Page 90 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

Warmth rushed straight through my chest. He didn’t take me to some five-star restaurant with white tablecloths and stiff waiters where he had to buy the room out just to feel secure. He brought me back to my culture. Back to something that felt like home.

Inside, the joint was packed wall-to-wall with Black folks dressed to the nines, laughing, talking trash, and drinking out of plastic cups. A five-piece band was set up in the corner on a raised wooden platform—drums, bass, electric guitar, horn, and a man working a zydeco rubboard like his life depended on it. The air smelled like fried cornmeal, garlic butter, hot sauce, and sweet cigar smoke drifting from the open back patio.

We grabbed a small corner booth with red vinyl seats taped up at the seams. Within fifteen minutes, a waitress in a printed headwrap brought us two heaping baskets of piping-hot fried catfish with crispy hushpuppies, a giant bowl of slow-simmered collard greens loaded with smoked turkey, and two ice-cold bottles of Abita beer.

“Taste this,” I said, tearing off a piece of the golden catfish crust and dipping it in Crystal hot sauce before holding it to Amai’s mouth.

He took the bite, chewing slow, his eyebrows raising in genuine surprise. “Okay. That’s legit.”

“Legit? That’s seasoned down to the bone.” I laughed, taking a long pull from my cold beer. “You Landrys think if it don’t come with a French name and a hundred-dollar price tag, it ain’t good food.”

“Don’t group me in with Winston,” he said, shaking his head with a grin. “My mama used to fry catfish in an iron skillet on Saturdays before everything got messy. I know what good food tastes like.”

The band transitioned from a fast zydeco two-step into a slow, low-down blues groove—the kind with heavy basslines and a crying electric guitar that dragged every couple in the building toward the small wooden dance floor.

Amai stood up, wiping his hands on a paper napkin, and held his hand out to me. “Come on.”

“You dance?” I asked, looking at him skeptically.

“Try me.”

I took his hand, letting him lead me into the crowd. Amai pulled me flush against his chest, wrapping one heavy arm completely around my lower back, his fingers resting securely on my hip while his other hand clasped mine. He didn’t dance stiff like I expected. He moved with an easy, rhythmic sway, rocking me to the beat of the blues, his chin resting against my temple.

“You look good tonight, babe,” he murmured into my hair, his grip tightening just enough to let me feel how hard he was pressed against my stomach. “So damn good.”

I threw my head back, looking up at his sharp jawline and the intense, hungry look in his eyes. I laughed, wrapping both my arms around his neck and letting my hips roll right against his. “You ain’t looking too bad yourself, baby daddy.”

“Baby daddy?” He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated straight through my sternum. “That’s what we doing now?”

“Until further notice,” I teased, leaning up to press my lips against the side of his neck, tasting the clean salt of his skin and the expensive cologne lingering underneath.

For two whole hours, we didn’t talk about bullets, vaults, doctors, or bloodlines. We just danced, drank our beer, ate our fish, and laughed until my cheeks hurt. For the first time since the ultrasound room, the heavy cloud over my life lifted, leaving nothing behind but the warmth of the man holding me.

By the time we made it back to the Garden District house, it was past midnight.

Mama was sound asleep in the downstairs guest room. The house was dark and quiet except for the low glow of the hallway nightlights. We slipped off our shoes by the front door and tiptoed up the stairs like two teenagers sneaking in past curfew, stifling our giggles as Amai grabbed my hand and pulled me into our master bedroom.

The second the door clicked shut and the lock engaged, Amai pushed me back against the heavy wood.

His mouth came down on mine hard, hot, and demanding. His tongue parted my lips, tasting like beer, hot sauce, and raw hunger. I let out a low moan into his mouth, gripping the front of his shirt with both hands, and tugging him closer until there wasn’t a breath of air left between us.

He reached down, bunching the fabric of my rust colored dress up over my hips, his large hands gripping my thighs, lifting one of my legs to hook around his waist. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily against my neck, his lips trailing down over my collarbone.

“Bed,” I whispered against his ear, shivering. “Now.”

We stripped each other, frantic and breathless, tearing clothes off until they were scattered across the rug. When I lay back on the king-sized mattress, naked under the dim amber light of the bedside lamp, Amai knelt between my legs, his dark eyes raking over every curve of my body with an intensity that made my chest heave.

He crawled up the bed, but instead of settling between my thighs, he shifted his body, pivoting around until his broad shoulders were wedged between my knees, and his thick, heavy dick was hovering inches from my face.

“Sixty-nine,” he grunted, his voice thick with lust. “I want to taste you while you take this.”

He didn’t wait. He lowered his mouth straight between my thighs, his tongue finding my clit with one long, flat, wet stroke that made my hips buck off the mattress. I gasped, wrapping my fingers around the heavy base of his shaft, guiding his slick tip into my mouth.

The combination was overwhelming. Amai ate me out like a starving man—lapping, sucking, using his thumbs to spread my lips while his tongue flicked rhythmically against my sweet spot. I sucked him deep, taking half of his length down my throat, bobbing my head to the rhythm of his tongue, and moaning around his dick every time he hit the exact spot that made my toes curl. The room filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of our mouths and our ragged breathing.

“Fuck, Truth,” he groaned against my pussy, his hips twitching above me. “You feel so good… so damn wet.”

I gripped his thighs, sucking harder, feeling the tension building behind my hips like a tidal wave. After a few more frantic strokes of his tongue, my orgasm ripped through me, my thighs clamping tight around his head as I shuddered and cried out into his shaft.