Her cries filled the room. My name, over and over, filthy and raw.
I kissed her neck, bit her shoulder. “You feel too good,” I groaned.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “God, don’t stop?—”
I lost it, hips snapping faster until I came with a growl, her body convulsing around me, both of us wrecked and clinging.
Finally, she laughed, soft and ruined. “We’re late.”
“Worth it,” I said, kissing her again, slower this time, meaning it.
We straightened, fixed our clothes, and tried to look less like we’d just fucked against her wall. By the time we finally left, we were already late to The Loupe, but neither of us cared. We’d stolen something first—a piece of the night that belonged only to us. And it made me want everything else even more.
As we stepped out, I caught myself glancing at her, dress smoothed, lipstick still smudged, her eyes bright like she knew exactly what she’d done to me.
God help me, this woman wasn’t just heat. She was tilt—force at an angle that could change everything.
Chapter 8
Inelastic
All week, I tried to keep my mind on the work.
Pulling wire through conduit. Stripping insulation. Splicing lines. Focus, Rae. Don’t fry yourself daydreaming about a man.
Didn’t matter. He kept creeping in.
His voice at night when he called—low, steady, wrapping around me like a hand at the small of my back.You sound tired. You need to let someone take care of you sometimes.I laughed it off, changed the subject, but the words stuck.
I hadn’t let myself feel this in years. Not since Vontrell Hill in high school. Smooth smile, fast mouth, promises I believed until he took another girl to the homecoming he swore he didn’t care about. Seventeen taught me a hard lesson: never let them close enough to cut me.
But Quentin was different. Careful, steady—but bold enough to call instead of text. Bold enough to kiss me like patience was optional. And for the first time since high school, I really liked someone.
By Friday night, I was smoothing my dress in the mirror after he’d already wrecked me against the wall. Quickie, my ass. Nothing quick about the way he ate me until my legs buckled, or the way his dick stretched me open like he wanted my body to memorize him. My hair had to be redone, lipstick reapplied, thighs still trembling.
He leaned in the doorway, tie loose, eyes dark.You’re beautiful,he said simply.
I almost melted right there.
We finally made it out the door. In his truck, his palm landed heavy on my thigh. He didn’t move it higher. He didn’t need to. Every stoplight, his thumb stroked my skin, steady and claiming, buzzing me head to toe. By the time we walked into The Loupe, I was lit.
The place was alive—jazz spilling warm from the stage, low lights catching on wine glasses, conversations rising and falling like a tide. Quentin’s hand slid to the small of my back. Later, it found mine. Constant contact. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he didn’t want to.
A man broke from the crowd before we even reachedthe bar. Dark chocolate skin, smile wide enough to outshine the stage lights. Shorter than Quentin but broad through the shoulders, moving with an ease that said he knew everybody and everybody knew him.
“Well, look at you, Mr. Hale,” he boomed, pulling Quentin into a hug before turning his attention on me. His grin widened. “And you must be Rae.”
“Rayna,” I corrected, though my smile softened it. “Rae if you want to keep it simple.”
He chuckled, shaking my hand with warmth. “I can tell you are far from simple,” he said, glancing back at Quentin with a knowing look that men shared when conversations were being had about you. It didn’t bother me because this look wasn’t dirty—it said something else—something special. “Now I see why you been walking around grinning like a fool all week.”
“Ignore him.”
“I never ignore a man who sounds like he’s about to roast somebody,” I said, tilting my head. “So tell me—what’s this benefit really about? I heard robotics, jazz, auctions… what’s the story?”
His smile shifted from playful to proud. “Funding for the after-school robotics program, plus Jamal’s music studio. Whole goal is giving the kids hands-on tools, keeping them busy, giving them a shot.”
I nodded, impressed. “That’s smart. Wiring circuits and wiring a sound board aren’t so different—both teach you control, both give you rhythm. You give kids that early, you give them confidence. You give them choices.”
