Chapter 12: Parked Pleasures
The neon glow of Nevaieh’s Ink bled onto the wet pavement, the freshly painted phoenix and peacock murals on the window shimmering under the artificial light. Inside, the shop hummed with a different energy now—the frantic, satisfied quiet after a storm of creation. The last client, a nervy college kid with a sleeve of Anaijiah’s marine life designs, had left an hour ago, his eyes wide with a mixture of pain and pride. The scent of antiseptic and vanilla hung heavy, layered over the underlying, never-quite-gone smell of ink and blood.
Anaijiah leaned against her station, rolling the tension from her shoulders. Her hands ached with a familiar, earned pain. Kayla was meticulously wiping down her chair, her movements sharp with leftover adrenaline. Dove was already mopping the floor, the swish of the wet mop a soothing rhythm.
“You killed it today, boss,” Malik said, not looking up from where he was sterilizing a set of needle grips. “That water spirit piece on that girl’s back? Fucking pristine.”
“We killed it,” Anaijiah corrected, her voice hoarse from a day of talking over the buzz of machines. She felt a profound, bone-deep tiredness, the kind that came from pouring yourself into something real. For a few hours, in the focused silence of her work, the watchful men by the door had faded into the background. She had been just an artist again.
The bell on the door jingled, a sharp, intrusive sound.
Nevaieh stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the night. She wore a black leather jacket over a dark red shirt, the bandana a slash of crimson on her arm. Her eyes scanned the room, a general assessing her territory, before landing on Anaijiah. That look, the one that stripped away the artist and found the woman beneath, was instantaneous.
“Wrap it up,” Nevaieh said, her voice cutting through the post-work lethargy. It wasn’t a request.
Kayla’s jaw tightened, but she kept her eyes on her cleaning. Dove flinched, speeding up her mopping. Malik simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the shift in power.
Anaijiah took her time. She cleaned her own station with deliberate care, storing her machines, capping her inks. She felt Nevaieh’s gaze on her back, a physical weight. When she finally shrugged into her own jacket—a vintage leather piece covered in embroidered flowers—and grabbed her bag, she walked towards the door without a backward glance. She knew her crew saw the submission in her stride, the way she walked into Nevaieh’s orbit.
The night air was a cold slap after the shop’s warmth. A slick black sedan idled at the curb. Nevaieh opened the passenger door, a silent command. Anaijiah slid in.
The interior was warm, smelling of leather and Nevaieh’s faint, spicy cologne. Nevaieh got in the driver’s side, pulled away from the curb, and drove for a full minute in silence. The city lights blurred past, streaks of white and gold.
Then Nevaieh’s hand left the gearshift and came to rest high on Anaijiah’s thigh, her fingers digging in just enough to be felt through the denim. “You looked in there today,” Nevaieh said, her eyes on the road. “Behind that big window. All those people watching you work. Watching my artist.” Her thumb stroked the inner seam of Anaijiah’s jeans. “You were glowing. That fucking hair. That focus you get.”
Anaijiah stayed quiet, watching the grip of Nevaieh’s hand, the possessive press of it.
“When we get home,” Nevaieh continued, her voice dropping to a low, rough register that vibrated in the closed space of the car, “I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you for looking that good.”
A thick, liquid heat pulsed low in Anaijiah’s belly. She turned her head to look out the window, hiding the flush she knew was creeping up her neck. “That a promise or a threat?” she managed, her tone aiming for defiance but landing on breathy anticipation.
Nevaieh’s hand slid higher, cupping her between the legs, a firm, unmistakable pressure through the fabric. “It’s a fact.”
She removed her hand, returning it to the wheel. The rest of the drive was a slow-burn torture. Every stoplight felt interminable. The gentle sway of the car became a crude simulation. Anaijiah’s skin felt too tight, too sensitive. The memory of Nevaieh’s touch from the night before, the soreness between her thighs, was a live wire. She could smell her own perfume, the darkskin sunset roses, mingling with the scent of ink and sweat that clung to her from the shop. She could feel Nevaieh’s stare like a physical touch when she looked at her.
