Chapter 4: Breakfast of Champions
Weeks bled into a new, sun-drenched rhythm. Esme’s world narrowed and expanded simultaneously, centering on the axis of Ja’s penthouse. Her own apartment became a glorified closet and office; her life was lived in his space, amid the dark woods and the scent of him.
She cooked. Every day. Not just for him, but for the stream of his associates who moved through with a respectful nod to her. Malik, with his quiet eyes and efficient reports. Trey, loud and laughing, always complimenting her food. They were a constant, these men who treated Ja with a mix of reverence and familial ease, and who treated her like a prized fixture. She’d move around the sleek kitchen, flipping steak, stirring gumbo, frying plantains, while Ja held court at the island. His hand would find the bare skin of her thigh under her shorts, his thumb stroking idle circles as he discussed “logistics” in a low, even tone. Or he’d come up behind her at the stove, his body crowding hers, one palm sliding over her ass cheek, squeezing possessively as he reached past her for a bottle of water. No one blinked. It was just how things were.
They slept tangled. Some nights in his massive bed, some nights in hers. The result was the same: his big body wrapped around hers, a heavy arm pinning her to him, his hands always, always on her skin. One night, his palm would be splayed over the soft swell of her stomach. The next, his fingers would be tucked into the waistband of her panties, resting against the curve of her pubic bone. Another, he’d have her nipple pinched gently between his fingers as he slept, as if checking she was still there. She’d wake cocooned in his heat, his morning erection a firm pressure against her lower back, and feel a peace so profound it stole her breath.
They kissed like they needed it to breathe. A slow, deep good morning kiss tasting of sleep and mint. A quick, hard kiss against the fridge as she reached for eggs. A languid, exploring kiss on the sofa that left them both flushed and breathless, his hand buried in her hair, her fingers clutching his shoulders. In her head, the monologue played on a loop: My best friend. My crazy, touchy-feely, beautiful gay best friend. This is just how we are now. The fiction was a warm, comfortable blanket she pulled tightly around herself.
One afternoon, he was being particularly impossible. She was trying to chop vegetables for a salad, and he wouldn’t stop. He’d nuzzle her neck, bite her earlobe, his hands roaming under her tank top to palm her breasts, his thumbs rubbing her nipples to stiff peaks through the lace of her bra.
“Ja, stop,” she laughed, squirming. “I’m trying to cook. You’re worse than Shadow.”
He ignored her, sucking a mark onto the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder. “You taste better than whatever you’re making.”
“You’re so full of it.” She tried to elbow him, but he caught her wrist, pinning it to the counter, his body trapping hers. “Seriously, you act like you’re my damn bae or something.”
He went still. Then he pulled back just enough to look down at her, his dark eyes unreadable. He released her wrist, his hand coming up to cup her jaw. “What’d you call me?”
She blinked, the casual slang hanging in the air between them. “Nothing. I just meant you’re clingy. Like a boyfriend.”
“Bae,” he repeated, the word a rough, considering sound in his mouth. A slow smile, one of his rare, true ones, touched his lips. It transformed his face, softening the hard lines, making the scar seem less severe. “I like that.” He kissed her, a swift, claiming press of his lips. “Say it again.”
“Bae,” she whispered, feeling a silly, thrilling flutter in her chest.
He nodded, as if approving. “Mama and Bae. Yeah.” From that moment, it stuck. “Bae, pass the salt.” “Bae, your phone’s buzzing.” “Come here, Mama.” It became their currency, their private language.
He still hadn’t crossed the final line. His touches were everywhere, intimate and demanding, but he hadn’t pushed inside her. He seemed content, in a way she couldn’t quite fathom, to just… enjoy her. To savor the feel of her skin under his palms, the taste of her lips, the food she made with her hands, the sound of her voice reading her drafts aloud, the warm weight of her curled against him in the dark. He was a man indulging in a feast, taking his time with every course. And she, in her happy delusion, was just enjoying the company of her best friend.
They were both, in their own ways, utterly happy.
Then, one Tuesday morning, the rhythm shifted a degree. He was dressed for the day, all black and severe lines, checking his watch. She was in one of his old tees, her hair a mess, seeing him off at the door. She went up on her toes to kiss him, a soft, sleepy peck.
He kissed her back, deeper, his hand cradling the back of her head. When he pulled away, he looked down at her, his expression serious. “I love you,” he said, the words dropping into the quiet hallway like stones into still water. They weren’t whispered. They were stated. A fact.
Her breath caught. Her mind, always so quick with the best-friend narrative, scrambled. He was looking at her, waiting, his gaze steady and patient. The silence stretched. He didn’t move. He just waited.
And she did love him. He was her best friend. Her person. The only real home she’d ever known. The words felt true, so they tumbled out. “I love you, too, Bae.”
