He lapped at me like he hadn’t eaten in days, like this was the only meal that mattered. I felt him groan against me, tongue sliding through every fold, sucking and licking and circling my clit until I shattered again, crying out his name as my body trembled.
My hand hit the table, searching for something to hold onto. Nothing felt real but his mouth and the burn of release.
And still, he didn’t stop.
Only when I twitched hard—back arching, hands shoving at his head, legs no longer under my control—did he finally pull back.
He stood, sweat running down his chest, stroking his dick as he looked down at me.
“I’m about to cum—” he growled, and that was all I needed to hear.
I slid off the table, knees hitting the floor with purpose.
Tariq’s hand left his dick the moment I touched it. I stroked him once, twice, then took him into my mouth.
“Sanaa—fuck—baby?—”
I sucked him deep, tongue working the head, hand stroking what my mouth couldn’t take. His hips jerked, thighs flexing, jaw clenched.
He came with a shout, hot cum hitting my tongue as I swallowed him down—every drop—moaning around him like he tasted like forever.
When I pulled back, he looked wrecked. Breathless. In love. And I knew—no matter what this life tried to steal from us—we belonged to each other. Always.
15
Iloved going on dates with him.
Not the ones where we got dressed up and went out to show off, even though those nights always ended with my thighs open and his mouth somewhere swollen. I mean the quiet ones. The thoughtful ones. The kind of dates that gave mesomething to carry. That made me want to write poems I didn’t want anyone else to read.
Tariq made me want to know things. Knowhim.
We were in East Liberty, tucked between a pawn shop and an empty lot, parked outside a laundromat that had burned a few days ago. He’d asked if I wanted to join him on a stop. I said yes before he even finished the question.
I liked riding with him. Riding him too.
I liked the way his hand rested on my thigh when he drove. Liked the bass and cadence of his voice when he pointed out buildings with history. I liked the way his mind worked.
He stepped out first, scanned the street, then opened my door.
“I should’ve brought you coffee,” he said. “Next time.”
“You think coffee is gonna keep me from noticing all this soot?”
He smirked. “Nah. But it would’ve softened the sting.”
We walked into the space—charred, empty, the ceiling black with smoke. Tariq crouched down like it was second nature, gloved hands tracing a melted electrical socket.
“This the kind of thing you do every day?” I asked.
He nodded once, then looked over his shoulder. “Pretty much. But I’m selective. I got pulled into fire inspection years ago. I was young. Still on engine duty. One of the battalion chiefs, older brother named Rawlings, noticed how I walked through scenes. Said I had a nose for the shit most people ignored. Started teaching me everything he knew.”
Tariq stood and dusted his gloves off.
“It’s like putting a story back together. You look for the moments—the burn marks, the smoke patterns, the melted pieces—and they all tell you where the heat started. And what it wanted.”
My breath hitched.
He looked at me. “You good?”