They didn’t speak again until the elevator doors closed on the penthouse floor. Nevaieh pinned her against the wall immediately, one hand circling her throat not to choke, but to hold, her body crowding Anaijiah’s. She kissed her, a deep, consuming invasion of tongue and teeth that tasted of mint and dominance. Anaijiah kissed her back, her hands fisting in Nevaieh’s jacket, a low moan trapped in her throat.
The elevator dinged. Nevaieh broke the kiss, leaving Anaijiah gasping against the wall. She took her hand, her grip firm, and led her down the hall, not to the bedroom, but straight into the spacious, minimalist living room.
“Right here,” Nevaieh growled, turning and pushing Anaijiah backwards onto the large, low-backed leather sofa.
Anaijiah landed with a soft gasp. Nevaieh followed her down, a knee between her thighs, forcing them apart. Her hands went to the buttons of Anaijiah’s jeans, yanking them open and dragging them down her hips along with her underwear in one rough motion. The cold air of the room hit her exposed skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of Nevaieh’s mouth.
There was no preamble, no gentle exploration. Nevaieh’s tongue was on her, in her, a brutal, licking thrust that had Anaijiah arching off the couch with a sharp cry. She sucked her clit between her lips, applying a steady, ruthless pressure, her tongue flicking rapidly against the sensitive nub.
“You been thinking about this all day,” Nevaieh muttered, her words muffled against Anaijiah’s flesh. “Sitting there, making your art, feeling this pussy get wet for me.”
“Yes,” Anaijiah gasped, her head thrashing against the leather. One of Nevaieh’s hands came up to clamp over her mouth, stifling her cries.
“Quiet,” Nevaieh ordered, before diving back in. She fucked her with her tongue, deep and messy, then concentrated on her clit again, sucking hard until Anaijiah’s hips were bucking wildly, her muted screams vibrating against Nevaieh’s palm. The orgasm hit her, a sudden, violent snap of pleasure that left her trembling, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
Nevaieh pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stood up, looking down at Anaijiah sprawled and exposed on the couch, her chest heaving. “Get up. On your knees. Facing the back of the couch.”
Anaijiah’s limbs felt like water, but she obeyed, pushing herself up and turning. She knelt on the soft leather, her ass in the air, her face pressed against the cool back cushion. She heard the rustle of Nevaieh undressing, the clink of a belt buckle.
Then Nevaieh was behind her, not with the strap, but with her own body. The feel of her, skin on skin, was different—more intimate, more vulnerable. Nevaieh’s hand gripped Anaijiah’s hip, her other hand guiding herself. The blunt, wet head of her pressed against Anaijiah’s entrance.
“You ready?” Nevaieh’s voice was a hot breath against Anaijiah’s ear.
Anaijiah nodded, pushing back against her. “Please.”
Nevaieh pushed inside in one long, slow, stretching glide. Anaijiah cried out, the fullness exquisite, the slight burn a delicious reminder. Nevaieh seated herself fully, letting Anaijiah adjust to the feeling of being utterly filled by her. Then she began to move.
Her thrusts were deep and measured at first, each one dragging against Anaijiah’s walls, each withdrawal a sweet, empty agony. She leaned over Anaijiah’s back, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her shoulder, her hands gripping Anaijiah’s breasts, pinching her pierced nipples through the fabric of her shirt and bra.
“This is what you wanted,” Nevaieh hissed, picking up the pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room. “Driving home, smelling yourself, knowing I was gonna wreck this pretty little cunt.”
“Yes, fuck, yes,” Anaijiah babbled, the vulgarity spilling from her freely. She pushed back against each thrust, meeting Nevaieh’s force with her own. The pleasure was a coil tightening low in her gut, a building pressure that threatened to break her.
