Chapter 4: Homecoming
The key turned in the lock with a soft, definitive click. The mansion’s silence greeted them, but it was a different silence now. It was full. The heavy front door thudded shut behind them, the sound absorbed by the plush rugs and high ceilings. They moved through the dim foyer, boots whispering on marble, both men shedding their hoodies, their movements tired but wired. The day clung to them—the sterile smell of the clean-up crew, the phantom recoil of the gun, the finality of a problem erased.
But that was out there. This was in here.
Junior nodded towards the staircase, a question in his raised brows. Rah just grunted, already taking the steps two at a time. The pull was gravitational.
They paused at the threshold of the bedroom. The door was ajar, a sliver of soft, golden light from a single bedside lamp cutting across the hallway floor. Rah pushed it open slowly.
And there she was.
Exactly as promised. Exactly as they’d craved.
She lay on her side in the center of the vast bed, one arm curled under her head, the other resting on the empty space between their pillows. The sheet was a puddle at her waist, revealing the smooth, caramel plane of her back, the dramatic dip of her spine, the full, perfect curve of her hip. Her hair was a dark river of curls spilling across the white linen. In the low light, she looked carved from something precious.
Rah felt the air leave his lungs in a slow, controlled exhale. Next to him, Junior shuddered, a full-body tremor that rolled through his shoulders. They both just stood there, drinking it in. The image from her text had been a tease. This was the reality. This was their reality.
Finally. Exactly what they’d always wanted. Not just a body in their bed. Her. Asleep. Waiting. Trusting.
Wordlessly, they began to undress. Belts unclasped with metallic whispers, jeans were shoved down and kicked aside. Boots thumped softly on the carpet. They stripped naked, the day’s tension shedding with their clothes.
The mattress sighed as Rah’s weight settled behind her, his big body curving to the shape of hers. Junior circled to the other side, sliding in facing her. The heat of her skin hit them like a physical wave. She was a living furnace, deep in sleep.
Their hands found her instantly, as if drawn by a magnetic pull. Rah’s palm flattened against her stomach, pulling her back into the cradle of his hips. His other hand slid up to cup her breast, his thumb brushing a nipple that tightened even in her sleep. Junior’s hand mirrored the path on the other side, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw before sliding down her neck, over her collarbone, coming to rest on her other breast. He leaned in, his lips finding the soft skin where her shoulder met her neck.
She sighed in her sleep, a soft, surrendering sound. Her body arched minutely into their dual touch.
Rah lowered his face to the nape of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, the clean soap from their shower, something uniquely her underneath. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss there, his tongue tasting salt and sweetness. Junior’s mouth was busy too, kissing a slow path up her neck to her jaw, to the corner of her mouth.
Her breathing changed. Hitched. Her eyelids fluttered.
“Mmm… Rah?” she murmured, the word slurred with sleep. Her eyes didn’t open.
“Right here, baby,” he growled against her skin, his hand flexing on her stomach.
“Junior…” she breathed out, turning her face a fraction toward his seeking mouth.
“I’m here, Mommy,” he whispered, and finally captured her lips.
She kissed him back, slow and deep, her body awakening under their hands. Her eyes remained closed, as if she were navigating a dream. Rah’s kisses traveled down her spine, one vertebra at a time, his hand leaving her breast to slide down the curve of her hip, over the swell of her ass. He gripped firmly, possessive.
“You did so good for us today,” Rah said, his voice a low vibration against her back. “That picture you sent? Drove me fucking insane all afternoon.”
Junior broke the kiss. “Yeah. Had to sit through a whole meeting thinking about you just like this. Naked in our sheets.”
“Missed you,” she whispered, the admission soft and true. Her hand came up, her fingers tangling in Junior’s dreads. Her other arm reached back, her hand finding the solid muscle of Rah’s thigh, holding on.
“You have no idea,” Junior muttered, ducking his head to take her nipple into his mouth. He sucked hard, and she cried out, her back arching sharply.
“No idea how long we’ve wanted this,” Rah finished, his own hand slipping between her legs from behind. She was already wet, hot silk against his probing fingers. He groaned, pushing one finger inside, then two, his own hardness pressing insistently against the cleft of her ass. “Our girl. In our bed.”
