I bit down on a moan. “You’re not playing fair.”
“I’m not playing at all. I want to give you some more of this dick.”
That did it.
I didn’t even breathe. Just grabbed my purse, my keys, my phone—and headed for the door.
Livia didn’t even look up at first, too busy grinning at whatever text had her giggling. Then she caught the breeze of me flying past her desk, heels hitting tile like I had somewhere to be and someone waiting.
“I’ll be out the rest of the day,” I tossed over my shoulder.
She didn’t miss a beat.
“Mmhmm, I bet you will be. And I knowwhy,too,” she called after me, sing-song and smug.
I didn’t turn around. I was already gone. Already wet. Already craving the kind of afternoon that didn’t need a damn clock.
10
My parents’ house hadn’t changed in decades. The same red-brick colonial with its white trim, black shutters, and perfectly edged lawn. My father’s Steelers flag still hung from the porch like a wartime standard—even though the season had ended weeks ago and he was stillsulking about Tomlin stepping down. Nineteen seasons and it hit him like a betrayal.
The door creaked open before I could knock a second time.
“Look who remembered she got people that raised her,” Dad grinned, pulling me into a hug that smelled like Old Spice and all the best childhood memories.
“You’re so dramatic,” I murmured against his chest, but I held him longer than usual. His arms still felt like safety.
“And you’re glowing,” my mother called out from the kitchen, her voice full of tease and truth.
I froze.
“What?”
She rounded the corner with a dishtowel in her hand and that look she gave when she knew something before you did. Her eyes ran over me—hair freshly done, skin warm, lips still a little swollen.
“Don’t play with me, Sanaa Ellison.”
I kissed her cheek to redirect. “You been talking to Jada.”
She scoffed. “I don’t need Jada to tell me when my daughter walks in here looking like she’s beendeeplyappreciated.”
“Vivian,” my father barked.
“What? She’s grown.”
I laughed, but my stomach flipped. Even here—in the quiet of home—I felt his fingerprints on me.
We moved into the living room. Dad launched into a passionate breakdown of draft prospects and coaching changes while Mom poured tea like we weren’t all carrying unspoken things. I nodded where I should, murmured agreement, but I wasn’t really there.
I was back in Tariq’s bed, the sound of his voice still thick in my ear. That late-night call had wrecked me. The bass in it. The need. The way he said he’d spend every Sunday inside me if I let him.
My thighs clenched at the memory.
And he wasn’t even mine.
The doorbell rang.
Jada didn’t wait for anyone to open it—just burst in with all her usual chaos and joy trailing behind her. “Hey y’all! We brought cookies!”
