“I know,” I whispered. “Now claim what’s yours.”
His hips drove forward, filling me in one slow, jaw-clenching push. My body stretched to take him—full, perfect—as his name tumbled from my lips, he stayed buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to mine, letting the moment brand us both.
Then he moved.
Long, deliberate strokes that dragged along every swollen nerve. Each withdrawal made me plead; each thrust answered with deeper possession. Our sweat slicked the slide of his abs against my stomach. His hand splayed over my ribs, feeling every breath, making sure I could keep taking him.
“Mine,” he growled, biting gently at my lower lip.
“Yours,” I gasped, nails raking his back for leverage as pleasure built again—hotter, thicker.
He shifted, tilting my hips, driving in at an angle that lit stars behind my eyes. The second orgasm hit like fire catching dry timber—fast and unstoppable. My walls fluttered around him, milking his dick; he cursed, hips stuttering as he fought for control.
“Let go,” I pleaded, cupping his face so he had to watch me shatter. “Fill me, husband.”
The word ripped a groan from his chest. He thrust once, twice, then spilled his cum deep, his body locking over mine while his orgasm pulsed hot inside me. I held him through every shudder, every soft vow he whispered against my mouth.
When the aftershocks eased, he rolled, keeping me draped over his torso so our heartbeats aligned. His palm rubbed slow circles at the base of my spine.
“You okay?” he asked, still listening for strain in my breaths.
“Better than okay,” I answered, kissing the hollow of his throat. “Ready to plan a wedding.”
A low laugh rumbled beneath my cheek. “Tomorrow. Tonight, I’m keeping you right here. I’m too undone to care when.”
“Tonight,” I agreed, settling into the safest place I knew—his arms.
21
Two Months Later
The auction was held inside a converted mansion in Highland Park. Historic, tucked back from the main road, the kind of place built by old steel money and now used by new Black money with taste.
I wasn’t prepared for the atmosphere. This wasn’t a gallery. It wasn’t a fundraiser. It was a hush-toned playground for legacy building. Opulence behind closed doors. Every chandelier dripped, every wall spoke. Security was tight. Faces were familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
And Sanaa belonged there.
Simone, the woman who greeted us, wore her diamonds like they were grown on her collarbone. She kissed Sanaa’s cheeks and sized me up like I might break the furniture. “This your fiancé?” she asked.
“He’s dangerous,” Sanaa replied, tone flat, eyes gleaming.
Not wrong—not when it came to her.
Tonight, I played my part. Tailored black suit, shirt open at the throat, no tie. Beside her, I was the weapon to her precision.
And she wielded both.
We floated from room to room, bidders murmuring numbers that would’ve made my father cough. She raised her hand twice—once for a Yoruba abstract piece with deep red undertones, once for a mid-century Madonna reimagined in ebony and gold leaf.
“For Elijah,” she said. “He needs reverence close.”
Then a third—rough charcoal work on a canvas the color of smoke and bone. Fire scorched the edges. I didn’t ask who it was for. She didn’t offer.
We drifted to a quiet lounge off the mezzanine, all low light and velvet that swallowed sound. She moved through it like a private song—glass catching the light, silhouette backlit by the windows—soaked in that soft money-and-art glow. I slid behind her and watched the curve of her neck as she breathed. Everything about her looked owned and owning.
“You own this,” I said.
She let the rim of the glass rest against her lip and looked over her shoulder, slow and endless. “Tonight, we own each other.”
