towel. Real close now, like I could feel the heat off her skin.

“You’d do anything I told you to right now, wouldn’t you?”

I swallowed. Smirk gone. “If you asked,” I said, voice rough, “I’d do it.”

She leaned in, lips brushing close enough to make my chest hitch. Her breath hit my jaw, and just when I thought she was gonna kiss me, she tilted her head and whispered—

“Not yet.”

Then she was gone. Just walked out, towel slung over her shoulder like she ain’t just ruin my whole world in five seconds.

I stayed standing there. Breath caught. Hands shaking.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Next morning, I’m on a mission. Still buzzing off that gym moment. Not that she kissed me—but that she almost did. That’s worse somehow. She knew exactly what she was doing, walking off like she didn’t just get in my head and live there rent-free.

So I slide into the kitchen of the facility like i built it, jersey sleeves rolled, protein bar in one hand, eyes set on the only woman who ever made me shut the hell up without even raising her voice. She’s standing at the counter, arms folded, scrolling her phone like she ain’t the main character in my brain.

I drop down in the chair next to her, lean back real casual. “Wassup, baby,” I say, licking a crumb off my thumb just to be stupid. She side-eyes me. Not amused.

“You start every conversation like that,” she says, sipping her water. “But never finish ‘em.”

I grin. “That’s ’cause you never let me.”

She cuts her eyes at me. That slow, dangerous drag from my shoes to my mouth. Then she leans in, elbows on the table like we about to play poker with hearts. “You think this some game?”

I blink, smile falters for half a second. “You tell me.”

And she does. She stands up slow, walks around behind my chair, leans over until I can feel her voice press against my neck. Her breath is warm, but her tone? Icy smooth.

“You keep pushin’, baby girl,” she whispers, “and I’ma show you exactly why you not ready. You hear me?”

I swallow. Nod once.

She doesn’t stop. “I don’t care how cute you think you are. How many little one-liners you got tucked in that smart-ass mouth. You not grown just ‘cause you say you are.”

She grabs my chin—not gentle. Turns my face toward hers. “You wanna act bold? Back it the fuck up. Otherwise—” she lets go and walks away like nothing happened—“act your age.”

I sit there, still. Chest tight. Mouth open like I had a comeback but she snatched it from my lungs. I watch her leave.

Damn. She got me again. I’m not giving up. But she’s making me rethink the rules of the game.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

I had on a plain black tee, gray sweats sitting low on my hips, and beat-up Jordans that told the truth—I wasn’t tryna impress nobody. Locs pulled back into a bun, I looked regular. Not raggedy, just chill. Still, that didn’t stop the attention.

It was some open fan event for the Mercury. A couple vendors, some PR tables, and media drifting through like flies to honey. Players were mingling. Signing things. Smiling for photos. I was posted at the edge of the crowd, finishing the last bite of my acai bowl, when the first girl came up.

She was cute. Same age as me. Maybe a little older. She had the lashes, the nails, the high ponytail that swung when she walked. She leaned in like we knew each other. “Aren’t you—? You play for Phoenix, right?”

“Mmhm,” I mumbled around my spoon, giving a half-smile. Friendly enough. But I didn’t mean it.

Then her friend slid in, looping her arm around mine like we was besties. “Oh my God, you’re actually so fine in person. Like, wow.”

A third one laughed too loud. “You single? Or just mysterious?” I blinked once. Then twice. And didn’t say a damn thing.

Because across the event space—just past the media tent, between two folding tables and a crowd of distracted interns—stood Kahleah.

Hair laid. Edges sleek. Lips glossy. Skin deep and glowing like she soaked in the sun itself. Her fit was simple but sharp—tight long-sleeve, sleeves pushed to the elbow, black pants hugging all the right angles. She wasn’t even trying. And that’s what made it worse.

She looked calm. Tall. Quietly dangerous. And she was watching me.

She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t smiled. But those dark eyes were locked on mine, like she could see through the fake laugh I gave when one of the girls touched my arm. Like she knew damn well I hadn’t heard a single word they said.