Nevaieh’s hand snaked down from her breast, over her belly, through the slick wetness between her legs, finding her clit. She rubbed tight, fast circles just as she thrust particularly deep.
Anaijiah shattered. Her orgasm ripped through her with a force that blurred her vision, her inner muscles clenching around Nevaieh in rhythmic, milking pulses. A broken, sobbing cry tore from her throat.
Nevaieh fucked her through it, her own rhythm becoming frantic, jagged. “Whose?” she demanded, her voice strained.
“Yours!” Anaijiah gasped.
“Say it.”
“It’s yours, it’s yours, it’s all yours!” The words were a chant, a prayer, a surrender.
Nevaieh groaned, a raw, unfiltered sound, and drove deep one last time, her body shuddering as she came, her own release hot inside Anaijiah.
They collapsed together onto the couch, a tangled, sweaty heap of limbs. Nevaieh’s arm was a heavy, possessive weight across Anaijiah’s stomach. For long minutes, the only sound was their ragged breathing slowing, syncing.
Nevaieh turned her head, her lips brushing the shell of Anaijiah’s ear. “Tomorrow,” she said, her voice rough with satisfaction and something else—something perilously close to tenderness. “You got that convention. You’re gonna shine. And everyone there,” she paused, her hand splaying over Anaijiah’s lower belly, “everyone looking at you, wanting a piece of you… they’ll all know.” She pressed a soft kiss to Anaijiah’s shoulder. “They’ll all know you’re taken.”
Anaijiah closed her eyes, the weight of the words, of the body beside her, of the cum leaking from between her thighs, settling into her like a truth she could no longer fight. The crown was hers. The chain was hers, too. And in the quiet dark, the line between the two felt terrifyingly thin.
And in the quiet dark, the line between the two felt terrifyingly thin. Morning bled through the penthouse windows, a pale gold light that found Anaijiah’s head pillowed on Nevaieh’s bare chest. The rise and fall of her breathing was a steady, soothing rhythm beneath Anaijiah’s ear. A heavy arm was slung over her, possessive even in sleep. For a long moment, Anaijiah lay still, cataloging the aches—the pleasant burn between her thighs, the faint soreness in her jaw—and the strange, new peace that sat alongside them.
Nevaieh stirred, her hand sliding up to card through Anaijiah’s tangled curls. “You’re thinking loud,” she murmured, her voice sleep-rough and softer than Anaijiah had ever heard it.
“Just wondering if I can walk today,” Anaijiah replied, a small smile touching her lips.
Nevaieh’s chest vibrated with a low chuckle. “You’ll walk. You’ll just remember why you’re sore with every step.” She tilted Anaijiah’s chin up, her morning gaze intense but lacking its usual blade’s edge. “That convention’s today. You ready to show Chicago what my queen can do?”
The shop, when they arrived later that morning, buzzed with a different frequency. The two guards were still present, but they lingered near the door, a relaxed presence rather than a looming threat. The neon sign—Nevaieh’s Ink—hummed a vibrant pink against the grey day.
Inside, the change was palpable. Kayla had music playing from the speakers, a soulful funk mix that filled the space instead of the previous tense silence. Malik was laughing with a client, gesturing widely with a sketchbook. Dove looked up from the front desk, her smile genuine and quick. “Morning, boss! Your 10 AM just called, they’re running five minutes late.”
“Thanks, Dove,” Anaijiah said, the title feeling right, feeling earned. She walked to her station, running her fingers over the sanitized surface. The fear, the constant undercurrent of another Luc-style invasion, was gone. He’d been found in a dumpster off Halsted two weeks ago, two neat holes in his forehead. The message was received. The block was secure. Nevaieh had secured it.
Nevaieh followed her in, but instead of the tense inspection, she simply leaned against the doorframe of Anaijiah’s booth. She watched Anaijiah organize her pigments, her eyes holding a quiet pride. “You need anything today, you tell me,” she said, her voice carrying only to Anaijiah.