They took their time. There was no rush now. The frantic hunger of the first night had mellowed into a deep, consuming need to simply have, to touch, to imprint. Rah’s fingers worked her with a relentless, knowing rhythm, his mouth on her shoulder, her back. Junior worshipped her front, his mouth moving from her breasts to her lips to her throat, his hands exploring every inch he could reach.
She was lost between them, a vessel of sensation. She chanted their names like a prayer, her body moving against Rah’s hand, pushing back against his hardness, then rocking forward into Junior’s kisses. The coil of pleasure wound tight, tighter, fed from both sides.
“Who do you belong to?” Rah gritted out, his fingers curling inside her.
“You,” she gasped. “Both of you.”
“Say it,” Junior demanded, biting her lower lip.
“Yours,” she sobbed, the word breaking as the climax ripped through her. She shuddered violently, her inner muscles clamping around Rah’s fingers, her nails digging into Junior’s scalp.
They held her through it, their touches gentling but not stopping. The peak faded into a steady, warm hum. The urgent hunger slowly bled away, but their hands and lips didn’t leave her skin. They traced patterns on her damp back, placed soft, claiming kisses on her shoulders, her arms, the wings of her hips.
Spent and pliant, she let them arrange her. Rah lay back, pulling her so her head was on his chest, her back against him. Junior spooned in close behind her, his front to her back, his arm slung over her waist to rest on his father’s side. They were a tangled, satisfied knot of limbs and warmth.
The only sound was their slowing breaths and the faint crackle of the fireplace downstairs. Rah’s fingers combed through her curls. Junior nuzzled the space between her shoulder blades.
“Frank’s gone,” Rah said into the quiet, the words simple and absolute.
She went still for a second. Then a long, shuddering sigh left her, a release of a tension so old she’d forgotten she was carrying it. She didn’t ask for details. She just melted further into Rah’s chest. “Thank you.”
“Never gonna be scared again,” Junior promised, his lips against her skin.
She nodded, her eyes heavy. In the safety of their combined heat, in the fortress of their arms, the last shadow of her old life dissolved. She was here. She was theirs.
They watched her eyelashes flutter, then stay down. Her breathing deepened, turned slow and even. The faintest smile touched her parted lips.
Rah met his son’s eyes over the crown of her head. A look passed between them—triumphant, satisfied, complete. No words were needed. They had her. Home. Finally.
Junior’s eyes closed first, a peace on his face that was rarely there. Rah watched them both for a long time, the weight of her head on his chest a better anchor than any empire. He listened to her breathe, felt the steady beats of both their hearts against him. His own eyelids grew heavy.
He slept.
He slept. And a month dissolved like sugar in warm water, sweet and complete.
Arielle woke to sunlight, not dread. The massive bed was often hers alone these days, a sea of cool linen. She stretched, the silk of her shorts whispering against her thighs, and padded barefoot to the walk-in closet. Her closet. Her fingers trailed over rows of delicate fabrics—slips, silk robes, cashmere loungewear that felt like a breath against skin. She chose a robe of emerald green, tying it loosely. It slipped open as she moved, but she didn’t pull it closed.
Downstairs, the mansion hummed with a new energy. Maria was polishing the vast dining table, its dark wood gleaming. “Morning, Miss Arielle. Coffee’s on.”
“Thanks, Maria.” Arielle poured a cup, the rich scent mingling with the smell of lemon polish. The robe gaped, revealing the curve of her breast. Maria glanced up, gave a small, genuine smile, and went back to her work. No tension. No averted eyes. Just acceptance.
A massive arrangement of white orchids and deep red anemones sat on the island, a card leaning against the crystal vase. For our Queen. -R & J. She touched a petal, soft as skin. Weekly. Without fail.
Her phone buzzed on the marble. A notification from her bank. A deposit. Six figures. Just spending money. The black card with her name engraved lay next to her keys, a sleek matte black weight in her palm. Unlimited. The new car, a glossy black SUV with tinted windows, waited in the garage. All hers.
“Anything special for dinner, miss?” Maria asked.
“Maybe the truffle risotto? They said they’d be home by eight.”
“Of course.” Maria’s smile widened. The house had a rhythm now, a warmth that seeped into the cold stone. Even the other men—hulking, silent figures like Tarek who handled security—nodded respectfully when she passed. “Miss Arielle.” Their eyes might drop for a split second, taking in the robe, the bare legs, but it wasn’t leering. It was acknowledgment. She was the center. The queen. She felt the power of it, a quiet hum in her veins.