I glanced back at the girl still hanging off me. She said something about going out after the event. I just nodded absently, licking the edge of my spoon, still looking right over her shoulder at Kahleah.

It wasn’t even a game. I wasn’t doing it to be cold or cool or mysterious. It was just that none of them were her.

They were pretty, sure. Bold. Flirty. But they didn’t make my chest tighten. They didn’t make me sit straighter. They didn’t carry that kind of weight.

Kahleah did. She raised one brow like she was asking, “You done yet?” Not with them. With the act.

I dropped my spoon into the empty bowl, handed it off to whoever was closest, and excused myself without looking back. No apology. No explanation.

I wasn’t rude. But I wasn’t interested either. Because when a woman like Kahleah’s watching you like that, it don’t matter how many girls say your name.

You already answered to hers.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

I made my way toward her like I had no other choice. Not rushed, not cocky—just quiet, locked in, my hands shoved into my hoodie pocket like they’d betray me if I let them out.

Kahleah didn’t say anything when I stopped in front of her. She just tilted her head, looking me up and down with that same unreadable expression.

“You busy?” I asked, voice low.

She scoffed, barely audible. “Now you wanna act right?”

“I always act right,for you” I muttered.

Kahleah folded her arms, long sleeves hugging her toned arms just tight enough for me to get distracted. “You looked real comfortable with all your lil’ friends back there.”

I smirked, leaning in. “I wasn’t even listening to them.”

“I know,” she said flat. “You were lookin’ at me.”

I paused. Swallowed. Then nodded once, real slow. “You’re hard not to look at.”

That earned me a shift in her jaw, like she was fighting a grin but wouldn’t give me the satisfaction.

“Girl, you still a baby.”

“You keep saying that.”

“‘Cause you keep proving me right,” she snapped, stepping closer. “Always starin’. Always followin’. Always talkin’ shit you not ready to back up.”

Her perfume hit me then—something clean and warm, like skin and sunshine and the backseat of a black truck after dark.

“I’m ready.” I said it soft, sure. I didn’t even blink.

Kahleah stepped in again, close enough to smell my lip gloss now. “You sure?” she murmured. “’Cause if I put my hands on you, you gon’ fold.”

Maybe I would. I didn’t say a word. Just looked up at her lips, heart somewhere in my throat.

She studied my face for too long, then came close—not to kiss me, not even to touch. Just close enough to press her mouth next to my ear and whisper:

“Not yet.”

Then she walked past me, hand grazing my arm like she didn’t even mean to. But she did.

And I stood there—chest tight, palms sweating, the whole damn world blurring around me.

Because I swore I would’ve dropped everything right there if she asked. And she knew it.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

The Phoenix Mercury locker room was buzzing—music low, team stretched out across couches and floor mats. I was lounged sideways on a bench, picking at trail mix, half-listening to two of the vets argue about some old mixtape battle. I was dressed down today: baggy sweats, tank top, and a fitted cap tugged low. Basic. But it worked for me.

Then Kahleah walked in.

I ain’t gotta describe her again. You already know. Tall, smooth, skin lit up like she swallowed the sun. Hair done, laid perfect, like she woke up late just to make people stare. And of course, everybody did. Even me. But I played it cool—eyes flicking up for half a second before dropping back down to my snack like she wasn’t already carved into the back of my skull.

She glanced around, clocked the open space next to me, and took the long way around to avoid it. Petty. I smirked and kicked my legs out across the bench. “You scared to sit by me now?”

She paused. Just for a beat. Then raised an eyebrow.

“If you really bout that,” she said, real calm, real slow, “come sit between my legs then.”

Everything went quiet in my head.

And before I could cover it, my body betrayed me—a small shift, a twitch like I was gonna move. She noticed. Of course she noticed. That mouth tilted into a smirk that wasn’t really a smile.

“Mmhm,” she said. “Exactly.”

I let out a little laugh and shook my head, scoffing like girl, please, but the heat behind my ears was giving me away. I stayed right where I was. Not frozen—just…calculating.

