Page 257 of The Wright Man

"Neither did I," I moaned, shameless now. "I've been doing your hair since we were sixteen," I choked out, desperate to breathe through the rising orgasm. "You could've been doing this the whole damn time?"

He laughed, dark and rich. "If I'd known you were nasty like this," he said, "we would've never made it to graduation."

My hands clawed at his shoulders. He kept going. The rhythm was devastating. Relentless. His thumb joined the party, circling my clit while his other hand fucked me so deep I saw stars.

"You're gonna let me take care of you." It came out as a statement, not a question.

And when I came—hard, loud, guttural—his mouth was at my neck, whispering praises and curses all at once. My vision blurred. My bones liquefied.

When the tremors stopped, I was panting, melted into the couch, completely undone.

Maleek leaned over me, brushing sweat-damp curls from my face. His eyes sparkled with mischief and something deeper.

"I'll take that as a yes?" he murmured.

I couldn't help the laugh that slipped out, breathless and dazed.

I nodded slowly, lips parting to speak—but the words weren't necessary. He saw it in my face, in the way my hand found his and didn't let go.

I'd let him help.

I was his. And I was done pretending otherwise.

Chapter Forty-Five

Maleek

The screen door creaked as I stepped onto the porch, the hush of night pressing gently against my skin. The air was cool, crisp, carrying that subtle earth-sweet scent of freshly cut grass and far-off rain. Good. I needed that. Something to keep me grounded while the adrenaline still hummed through my veins.

I'd made good on my promise and buried my tongue, my fingers, my whole damn soul in Angelica Reed until she went limp and weeping beneath me.

I'd never get tired of it.

She was out cold now, deep in that snoring, drooling, post-apocalyptic sleep that only came after your soul leaves your body and comes back with a limp.

I pulled my phone from the pocket of my sweats and scrolled to the contact I'd been itching to dial since this afternoon.

Judge Judy Jr.

I hadn't called him in weeks. But he always picked up.

Two rings.

"Well I'll be damned. Look who remembers how to use his damn thumbs," he said. Voice sharp, lazy, familiar. "What, did you finally learn how to say more than one fucking word at a time?"

I smirked, settling into one of the porch chairs. "Eat a dick."

"That's the spirit. You callin' for fun or should I brace for bullshit?"

I let the banter hang a second before my tone shifted. "I need a favor."

A beat of silence.

Then a sigh—long, annoyed, familiar. I could hear the click of a lighter on the other end. "You ghost me for weeks. Don't return a single call about Kareem's appeal—which, by the way, I'm busting my ass to get finalized. Would've been nice to get more than one-word responses from your ass this past month while I've been—"

"It's for Angelica."

Another beat of silence. A shift in energy.