Chapter 4: Mouthful of Respect
The safe house bedroom held the heat of them like a sealed jar. It smelled of sex and antiseptic, Nevaieh’s cologne and the coppery hint of blood from Anaijiah’s bandaged back. The blackout curtains turned the midday sun into a faint, amber line around the edges, leaving the room in a perpetual, intimate twilight. Anaijiah lay on her side, tracing the ink on Nevaieh’s shoulder—a detailed .45 caliber pistol wreathed in roses. A saint and a sinner.
Her body hummed with a deep, satisfied ache. The cut on her back stung dully beneath the bandage. The split on her knuckles had been cleaned and left to air. But a different tension was coiling in the room, thick and silent, born from the things they’d said. You make me lose my fucking mind. We’re in it. Together.
Nevaieh’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, her arm still a heavy weight across Anaijiah’s waist. The post-fuck calm was evaporating, replaced by a familiar, calculating stillness. Anaijiah could feel the shift in the air, the retreat from vulnerability back into the fortress of control.
“You’re thinking,” Anaijiah said, her voice scratchy from shouting.
“Always.”
“About Elroy.”
“About leverage.” Nevaieh turned her head on the pillow. The softness from earlier was gone, burned away. Her gaze was a physical touch, assessing, owning. “He made a move on something of mine. He needs to understand the cost. Not just of the attack. Of the insult.”
Anaijiah propped herself up on an elbow. “I’m not something of yours.”
Nevaieh’s hand shot out, faster than a thought, and gripped Anaijiah’s jaw. It wasn’t cruel, but it was absolute, fingers pressing into the hinge, holding her face steady. “Aren’t you?” she whispered, the words low and dangerous. “You took my key. You fought in my war. You let me put my mouth on you while your shop was still smoking. What do you call that?”
“I call it a choice.” Anaijiah didn’t struggle. She met the gaze head-on, her own fire sparking. “My choice.”
“And I own the consequences of that choice.” Nevaieh’s thumb stroked over Anaijiah’s bottom lip, the one that had been split. “My protection isn’t free. My attention isn’t a gift. It’s a transaction. You want the safety, you want the power that comes with my name? You give me the thing you guard the tightest.”
“What’s that?”
“The illusion that you’re still in charge here.”
Nevaieh moved. In one fluid, powerful motion, she rolled on top of Anaijiah, pinning her to the mattress, her thighs caging her hips. The silk sheets slithered cool beneath Anaijiah’s bare skin. Nevaieh looked down at her, a predator savoring the capture. The distant hum of the security system seemed to grow louder.
“You think you run shit?” Nevaieh growled, her voice gritty.
Anaijiah breathed hard, her breasts rising against Nevaieh’s chest. “I know I do.”
“In Miami, maybe. In your little shop, sure. But in this room? In this city? In this bed?” Nevaieh leaned down, her mouth hovering a breath from Anaijiah’s. “You’re under me.”
She didn’t kiss her. She gathered saliva in her mouth, a dark, intentional gleam in her eyes, and spit. It landed warm and wet directly onto Anaijiah’s parted lips, a droplet slipping onto her tongue.
The shock was electric, vulgar, profoundly degrading. Anaijiah’s whole body stiffened.
“Swallow it,” Nevaieh commanded, her hand tightening on Anaijiah’s jaw.
For a heartbeat, Anaijiah froze, caught between rebellion and a dark, shameful thrill that shot straight to her core. She saw it then—the test. This was the line, drawn in spit and dominance. To refuse was to claim the loft, the shop, the independence. To accept was to step into the shadow fully, to agree to the terms of a world where power was fluid and traded in raw, physical currency.
Her throat moved. She swallowed.
The sound she made was barely human—a low, acquiescent groan. The act ignited something feral in the space between them. Nevaieh’s control snapped, not into chaos, but into a focused, brutal purpose. “Yeah,” she hissed, a grin touching her lips. “That’s what I thought.”
She released Anaijiah’s jaw and shoved her roughly onto her stomach. Anaijiah went willingly, her face pressed into the monochrome silk, her heart hammering against the mattress. Nevaieh’s hands gripped her hips, yanking them up, arching her back, presenting her. The cool air hit her wet cunt, already slick from the sheer psychological violation.
There was no prep, no gentle touch. Nevaieh spat again, directly onto her entrance, the crude wetness mixing with her own arousal. Then two of Nevaieh’s fingers drove into her, hard and deep, a single, punishing thrust that stole Anaijiah’s breath.