“You just love makin’ people sweat,” I muttered.

She leaned down slightly, looking me dead in the eyes. “Only the ones who talk too much.” And then she walked off.

The rest of the day, I was thrown. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t focus in the gym. I kept messing with my water bottle, stretching when I didn’t need to stretch, tying and untying my laces. And it didn’t help that the whole damn team had picked up on the vibe.

“She really got you in a chokehold,” Sophie teased, throwing a towel at me after practice. I grinned, biting my lip. “What if I like it there?”

A couple of the girls howled, one clutched her chest like I broke her heart. But Kahleah? She was posted in the corner, shooting free throws, acting like I ain’t exist. Until the teasing kept going.

“You always on somebody. She flirt with everybody like that?” one rookie laughed. That made Kahleah stop. Turn.

“She don’t,” she said—flat, unreadable.

Everyone got quiet again. I just stood there like a deer in headlights, mouth parted, caught mid-sip of Gatorade. And she walked straight over. Slow. Steps sharp.

“You flirt with everybody like that?” she asked me, one brow raised.

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off with a whisper only I could hear.

“Or just the ones you want to fuck you?”

I choked on my drink. Caught myself. Tried to play it off with a cough. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t blink. Just gave me a long, knowing look. Then turned and left again. Always leaving.

Later that week, during a post-practice cooldown, I cracked some dumb joke—something about me being the team’s morale booster—and she laughed. Like really laughed. The sound was warm and sudden, and a few girls looked over like they’d never even heard her laugh before.

I took that win, started walking past, but then—Her hand caught my wrist.

“Keep playin’ with me,” she said, low and sharp. “You gon’ end up somewhere you not ready for.”

I stopped cold. Looked back. She didn’t smile this time. Just let my wrist go and walked off again, leaving heat blooming under my skin.

That’s when I knew she had me. She’d had me. I was just cocky enough to think I had a chance, and just soft enough inside to know I’d crumble the second she snapped her fingers.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

I don’t know what it was today. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was that red hair she had slicked into a low bun like she knew what it did to me. Maybe it was the fitted tee that hugged her back just right, or the gold chain around her neck catching every inch of light like it belonged there. Like she belonged on a damn pedestal. Either way—whatever it was—I couldn’t fake it today.

We were out with the team, walking through the open-air plaza after some community event. I’d been good. I’d been so good. Just talking shit, keeping my space, doing my little rookie smile. But then a few girls my age slid up, trying to flirt, fake-laughing at shit I didn’t even say. One touched my wrist and I didn’t even blink. My eyes were locked on Kahleah across the way, biting into some fruit cup like sin had a face.

“Damn, you ignoring me already?” one of the girls said with a pout. I didn’t even answer.

Kahleah turned slightly, just enough to catch me staring. Her eyes narrowed, slow and knowing, like she could already hear what was about to leave my mouth. That was all it took. My chest felt hot. My throat dry. And the next second, I was walking. Not thinking. Just moving. Fast.

She looked surprised when I stepped in front of her, but not shocked. Not Kahleah. She just stood there, looking down at me like she’d already won whatever game I thought I was playing.

“What?” she asked, brows lifted, voice low.

I didn’t sit. I didn’t smile. I didn’t pretend. I looked up at her with the softest, rawest, realest face I’d ever worn and said, “Baby, please.”

Her tongue ran over her teeth.

“Please what?” she asked.

I shook my head. “You win. You been won. I’m tired of pretending like I’m not ready to do anything you ask. Just show me something. Please.”

She raised a brow. “Ain’t even sit down yet and you begging?”

“I can kneel if that helps.”

Her face twitched—barely. Just a hint of a grin, some smug curl in the corner of her mouth. Her fingers flexed against the drink in her hand. She was thinking. Dangerous thoughts. The kind that turned heat into fire.

“You sure you ready for me?” she asked, stepping in close, voice in my ear now.

“No,” I breathed. “But I want it anyway.”

