Her outfit was professional enough to give off an elementary school teacher, but fitted enough to tell the truth about that body she clearly couldn’t apologize for having.

  Business skirt, modest blouse, and heels. And every time she moved, I noticed something new.

  The slight arch of her foot. The way her gold bracelet tapped against her wrist when she talked with her hands. The smirk that showed up when she was about to say something smart or unhinged—or both.

  Most people wouldn’t notice that. But I noticed everything.

  She had a little spice to her. That edge under the soft. That bite behind the smile.

  Some people would call it snobbish. I call it necessary.

  In a world full of pick-me’s and passive energy, Rivah moved like she chose herself every time—and anyone who couldn’t keep up got left where they stood.

  I liked that. Scratch that—I loved that.

  I loved that she could handle herself in any room. I’d watched her laugh with donors, cut a grown man down with a single sentence, and charm a crowd of nosy parents like she wasn’t actively plotting her exit the whole time.

  She was the kind of woman I could take to meet my mama or take to the hood fish fry and she wouldn’t flinch at either. She’d know when to keep it polished and when to cuss somebody out over a game of spades. My kind of woman.

  I’d finally been close enough to smell her perfume and hear her laugh in real time.

  And, there was no way I was walking away.

  We agreed to meet at 9, and if she was the woman I thought she was, she’d either show up early… or exactly two minutes late just to prove a point.

  Yeah. She was gonna be a problem.

  But I liked problems. Especially ones with full hips, rolled eyes, and no filter.

  She rounded the corner at 8:59 on the dot, walking like she had a secret and smiling like she knew she was about to ruin someone’s peace.

  “Right on time,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Please. I’m only here for the tea and because you did me a favor. That’s it.”

  I smiled, slow and unbothered. “Good. I’m only here for the company.”

  She looked down at her phone, smirking.

  “Well, would you look at that,” she said. “It’s 9 o’clock. And all the cafés and tea spots I like in town… just so happen to close at 9.”

  She hit me with that sarcastic, fake-disappointed smile.

  I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re slick.”

  “I’m honest,” she shrugged, like her intentions weren’t dressed in lipstick and a test I was supposed to fail.

  I didn’t flinch. “You got tea at your place?”

  She blinked, slowly, with that “nigga please” energy.

  “I do,” she said. “But only men who don’t have a place of their own ask about going to a woman’s house.”

  I let her have that—for half a second.

  “I got a place,” I said casually. “In The Toast.”

  Her eyes got big before she caught herself and tried to act regular again, adjusting her stance like that didn’t impress the hell out of her.

  The Toast was it. The top gated community in Stonehaven, Antionette. Where the old money lived, and the new money got vetted twice.

  “Well,” she said, chin up, voice smug, “good for you. I’m glad you have a home.”

  “But,” she added, her tone dropping into that slick sass, “I don’t know you. So you’re not coming to my house. And if you really want some tea, I guess we can go to The Toast. If you even really live there.”

  I laughed harder this time, leaning back against the wall like her little games weren’t working—when really, I was loving every second.

  “I don’t have shit to prove to you,” I said smoothly. “And just like you don’t know me—I don’t know you. You might have sticky fingers… or worse.”

  She raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that.

  “I’d hate to do you something real bad,” I added, voice low, calm. “So, if I’m not invited to your home… Neither are you to mine.”

  The way she looked at me?

  Shocked, but turned on.

  Like she couldn’t believe I had the balls to say it… and loved that I did.

  “I like you.”

  Her voice dropped—playful, but honest.

  “You’re not thirsty. That’s not something I’m used to.”

  I shrugged. “There’s too many women in the world for me to be thirsty over one who hasn’t even given me a reason to be…..yet.”

  She licked her lips and tried to cover up her smile, but I caught it. I always catch it.

  “There’s a hotel about a mile away,” she said, turning slowly. “Fancy place. They have some really good tea.”

  I grinned. “The Bella Nucia?”

  “Yep,” she said, already walking off like the main character. “Ain’t nothing cheap about me. Even conversation costs top dollar.”

  And I followed her—no rush, no pressure.

  Because I knew one thing for sure:

  I could afford it.

  The lounge inside Bella Nucia was dressed like luxury had something to prove—dim lighting, soft jazz, velvet chairs, and servers that knew when to bring your drink and when to leave you the hell alone.

  She sat across from me in a dark wine-colored booth, legs crossed like she was trying not to accidentally destroy me. Her lip gloss had a sinful sheen under the chandelier light, and her voice was low and smooth.

  “Let’s be clear about something,” she said, sipping her tea like it wasn’t laced with danger. “Whatever happens tonight doesn’t go beyond tonight.”

  I leaned back, watching her without blinking.

  She kept going.

  “And if it does? It’ll be on my terms. My call. So there’s no need for you to know anything outside of my name.”

  I smirked. “Noted.”

  “You already know where I work,” she added, tapping her nail against the cup. “And for a man like you, that’s already too much. Knowing anything else?”