She spent her days learning the feel of it. Reading by the fireplace, one leg tucked under her, the robe falling open. Sketching in the sunroom wearing only a long, unbuttoned shirt. The staff moved around her, a gentle orbit. Sometimes Leo, the driver, would come in for instructions. “The car needs detailing, miss.” His eyes would stay firmly on hers, even as her shirt gaped. “I’ll take care of it, Leo. Thank you.” He’d nod, a flicker of appreciation there. For her, for the light she brought, for the view that was a privilege.
The need for them was a constant pulse. Their hands, their lips, the scratch of their beards. She craved it like oxygen. And she returned to them, always. She’d hear the garage door hum, the heavy tread in the foyer. Some nights, only one came home. Some nights, neither did.
She understood. The penthouse apartments. Other women. Bodies to use so they could keep their promise to her. A clean, transactional outlet for a need they wouldn’t stain her with. She never asked. Never winced when Rah came in at 3 AM, smelling of hotel soap and cold air, his hands scrubbed clean. She’d just lift the blanket. “Long night, baby?” He’d grunt, sliding in, his mouth finding her neck with a tired hunger. “Needed to clear my head. You know how it is.”
“I know.” And she did. She’d kiss his temple, run her fingers through his dreads. “Sleep now.”
Other nights, they both came home together, energy coiled tight from the streets. They’d shower immediately, the water running in the master suite for a long time. She’d wait in the bed. They’d emerge, skin flushed, wearing only low-slung sweats, smelling of their own sandalwood soap.
They’d look at her, a starving focus. “Come here, Mommy.”
It was a ritual. A worship. They laid her back against the pillows, their hands mapping her as if relearning sacred geography. But their mouths now… their mouths were new. Rah would lower his head between her thighs, his gaze locking with hers as his tongue traced a slow, devastating path. Junior would kiss her mouth, swallowing her gasps, his fingers threading through hers, pinning her hand gently above her head.
“That’s it, baby. Let go for us.” Rah’s voice, muffled against her skin, was a vibration that went straight to her core.
They learned her with a surgeon’s precision and a sinner’s devotion. They made her come with tongues and fingers until she sobbed, until the headboard tapped a frantic rhythm against the wall, until she was boneless and shimmering. They held her through the aftershocks, kissing her stomach, her thighs, her palms. They never crossed the final line. The promise was ironclad.
After, they’d curl into her, heavy and satiated. Junior would rest his head on her chest, his arm thrown over her waist. Rah would press against her back, his nose in her hair. “Our good girl,” he’d murmur. “Our queen.”
She’d stroke Junior’s hair, reach back to trace the lines of Rah’s jaw. “My boys,” she’d whisper back. They’d settle into her, the protectors protected, the hunters soothed. Her men. Her heart ached with the terrifying fullness of it.
One such night, after they had left her breathless and trembling between them, silence fell. The fire crackled. Junior traced circles on her hip.
“You never ask,” he said quietly, into the dark.
She knew what he meant. The nights away. The scent of other perfumes sometimes lingering faintly in their car. She looked at him, then at Rah over her shoulder. “Do you want me to ask?”
“No.” Rah’s answer was immediate, rough.
“It doesn’t touch this,” Junior said, his hand splaying possessively on her stomach. “It’s just… maintenance. For this. So we don’t fuck this up by being too hungry.”
She turned, facing Rah, then turned the other way to look at Junior. She kissed his forehead, a soft, lingering press. “Then I don’t need to know.” She saw the relief in their eyes, a vulnerability they showed no one else. They needed this purity, this one untouched thing. She was that thing.
They slept tangled, a three-part knot. She dreamed of orchids and infinite black cards and the safety of their weight. The mansion, once a monument to their power, was now a home. She was its beating heart.
She was its beating heart.
The silence after they fell asleep was a different creature now. It pulsed. She lay awake in the tangle of their limbs, feeling the heavy press of Junior’s thigh over hers, the steady drum of Rah’s heart against her back. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 4:17 AM. Streetlight filtered through the blinds, painting bars of weak gold across the rumpled duvet.
She slipped out from between them with a careful, practiced ease. They shifted, grunted in their sleep, but didn’t wake. She pulled on Rah’s discarded t-shirt from the floor. It smelled like him, like night air and expensive whisky. She padded downstairs, the marble cold under her bare feet.