“I think we’re good,” Anaijiah said, meeting her gaze. She felt a surge of something warm and terrifying. “Thank you. For this.”
A ghost of a smile touched Nevaieh’s lips. She pushed off the frame and walked over, cupping Anaijiah’s face in her hands right there in the open shop. The crew politely looked away, but the tenderness was a public secret. “You built this,” Nevaieh said quietly. “I just removed the obstacles.” She kissed her, soft and lingering, before pulling away. “Make your art, babygirl. I’ll be back at seven.”
The day unfolded not as a performance under surveillance, but as pure, undiluted work. Anaijiah lost herself in the flow of ink and skin, her hand steady, her mind clear. The client for the convention preview piece was a gallery owner from the West Loop, and Anaijiah rendered a stunning, abstract fusion of Chicago’s skyline and Miami’s waves across her ribs. The woman was thrilled, her praises effusive.
“You have a gift,” the client breathed, examining the work in the mirror. “This place… it has a great energy. It feels safe.”
“It is,” Anaijiah said, and she meant it.
Later, as the late afternoon sun slanted through the muraled window, painting the floor in shades of phoenix red, Kayla sidled up to her at the sterilization station. “So,” she said, her voice low. “We not gonna get raided by rival dickheads anymore?”
“No,” Anaijiah said, washing the ink from her hands. “We’re not.”
Kayla nodded, a deep exhale leaving her. “Good. It’s about fucking time we could just work.” She bumped Anaijiah’s shoulder with her own, a familiar, easy gesture that had been absent for weeks. “You did that.”
Anaijiah shook her head. “We did.”
At seven sharp, the door opened. Nevaieh walked in, but she wasn’t alone. She carried a flat, large white box. Behind her, two of her crew followed with others. “Family dinner,” Nevaieh announced, a simple declaration that halted all activity. “From Poppi’s.”
The shop filled with the rich smells of garlic bread, marinara, and melted cheese. Malik whooped. Dove clapped her hands. They gathered around the reclaimed wood reception desk, boxes of pasta and salad spread out, laughing and talking over each other. Nevaieh stood slightly apart, leaning against Anaijiah’s station, but she was smiling, a real smile that softened the teardrop tattoo’s perpetual sorrow.
She watched Anaijiah hold court among her people, her ginger curls catching the last of the sun, her hands animated as she explained a technique to Kamiya. The look in Nevaieh’s eyes was one of pure, undisguised possession, but it had morphed, transformed from something that stifled into something that gleamed with pride.
Later, in the penthouse, the energy between them was different. The hunger was there, a constant low thrum, but it was layered with a new intensity, a recognition. Anaijiah pushed Nevaieh back against the bedroom door as soon as it closed. She kissed her with all the day’s triumph, tasting of wine and oregano.
Nevaieh yielded for a moment, letting Anaijiah lead, before spinning them and walking Anaijiah backward toward the bed. “You were a fucking vision today,” she growled, biting at Anaijiah’s lower lip. “Every person in that room wanted a piece of you. I saw it.”
“You were there?” Anaijiah breathed as her knees hit the mattress.
“In the back. Watching you own it.” Nevaieh’s hands tugged Anaijiah’s shirt over her head, her thumbs immediately circling the gold bars through her nipples. “My name is on that door. But everyone saw you.” She bent her head, taking a peaked nipple into her mouth, sucking hard, her tongue worrying the metal.
Anaijiah cried out, her fingers tangling in Nevaieh’s braids. “They saw my work.”
“They saw you,” Nevaieh corrected, moving to the other breast. Her hand slipped into Anaijiah’s jeans, her fingers finding her already wet. “This proud, perfect cunt is mine.” She pushed two fingers inside without warning, curling them. “Say it.”
Anaijiah bucked against her hand, the crude words stoking the fire in her gut. “It’s yours.”
“Louder.”