  She met my eyes, bold and unbothered.

  “Would be signing your own death certificate.”

  I laughed. Not shaken, but definitely turned on.

  Because it wasn’t a threat. It was a warning. And warnings only matter when you plan to come back.

  I leaned forward, voice low. “That’s cute. But if dying means tasting you first?”

  I tilted my head and smiled.

  “Then go ahead and engrave my name on the damn stone.”

  She paused. Her eyes twitched the way they do when you’re trying not to admit that you’re turned on. She sipped her tea again like it would cool her off.

  I could see the heat rising in her chest. Could feel her legs shifting under the table. She wanted me just as bad as I wanted her—but she still had to win. Or at least pretend like she was still the one holding the leash.

  She tilted her head now, voice syrup-sweet.

  “Maybe…” she said, tracing her finger around the rim of her cup, “we should stop playing and get a room.”

  I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

  I just reached into my blazer pocket, pulled out the key card, and slid it across the table.

  Room 614. Already waiting.

  “I’m ten steps ahead of you,” I said calmly. “And that’s crazy for a woman who thinks she’s in total control.”

  Her expression didn’t break. But her eyes lit up.

  She took the key, stood up slowly like she wanted me to watch, and I did. She leaned in over the table. Then, without a word, her hand trailed down… and landed square on the print in my pants.

  She rubbed—slow, confident—and leaned in close to whisper right in my ear:

  “Oh, you’ll find out real soon who’s in control, Kross. And spoiler alert?”

  She gripped a little firmer and smiled.

  “It’s always gonna be me.”

  And just like that, she turned and walked toward the elevators—hips talking louder than her mouth ever could.

  I sat there for a second, catching my breath like I’d just been hunted.

  Because I knew something she didn’t:

  She could think she was in control all night. But I never play a game I don’t plan on winning.

  Rivah’s heels hit the floor, soft but commanding. She tossed her purse on the velvet chaise, unbuttoned the top of her blouse, and turned to me like we were already mid-scene in some private film only she could direct.

  Her eyes said one thing, but I had other plans.

  I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, watching her undo the second button. Slowly. Deliberately. She moved toward me with heat in her walk and purpose in her mouth.

  “You're just gonna stand there like you're afraid of me?” she teased, already halfway out of her clothes.

  “Nah,” I said calmly. “I’m not afraid. Just focused.”

  “On what?” she asked, biting her lip, unbothered. “The fact that you’re about to have the best night of your life?”

  I smirked. “Tempting. But no.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “I want to know what I’m getting myself into.”

  That made her pause. Slightly.

  “I’m serious,” I said, crossing the room and sitting down in the armchair, legs wide, arms resting on my thighs. “Soul ties are real. I need to know what kind of spirits I’m about to get attached to.”

  She laughed. Actually laughed. “Nigga, what?”

  “I’m deadass,” I said. “I want to know about your childhood trauma and shit.”

  She tilted her head like I was joking. But then she realized—I wasn’t.

  “You’re serious?” she asked.

  “Very.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at me for a second. Her smile dropped into something more real. Still guarded. Still dangerous. But softer now.

  “Well,” she exhaled. “I don’t have daddy issues, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

  Her voice didn’t crack, but I felt the shift. Her eyes darted to the side before locking back on me.

  “My dad raised me. And he was damn good at it, too. Up until he died when I was eighteen.”

  My chest tensed. But I didn’t move.

  “My mom?” she said, shrugging. “She passed giving birth to me.”

  Then she smirked. Dark. Beautiful.

  “I guess I’ve been too much from the beginning. Even my mama doesn't have the energy to deal with me.”

  She said it like a joke, like it didn’t hurt. But I saw the flicker in her eyes. The flash of something raw she hadn’t meant to give me.

  She looked away like she regretted saying it.

  That’s when I got up.

  I crossed the space between us slowly, knelt in front of her like she wasn’t on display, and brought my hand to her cheek. She blinked at me, still wearing that sarcasm like armor.

  I leaned in and kissed her.

  Not like a man who wanted to fuck.

  Like a man who wanted to learn the shape of her sadness.

  I kissed her like I was making love to her mouth alone. No rush. No hands tugging. Just mouths moving slow, lips searching, breath syncing.

  She inhaled against me, and when she exhaled, I swear it sounded like relief.

  I didn’t say anything when I pulled back. I didn’t have to.

  Her lips were still wet from the kiss. Her body was still, like she was trying to figure out what the hell just happened between us.

  But she recovered fast. Started to reach for my shirt like she was reclaiming the night and reclaiming the power.

  She thought she had me right where she wanted me, and I wanted her to think that. Because the most dangerous thing you can give a woman like her is the illusion of control.

  I didn’t need to prove her wrong. Not yet.

  I wasn’t there to dominate. Not right then.

  I was there to learn her. To experience her without rushing.

  To let her believe she was leading—while I mapped every inch of her soul.

