“Yes.” No hesitation. “A real one.”
She hummed, playful but not dismissive. “Dress code?”
“Wear what makes a room shut up,” I said, picturingher walking toward me naked, body glistening, nipples peaked. “Or what makes it stare.”
“That’s a wide range,” she said, smiling into the phone.
“Text me details.”
“I will.”
“And Quentin?”
“Yeah.” My chest tightened, waiting.
“I’m still wet,” she said, soft, daring.
My eyes closed. My body ached in answer. “Then I did something right.”
“You did a lot right,” she said, voice dipping lower. “Bring that same energy Friday.”
“I will.” Too much truth in my voice. We hung up before either of us crossed a line we couldn’t take back.
I sat in the quiet, breath fogging the glass. I could’ve driven home. Instead, I turned east and headed for Grandma’s.
Grandma’s duplexalways smelled good, no matter the hour—onions sweating, butter melting in a pan, something sweet in the oven like she wanted the whole block to know her worth through scent alone. The storm door creaked, the chime sang, and her voice came from the kitchen like a verdict.
“That you, baby?”
“It’s me,” I said, shouldering groceries in. “Brought some things.”
“You always do,” she muttered, stepping out with a dish towel on her shoulder. Hair neat in a silver bob that framed her face, bangles clinking when she wiped her hands,earrings catching the light. Lipstick perfect. My grandmother didn’t play about presentation. She wasn’t fragile; she was steel wrapped in silk, quick enough to cut a man down, wise enough to outlast him.
“You always try to buy your way into my good graces,” she said, side-eyeing me. “You been in ’em since you were five. Put that down.”
I set the bags on the counter, slid the peaches out last, pushed them toward her. She eyed them, then me, trying not to smile. Failed.
“Mmmm,” she said, lifting one to her nose. “You thought you was slick.”
“I came for your company,” I said, then added, “and maybe cobbler.”
“You came ‘cause you glowing and don’t know what to do with yourself.” She rinsed the fruit, knife in hand, slicing neat. “Sit before you float away.”
I sat. Tried to settle. Didn’t. She clocked it right away, like she always did.
Her eyes flicked over me once, calculating. “Well,” she said, soft but certain, “when you ready to share the name of the woman got you lit up like a lightbulb, bring her to Sunday dinner. That’s when I’ll know you serious.”
My mouth curved, but no words came. Couldn’t. Because part of me wanted to say it now. Wanted to walk Rayna through this door, let Grandma see her, let the family know what my body already did. But I wasn’t reckless enough for that. Not yet. Not after two days and one night that had me hard just thinking about her lips wrapped tight around me.
I cleared my throat, reached for a peach slice beforeGrandma could press. She didn’t. She never pushed when she knew the dam was close. She just let me sit there, restless, glowing, trying not to drown in a woman I couldn’t shake.
Back home,groceries put away, I stretched out on the bed and let the quiet try to do its work. Didn’t last. My body was loud—tight, restless, carrying her scent like wire still sparking in the walls.
I’d held my tongue at Grandma’s. Held it steady like I was supposed to. But here, nothing held me.
Eyes shut, she came rushing back—straddling me, tits bouncing, nipples dragging my chest while she rode hard enough to break me. Her pussy greedy, clenching, wetter every time I groaned her name. The way she yanked my head down between her thighs, grinding until she shook.
My dick swelled just from remembering, thick and aching, pressed against fabric like it wanted to tear through. I shoved the sheets down, wrapped a fist around it, stroked slow. Precum slicked my palm, sliding easy. Not her wet mouth. Not her greedy heat. But enough.
