“Maybe I like making niggas suffer.”
“I know you do.”
His fingers dragged over my clit slowly through the thin fabric, making my hips jerk.
“Booda,” I warned, and he chuckled. “Stop fucking playing with me.”
“Aight, baby. Tell me what you need,” he said.
I looked down at him and swallowed hard. “I need you to make me cum.”
“Aight,” He leaned forward, covering my mouth with his as his fingers teased and rubbed, until finally, he slid one finger inside me.
I moaned, bucking my hips wildly.
One hand cradling the back of my head, Booda deepened the kiss and added another finger, while using his thumb to apply pressure to my clit.
“Fuck,” I breathed, my head falling back against the couch.
The pressure building inside me became almost unbearable.
“Let that shit go, baby,” he demanded, and I instantly came around his fingers.
Pleasure rolled through me so hard that I grabbed onto him to steady myself.
Booda looked entirely too satisfied with himself afterward, and honestly, that turned me on more.
“I owe you one,” I said, trying to catch my breath.
His mouth curved slowly. “I know.”
I laughed and adjusted my dress while he moved back onto the couch beside me. The smug look on his face made me want to fight and fuck him at the same time.
Booda pulled me into his lap anyway, unconcerned, and I rested my head on his chest while he rubbed slow circles over my thigh, and for the first time in a long time, my mind felt quiet.
Rich called six more times that night. Each call made me smile harder than the last when I ignored them.
Two more days passed before I sent him the address. When I finally typed out the coordinates, I sent only that, nothing else.
Rich pulled up less than thirty minutes later in a black Escalade with two of his men.
I watched them on the video feed on my phone as all three climbed out and cautiously looked around. Rich walked to the back of the vehicle, popped the trunk, and pulled out a black duffel bag.
The building was on the far end of a dead shopping strip nobody used anymore.
Out of all the places in the city, I had Rich meeting me at an abandoned abortion clinic to get his unborn son back.
The irony almost made me laugh.
Faded pink lettering near the roof read “Women’s Health Center,” though half the letters were now missing. Rich stared up at the building with confusion written all over his face beforelooking back down at the coordinates on his phone like he thought maybe I’d sent the wrong address.
Nope.
Right place.
One of the men said something to him, but Rich ignored him and headed for the entrance. The second he stepped inside, his expression changed again.
Blue decorations covered the lobby.
