Chapter 1: The Blunt & The Brush of Fingers
The wooden planks of the back porch were still warm from the day’s sun, radiating heat through the thin soles of Cherish’s sandals. She curled her toes against the grain, a small, private rebellion against the Virginia humidity that wrapped around her like a damp sheet. String lights were looped overhead, casting a soft, honeyed glow that made everything feel slightly unreal. From the shadows beyond the porch, crickets sawed their legs together in a relentless, buzzing chorus.
Derrick passed her the blunt, his fingers brushing against hers. The contact was brief, a spark of static in the still air, but it lingered on her skin long after he’d pulled his hand away.
“You good?” His voice was a low rumble, quieter than the crickets but cutting through them easily.
“Yeah. I’m good.” Her own voice sounded too high, too tight. She took a slow pull, the smoke burning a familiar, calming path into her lungs. She held it, then let it out in a thin stream, watching it dissolve into the golden light. The spiked lemonade sat sweaty in her other hand, condensation trickling down the glass onto her thumb.
He didn’t look away from her. Most people did, eventually. They found her silence uncomfortable, her guarded eyes a challenge they didn’t want to meet. Derrick just watched, his gaze steady and patient. It made her want to squirm. It also made her want to lean closer.
“I like your locs,” he said. “The length. It suits you.”
It wasn’t a line. It was too specific, too observant. She’d spent the last year of her marriage feeling invisible, a piece of furniture that occasionally needed to be fed. Now, under the gaze of this near-stranger, she felt hyper-visible, every curve and follicle noted and appreciated.
“Thanks,” she managed, taking a quick, nervous sip of her drink. The sweet-and-sour tang bit back.
He smiled, a slow, easy thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes. An ankh necklace, simple and silver, rested against his collarbone. He was so big, 6'3" of solid, gentle presence, yet he seemed to take up less space than her ex-husband ever had. He didn’t sprawl. He just was.
“You’re not from here, are you?” he asked.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Nah. You just carry yourself different. Like you’re still deciding if the ground is gonna hold you up.”
The accuracy of it stole her breath for a second. She looked down at her lap, at the way her sundress stretched over her thighs. She’d spent so long trying to make herself smaller, quieter, less. Derrick’s eyes on her now felt like a warm light being shone on a part of her she’d kept locked away.
“It’s a lot,” she admitted, the words leaving her before she could stop them. “The move. All of it.”
“I get it. Change is a bastard.” He accepted the blunt back from her, his fingers careful to avoid hers this time, a courtesy that felt strangely like a loss. “But you’re here now.”
He said it like it was an accomplishment. Like her simply existing in this new space was something worth noting.
The silence that fell between them wasn’t empty. It was full of the night sounds, the faint thump of music from a neighbor’s house, the rustle of a creature in the bushes. It was full of the heat and the smoke and the unspoken thing that had been buzzing between them since he’d first smiled at her an hour ago.
Her body was achingly aware of his. The sheer physicality of him, the solid weight of his thigh just inches from hers on the porch swing, the scent of sandalwood and cannabis that clung to his clothes. It had been so long since she’d been touched with any kind of intention that the memory of that brief finger-brush felt branded into her skin. A dull, frustrated throb started up low in her belly, a feeling she usually ignored, drowned in work or sleep. Tonight, it was loud.
“You’re thinking real hard over there,” he murmured, his voice pulling her from the spiral.
She risked a glance at him. The string lights reflected in his dark eyes, little points of gold in the kindness. “Just… adjusting.”
“To Virginia?”
“To… this.” She gestured vaguely between them, the air crackling with the admission.
He nodded, understanding without her having to spell it out. He didn’t push. He didn’t make a joke or a slick comment. He just let the words hang there, giving them space.
Then, he shifted. He didn’t move closer, but he turned his body more fully toward her, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a heartbeat before meeting her eyes again. The world seemed to shrink to the dimensions of this porch, to the space between their two bodies.
“Cherish,” he said, and her name in his mouth sounded like a new word, something sacred.
“Yeah?”
“Can I kiss you?”
The question was so direct, so simple, it short-circuited the frantic calculations in her head. There was no game, no guessing. Just a man asking a woman a question under the stars.
Every instinct told her to retreat, to build the wall back up brick by brick. But the thrumming in her blood was louder. The memory of a sexless marriage felt like a dusty book on a shelf, irrelevant to this living, breathing moment.
She looked at his mouth. She looked at the gentle certainty in his face.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, trapped bird.