In the cavernous kitchen, she filled the kettle. The click of the gas stove was unnaturally loud. She leaned against the island, waiting, watching the blue flame. The house was never truly dark. Security lights cast long shadows in the garden. She saw Tarek’s silhouette pass a window, a silent orbit.
A floorboard creaked upstairs. Then another. Slow, heavy footsteps. She didn’t turn.
Rah appeared in the doorway, shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low. His dreads were loose around his shoulders. He looked younger like this, stripped of the daytime scowl. He just watched her for a minute, his eyes dark pools in the ambient light.
“Can’t sleep?” he finally said, his voice sleep-roughened.
“Needed water.” The kettle began its low whistle. She turned it off. “You?”
He shrugged, a slow roll of one shoulder. He walked over, the space between them evaporating. He didn’t touch her. Just stood close, his heat radiating into her back. “Bed felt empty.”
She poured hot water over the chamomile tea bag in her mug. The scent bloomed, floral and soft. “You want one?”
“Nah.” His hands came to rest on the cold marble counter on either side of her, caging her in. He dipped his head, his nose skimming the side of her neck. “Smell like you. Smell like us.”
She leaned back into him. His arms slid around her waist, pulling her snug against his body. She felt him, hard and insistent even now. She let her head fall back against his chest. “You’re always ready.”
“For you? Yeah.” He nuzzled her neck. “Always.”
They stood like that in the silent kitchen. Her sipping her tea. Him just holding her, his breath warm on her skin. It was atesh of pure, uncomplicated possession. There was no demand in it. Just a claim.
“Had a thing tonight,” he said after a while, his voice a low rumble in his chest against her back.
She didn’t ask. She waited.
“Down at the docks. Some Jamaicans thought they could move product through our channels. Had to explain the rules.” His fingers traced idle patterns on her stomach through the thin cotton of the shirt. “Tarek handled most of it. But I had to be there. To watch.”
She placed her mug down, the ceramic click final. She turned in his arms. His face was shadows and sharp angles. She brought her hands up, cupping his jaw. Her thumbs smoothed over the tension in his temples. “You’re here now.”
He exhaled, a long, weary sound. He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing. “Talked too much. My head’s loud.”
“Come here.” She took his hand, leading him from the kitchen, through the dark living room, to the large, overstuffed sofa by the dead fireplace. She sat, pulling him down so his head was in her lap. He went willingly, a man who commanded armies dissolving into her touch.
She began with his temples again, the pads of her fingers pressing in slow circles. Then her hands slid into his dreads, massaging his scalp with a firm, knowing pressure. He groaned, the sound vibrating through her thighs.
“That’s it,” she murmured. “Let it go. Just here with me.”
His arm wrapped around her hips, his hand splaying possessively on her lower back under the shirt. “Your hands… fuck.”
“Shhh.” She worked the knots at the base of his skull. His breathing deepened. The angry line of his shoulders began to soften. She hummed, something tuneless and soft, a sound from a memory of being comforted. She didn’t even know she was doing it.
“Do that again,” he whispered.
“What?”
“The sound. In your chest.”
She hummed again, lower this time, a steady vibration. He turned his face, burying it against her stomach. His lips brushed her skin through the fabric. “Yeah. Like that.”
She lost track of time. His breath evened out. His grip on her loosened from possession to sleep-heavy hold. She thought he’d drifted off.
“Mommy?” The word was muffled against her.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Need you.”
She understood. It wasn’t sex. Not right now. It was affirmation. Life. She looked down at him. His eyes were open, looking up at her, stripped raw. This man who had ended a life for her today just needed to feel her alive.
“Alright,” she said, her voice soft but sure. She shifted, guiding him. “Sit up for me.”
He did, his movements sluggish. She stood before him, the shirt hem brushing her thighs. In the deep gloom, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties—a fragile lace thing he’d bought her—and slid them down.
In the deep gloom, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties—a fragile lace thing he’d bought her—and slid them down.
She stepped out of the pooling fabric, a pale circle on the dark floor. Then she climbed onto the sofa, knees sinking into the plush cushion on either side of his hips, and settled herself over his face. His hands immediately came up, grasping her thighs, holding her there as his mouth found her in the dark.
“Yeah,” he breathed out, the word hot against her. “This. Just this.”
His tongue was a slow, worshipping press. It wasn’t frantic. It was a communion. He licked into her with a deep, focused rhythm, his nose nudging against her, his breath mingling with her heat. She braced her hands on the back of the sofa, her head falling forward, a curtain of hair hiding her face.
