Chapter 6: 'Sit.' Nevaieh commands, peeling off her shirt to reveal the glistening tattoo. She hands Anaijiah the ointment, but when delicate fingers brush her skin, she grabs Anaijiah's wrist. 'Use your mouth.' Anaijiah obeys, licking slow stripes across the design until Nevaieh flips her onto the bed, snarling 'Now let me return the favor' as she rips Anaijiah's leggings down with her teeth.
The morning light through Anaijiah’s apartment windows was too bright, too cheerful. It felt like an accusation. She moved through her routine mechanically—shower, coffee, selecting her clothes. Her body felt heavy, saturated with the memory of the night before. The bite on her shoulder was a dark purple bloom beneath her tank strap. She touched it, a secret smile playing on her lips before she could stop it.
The shop buzzed with a different energy when she arrived. Kayla was already setting up her piercing station, her movements sharp, efficiency masking her disapproval. Dove was meticulously sanitizing the tattoo chairs, her eyes darting to Anaijiah with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety.
“You’re late,” Kayla said without looking up.
“By ten minutes,” Anaijiah countered, her voice light. She tossed her bag under the front desk.
“Your eleven o’clock is already waiting in the back.” Kayla finally glanced at her, her eyes landing on the fresh bruise peeking out from Anaijiah’s collar. Her lips tightened into a thin line. “She asked for you specifically. Said she had an appointment.”
A jolt, pure electric, went straight to Anaijiah’s core. She kept her face neutral. “Good. I’ll get set up.”
She walked to her private booth, her heart doing a slow, hard roll against her ribs. The privacy curtain was drawn. Anaijiah took a steadying breath and pulled it back.
Nevaieh sat on the edge of the padded chair, facing away. She was out of her usual red; instead, she wore a simple, tight black tank top and jeans. Her hair was down, a dark waterfall against her shoulders. She was studying a flash sheet of traditional rose designs on the wall.
“You said you’d come as a client,” Anaijiah said, closing the curtain behind her. The sound of the shop muffled, leaving them in a cocoon of soft light and sterile smell.
Nevaieh turned. Her eyes were unreadable, but the ghost of last night’s intensity hung between them. “I am a client.” She gestured to the blank space on her upper arm, over the dense tapestry of existing ink. “I want a rose. Here.”
Anaijiah approached, her professional mask slipping into place. She examined the area, her fingers, cool and clinical, tracing the skin. “Placement is good. The existing work won’t interfere. Style? You want it to match the traditional stuff you’ve got?”
“No.” Nevaieh’s gaze was fixed on her. “I want it to match yours.”
Anaijiah froze. Her sunset roses. The ones that stretched across her own thigh and back. The design was uniquely hers, a fusion of Miami vibrancy and personal symbolism. “My… my style?”
“Your roses,” Nevaieh confirmed, her voice low. “I want a piece of you under my skin. In my colors.”
The possessiveness of it should have been stifling. Instead, it felt like a key turning in a lock deep inside Anaijiah. A permanent claim. She nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay. Let me draw it up.”
She worked quickly, the familiar lines flowing from her pencil onto the stencil paper. She adapted her design, weaving in hints of deep red and black, making it harmonize with Nevaieh’s existing tattoos but keeping its essential spirit—the bold, almost alive quality of her own art.
When she showed Nevaieh the sketch, the woman’s expression softened for a fraction of a second. A bare flicker of something that looked like satisfaction. “Yeah. That’s it.”
The process was silent, intimate in a way sex hadn’t been. The buzz of the tattoo machine was the only sound. Anaijiah lost herself in the work, in the familiar pressure of guiding needle into skin, in the bloom of ink that was her own creation. Nevaieh sat perfectly still, her muscle barely twitching under Anaijiah’s gloved hand. Anaijiah was acutely aware of every breath Nevaieh took, of the heat radiating from her skin, of the powerful body sitting in complete submission to her craft.