And that’s when she chuckled—deep, slow, mean. Like she knew. Like she’d been waiting for this moment since the first time I called her baby with no business doing so.

“Good,” she whispered, pulling back with that look. “Then act like it.”

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

She didn’t touch me. Not yet. She just stepped back, slow, like a warning. Like she wanted to see if I’d really follow. I did. I followed her like a dog on a leash made of pure lust and pride I was too far gone to care about. Kahleah didn’t say a word as she led me through the side door of the venue and into the hallway—cool, dim, empty except for the sound of our sneakers and the wild heartbeat thudding in my ears.

She stopped near a supply closet. Leaned against the wall. Looked me over.

“You shaking.”

I wasn’t. I didn’t think I was. But maybe I was breathing too fast. Maybe my hands were trembling, just a little, like they knew what I wanted before my body could admit it.

She tilted her head, slow. “You really gon’ let me teach you somethin’ tonight?”

I nodded, too fast. She clicked her tongue, stepped forward, and grabbed my face with one hand—firm. Her thumb dragged over my bottom lip. Her eyes? Heavy. Studying me like I was her favorite sin.

“Say it.”

“I want you,” I whispered. “I want you to make me shut up for once.”

That smirk. That dangerous, deep, grown woman smirk that said I’d asked for it.

“You don’t even know what you want.”

“I want you,” I said again, chest rising. “Every version. The soft one. The mean one. The one that makes me cry ‘cause she knows I’ll still beg for more.”

That did it. She kissed me—finally. And not soft.

Teeth. Tongue. Hunger. She kissed me like she was claiming something. Like she’d waited long enough and was ready to collect. My back hit the wall. My head spun. I moaned into her mouth and she ate that sound up, pressing her body against mine, her knee slipping between my legs like she already knew every spot that made me weak.

“You still think you grown?” she murmured against my jaw, licking up to my ear.

“N-no—fuck. No, baby. You got it. You got me.”

“Damn right I do.”

Her hand slipped under my shirt, up my spine. I arched into it like a prayer, like a promise, already gone.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

I swear to God, I could taste her already. Her breath against my ear, that hand still dragging slow under my shirt like she was memorizing me fingertip by fingertip, and I almost dropped right there. My knees? Jelly. My brain? Gone. I was clinging to her like I was about to pass out and she was the only thing tethering me to the planet.

She leaned in closer, lips brushing mine again but not kissing me this time. Just breathing the same air, letting it sit heavy between us. “You wanna faint, huh?” she whispered, low and smug. “That desperate for me already?”

I nodded. Couldn’t even pretend to be cool anymore. My voice was hoarse, wrecked. “Yes, baby… please. I need you. Like right now.”

She laughed, soft and mean, and grabbed my chin again. “Look at you,” she murmured. “Acting like you ain’t just beggin’ to be told what to do.”

“I am,” I breathed. “Tell me, I’ll do it. Anything. I swear.”

“Mhm.” Her thumb dragged slow over my bottom lip, then tapped it twice like she was thinking. “Then be a good girl… and wait.”

I froze. “Wait?”

Her mouth brushed mine again—just a breath, no pressure. “Yeah,” she purred. “We in public. You think I’m finna show out for a bunch of strangers when I can ruin you in private?” She looked me dead in the eye. “You want me that bad? You sit with that feeling. You let it build. And if you’re real good… real good… I’ll give you a taste. Maybe.”

And then she stepped back. Just like that. Left me there. Shaking. Throbbing. Gripping the wall like I’d just run ten miles and saw God at the finish line.

I watched her walk away, slow and smug, like she didn’t just bring me to my knees with words.

My hands trembled. My jaw clenched. But I waited. Because if waiting meant I got her? I’d sit in that heat all day.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

It’s been hours.

I’ve showered. Twice. I’ve watched two movies, laid out on my stomach in nothing but a towel, legs kicking behind me like I wasn’t going through hell, and she still ain’t show. Not a text. Not a call. Just that smirk she gave me earlier like, you’ll wait, won’t you baby?

I did. I am. But barely.

