He was standing near the back wall—half in shadow, half watching me like he already knew what my body sounded like when I fell apart, wrapped around the greatest dick ever.
I didn’t know his name yet. But I knew he’d matter. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. I was positive he’d shift my life and rearrange my guts if I let him. And damn, I wanted him to.
There were maybe forty people inside the gallery. All Black. All money and ambition. Black-and-white jazz prints lined the brick walls. The floor thrummed with low bass, spilled conversations, and too many eyes pretending not to look at the same things.
But mine only looked athim.
He wasn’t dressed for this room. Fitted tee, black jeans, boots still carrying the dust of somewhere he'd owned before he came here. Forearms thick and long like rope. Beard shaped but not too neat. Fade clean. Hands tucked in his pockets like he didn’t need to impress anyone, even though he had me in a rapture.
Men like him usually didn’t speak first. They let women circle, and I never did that. I loved a challenge. The bigger, the better the reward—or so my pussy thought.
I walked toward the back slowly, stopping once to nod at a woman I knew from an auction the week before. I could feel him watching me. Not scanning. Watching.
The stringed bass pumped with my pulse, made me feel powerful as I moved closer in my black silk dress with a slit up the back and nothing on underneath but shimmering body oil and a juicy pussy.
My heels were high, of course. Anything to give my short and curvy frame some height. A trick I used to command attention and be taken seriously after years of “shorty” jokes and being infantilized by men.
His dark gaze said that’s exactly the reaction I was getting from him. By the time I reached him, he still hadn’t looked away.
“You good?” I asked him, smile tucked away. Though it didn’t matter what answer he gave me. I would make sure he was good no matter what.
He didn’t answer right away—just let his eyes move from my face, down the line of my body, then back up like he was doing inventory.
“I was,” he said, his voice low and warm like gravel soaked in honey. “Now I’m not sure.”
That smile I’d tucked in… it spread, just like I wanted to do for him.
“What’s your name?” I felt my mouth water.
“Tariq.”
I didn’t say mine. Just looked at him. Let him wait for it. Men like him had patience. But I wanted him a little undone.
“I’m not from here, and I’m looking for someone who can show me around…and make sure I have a great time,” I lied.
He stepped in closer. Close enough for me to see that he loved a little danger.
“That right?”
I tilted my head, pretending to study a photograph behind him. “I like this one. Black men always look good in shadow.”
Tariq didn’t blink. “So do Black women.”
The pause that followed was thick.
I shifted my weight. My thigh brushed his. He didn’t move. Didn’t smile either. But his eyes—dark brown, soft around the edges—dropped to my mouth and stayed there.
I tilted my glass just enough to make it sensual, felt the wine glide past my lips. One rebellious drop lingered—right there on the curve of my bottom lip. My tongue darted to claim it, and that’s when he broke. The growl slipped from him like a reflex, rough and hot, like I’d touched something he barely kept caged.
That’s when I knew. He wasn’t the kind you flirted with and left. He was the kind who followed you out the door, pressed you against a wall, pulled your dress up—and your name out—in the same breath.
This was promising.
I hooked my finger in the air, glossy black nail flashing. He leaned down without hesitation, towering over me like he already knew I’d fold under him eventually. So tall. So solid. Shit.
When he dipped close, his chest nearly grazing mine, the smell of him wrapped around my throat. I pressed my mouth near his ear, slow enough to feel the heat rising off his skin.
“Say something reckless,” I murmured. “Make me forget this wine and get on my knees for you instead.”