  I undressed her slowly, like I was unwrapping something sacred. Kissed down the slope of her shoulder, along her clavicle, the curve beneath her breast, the dip of her stomach. She tasted like something I wasn’t supposed to want but couldn’t stop reaching for.

  And when she was bare, standing in nothing, I pushed her back onto the bed.

  Just enough to watch her legs fall open like instinct.

  She didn’t even hesitate.

  She wanted me just as bad as I wanted her.

  I slid out of my pants slowly, still holding her gaze. Her eyes dropped and—

  Yeah. They got wide.

  She blinked like she wasn’t expecting what she saw.

  Like the rumors she never heard were suddenly all true.

  The length. The width. The weight of it.

  All front and center.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out the condom I’d brought—because planning was power, too—and rolled it on while looking her dead in the eyes.

  I stepped between her legs and grabbed myself, smacking her pussy lightly, a few times—watching it bounce, pink and swollen and begging for attention. She was so damn pretty between the thighs. Full. Warm. Inviting.

  And I gave it to her.

  No words. No noise. Just a slow, deep entry.

  She gasped and her nails dug into my back like she was bracing for something more than pleasure.

  I moved slow at first, just enough to fill her and stay present in her eyes. I wasn’t fucking for show. I was reading her—every blink, every moan she tried to swallow, every breath she held.

  Her eyes watered, but not from pain. Not from fear.

  From whatever the hell was burning beneath her hard-ass exterior.

  She blinked it away fast, but I saw it. And I gave her an out—flipping her onto me, letting her slide on top.

  Letting her take the reins and letting her lead.

  She rode me like she was reclaiming territory, like she needed to leave her name on every stroke. She gripped my chest, rolled her hips in figure-eights, bit her lip like she was punishing me for all the men before me who fucked her body without trying to understand it.

  And I let her think she was winning.

  The sex was beyond good. It wasn’t just physical—it was spiritual.

  A collision of two people who swore they’d never need each other, but couldn’t stop sinking into something deeper than they were ready for.

  When she released, she clenched around me like she hated how good it felt.

  And I held her hips while I followed.

  She climbed off me like nothing had just happened. Like we hadn’t just traded pieces of our soul without signing the paperwork.

  She started getting dressed—cool, efficient, detached.

  I stayed quiet. Until she slipped on her heels.

  “Don’t leave,” I said.

  She turned around, eyes hooded, lips glossy. “You didn’t give me a reason to stay.”

  She did the final button on her blouse and looked at me like I was just another stop on a long-ass train she never planned to ride twice.

  “You did what you came to do,” she added. “So did I.”

  “You’re doing what you want,” I said, sitting up, voice calm again. “And I’m asking you—nicely—don’t leave.”

  She laughed. “Okay, Kross. But newsflash—niggas never scared me.”

  She walked to the door, throwing a middle finger over her shoulder like a mic drop.

  “I scare niggas,” she said, loud and proud, right before slamming the door behind her.

  And I laughed.

  Because she had no idea—none—what she had just awakened.

  She thought she was walking out with the power.

  6

  Rivah

  I stepped out of the shower and grabbed my towel, wrapping it around myself before walking to the mirror above my sink. My mirror full of sticky notes.

  Little squares of chaos and clarity. Quotes, affirmations, love notes to myself.

  I stared at them for a second and opened the drawer beside the sink and pulled out my favorite black marker and a blank sticky note.

  I wrote:

  “Self care is moaning and a back arch in one.”

  I smiled, peeled it off, and added it to the glass—right between “Your body is not a battlefield” and “Pleasure is a protest.”

  Then I walked into my closet and slipped on my silk black robe because that’s what the vibe was. Feminine, full, unbothered.

  Still riding the high of everything Kross and I did… and didn’t say.

  He didn’t just touch me. He studied me.

  Let me think I was in control while he played chess with my whole nervous system.

  I shook my head and smirked as I walked to the fridge. Normally, I’d make tea—my nightcap ritual. Chamomile and clarity.

  But I needed water. That man had drained every drop of fluid from my body. Sweat. Spit. Sanity.

  I cracked open the bottle like it was my last hope and chugged it halfway down.

  Then I walked barefoot into my sanctuary. I sat in my velvet chair and pulled my silk robe tighter around me before waking up my laptop.

  It was time to document.

  To decompress.

  To turn power into prose.

  I cracked my knuckles, exhaled, and clicked “New Blog Post.”

  Because Soaked had something to say.

  BODY COUNT:

  Entry #CountYaOwnPockets

  By Soaked

  Title: He Met His Match… and Lost.

  Okay, girls. This one’s gonna stay between us, so don’t go runnin’ your mouths in the group chat.

  Let me tell you about the time I thought I met my match.

  He had the beard, the voice, the frame, the confidence… The resume was giving “I could handle a woman like you.” And I believed him.

  Now don’t get me wrong… he was fine. Like, “take my drawers off with a goodnight text” fine. And the way he kissed me? Please. My ancestors felt that shit. I saw visions and I remembered all my passwords.

  But when it came down to the main event?

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18