Something in his posture, a tension she hadn’t even noticed, unlocked. He nodded once, a satisfied, final gesture. He kissed her forehead. “Be good. I’ll be back for dinner.”
And just like that, it was part of the norm. “Love you, Mama,” he’d grunt, heading out to the gym. “Love you, Bae,” she’d sigh, snuggling into his chest at night. It was woven into the fabric of their days, a constant, warm thread alongside the cooking, the groping, the kissing, the sleeping tangled together. A perfect, complete, and beautifully fragile lie they both chose to live inside.
A perfect, complete, and beautifully fragile lie they both chose to live inside. It was within this lie that Esme began to nest. It started subtly, a quiet rebellion against the penthouse’s severe elegance. She bought a large, leafy fiddle-leaf fig in a woven basket and placed it in a corner of the living room where the morning light hit.
Ja came home that evening, his eyes scanning the new green presence. He said nothing. He just walked over, ran a thumb along a broad leaf, and nodded once. Permission. Encouragement. The next week, a large, framed art calendar appeared on the kitchen wall, filled with her sprawling notes about deadlines and his more cryptic notations. He added a dentist appointment in his tight, blocky script.
Then came the throw blanket, a ridiculously soft, chunky knit in deep burgundy, draped over the back of his black leather sofa. He found her wrapped in it one evening, reading. He lifted a corner of the blanket, slid in beside her, and pulled her into his heat. He buried his face in her hair and breathed deeply. “Smells like you now,” he grunted. “Good.”
Her things began to colonize the space. A ceramic jar for wooden spoons by the stove. A set of vibrant hand-blown glasses in the cabinet. A second toothbrush, then a third, then a collection of her hair products lining his shower shelf. He never commented. He simply made space, moving his own things aside with a casualness that felt more profound than any declaration. This was hers because she was his. The logic was immutable.
One evening in late November, the air turning sharp, they were finishing a simple meal of roasted chicken. Malik and Trey were there, plates clean, leaning back in their chairs. The conversation had been easy, winding from business to basketball.
Trey stretched, patting his stomach. “Alright, Mama. That hit the spot. But the real question is… what’s the move for Thanksgiving? You got the menu locked in yet?”
Esme froze, a fork halfway to her mouth. She hadn’t thought about it. Thanksgiving had always been a non-event, a quiet day of frozen pizza and ignored phone calls, a holiday that highlighted every family fracture.
Ja’s hand, which had been resting on her thigh, squeezed gently. He was watching her, his expression unreadable.
“Yeah,” Malik chimed in, his voice quieter but just as certain. “Gotta know what we’re contributing. My aunt makes a mean sweet potato pie, but I gotta call in the order early.”
She looked from Malik’s expectant face to Trey’s grinning one, then finally to Ja. His dark eyes held hers, steady and sure. They all waited. It wasn’t a question. It was an assumption. A given. She was cooking. For them. For this… family.
Her throat tightened. A wave of panic, warm and dizzying, washed over her. Then, beneath it, a fierce, protective surge rose. Her kitchen. Her people. She would feed them.
“Right,” she said, her voice only wavering for a second. She put her fork down. “Okay. We’re doing a proper spread. Brined turkey, obviously. My grandma’s cornbread dressing with oysters. Not that boxed stuff.” She pointed a finger at Trey, who held up his hands in mock surrender. “Collards with smoked turkey necks. Mac and cheese from scratch, the kind that takes five cheeses. Candied yams, not that marshmallow crap.”
She was gaining steam, the menu unfolding like a beloved story in her mind. Ja’s thumb was stroking circles on her leg now, a silent applause.
“Giblet gravy. Fresh yeast rolls. And for dessert…” She looked at Malik. “Your aunt’s pie, absolutely. And I’ll do a bourbon pecan pie and a pumpkin cheesecake.”
A slow smile spread across Trey’s face. Malik nodded, satisfied. Ja’s hand slid higher up her thigh, under the hem of her dress, his warm palm branding her skin.
“See?” Ja said, his voice a low rumble meant only for her, though the whole table heard. “Told you she had it.”
The planning consumed her. Lists covered the calendar. Grocery deliveries arrived daily. The penthouse, already smelling of her and her plants, now held the warm scents of toasted pecans and simmering stock. The night before, she was a whirlwind in the kitchen, prepping components, her movements efficient and focused.
Ja leaned against the island, watching her. He’d been quiet, a solid, observant presence. “You’re in your element,” he stated.
“It has to be perfect,” she said, whisking a custard for the cheesecake with intense concentration.
“It will be.” He pushed off the counter and came behind her, his body caging her against the stove. His hands came around her waist, sliding up to cup her breasts through her thin shirt. He bent, nuzzling her neck. “You’re perfect.”