“This is my city,” Nevaieh said, her voice steady now, a cold contrast to the filthy intimacy of her hand. She began to fuck her with her fingers, a relentless, piston-like rhythm that had no grace, only demand. “My war. You wanna be in it? You take what I give.”
Anaijiah moaned, the sound muffled by the sheets. She pushed back against the assault, meeting each thrust, her own slickness coating Nevaieh’s hand, making lewd, wet sounds that filled the room. The pleasure was sharp, edged with humiliation, a dizzying cocktail that made her head spin.
Nevaieh’s other hand slid around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a collar of flesh and bone. The threat of it, the absolute possession, made Anaijiah clench around the fingers inside her.
“You love this, don’t you?” Nevaieh leaned down, her body a hot weight along Anaijiah’s back, her lips against the shell of her ear. Her breath was hot. “Being put in your place. Being used. All that big talk, all that fire, and you’re just a desperate cunt begging for it.”
Anaijiah couldn’t speak. She could only nod, a frantic, jerky motion, her fingers clawing at the sheets. She was hurtling toward the edge, her orgasm building from a place of pure submission, a surrender that felt more like victory than any fight she’d ever won.
Nevaieh felt it. She curled her fingers, searching, and found the spot that made Anaijiah scream. She bit down on the meat of Anaijiah’s shoulder, right beside the bandage, a sharp, claiming pain that tipped her over.
Anaijiah came apart. It was a silent, seismic rupture, her body convulsing around Nevaieh’s hand, her vision whiting out, every muscle locked in a paralysis of exquisite surrender. Nevaieh fucked her through it, relentless, drawing the pulses out until Anaijiah was sobbing weakly into the mattress.
Only then did Nevaieh withdraw her fingers. She brought them to Anaijiah’s mouth, pressing them against her lips. “Taste,” she ordered. “Taste what you give up for me.”
Anaijiah opened her mouth, licking her own salt and tang from Nevaieh’s skin, the act somehow more intimate than anything before. Nevaieh watched, her chest heaving, then rolled her onto her back. She was still fully dressed in her tank top and sweatpants, now stained with sweat. Her eyes were black with a need that hadn’t been close to sated.
“My turn,” Anaijiah rasped, reaching for the waistband of Nevaieh’s pants.
“No.” Nevaieh caught her wrists, pinning them above her head with one strong hand. “I’m not done.” With her free hand, she tugged her sweatpants and underwear down just enough to free herself. She was soaking wet, her cunt gleaming in the dim light. She positioned herself over Anaijiah’s thigh and began to grind down, her clit rubbing against Anaijiah’s skin in rough, frantic circles.
This was different. This wasn’t about Anaijiah’ pleasure. This was Nevaieh taking her own, using Anaijiah’s body as a tool for her release. The raw selfishness of it, the utter lack of performative care, was its own dark thrill. Anaijiah lay still, letting herself be used, watching the play of agony and ecstasy on Nevaieh’s face.
Nevaieh came quickly, violently, her hips stuttering, a choked-off grunt tearing from her throat. She collapsed forward, her forehead resting on Anaijiah’s chest, her breath coming in hot gusts.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their breathing syncing, slowing. The scent of sex was overwhelming.
Nevaieh finally pushed herself up. She looked down at Anaijiah, her expression unreadable. She reached over to the glass nightstand, picked up the unlit cigar, and rolled it between her fingers. “Elroy’s main revenue is a shitty nightclub off Western. ‘The Gilded Cage’. He moves his product through the back, uses it to launder.”
Anaijiah watched her, the sudden shift to business leaving her skin still humming. “So?”
“So, he thinks he’s clever. He thinks a smashed tattoo shop is a declaration.” Nevaieh put the cigar down, picked up the switchblade instead, flicking it open with a soft snick. The blade caught the faint light. “We need to answer. Not with a note. With a symphony.”
Anaijiah sat up, pulling the sheet around her. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I have a brand-new, very flashy Camaro at my disposal.” Nevaieh’s eyes met hers, a spark of cold amusement in their depths. “And I have a tattoo artist with a talent for disruption and a serious fucking grudge.”
A slow smile spread across Anaijiah’s face. It felt like the first real one all day. “You want to hit his club.”
“I want to burn it to the ground.” Nevaieh closed the blade. “But first, we shake the tree. We let him see the new alliance. Let him sweat.” She leaned in, her voice dropping. “You drive. I’ll navigate. We’ll do a little nighttime touring. Show the neighborhood the new paint job.”