Hours passed. When she finally wiped away the last smear of vaseline, the rose was stunning. A burst of sunset color against Nevaieh’s darker skin, its petals seeming to curl and unfold in the light.
“It needs to be wrapped,” Anaijiah said, her voice husky from concentration. “You know the drill. Keep it clean, ointment for a few days.”
Nevaieh stood, rolling her shoulder, examining the new ink in the mirror. She didn’t speak for a long moment. Then she turned. “You’re coming with me.”
It wasn’t a question.
“My shop…”
“Kayla can close up. Dove can clean. You’re done for the day.” Nevaieh’s tone brooked no argument. She pulled her tank top back on with a wince. “I don’t trust anyone else to do the first clean. You know the work. You do it.”
Anaijiah found herself nodding, already pulling off her gloves. She gave rushed instructions to a frowning Kayla, ignoring the unspoken warning in her friend’s eyes. She gathered her kit of aftercare supplies and followed Nevaieh out to the nondescript sedan.
The drive to the loft was quiet. The tension was different now—a thick, anticipatory hum. It was in the way Nevaieh’s jaw worked, in the white-knuckle grip she had on the steering wheel. The loft, when they entered, was as stark and imposing as Anaijiah remembered. The large window overlooking the city was bare, letting in the afternoon’s fading light.
“Sit,” Nevaieh commanded, pointing to a stool by the kitchen island. She pulled her tank top off again, moving with a stiff care. The fresh tattoo was an angry, beautiful red against her skin.
Anaijiah set her kit down, her hands surprisingly steady. She prepared the sterile soap, the warm water, the soft gauze. “This might sting.”
“I know what stings,” Nevaieh replied, her back to Anaijiah.
Gently, Anaijiah began to clean the tattoo, wiping away the plasma and excess ink. Her touch was methodical, professional. But the context stripped the clinical distance away. She was touching Nevaieh in her home, tending to a mark that was a copy of her own. Each pass of the gauze was a silent confession.
Nevaieh let out a slow breath. Her head was bowed, her shoulders taut.
“You okay?” Anaijiah asked softly.
“Just do it.”
Anaijiah finished cleaning and patted the area dry. She unscrewed the jar of specialty ointment, dipping her fingers into the cool gel. As she began to apply it, her fingertips smoothing the salve over the heated skin, Nevaieh shuddered.
A low sound escaped her, part sigh, part groan. It was a sound of relief, of surrender.
Anaijiah’s breath caught. Her fingers slowed. She was spreading the ointment in slow, deliberate circles now, feeling the powerful muscle beneath, tracing the edges of the rose she had created. Her other hand came up, bracing against Nevaieh’s opposite shoulder for balance.
Nevaieh’s hand shot back, gripping Anaijiah’s wrist. Not to push her away, but to hold her there. Her skin was fever-hot. “You’re playing with fire,” she murmured, her voice a ragged scrape.
“You asked me to do this,” Anaijiah whispered back, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“I asked you to tend the tattoo.” Nevaieh turned on the stool, pulling Anaijiah around in front of her. The movement was swift, jarring. The jar of ointment clattered to the concrete floor, forgotten. Nevaieh’s eyes were black pools, her control visibly fracturing. “Not to fucking worship it.”
“I’m not…” Anaijiah started, but the words died as Nevaieh leaned forward and crushed her mouth to hers.
This kiss was pure hunger, devoid of the earlier calculated gentleness or the punishing brutality of the warehouse. It was desperate. Nevaieh’s tongue plunged into Anaijiah’s mouth, claiming, tasting. Her hands came up, cradling Anaijiah’s face, her thumbs stroking her cheekbones with a terrifying tenderness.
Anaijiah melted into it, her hands finding Nevaieh’s bare waist, her fingers digging into the firm skin. She could feel the fresh tattoo under her palm, a raised, sensitive brand.
Nevaieh broke the kiss, her breathing harsh. She stood, pulling Anaijiah up with her. Without a word, she walked them backward until Anaijiah’s legs hit the edge of the large, low sofa. She pushed her down, following her, a dark shape blocking out the city light.