I paced. I sat. I read the same page of a book five times and still couldn’t tell you what it was about. My phone buzzed once—it wasn’t her. I almost threw it across the room.

And then I heard it.

I didn’t move, but my body snapped to attention. Eyes on the door. Breathing slow. Still draped in my towel, skin soft and still warm from my shower, lotion barely soaked in.

She walked in like she lived here. Calm. Bag slung over her shoulder, locs up, skin glowing, lips shiny like she’d been out somewhere good. Her eyes flicked to me and she paused. One brow raised.

“You still waitin’, huh?”

I just stared. Didn’t blink. Didn’t say a word.

Her mouth twitched into that dangerous little grin as she set her stuff down, slow and deliberate. “You ain’t touch yourself, did you?” I shook my head.

“Good.” She stepped closer. One step. Then another. Like she was checking the temperature, easing her way in. “You know I’m not here to reward disobedience.”

“I’ve been good,” I whispered. “So good. Please.”

She stopped in front of me. Ran a hand up my thigh, over the towel. “Mhm. You smell clean,” she murmured. “Soft too. You read your little book?”

I nodded. “Tried.”

Her grin widened. “Music?”

“‘Say Yes’ came on.”

She laughed. Low and deep and mean. “Oh baby. That’s cruel.”

“You did this,” I mumbled, jaw tight. “You made me wait.”

“And you did.” She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Now let’s see if it was worth it.”

And baby—she ain’t even touched me yet. But I was already trembling.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

She doesn’t kiss me. Not at first.

She makes me stand. Taking my clothes off herself, slow like she’s unwrapping a gift. Looks at me like I’m something delicate and sinful all at once, but her grip on my waist says she owns it. Owns me.

“Hands behind your back.”

I do it. No hesitation. Bare, breathing hard, skin buzzing from nothing but her voice. She walks around me like she’s inspecting her work. Like she’s not just about to fuck me—she’s about to teach me.

“You talk a lot of shit,” she says, fingertips grazing the back of my thigh, “but when I tell you to wait, you wait. When I say no, it’s no. And when I finally let you have it…” She moves closer, pressing her mouth to my neck, just under my ear. “You say thank you, baby.”

I nod, lips parted, body arching toward her even though she hasn’t told me to move.

“You really think you’re grown, huh?”

“Yes—yes ma’am.”

“Mmm.” Her nails trail down my stomach. “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me now. You wasn’t that polite when you were smirkin’ in my face and tryna act bold.”

I won’t lie. She hasn’t even touched me right and I’m losing it. She grabs my chin, forces me to look at her. “Get on the bed. Hands on the headboard. Don’t you dare move them.”

I obey so fast it’s embarrassing. Kahleah stands at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, letting me squirm. Her eyes are hungry, patient, cruel in the way only a grown woman can be.

“Now,” she says, pulling her shirt off slow, revealing skin like bronze under honey-light, locs brushing her back, lips parted just slightly. “You want me?”

I breathe, “Yes—please—”

“Then take it.” She crawls up the bed like a storm about to hit. “But only what I give you.”

She’s on top of me but not giving me anything. Just a smile. That same one from practice, from the gym, from every time she caught me staring and said, “Eyes up here, youngin.”

Now?

My eyes are up, wide, pleading. My thighs shaking and I haven’t even been touched right yet. My back’s arched, head pressed into the pillow, fists gripping the headboard so tight my knuckles burn. But I don’t let go. I don’t move. She said don’t move, so I don’t.

Because I want her that bad.

“You look like you might cry,” she whispers, tracing a finger down the center of my chest. Her nail drags light. “All that mouth. Now you quiet, huh?”

I can barely breathe. I nod. Bite my lip so I don’t moan just from that. From nothing.

“Kahleah, please…”

“Please what?” She’s so calm. Like this isn’t torture. Like she doesn’t see me aching. She brushes her lips near mine, never touching, and I almost flinch forward—but I catch myself. She sees it. Smirks wider.

“You gon’ behave? You gon’ be a good girl?”