The plan was audacious, stupid, and perfect. It was a public performance, a middle finger wrapped in a threat. Anaijiah’s blood, still heated from the bed, cooled into a sharp, focused excitement. This wasn’t just fighting back. This was launching the first offensive.
“When?”
“Tonight.” Nevaieh stood, pulling her clothes back into place. “Go back to the loft. Get your car. Be ready at ten.” She started for the bedroom door, then paused, looking back. The predator was gone, replaced by something more complex—a general looking at her most volatile, valuable weapon. “And Anaijiah?”
“Yeah?”
“Wear something that shines.”
The black Camaro was a blade cutting through the South Side night. Anaijiah drove, her hands tight on the custom wheel, the engine’s low snarl a promise of violence. Nevaieh rode shotgun, a dark silhouette scanning the passing blocks, her phone glowing in her lap with a live feed from a scout already posted outside The Gilded Cage. She’d changed into black jeans, boots, and a leather jacket, her hair tied back. Anaijiah had taken “wear something that shines” literally. A silver, mesh top glimmered over her dark skin, catching the streetlights, and the gold in her piercings winked. Her sunset roses were visible through the fabric, a declaration.
“He’s inside,” Nevaieh said, her voice flat. “Back office. Four soldiers on the door. Twenty, thirty patrons on the main floor. It’s a slow night.”
“Good,” Anaijiah replied, downshifting as they turned onto Western. The club was a squat, windowless building with cheap gold paint peeling from its facade. A flickering neon cocktail glass sputtered near the entrance. “Less collateral.”
“We’re not going in shooting. We’re delivering a message.” Nevaieh looked over at her. The city lights strobed across her sharp features. “You walk in with me. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You watch my back.”
“I’m not one of your foot soldiers.”
“No. You’re the wild card he won’t understand. That’s the point.” Nevaieh’s lip curled. “Ready?”
Anaijiah double-parked the Camaro directly in front of the club’s entrance, blocking the valet lane. The car’s custom underglow pulsed a deep, threatening violet. “Born ready.”
They exited the vehicle in unison. The two bulkers at the door, young men swimming in oversized jackets, straightened up. Recognition flashed across their faces, followed by pure fear. One reached for his waist.
“Don’t,” Nevaieh said, the single word freezing him in place. She didn’t break stride. She walked straight toward them, and they parted like rotten curtains. Anaijiah followed a half-step behind, her spine straight, feeling every eye on the shimmer of her top and the cool defiance on her face.
Inside, the air was thick with stale beer and cheap cologne. A few patrons clustered around the bar, the DJ playing to an empty dance floor. The energy died as Nevaieh passed through it. Conversations halted. Glasses were set down quietly. She moved with a terrifying, quiet authority, heading straight for a hallway marked ‘PRIVATE’ at the rear.
Two more men stood guard there, older, harder. One put a hand out. “Nevaieh. You can’t just—”
She grabbed his extended wrist, twisted it viciously inward, and drove her knee into his elbow. The crack was louder than the music. He dropped with a strangled scream. The other man went for his gun. Anaijiah was already moving. She snatched a heavy glass ashtray from a nearby booth and smashed it across the side of his head. He crumpled.
“I can,” Nevaieh said to the writhing man on the floor. She stepped over him, Anaijiah at her shoulder, and kicked the office door open.
Elroy’s office was a testament to tacky aspiration. A large, faux-gold desk, velour chairs, cheap prints of naked women on the walls. The man himself was mid-forties, thinning hair, a thick gold chain over a red silk shirt. He was counting cash, two more armed men flanking him. He looked up, his face cycling from annoyance to confusion to dawning, sick comprehension.
“Nevaieh.” He tried for a smile. It was a ghastly thing. “This is a surprise. A social call?”
“An accounting.” Nevaieh strolled in as if she owned the room, coming to rest in front of his desk. She didn’t look at the guards. Her entire focus was on Elroy, a predator locking on. “You sent children to break a woman’s shop. You tagged your little symbol on her wall. That was a message. I received it.”
Elroy’s eyes flicked to Anaijiah, taking in the shining mesh, the tattoos, the absolute lack of fear. He scoffed, a weak attempt to reclaim the room. “This? This is what’s got you kicking in doors? One loud-mouthed tattoo bitch from out of town?” He leaned back, spreading his hands. “I was sending you a message. You’ve been distracted. Getting soft. Letting new variables” —he gestured dismissively at Anaijiah— “cloud your judgment.”