His touch, usually so grounding, felt like a distraction. A delicious, burning distraction. “Ja, I have to…”
“You have to take a break.” His fingers found her nipples, pinching them slowly through the fabric until she gasped. “Right now.”
He turned her around, lifting her effortlessly to sit on the cleared edge of the island. The stainless steel was cool against her thighs. He stepped between her legs, his hands pushing her knees apart. His gaze was dark, hungry, stripped of all patience.
“I need you,” he said, the words raw. “I’ve been watching you all day, building this for us. I need to taste it.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He hooked his fingers in the sides of her panties and pulled them down, leaving them tangled around one ankle. He pushed her dress up around her waist, exposing her completely to the kitchen’s light. She was already wet, her arousal betraying her focus.
He dropped to his knees on the hard floor. His large hands gripped her thighs, spreading her wider. He didn’t tease. He leaned forward and licked a long, slow stripe from her entrance to her clit.
She cried out, her hands flying to his head. He groaned against her, the vibration making her hips jerk. “Fuck, you taste good. Always so fucking sweet for me.”
Then he ate her with a single-minded intensity that shattered the last of her thoughts about brines and baking times. His tongue was relentless, circling her clit, then plunging deep inside her, fucking her with his mouth. He used his lips, his teeth, gentle nips that made her shriek. He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that had her seeing stars.
“Ja… oh God… right there…” Her words were incoherent pleas. She fisted his hair, holding on as the tension coiled unbearably tight in her belly. He slid two thick fingers inside her, curling them, finding a spot that made her back arch off the counter. He pumped his fingers in time with the suction of his mouth.
It was too much. The sensory overload—the cool steel, his hot mouth, the scent of food and sex—crashed over her. Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, silent wave that clenched around his fingers and left her trembling, gasping for air.
He rose, his lips glistening. He unfastened his pants, freeing his erection, thick and flushed and urgent. He nudged the head against her soaked entrance. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice ragged.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his fierce gaze. He pushed inside with one brutal, complete thrust, seating himself to the hilt. She cried out again, the fullness a shocking, perfect relief.
“Mine,” he growled, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “This pussy. This dinner. This whole fucking life. Mine.”
He set a punishing pace, his hips pistoning, each drive knocking a soft gasp from her lungs. The kitchen echoed with the sounds of their bodies meeting, his grunts, her moans. He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the counter beside her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.
“You gonna cook for my family tomorrow?” he rasped, his breath hot on her face.
“Yes,” she panted.
“You gonna be my good girl?”
“Yes! Yes, Bae, please…”
He changed his angle, hitting a deeper spot, and her vision whited out. Another orgasm, sharper than the first, began to crest. He felt it, felt her clenching around him like a vise. “Come on,” he urged, his rhythm faltering. “Come on my dick. Let me feel it.”
She shattered, a raw scream tearing from her throat as the waves convulsed through her. With a final, guttural groan, he followed her, pumping his release deep inside her, his body shuddering against hers.
They stayed like that for long moments, joined, breathing raggedly in the fragrant, disordered kitchen. He finally softened and slipped out. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.
“Tomorrow,” he said quietly, “is gonna be perfect.”
And she knew it would be. Because it was theirs.
Because it was theirs.
He helped her down from the counter, his hands lingering on her waist. She wobbled, her legs unsteady. Without a word, he lifted her, cradling her against his chest, and carried her through the penthouse to the oversized shower. The steam rose around them. He washed her slowly, meticulously, his big hands smoothing soap over every curve, rinsing away the evidence of their frenzy. He toweled her dry with the same focused care, then wrapped her in his robe, the black terrycloth swallowing her whole.
They ended up on the living room sofa, the burgundy throw tangled around them. She was curled into his side, her head on his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart. The peace was absolute, a blanket of silence woven from spent passion and shared purpose. His fingers traced idle patterns on her shoulder.
“You know,” she said, her voice quiet in the dim room. “I never… before you. In the kitchen. Or ever.”
His hand stilled. The silence shifted, thickening. He didn’t pull away, but the energy around him changed, coiling into a different kind of attention. “Never?”
She shook her head against his chest, a flush of heat creeping up her neck. “Nope. Card-carrying member of the club.”
“Why?” The word was soft, but it demanded.
She let out a small, shaky laugh. “Lots of reasons. My dad… he made men seem like a bad bet. And then I got successful, and it was easier to just write about it. Live in my head.” She paused, the next confession clinging to the roof of her mouth. “And… I thought you were gay, Ja.”
This time, he did move. He shifted, sitting up, turning her to face him. His expression was unreadable in the shadows. “You thought I was gay.”