“You put your mark on me,” Nevaieh growled, kneeling over her. Her hands went to the button of Anaijiah’s jeans. “Now I put mine on you.”
There was no finesse, no slow seduction. Nevaieh yanked Anaijiah’s jeans and underwear down her hips in one rough motion. Anaijiah gasped, arching off the couch, her own need a sudden, wet ache between her legs. Nevaieh shoved her knees apart, settling between them. She looked down at Anaijiah, exposed and wanting, her expression one of raw, savage ownership.
“Look at you,” Nevaieh breathed, her own jeans still on, the rough denim scratching Anaijiah’s inner thighs. “Soaked already. Just from cleaning my skin.” She leaned down, her tongue tracing the shell of Anaijiah’s ear. “You like being my little artist? My little caretaker?”
“Yes,” Anaijiah moaned, the admission torn from her.
Nevaieh’s hand slid down Anaijiah’s stomach, through her curls, and found her swollen clit. She didn’t tease. She pressed the heel of her hand hard against it, a direct, grinding pressure that made Anaijiah cry out.
“Good.” Nevaieh’s voice was a guttural rasp. She drove two fingers inside Anaijiah without warning, a deep, punishing thrust that stretched her brutally. Anaijiah’s back arched, a scream catching in her throat. Nevaieh fucked her with her fingers, a relentless, piston-like rhythm, her palm grinding against Anaijiah’s clit with each stroke. “This cunt is mine. This come is mine. You understand? You drip for me. You scream for me.”
The words, filthy and possessive, unraveled Anaijiah completely. The pain of the stretch, the overwhelming friction, the sheer animal dominance of it—it shoved her violently toward the edge. Her climax hit her like a freight train, a wave of searing white that tore through her nerves. She convulsed, her walls clamping viscously around Nevaieh’s thrusting fingers, a wordless, ragged shout ripped from her lungs.
Nevaieh didn’t stop. She rode Anaijiah through the orgasm, her movements becoming harder, faster, as if trying to carve her way deeper. “That’s it,” she snarled, her own composure shattering. “Give it to me. All of it.”
She withdrew her slick fingers, and Anaijiah heard the frantic rasp of a zipper. Nevaieh shoved her own jeans down just enough to free herself. Anaijiah caught a glimpse of her, hard and thick, glistening at the tip. Nevaieh didn’t ask, didn’t prepare her. She lined up and drove into Anaijiah in one long, searing thrust.
Anaijiah choked, her body still spasming from the first orgasm. Nevaieh filled her utterly, a blunt, burning stretch that stole the air from her lungs. Nevaieh swore, a filthy, beautiful sound, and began to move.
This was different from the warehouse, different from the office. This was pure, unfiltered need. Nevaieh fucked her with a deep, grinding urgency, her hips slapping against Anaijiah’s thighs. Each thrust pushed a grunt from Anaijiah’s chest. Nevaieh leaned down, capturing her mouth again, swallowing her moans. Her tongue mirrored the thrust of her cock, a complete, overwhelming invasion.
“You feel that?” Nevaieh gasped against her lips. “That’s me. In you. My rose on my skin, my cock in your cunt. You’re fucking marked, Anaijiah. Inside and out.”
Anaijiah could only cling to her, nails scratching down the sweat-slick muscles of Nevaieh’s back, feeling the raised lines of the fresh tattoo under her palms. The friction was exquisite, a rough, transcendent burn. Another orgasm was building, coiling tight in her belly, amplified by the brutal fullness, by the crude, possessive words growled into her skin.
Nevaieh’s rhythm grew frantic, desperate. Her breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps. “Fuck… I’m gonna… I’m gonna fill this pretty cunt up,” she warned, her voice breaking.
That was all it took. Anaijiah shattered again, her vision whiting out as a second, more intense climax detonated through her. Her internal muscles fluttered and clenched around Nevaieh’s cock, milking her deep.