She set her glass down on the floorboards. The sound was final.
She nodded.
It was just a single, sharp dip of her chin. But it was enough.
But it was enough.
He leaned in, and the world narrowed to the space between them. She could see the individual locs of his hair falling forward, the faint scar through his eyebrow, the absolute focus in his eyes. His scent—sandalwood, weed, and clean male skin—wrapped around her, and her breath hitched. His lips were a breath away from hers, the promise of contact making her dizzy.
But quickly she shakes her head, trying to snap out of the yes and the high that made her so real. The movement was jerky, a full-body flinch that shoved her back against the wooden slats of the porch swing. The chain creaked in protest.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, the words tasting like lemon and regret. “I just… I can’t.”
Derrick went still, then slowly straightened up, giving her space. His expression didn’t harden. If anything, it softened with a patience that felt like a physical balm. “Okay,” he said, his voice low and even. “It’s okay, Cherish.”
“It’s not you,” she rushed to say, the cliché making her wince internally. “It’s me. This is… it’s a lot. I think it’s better if we’re just friends.” The word ‘friends’ felt flimsy and inadequate, a cardboard shield against the attraction still buzzing in the air.
He just nodded, his gaze steady on her. “Friends is good.”
The high was creeping up now, making the string lights blur into halos and the cricket sounds weave into a thick, sonic blanket. Everything felt amplified, the texture of her dress, the beat of her heart. Higher and higher.
“It’s getting a little cool out here,” she said, though the night was still warm. “We could… go inside? Watch a movie or something?”
“Sure. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
They moved into the living room, the transition from the organic night to the boxed-in darkness feeling abrupt. The only light came from the television screen as she scrolled through menus, finally landing on some forgettable action movie. The flashes of pre-menu trailers painted the room in stuttering blue and white.
They sat on the couch, a respectable foot of cushion between them. She pulled a blanket over her lap, a barrier she instantly knew was transparent. The movie started, a cacophony of car chases and gunfire that neither of them were watching.
Her body was a live wire. Every shift of his weight on the cushions, every quiet breath he took, registered like a seismic event. The weed had quieted the panic in her head but had dialed her physical awareness to a screaming pitch. The frustration she usually kept locked down was right at the surface, a raw, throbbing need.
His hand, when it came to rest on her thigh, was warm even through the blanket.
She didn’t notice it at first, her focus pretended to be on the exploding cars on screen. Then she did notice, and she pretended she didn’t. It was just a weight, a solid, calm pressure high up on her leg. Her breath caught, but she didn’t move. She didn’t tell him to stop.
His hand was still. For a long minute, it just was. Then, with an almost imperceptible slowness, his fingers began to move. A slight, soothing stroke along the muscle of her thigh. The friction was a brand. Her skin tingled beneath the fabric. The movie sounds faded into a meaningless drone.
Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She stared straight ahead at the flashing screen, her body rigid, every neuron focused on that single point of contact. This was a bad idea. This was a very, very bad idea.
Then his hand went closer towards her inner thighs.
The touch shifted, his palm sliding a deliberate inch inward, his fingers curling just slightly against the sensitive skin. The intention was clear now. It was no longer a comforting gesture. It was a question.
And she was still holding her breath, waiting for her own answer.
And she was still holding her breath, waiting for her own answer.
His hand was a warm, heavy weight through the blanket. Then his fingers began to move, a slow, deliberate circles pressing against the denim between her legs. The pressure was exact, undeniable. A shockwave of pure sensation ripped through her, so sudden and intense it broke the dam inside her head. All the thinking, the worrying, the frantic calculations—it just dissolved into static.
A sharp, ragged gasp escaped her lips. Her head fell back against the couch cushions, her eyes squeezing shut. Her own hands gripped the blanket, knuckles white. It felt so good. It was an ache she’d forgotten she could feel, a deep, throbbing need being answered with a friction that was both maddening and perfect. Every nerve ending was on fire, singing a chorus that drowned out every ounce of her resistance.
“Derrick,” she breathed, her voice a broken thing.
He shifted closer, his body heat enveloping her. His locs brushed against her cheek as he leaned in, his lips close to her ear. His voice was a low, rough vibration that she felt in her bones. “Tell me to stop, Cherish. Say the word and I stop right now.”
She couldn’t form the words. All she could do was press herself harder against his hand, a silent, desperate plea.
“Yeah,” he murmured, understanding the language of her body. “That’s what I thought.” His other hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek. “I want you so much it’s fucking with my head. Have since I first saw you. All that quiet, all that beauty just sitting there, driving me crazy.”