“It’s your fucking pussy!” she shouted, the declaration echoing in the room.
Nevaieh withdrew her soaked fingers and brought them to Anaijiah’s mouth. “Suck.” Anaijiah did, tasting herself, her eyes locked on Nevaieh’s dark, blazing ones. Then Nevaieh was undressing her, a fevered, impatient process of tearing denim and snapping elastic until Anaijiah was naked on the sheets.
Nevaieh stood at the foot of the bed, stripping herself slowly, her eyes never leaving Anaijiah’s body. When she was naked, she crawled up the bed, settling between Anaijiah’s spread thighs. She didn’t dive in immediately. Instead, she leaned down and kissed Anaijiah’s stomach, just above the line of her phoenix tattoo, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made Anaijiah’s breath catch.
Then Nevaieh’s mouth moved lower, her tongue tracing the intricate lines of sunset roses that bloomed across Anaijiah’s thigh. She kissed every ink line as if memorizing it, a worshiper at a shrine. When her lips finally met Anaijiah’s core, it was with a soft, open-mouthed kiss that was more reverence than ravishment.
The change in pace was devastating. Anaijiah whimpered, her hips lifting. Nevaieh held her down, her hands firm on Anaijiah’s hips. “Stay still,” she commanded, her breath hot. “I’m taking my time.”
And she did. She licked into her with a slow, languorous rhythm that felt like drowning in honey. She explored every fold, every sensitive nerve, with a patient, thorough attention that had Anaijiah pleading, tears of frustrated pleasure gathering in her eyes. Nevaieh would pause, blow cool air on her swollen clit, watch her shudder, then dive back in with renewed focus.
“Nevaieh, please,” Anaijiah sobbed, her fists clutching the sheets.
“Please what?” Nevaieh lifted her head, her chin glistening.
“Fuck me. I need you inside me.”
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Nevaieh’s face. She shifted her body, sliding up until they were face to face. She kissed Anaijiah, deep and wet, letting her taste herself. Then she reached for the nightstand, retrieving the harness and the favorite strap, the one that filled Anaijiah just right.
She took her time strapping it on, the deliberate click of buckles a torturous prelude. When she was sheathed, she knelt between Anaijiah’s legs, guiding herself to her entrance. She pushed in slowly, so slowly, until she was fully seated, their bodies pressed flush together.
She stilled, buried deep, and brushed the hair from Anaijiah’s face. “Look at me,” she said, her voice thick.
Anaijiah opened her eyes, swimming with need.
“This is yours, too,” Nevaieh said, her thrust beginning a deep, rolling rhythm. “All of this. Me. This.” She punctuated her words with a sharp, perfect stroke that hit a spot that made Anaijiah see stars. “Not because you’re scared. Because you earned it.”
The words unlocked something in Anaijiah’s chest. She wrapped her legs around Nevaieh’s waist, pulling her deeper, meeting each thrust with a desperate grind. The pleasure was a cresting wave, higher and harder than before, built on a foundation of something that felt dangerously like trust.
“Come on, baby,” Nevaieh urged, her voice breaking as her own control frayed. “Come on my cock. Show me.”
Anaijiah broke with a shattered cry, her body convulsing around Nevaieh in raw, pulsing waves. Nevaieh followed, her own release a guttural groan against Anaijiah’s neck, her hips stuttering as she drove deep one last time.
They lay tangled in the aftermath, slick with sweat, the only sound their ragged breathing slowing into sync. Nevaieh carefully withdrew, disposed of the harness, and gathered Anaijiah into her arms. She pulled the sheets over them, her hand drawing slow, absent circles on Anaijiah’s back.
Anaijiah listened to the strong, steady beat of Nevaieh’s heart. The crown no longer felt like a separate weight. It felt forged into her, a part of her skeleton, as intrinsic as her ink. And the chain that bound her to the woman beside her felt less like a tether and more like a chosen anchor, holding her fast in a dangerous, beautiful sea.