With a raw, broken shout, Nevaieh came. Anaijiah felt the hot, sudden pulse inside her, a flooding warmth that marked her as claimed as any bite or bruise. Nevaieh collapsed on top of her, her full weight pressing Anaijiah into the couch, her face buried in the crook of Anaijiah’s neck.
They lay there for long minutes, a tangle of limbs and spent breath, the only sound their slowing heartbeats and the distant hum of the city. The late afternoon light had faded into dusk, painting the loft in deep blues and purples.
Slowly, Nevaieh pulled out. The sensation made Anaijiah whimper softly. Nevaieh shifted, lying beside her, one arm slung heavily across Anaijiah’s stomach. Her eyes were closed, her face a mask of exhaustion and something else—a vulnerability so stark it made Anaijiah’s chest ache.
She reached out, her fingers trembling, and traced the fresh, gleaming rose on Nevaieh’s arm. The skin was inflamed, tender.
Nevaieh’s eyes opened. They were dark, unguarded, and shimmering with an emotion Anaijiah couldn’t name.
“It’s perfect,” Anaijiah whispered.
Nevaieh didn’t answer. She caught Anaijiah’s hand, brought it to her lips, and pressed a kiss to her palm. Then she turned her face into the cushion, hiding her expression. “Don’t go,” she muttered, the words muffled, almost inaudible.
It wasn’t a command. It was a request.
Anaijiah looked at the strong, wounded woman beside her, at the new tattoo that was a piece of her own soul now etched onto this brutal, beautiful canvas. She felt the ache between her legs, the wetness on her thighs, the profound, weary peace seeping into her bones.
She stayed.
The silence pooled around them, thick and warm as syrup. Anaijiah felt the weight of Nevaieh’s arm across her stomach, a anchor in the drifting quiet. Her own breathing slowed to match the rise and fall of the woman beside her.
Eventually, Nevaieh shifted, pushing herself up on one elbow. Her face was shuttered again, the vulnerability sealed away behind a cool, impenetrable gaze. She looked down at Anaijiah, her eyes tracing the lines of her body, the new bruises forming alongside the old. “Stay put,” she murmured, her voice rough.
She stood, naked and unselfconscious, and walked across the cool concrete floor to a small cabinet. Anaijiah watched the powerful muscles of her back and legs move, the new rose tattoo a vivid blaze on her shoulder. Nevaieh returned with a small, polished wood box and a lighter. She settled back on the couch, her thigh pressing against Anaijiah’s.
Inside the box was a meticulously rolled blunt. Nevaieh lit it, the end flaring orange in the dim light. She took a long, deep pull, holding the smoke in her lungs before letting it stream out slowly between her lips. She offered it to Anaijiah.
Wordlessly, Anaijiah took it. The smoke was earthy and sweet, calming the last tremors in her hands. She exhaled a soft cloud, feeling the tightness in her shoulders begin to unwind. They passed it back and forth, the shared ritual building a different kind of intimacy in the quiet loft.
“Where’d the phoenix come from?” Nevaieh asked suddenly, her fingers gesturing vaguely toward Anaijiah’s thigh. Her tone was casual, but her eyes were focused.
Anaijiah glanced down at the vibrant ink. “Miami,” she said, taking another hit. “Started it when I was eighteen. Finished the colors last year.” She handed the blunt back. “A rebirth. Leaving shit behind. You know.”
Nevaieh nodded, her gaze distant. “I know about leaving shit behind.” She took a drag, her eyes settling on the city lights beyond the window. “The teardrop,” she said after a moment, her voice lower. “Was for my brother. Malcom. He was fifteen.”
The raw fact hung in the smoke-filled air. Anaijiah didn’t offer pity. She just waited, her body still.
“Got caught in a crossfire over a corner he wasn’t even working.” Nevaieh’s thumb rubbed over the tattoo on her face, a subconscious gesture. “I was seventeen. Found the guy who pulled the trigger two weeks later.” She paused, the unspoken violence louder than words. “That’s when the family really took me in. The real family.”
