It wasn’t just the way her body took me—tight, wet, clenching until I had to grab the headboard like it was the only thing that could hold me steady. It was the laugh after—the low, spent sound she tried to swallow and couldn’t. It was the way she kept her eyes locked on mine even when she came undone, lip caught between her teeth, nipples still slick from my mouth. She let me see her. And she liked being seen.
I threw eggs in the cart, then froze when memory blindsided me: her on all fours, moaning when I drove into her, back arching when I shifted my angle and found the spot that made her curse and beg like she hated me for giving her exactly what she asked for. My dick stirred hard behind my trousers, insistent, and I had to adjust before I embarrassed myself in produce.
An older woman by the tomatoes cut me a look. Maybe she knew. Maybe it was written all over me.
I pushed forward. Coffee aisle. Bag crinkling in my hand. I thought about her hands—callused from work, nails biting when she pulled me deeper like she wanted to mark where I’d been. Thought about her whispering harder and me giving it to her until we both lost the rhythm, until it turned into something wild and unrepeatable.
By the time I hit checkout, I was restless, body tight, pulse quick like I’d just left her bed instead of her memory.Every step toward the truck dragged me back into the night before—her laugh, her sweat, her mouth saying my name like it belonged to her.
Outside, the early-fall air hit cooler than it had last week. Leaves had started turning, crisp edges scratching along the pavement in little circles. I breathed it in like it might calm me down. It didn’t.
I slammed the hatch closed. Phone buzzed. Malik—my day one.
“Yo,” I said, bracing.
“Yo yo,” he came in loud, same as always. “Why you sound like you just did something you can’t talk about in the Lord’s parking lot?”
“This is Giant Eagle,” I said. “Not church.”
“Same thing when you sound like that,” he laughed. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I tried to rub the grin off my face. Failed. “Tired.”
“That ain’t tired,” he said. “That’s a baptized voice. Anyway—Friday. The Loupe. Fundraiser for the youth robotics program and Jamal’s after-school studio. Jazz combo, silent auction, rich folks pretending they ain’t rich. Pull up.”
“The Loupe?” I repeated. Stage tucked like a secret, lighting that made everybody look better than they felt. “Yeah. I can do Friday.”
“Bring somebody,” he said, mock-casual. “If you don’t, I’m putting you at a table with Ms. Charlene and her sisters, and they gon’ ask why you ain’t married for three hours.”
“Malik.”
“I’m hanging up,” he said. “Text me if you need comped tickets, Mr. Hale. You a teacher; I know you broke.” He cackled and clicked off.
I stared at my reflection in the black screen for a second, then slid into the driver’s seat with my hands still remembering her waist.Bring somebody.
I didn’t want to text. Not after last night. So I hit her name.
Two rings. Her voice slid into my ear, hoarse and warm. “If you’re calling to say you lost your dignity, I can’t help you.”
The sound of her made me ache. I pictured her tangled in sheets, nipples still sore from my mouth, body still tender from the way I’d pounded into her until she screamed.
“I left that when you got on top of me,” I said. “Not asking for it back.”
A pause. I could hear her breathing, and it dragged me right back to her gasping my name, her body clenching around me.
Then she laughed. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m honest.”
“You’re outside?” she asked.
“Parking lot,” I said. “Grocery run after class. I wanted to hear you. And ask you something.”
“Ask then.”
“Friday. A fundraiser. The Loupe. Come with me.”
“A date?” she asked, tasting the word.