“Well, yeah!” The words tumbled out now, propelled by nervous energy. “You never had women around. Not like that. You were just… you. And you were my best friend. And you never made a move, not for months. It made sense. It made me feel safe with you.”
He stared at her for a long, long moment. Then a sound escaped him—not a laugh, but a rough exhale of pure disbelief. “You thought I was gay.” He repeated it like he was deciphering a complex code. “All this time. While I was losing my goddamn mind trying to figure out how to have you without scaring you off. While I was putting you in my bed, touching you, smelling you on everything I own. You thought I liked dick.”
The way he said it, so blunt and frustrated, made her wince. “It wasn’t an insult! It was just… my reality. My safe place.”
“Safe,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. The scar stretched with the motion. He looked back at her, his eyes blazing with a intensity that stole her breath. “I ain’t gay, Esme. And I ain’t bi. I’m yours. That’s the only direction I’ve ever pointed where you’re concerned. Since the day you argued with me about that damn book price in the coffee shop.”
The truth of it, the sheer magnitude of his focused desire, crashed over her. All those lingering touches, the possessive stares, the simmering tension she’d explained away. It hadn’t been friendship. It had been hunger on a slow, controlled burn. “But… the waiting? You could have… anytime.”
“You weren’t ready,” he said, as if it were the simplest equation in the world. “You were building a world in your head where I was harmless. I had to live in it until you were strong enough in what we were to handle what I am. A virgin thinking I’m gay…” He shook his head again, that disbelief returning. “I needed you sure. I needed you to choose this, choose me, even with your fucked-up logic. So I waited.”
Tears, hot and sudden, filled her eyes. Not from sadness, but from the overwhelming force of his calculation, his patience. He had seen every piece of her broken board and patiently, strategically, rebuilt the game around her. “I chose you a long time ago,” she whispered. “I just didn’t know the rules.”
A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. He reached out, his thumb catching a tear as it fell. “Rules are simple now. You’re mine. This,” his hand slid inside the robe, palming her breast, his thumb rubbing her nipple, “is mine.” His other hand pushed the robe apart, sliding down her stomach, through her curls, until his fingers parted her. She was still sensitive, swollen from his earlier attention. “This sweet, tight, virgin pussy is mine. Only mine. You understand?”
She gasped as his finger circled her clit, a sharp bolt of renewed desire shooting through her. “Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
He pushed two fingers inside her, a swift, claiming penetration. She cried out, her body arching. “And what am I?”
“Mine,” she breathed, the word a revelation.
“Damn right.” He withdrew his fingers, brought them to his mouth, and sucked them clean, his eyes locked on hers. Then he pushed the robe completely off her shoulders, baring her to the waist. “On your knees. Turn around.”
She obeyed, her heart hammering. She got on her knees on the soft rug, facing the back of the sofa. She heard the rustle of his clothes, the tear of a foil packet. Then his hands were on her hips, pulling her back. The broad, blunt head of his cock nudged against her entrance.
“No more waiting,” he growled. And he slammed into her.
It was deeper, harder than in the kitchen. A raw, unfiltered claiming. There was no gentle easing, no careful pace. He filled her completely, a stretch that burned in the most exquisite way. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting her feel every inch. “This is what I wanted. Every day. This right here.”
Then he began to move. Short, punishing thrusts that stole the air from her lungs. His grip on her hips was iron, holding her in place for his use. The sounds were obscene, wet and slapping, filling the quiet room. He leaned over her, his chest hot against her back, his mouth at her ear.
“You thought I wanted to be your girlfriend?” he rasped, each word punctuated by a drive of his hips. “I want to be your fucking everything. Your man. The reason you breathe. The only dick you ever get.”
“You are,” she sobbed, the pleasure a tight, coiling spring about to snap. The vulgarity, the sheer possession in his words, ignited her.
“Come on,” he demanded, his hand snaking around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed rough, tight circles. “Come on my dick. Show me who you belong to.”
It broke her. The orgasm ripped through her with a violence that made her scream into the cushion, her muscles clamping around him in rhythmic, milking pulses. With a final, guttural shout, he followed, his thrusts losing rhythm as he emptied himself into her, his body shuddering against hers.
He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the sofa. They stayed like that, joined, for a long time, the only sound their ragged breathing. Slowly, he pulled out and turned her, gathering her into his arms. He looked down at her, his expression stripped bare of all its usual control. It was just raw, undisguised truth.
“No more lies,” he said, his voice rough. “Not from you, not in your head. You’re mine. I’m yours. That’s the only story we’re writing now.”
She touched his face, her fingers tracing the scar, the stubble, the beautiful, severe lines of him. “Okay, Bae.”
He caught her wrist, kissed her palm. “Okay, Mama.”
And it was.