She passed the blunt. Anaijiah connected the dots—the gang, the loyalty, the iron rule. It wasn’t just power. It was shelter forged in vengeance.
“The roses,” Anaijiah said, feeling the need to reciprocate, to give a piece of her own story. “My grandma grew them. She raised me. Miami sunset colors, every evening from her porch.” She traced a finger over the imagined lines on her own skin. “She died while I was apprenticing. This,” she gestured to the sprawling art on her side, “was my first big piece on myself. So I’d never forget that light.”
Nevaieh watched her, listening. It was a novel feeling, being listened to by her. Really listened to.
“You’re good,” Nevaieh stated softly. “Not just the art. The way you hold yourself. Even in that fucking warehouse. You weren’t broken.”
“I was scared shitless,” Anaijiah corrected with a weak laugh.
“Scared isn’t broken.” Nevaieh took the last pull from the blunt, extinguishing it. “Broken is quiet. You’re all noise. Even when you’re silent.” She turned, her body shifting on the couch. “Roll over.”
The command was quiet, but firm. Anaijiah, mellow and loose from the weed, complied, turning onto her stomach. The cool leather felt good against her flushed skin.
Then Nevaieh’s hands were on her. Not claiming, not taking. She started at Anaijiah’s shoulders, her thumbs digging into the knotted muscle with a firm, knowing pressure. Anaijiah moaned, her face buried in the cushion, as the tension began to melt under Nevaieh’s strong, sure touch.
“You’re all tight here,” Nevaieh murmured, her voice closer now. She worked down Anaijiah’s spine, her palms smoothing over the wings of her back, fingers tracing the intricate tattoos as if reading them. “Carrying the whole city on you.”
Her hands moved lower, over the swell of Anaijiah’s ass, down the backs of her thighs where the muscles were strained. She kneaded the soreness from Anaijiah’s body with a focused gentleness that was utterly disarming. This was a different kind of dominance. A care that demanded surrender just as completely.
When her thumbs brushed the sensitive, swollen flesh between Anaijiah’s legs from behind, Anaijiah jolted. It was an echo of the earlier violation, but transformed. Nevaieh’s touch was apologetic, soothing. She carefully rubbed a gentle ointment into the tender skin, her movements clinical yet intimate.
“I get rough,” Nevaieh said, her voice a low vibration in the dark. Her hand stilled, resting possessively on the curve of Anaijiah’s ass. “It’s what I know. It’s how I keep what’s mine safe in a world that’s always trying to take.” Her fingers traced a light, nonsensical pattern. “I see you, though. In your shop. Making your mark. It’s clean. It’s yours.”
She leaned down, her lips brushing Anaijiah’s shoulder blade, right over a cluster of inked stars. “This is yours. This peace. I’m not gonna fuck it up with my shit.” The confession was gruff, almost reluctant.
Anaijiah turned her head to look back at her. Nevaieh’s face was inches away, stripped of its usual armor. In the dark, she just looked young, and tired, and impossibly beautiful.
“Your shit is part of it now,” Anaijiah whispered. She reached back, her hand finding Nevaieh’s, threading their fingers together. “The rose is under your skin. I’m in your bed. That ship has sailed, Nevaieh.”
A ghost of a smile touched Nevaieh’s lips. She brought their joined hands to her mouth, kissing Anaijiah’s knuckles. “Then you better learn to sail in stormy weather, baby girl.”
She laid down beside her, pulling Anaijiah into her, fitting their bodies together like pieces of a broken whole. Nevaieh’s front molded to Anaijiah’s back, her arm a heavy weight across her waist. Her breath warmed the nape of Anaijiah’s neck.
“Sleep,” Nevaieh commanded, her voice already thick with encroaching exhaustion.
And Anaijiah did. She slept deeper than she had in years, wrapped in the scent of weed and sex and this formidable woman’s skin, the fresh ink on Nevaieh’s arm burning a promise into the dark.