“I—I been good,” I stammer, eyes fluttering. “I waited. I listened. I didn’t even—fuck, I need you.”

She hums. Her hand comes to my jaw, turns me slow, tilts my head like she’s studying something rare. “Say it.”

“I need you. I need you so bad I can’t—” I suck in a breath as she presses her body against mine, full length, skin to skin. “I can’t think when you look at me like that.”

“Good,” she murmurs. “You’re not supposed to.”

Then she kisses me. Deep. Rough. Her tongue in my mouth, her thigh sliding between mine, her hand in my hair—finally taking. And it hits me like a wave: I’d do anything. Anything to keep her here. Anything to stay under her hands. Anything to make her proud.

She’s not even touching me now. Just standing there. Watching. That slow drag of her eyes down my back got me hotter than the damn desert. My thighs are trembling. My breath? Gone. Like she snatched it right out my lungs the second she stepped back in the room.

I waited. I showered. I stretched. I paced the damn floor like a dog in heat and she—she—walked in like she ain’t left me aching for hours. Red hair tied up. Nails done. Lip gloss poppin’. Sports bra on. Loose sweats sittin’ just low enough to be disrespectful.

I reach for her and she grabs my wrist mid-air.

“Did I say you could touch me?”

I freeze. Swallow. Nod. Wrong move.

She pulls me forward by the wrist, spins me, pushes me right back against the mirror.

“You don’t run nothin’ here,” she whispers, breath hot against my ear. “Not tonight. You asked for grown? I’m giving you grown. So stay. Still.”

And I do.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Chest to glass, knees weak, arms braced against the mirror like I’m about to confess my sins to it. Her hand travels down my spine—slow, dragging, claiming me like she owns every inch.

“You waited,” she says. Her voice almost sweet now. Mocking. “I like that. You learning.”

I whisper, “I’ll learn anything you want, just—please.”

Her hand slips between my legs, and I cry out.

“Damn,” she murmurs. “So wet for me and I ain’t even touched you right.”

“Kahleah…” She grabs my chin from behind, forces me to look at myself in the mirror.

“Look at you. That’s what I do to you. That’s why you not out there with them other girls.”

And she’s right. I couldn’t even fake it. Couldn’t look at anybody but her. Couldn’t want anybody else. She got me locked in, strung out on her voice, her body, the control in her hands.

When she finally slides two fingers in—deep, slow. Finally sinking her fingers into me making sure it was slow and pleasurable as it could be.

Staring to kiss and lick right up to the top of her inner thighs teasing her now very wet pussy with gentle kisses.

“You better not fall.”

I hold on to her arm. Breathe through the ache.

“You gonna come for me, already baby?”

“Please. Just—don’t stop.”

She curls her fingers again, harder, and my whole body bows.

“You ask me. Don’t tell me.” I whine making her pause.

“Ask me, and maybe”

I meet her eyes in the mirror. Red hair messy now. Sweat glistening. Her lips parted like she wanna taste me for real.

And I whisper like it’s holy, “Please. Please, Kahleah. I need- please.”

She kisses my shoulder. Smirks against my skin.

“…no”

I whimper. Genuinely. My legs are clenched so tight I could break steel. My hands curl into the damn sheets.

She leans in close, lips brushing my jaw but never kissing it. “You wanted this. Right?”

“Yes.”

She backs away completely.

And that? That almost broke me. I turn fast, eyes wide, “You can’t be serious—”

“I am serious,” she cuts me off. “You think I waited all day just to give you what you want? Nah, baby. You gon’ learn patience.”

“Kahleah, please—”

“You not even begging right. You still loud, still bratty. Still think just ‘cause you fine and wet and moaning my name, I’ma fold.”

I’m frozen in place. Burning. Trembling. She tilts her head, looking amused. “You wanna come?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure—”

“Then wait.”

She walks out. Just like that. Leaves me on the edge, soaked, aching, legs shaking. The door shuts behind her like judgment. I bury my face into the pillow. Whimper. And I wait. Just like she said.

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