“Taste like heaven,” he muttered, his voice distorted. “My own personal heaven. Cleanin’ all that bullshit right outta my head.”
She rocked against him, a soft, involuntary movement. His grip tightened, encouraging. The only sounds were the wet, intimate slide of his tongue and their ragged breathing. Streetlight caught the gleam of saliva on his chin when she glanced down.
“That’s it, baby,” he growled. “Feed me. Let me have it.”
She came with a quiet, shattered gasp, her thighs trembling in his hands. He didn’t stop. He worked her through the pulses, gentling his mouth but not relenting, drinking every shudder until she slumped forward, spent.
He finally let her go. She slid off him, boneless, onto the cushions beside him. He pulled her into his lap, cradling her, and kissed her deeply. She could taste herself on his tongue, salty and dark.
“Better?” she whispered against his lips.
“Perfect.” He rested his forehead against hers. “My fucking queen.”
They stayed like that until the sky outside began to lighten from black to deep blue. He carried her upstairs, back to the bed where Junior still slept. Rah placed her in the center and slid in beside her, pulling the duvet over them all.
“Love you,” he murmured into her hair, the words she’d never heard him say to another soul.
“Love you more,” she sighed, already half-gone.
When she woke again, it was to the smell of coffee and the sound of bickering.
“You used all the fucking cream, Rah. I saw the carton in the trash.”
“So send Leo to get more. It’s his job.”
“I wanted it now.”
She smiled into the pillow. She stretched, the sheets deliciously cool. Sitting up, she saw them both leaning against the kitchen island downstairs, visible from the bedroom’s balcony overlook. They were dressed for the day—dark jeans, boots, hoodies. They looked like warriors arguing over milk.
“There’s the half-and-half for cooking,” Rah said, shrugging.
“That’s disgusting. Tastes like plastic.”
“You’re a plastic-ass nigga, then.”
Junior threw a grape at him. It bounced off Rah’s chest. Rah didn’t even flinch, just sipped his coffee.
Arielle padded downstairs. They both turned. The morning light caught the silk of her short robe.
“Mommy,” Junior said, his annoyance vanishing. “Tell him he’s an animal for using the cooking cream.”
“He’s an animal,” she said obediently, walking to the espresso machine. She rose on her toes to reach a cup. The robe fell open. Two pairs of eyes tracked the movement.
“But a sexy animal,” Rah added, his gaze burning a path up her bare leg.
She made her coffee in silence, feeling their watchful heat. As she stirred in a teaspoon of sugar, Junior came up behind her. His arms slipped around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder.
“What do you want to do today?” he asked. “Besides us.”
She leaned back into him. “I don’t know. The garden looks lonely. Maybe some new plants for the terrace?”
“Done,” Rah said from the island. He was already tapping his phone. “Leo. Get a landscaper here by noon. The lady wants a garden.”
She shook her head, laughing softly. “You don’t even know what I want.”
“You’ll tell him when he gets here.” Rah put his phone down. “Pick whatever. Make it a jungle.”
After breakfast, they lingered. They had meetings, calls to make, a territory to manage. But they lingered. Junior played with the ends of her hair as she scrolled through her new phone. Rah leaned against the counter, just watching her.
“Gotta go,” Rah said finally, pushing off the counter. He came to her, tilted her chin up, and kissed her. It was hard and sweet all at once. “Be good.”
“Always.”
Junior’s kiss was slower, more thorough. “Think about me.”
“Only you,” she whispered, and it was mostly true.
The day bloomed, quiet and lazy. The landscaper arrived—a nervous man in khakis who jumped when Tarek opened the gate. Arielle walked him through the terraces, pointing to empty stone planters. “Something that smells good at night. And maybe some herbs?”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course.”
She spent the afternoon curled in the sunroom, the new sketchbook they’d bought her open on her lap. She drew the lines of the furniture, the way light fell through the panes. She drew from memory: Rah’s hands, Junior’s profile when he slept.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Rah. A picture of a dizzying array of diamond necklaces on black velvet. Which one screams ‘mine’?
She zoomed in. The third one, with the emerald drop, she typed back.
Five minutes later. Done.
Another buzz, this time from Junior. It was a video. He was in the back of the moving Escalade, the city blurring past. He held the phone close to his face. “Missin’ this pussy already,” he said, his voice a low, private rumble. The video cut off.
