Just sat there, staring at Amiyah across the booth—hersmile soft, her eyes unflinching—while something dangerous and new unfurled inside me.
Her words hit me like a slap and a caress at the same time.
A dream come true.
I set my fork down, staring at her across the table, unsure if she was joking. But Amiyah didn’t look away. Her chin rested in her palm, dimples deep, eyes shimmering like she’d just let me in on a secret.
“You should see your face right now,” she teased, voice low, playful. “You look like I just confessed to robbing a bank.”
I blinked, trying to gather myself. “I just… wasn’t expecting you to say that.”
“What?” She grinned. “That I like the sound of a bunch of grown, consenting people being honest about what they want? Sharing, loving, not hiding? Calla, that doesn’t sound messy to me. That sounds… free.”
Her tone softened on that last word, and I felt it slip under my skin.
Free.
I shifted in my seat, my throat suddenly dry again. “Most people hear the word polycule and run the other way.”
“Mm.” She leaned forward, eyes locked on mine. “I’m not most people.”
My stomach flipped, and I had to look down at my plate before I forgot where I was. The heat between us was thick enough to taste.
“You ever think about it?” she asked, tilting her head, curls brushing her cheek. “That kind of arrangement?”
The question was bold, teasing, but there was curiositythreaded through it too, like she wanted to know if I’d let myself imagine it. I smirked, knowing she had no idea she was sitting with The Black Dahlia, and I fully intended to bring her to her knees and worship her the same way I’d done her boss just a week earlier. Her phat, round ass jiggling as I swatted it until it was the rosiest shade of red, her pussy leaking and creaming down her thick ass thighs.
I exhaled slowly, fingers drumming against my water glass. “More than I’d like to admit.”
Her lips curved into a slow smile, and it was almost too much. I had to break the tension before I did something reckless.
So I blurted, “My brother Caleb and his wife, Yanna, are hosting a cookout this weekend. My family’ll be there. Ajaih and Maverick, too. You should… come.”
Her brows lifted in surprise, but then that sly grin returned. “You inviting me to the family function already? We haven’t even finished lunch.”
I rolled my eyes, as a smile crept on my face, trying to cover my nerves. “It’s not like that. It’s casual. Burgers, ribs, potato salad… maybe some spades if you’re brave enough.”
“Oh, I’m brave,” she said, dimples flashing as she speared a piece of chicken with her fork. “And I never turn down good food or a good ass time.”
The way she said good ass time made my pulse skip again. I reached for my water just to keep my hands busy, but I couldn’t stop the thoughts circling in my head.
What the hell had I just invited into my life?
I was damn near giddy the day I found out I’d been tapped as the project manager for the overpass rehab. Out of all the infrastructure jobs in Winston Hills, this one was big—high visibility, significant budget, the kind of project that could make or break careers. The city had poured $1.2 billion into it, and now I was steering the ship.
I’d worked my ass off to get here. BS, MS, PMP—check, check, check. I’d climbed my way through a maze of temp contracts, private sector jobs, and long nights of proving I could wrangle timelines, budgets, and contractors without losing my mind. When the offer came for me to join the City of Winston Hills’ project management office, I didn’t hesitate. I knew what it meant: stability, power, and a seat at tables that weren’t always open to women like me.
And then there was James Carter Jr.
From the jump, the professional chemistry between us burned hotter than it had any right to. He was the lead design engineer, and I was the PM. Every time we sat across from each other in those glass-walled conference rooms, the tension tugged at us like a taut rope. We spoke in clipped professional tones, but my body hummed every time his gaze flicked toward me, every time our voices overlapped. It was as if the scale had tilted, ready to tippast business into something else—something personal, something perilous.
Late at night, when I was reviewing schedules at home, my mind betrayed me. I pictured his big hands gripping the edge of my desk while his voice dropped low against my ear. I imagined him pushing me back into one of those sleek leather chairs, spreading my thighs, making me forget the difference between “project deadlines” and “pleasure points.” Sometimes, when I let myself drift too far, I swore I could feel the heat of him behind me, his breath against my neck, his gravelly “Amiyah” whispered like a command.
I was good at reading people, so I knew what I was feeling; James felt the same way. I would catch his gaze lingering on me wantonly when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. I would catch him biting his bottom lip when I was speaking during our team meetings. I felt his hunger for me, but, like me, he refused to cross the line of no return, because if things didn’t work, we would break the beauty of our work relationship. I’d pounded the pavement too hard to wash this opportunity down the drain because I wanted him to treat me like a cupcake and fuck me through the mattress, as they were saying on TikTok.
God help me, I wanted him bad, and what I wanted had now evolved into wanting Calla Black as well.
And then she showed up.