Nevaieh said nothing. She just watched him.
The silence unnerved him more than shouted threats. He leaned forward, pointing a finger at Anaijiah. “You think aligning with this… this flashy piece of ass makes you look strong? It makes you look weak, Nevaieh. It tells everyone your dick is doing the thinking now.”
Anaijiah laughed.
It was a bright, sharp, incredulous sound that cut through the tense quiet. All eyes snapped to her. She took one step forward, coming to stand beside Nevaieh, her hip resting against the edge of the gaudy desk.
“My name,” she said, her voice clear and carrying, “is Anaijiah. You broke into my empire. You ruined my art.” She picked up a solid glass paperweight from his desk, hefting its weight. “You sent boys to do a man’s job, and they failed because you’re a cheap, small-thinking motherfucker with a discount-chain aesthetic.” She looked around at the velour and fake gold. “I mean, look at this place. ‘The Gilded Cage’? It’s giving basement rec room, baby. It’s giving bankruptcy sale.”
Elroy’s face mottled purple. He stood up, sputtering. “You don’t get to speak in here! You’re nothing!”
“I’m the variable,” Anaijiah shot back, not raising her voice. She leaned in, close enough for him to see the gold in her teeth. “You wanted Nevaieh’s attention? You got it. And you brought me to the party. I’m not one of her soldiers you can intimidate. I’m a whole new fucking war you are not equipped to fight. I build beauty from nothing. What do you do? Sell cut-rate powder and launder quarters in this polyester palace.”
She dropped the paperweight. It hit the desk with a thunderous crack, splintering the wood.
Elroy flinched, hard. His guards tensed, but a single, almost imperceptible shake of Nevaieh’s head kept them rooted. He was alone, faced with a fury he couldn’t categorize. This wasn’t street enforcer rage. This was icy, articulate contempt that stripped him bare in his own domain.
Nevaieh watched, a current of pure, visceral electricity arcing up her spine. The way Anaijiah stood, unarmed and glittering, eviscerating a man with words alone—it was the most erotic thing she’d ever witnessed. Her breath tightened. Heat pooled low in her belly, a sudden, demanding throb.
“Here’s your accounting,” Nevaieh said finally, her voice husky with a hunger only Anaijiah recognized. She placed her palms on the splintered desk. “You touch her shop again, you even look at her cross-eyed, and I won’t burn this place down.” She smiled, a cold slit of promise. “I’ll buy it. I’ll turn it into a pediatric clinic and put your name on the donor plaque. I’ll make you a joke that lasts longer than your memory.”
Elroy’s bravado had shattered. He just stared, his mouth slightly open, sweat beading on his temples.
“We’re leaving now,” Anaijiah announced, as if bored. She turned her back on him, a move of supreme disregard, and walked toward the door. Nevaieh followed, her gaze sweeping over the paralyzed guards one last time.
They walked back through the silent club, past the terrified patrons, and out into the cool night. The Camaro waited, a sleek beast. Anaijiah hit the unlock button and slid into the driver’s seat. Nevaieh got in, closed her door, and the world sealed shut.
For a full minute, neither spoke. The adrenaline was a live wire in the confined space. Anaijiah’s hands trembled slightly on the wheel. Then Nevaieh moved.
She reached across the center console, her hand gripping the back of Anaijiah’s neck, and pulled her into a brutal, devouring kiss. It was all tongue and teeth and transferred rage. Anaijiah moaned into her mouth, her hands coming up to tangle in Nevaieh’s jacket.
“Drive,” Nevaieh gasped, tearing her mouth away. Her eyes were black, pupils blown wide. “Drive to your condo. Now. If you stop for a light, I’ll fuck you in this car.”
Anaijiah stomped on the gas. The Camaro peeled away from the curb with a shriek of rubber. She drove with a focused recklessness, weaving through traffic, the city blurring into streaks of light. Nevaieh’s hand stayed on her thigh, the grip tightening with every gear change, her thumb stroking relentless, possessive circles on the inside of her leg.
They made it to the Sunset Loft’s garage in a record-breaking seven minutes. Anaijiah barely parked before Nevaieh was out of the car, yanking open the driver’s door. She pulled Anaijiah out by her mesh top, the fabric straining, and pushed her against the cold concrete pillar. Her mouth found Anaijiah’s again, a hand groping between her legs, pressing hard against the denim.