She felt a flush spread from her chest to her throat. She didn’t reply. She just saved the video.
They returned as dusk was painting the sky in bruised colors. They came in together, a wave of cold air and coiled energy. They’d been together all day, and it showed in their synchronized movements, their shared, silent language.
She was waiting at the top of the stairs. She’d changed into the emerald slip dress, the one that matched the necklace he’d just bought. It clung to every curve, thin as water. She saw the exact moment they spotted her. Their footsteps faltered. Their conversation died.
They just stared, their gym bags dropping from their hands onto the foyer marble with a dull thud.
“Hi,” she said.
Junior took the stairs first, taking them two at a time. Rah followed, a prowl in his step. They didn’t speak. Junior reached her first, his hands sliding up her bare arms to cradle her face. He kissed her, a deep, searching kiss that tasted of winter air and want.
Rah’s hands went to her hips, turning her gently so her back was to his front. His mouth found the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Fuck, baby. You tryin’ to kill us?”
“Just saying welcome home,” she murmured, her head falling back against Rah’s shoulder as Junior’s kisses trailed down her throat.
“Home is right here,” Rah growled, his hands slipping the thin straps of her dress off her shoulders. The fabric pooled at her waist. Junior knelt in front of her, his hands on her hips, his mouth already busy on her stomach, working lower.
“We been talkin’ about you all damn day,” Junior said, his voice muffled against her skin. “About how you looked sleepin’ this morning. About that video I sent.”
“Made the meeting hard. Literally,” Rah added, biting her shoulder. “Had to sit behind a desk. Thinkin’ about this.”
The dress fell completely. She stood naked between them at the top of the stairs, the chandelier casting her in fractured light. They worshipped her there, hands and mouths claiming every inch, until her knees buckled. Rah caught her, lifting her easily into his arms.
He carried her to the bed. They undressed quickly, a flurry of discarded clothes and urgent hands. They laid her out like a feast. And they ate.
Rah settled between her legs, his broad shoulders pushing her thighs apart. He didn’t dive in immediately. He looked at her, his dark eyes fierce with possession. “Our favorite meal,” he said, before lowering his mouth.
Junior lay beside her, kissing her, sharing her air, his hand pinching and rolling her nipple. The twin sensations were overwhelming. Rah’s tongue was a ruthless, dedicated thing, licking and sucking with a focus that made her sob. Junior swallowed the sounds.
“She’s so sweet, Junior,” Rah said, lifting his head for a second, his chin glistening. “Taste her.”
Junior moved down, trading places with his father. Rah moved up to kiss her, letting her taste herself on his lips. Junior’s mouth was hotter, more insistent. He groaned against her, the vibration shooting through her core.
“That’s it, baby, come on,” Rah urged in her ear, his fingers tangling in her hair. “Give it to him. Let him have it.”
She shattered again, a sharp, silent cry tearing from her throat. They held her through it, whispering praise against her damp skin. “Good girl.” “Our perfect girl.” “Fuckin’ paradise.”
Later, washed and soft and tangled in the middle of the bed, she traced the new tattoo on Junior’s bicep—a delicate, intricate crown. “When did you get this?”
“Last week,” he said, watching her fingers. “Had to.”
On Rah’s chest, over his heart, was a new one too: a single, script word. Arielle.
She stared at it, her throat tight. “Rah…”
“So I never forget what I’m fightin’ for,” he said simply, pulling her hand to his chest, letting her feel the beat under her palm. “You. This.”
They were quiet. The city lights glittered beyond the windows, a distant world of strangers and shadows. In here, there was only warmth and skin and the profound silence of being utterly claimed.
Her stomach growled, loud in the hush.
Junior chuckled. “We forgot to feed you.”
“I’m not hungry for food,” she said, nestling deeper.
“You gotta eat, Mommy,” Rah said, already reaching for his phone. “What do you want? Anything.”
“You,” she whispered.
“You got us,” Junior said, kissing her temple. “But you’re still gettin’ shrimp linguini from Venti. And that chocolate cake you like.”
Rah was already ordering, his voice a low rumble as he recited her favorite meal. She closed her eyes, listening. The sheets smelled like them. Her body hummed with their attention. The low throb of a car engine sounded outside, then faded.
It was just the three of them. Nothing else existed. Nothing else needed to.