I didn’t answer fast enough. He laughed. “Knew it. Who is she?”
“Rayna,” I said, and her name fit too good in my mouth. Less careful. More claim.
“Rayna,” he repeated, rolling it like he was testing the weight. “Pretty name. What she do?”
“Electrician. Licensed. Good with her hands.”
He snorted. “Bet you like that.”
“Malik—”
“Nah, don’t backpedal. Man gets touched once and suddenly he Shakespeare.” His chuckle faded into something quieter. “Tell me straight—what’s she like?”
“She’s smart,” I said. “Quick. Funny. She doesn’t just play pool—she runs the table.”
“Uh-huh. Pretty too, I bet.”
I saw her the first time at The Green Room—hair straight and flowing around her shoulders, cheekbones lit under the neon, lips sharp with a comeback, eyes daring me to keep up. “Beautiful,” I said. “Not just fine. The kind you don’t forget.”
Malik went quiet. Then: “You already in trouble.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe. I’ve known you more than half my life. You don’t sound like this unless you mean it. You’re steady, Q. Careful. Always counting angles before you take a shot. But don’t get so focused on control you miss the game. Some women—” he paused, letting it land—“they worth showing up bold.”
He wasn’t wrong. And the way he said it—protective, like a brother checking my blind spots—landed. I knew the difference in his voice when he shifted from jokes to truth. And it hit, because he was right about me—I lived careful. He knew what it meant when I put somebody’s name in the air.
Ever since I saw my parents buried after the car accident, I’d made everything about order, angles, control. Don’t gamble, don’t overreach, don’t get reckless. Safety first. I didn’t move recklessly, inviting women I barely knew tocome over to Grandma’s, but that’s where my mind drifted.
His words stuck even after the call dropped.Show up bold.
I caught myself thinking about it on the drive home—Rayna at Grandma’s table, her laugh cutting through Jada’s stories, Grandma giving me that side-eye that meantdon’t waste this one.Reckless to even picture it, too soon by any sane measure.
But damn if the thought didn’t make my pulse jump.
By seven-thirty Friday night,I was outside Rayna’s place, heart steady and sprinting at once. I’d been picturing her all day but nothing prepared me for the real thing.
She opened the door in a black dress that clung like sin—simple but devastating. Heels that turned her legs endless. Her hair was straight and sleek, parted clean, brushed smooth so it swung just enough to frame her high cheekbones and the long slope of her neck. Classy. Lethal.
“Damn,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
Her smile curved slow, like she’d been waiting on it. “You clean up nice too, teacher man.”
I stepped inside, meaning to play it cool, to get us out the door. But the way she looked at me—like she wanted me just as much as I wanted her—killed every plan.
I kissed her hard. Her arms looped my neck, dragging me closer, and it went from sweet to filthy fast. My handslid down the curve of her back, grabbed her ass through the fabric, and she moaned into my mouth.
“Fuck,” she gasped, tugging at my jacket.
We stumbled into her living room, lips fused. I pressed her against the wall, hiked her dress up, and slid my hand between her thighs. She was already soaked, slick heat coating my fingers as I pushed two inside, slow, deep, curling.
Her head hit the wall, eyes fluttering, mouth open. “Shittttt.”
I dropped to my knees, shoved the dress higher, and put my mouth on her. She cried out, clutching my head, grinding against my tongue like she wanted to break me.
“Quentin—please—” she begged, and I gave it to her, sucking her clit, tongue stroking until she came shaking against the wall, pussy clenching air like it wanted more.
I stood, unzipped, and slid inside her. The stretch made us both groan, her nails scoring my back, her legs wrapping tight as I thrust up into her, hard, relentless. Her pussy gripped me wet and messy, dragging me deeper, milking me with every stroke.