He increased the pressure, his palm a firm, circling rhythm against her. She moaned, her hips lifting off the cushion of their own volition.
“I told myself I’d be patient. I told myself I’d wait for you.” His breath was hot against her neck. “But feeling you right now, hearing you… I can’t control myself. I don’t want to. Let me help you, Cherish. Let me help you feel this. Let me take care of you.”
His words unspooled the last of her tension. They weren’t a demand; they were an offering. Permission to stop fighting herself. To just feel.
Her eyes opened, finding his in the flickering dark. The patience was still there, but it was molten now, fused with a hunger that mirrored her own. She brought her hand up, her fingers trembling as they traced the line of his jaw.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
His mouth found hers.
His mouth found hers.
It wasn't a gentle question anymore. It was an answer. The kiss was deep and hungry, all the patient waiting of the porch dissolving into the hot, urgent slide of his tongue against hers. She could taste the faint, earthy hint of cannabis and the sweet lemonade, a combination that was uniquely him. Her hands came up, fingers tangling in the thick locs at the base of his neck, pulling him closer. The blanket was a forgotten barrier, crumpled between them.
When he broke the kiss, they were both breathing in ragged gusts. The television cast shifting blue shadows across his face, his eyes dark and intense.
"Wait," she gasped, the word a weak protest she didn't really mean. Her body was screaming yes, a frantic, pounding rhythm in her blood, but a lifetime of being good, of being quiet, made her try one last time. "Derrick, I… we shouldn't…"
He didn't pull away. Instead, his hand came up and wrapped around the side of her neck, his thumb pressing gently into the hollow of her throat. It wasn't harsh, but it was firm. Absolute. A shiver, hot and electric, ripped through her. The dominance in the gesture, the sheer physical claim of it, unraveled her completely. Any last pretense of resistance melted away, replaced by a surge of pure, liquid heat.
"Tell me you don't want this," he challenged, his voice a low growl. His thumb stroked the frantic pulse beating beneath her skin.
She couldn't. She just shook her head, her eyes locked on his.
That was all he needed. He moved with a sudden, effortless strength, shifting her down onto the cushions and settling between her legs. The denim of her jeans was a frustrating rough barrier. He made quick work of the button and zipper, peeling them down her thighs along with her panties. The cool air hit her damp skin, and she flinched.
Then his hands were on her inner thighs, pushing them apart. She was exposed, utterly vulnerable under the flickering light of the screen. She expected hesitation, maybe a moment of awkwardness. There was none.
He lowered his head.
The first touch of his mouth was a lightning strike. A sharp, wet heat that made her back arch off the couch. A choked cry escaped her, a sound she didn't recognize as her own. Then he settled in, and the world narrowed to the feeling of his tongue on her, in her. It was messy and loud. The slick, slurping sounds were obscene in the quiet room, layered with his low groans and her own broken whimpers. He used his tongue like he was trying to learn the shape of her, French-kissing her very core with a focused, relentless intensity.
The pleasure was a storm building, wave after devastating wave. She twisted her hands in his locs, not sure if she was pulling him closer or trying to push him away. Her hips moved against his face of their own accord, a helpless, rocking motion.
"God… Derrick…" she sobbed, her composure shattered.
The climb was too steep, too fast. It was overwhelming. She needed control, needed to steer this feeling before it shattered her. With a strength she didn't know she possessed, she pushed at his shoulders. "Wait. Stop."
He paused, looking up, his mouth glistening. His eyes were wild.
"Let me," she panted, her voice raw. "I need to…"
Understanding dawned in his gaze. He didn't speak, just gave a slow, deliberate nod and shifted onto his back on the floor, pulling her with him. In one fluid, desperate movement, she straddled his face, her knees on either side of his head. The position was brazen, primal. She looked down at him, shocked at her own audacity, shocked that he was letting her do this.
Then she lowered herself onto his mouth and stopped thinking altogether.
She rode his face with a frantic, grinding rhythm, chasing the pleasure that was now entirely in her hands. Her hands braced on the floor behind his head, her body bowed, her locs falling around them like a curtain. He held her hips, his grip tight, guiding her, encouraging her, his tongue working in perfect, devastating harmony with her movements. The noises were wet and desperate, the room filled with the sound of her gasping breaths and his muffled groans.
It was almost animal, this need. It was everything she had locked away for years, finally breaking free. And he was there, solid and accepting beneath her, letting her take exactly what she needed.