“You were magnificent,” Nevaieh growled against her lips, her voice ragged. “The way you broke him… Jesus Christ.” She fumbled with the button of Anaijiah’s jeans. “I’m so fucking wet for you it’s embarrassing.”
They left a trail of clothing from the garage to the elevator: Anaijiah’s mesh top, Nevaieh’s jacket, a boot. The elevator ride to the seventeenth floor was a frantic, grappling prelude, Nevaieh pinning Anaijiah against the mirrored wall, biting at her neck, her hands everywhere.
The loft door slammed shut behind them. The vast space was dark, lit only by the ambient city glow. Nevaieh pushed Anaijiah back onto the large, low sofa that faced the windows. She didn’t bother with the rest of their clothes. She tore Anaijiah’s jeans and panties down her thighs and shoved her own aside.
She was on her immediately, no foreplay, no gentle pretense. She was a woman possessed. She slid down Anaijiah’s body and put her mouth on her, a hungry, open-mouthed feast. Her tongue was broad and flat, licking up the length of her slit before zeroing in on her clit with devastating precision.
“Fuck, Nevaieh!” Anaijiah arched off the couch, her fingers clawing at the cushions. The view behind Nevaieh’s head was the endless glittering grid of Chicago, a kingdom they were claiming bite by bite.
Nevaieh fucked her with her tongue, deep and sloppy, then sucked her clit hard between her lips. She moaned, the vibration traveling straight into Anaijiah’s core. It was rough, desperate, and over in minutes. Anaijiah’s orgasm ripped through her, a silent, breathless seizure, her heels digging into Nevaieh’s back.
Nevaieh crawled back up her body. Her face was glistening. “Not enough,” she panted. She flipped Anaijiah onto her hands and knees right there on the sofa, facing the windows. The city sprawled below them, indifferent. Nevaieh’s hand came down on Anaijiah’s ass, a sharp, stinging slap that made her cry out.
“You humiliated him with words,” Nevaieh said, lining herself up. She was so wet she slid against Anaijiah’s entrance easily. “Now I’m gonna humiliate you with my cock.” She wasn’t wearing a strap. It was the crude, filthy promise of it, the psychological ownership that made Anaijiah clench around nothing.
Nevaieh pushed two fingers into her mouth. “Suck. Get them wet.”
Anaijiah obeyed, swirling her tongue around the digits, coating them thoroughly. Nevaieh pulled them out and pushed them into Anaijiah’s cunt from behind, fucking her with them hard. Then she added a third, stretching her, the burn a bright counterpoint to the throbbing pleasure.
“You’re my secret weapon,” Nevaieh grunted, her fingers pumping. “My beautiful, vicious, smart-mouthed weapon. And this—” she curled her fingers, hitting a spot that made Anaijiah see stars “—this is where I store the ammunition.”
Anaijiah came again, violently, around Nevaieh’s hand, a guttural sob tearing from her throat. Her vision whited out at the edges. Nevaieh held her through it, then withdrew her slick fingers. She brought them to Anaijiah’s mouth again.
“Clean them,” she ordered, her voice thick.
Anaijiah turned her head, taking Nevaieh’s fingers into her mouth, licking her own combined taste from them. The submission was complete, voluntary, and it electrified them both.
Nevaieh pulled Anaijiah onto the floor, onto the thick rug. She laid back, guiding Anaijiah on top of her. “Ride me,” she said, her own need laid bare. “Take what you need. Show me what my weapon wants.”
Anaijiah positioned herself, sliding down onto Nevaieh’s waiting mouth. She rode her face with a slow, deep rhythm that quickly dissolved into frantic grinding. Nevaieh’s hands gripped her ass, holding her in place, her tongue a relentless instrument. Below her, Nevaieh’s own hips bucked helplessly against the air, seeking friction.
They came together, a tangled, shuddering mess on the floor, Anaijiah’s cries echoing in the high ceilings, Nevaieh’s moans vibrating against her. The aftershocks left them breathless, slick with sweat, limbs heavy.
The city lights still glittered, countless windows holding countless other stories. But here, on the seventeenth floor, the war had a new shape. It was forged in spit and defiance, in shattered desks and filthy kisses on concrete floors. Anaijiah lay in the silence, Nevaieh’s heartbeat thudding against her back, the new key on the counter glinting in the dark across the room. It was no longer just an invitation.
It was a map. And the territory was all theirs.