Chapter 4: Grandma's House, Daddy's Rules
The door clicked shut behind them and Kymani didn't even give him a second to breathe.
Her hand found his wrist and she was pulling him through the dark living room, past the floral couch and the doilies and the framed photos of Wendy's church group, past the coffee table with its little dish of butterscotch candies, and Ritchie was stumbling after her, his boots loud on the hardwood, his heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out.
"Kymani—"
"Shut up."
She dragged him down the hallway. The guest room was at the end, past the bathroom, past a linen closet that smelled like lavender, and the door was already cracked open like she'd planned this, like she'd known exactly how the night was going to end before she even ordered the lamb.
She shoved him onto the bed.
He landed on his back on Wendy's spare quilt, a handmade thing with little crosses stitched into the pattern, and before he could sit up Kymani was on him—knees on either side of his hips, dress already bunched around her waist, her hands on his chest pushing him flat.
"You good?" she asked, and her voice was rough, breathless.
"Yeah."
"You sure? Cause I'm about to—"
"I'm sure."
She grinned down at him. In the dim light from the hallway she looked like something out of a dream—half shadow, half skin, her curls falling loose around her face and her lips still swollen from the parking lot.
"Good," she said. "Cause I been thinking about this since the restaurant."
"You have?"
"Nigga, I been thinking about this since you walked into the station looking like a whole snack."
Ritchie's ears went hot. "I—"
"Don't get shy on me now, daddy." She leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep, and her hips rolled against his and he felt his whole body twitch. "You been doing so good. Don't ruin it."
Something in him hardened at that. Something that wasn't his dick, though his dick was definitely paying attention too. Something in his chest, in his gut, that didn't want to be told what to do. Something that wanted to be the one giving orders.
He sat up. Kymani made a surprised sound and grabbed his shoulders for balance, and he took advantage of the motion to flip them both—her on her back now, him braced over her, one hand planted on either side of her head.
"Whoa," she said.
"Yeah." His voice came out lower than he expected. Rougher. "Whoa."
She stared up at him, eyes wide.
Then she smiled. Slow and sharp and pleased.
"There he is," she said. "There's the nigga I been waiting for."
Ritchie didn't answer. He just kissed her—harder this time, with teeth—and his hands went to her dress. The fabric was thin, some kind of clingy material that felt expensive even though he knew it probably wasn't, and he pushed it up her body until she had to sit up and let him pull it over her head.
Underneath she was bare. No bra, just those pierced nipples that had been teasing him all night through the dress, and Ritchie had to stop for a second. Just look at her.
"What?" she asked, and for the first time all night she sounded uncertain.
"Nothing." He shook his head. "You're just—"
"Just what?"
"Really fucking pretty."
She blushed. Actually blushed, pink rising up her neck and into her cheeks, and Ritchie filed that away for later—the way Kymani Jenkins, who called him a nigga to his face and told him he was boring for ordering chicken parm, could be undone by a compliment.
"Shut up," she mumbled.
"Make me."
She grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked, and buttons scattered. Ritchie heard them ping off the nightstand, off the floor, and he didn't care. Didn't care that he'd have to explain it to his mom or buy a new uniform shirt or whatever. All he cared about was getting his clothes off and getting inside her.
His pants were next. Kymani's fingers worked the button and the zipper and then she was pulling, tugging denim down over his hips, and he helped her kick them off and then—
She froze.
Ritchie looked down. His boxers were still on. But there was no hiding anything, not the way he was straining against the cotton, not the wet spot where he'd been leaking through the fabric, not the sheer length of it curving up toward his stomach.
"Oh my god," Kymani said.
"What?"
"That's—" She swallowed. "Nigga, that's not a dick. That's a whole arm."
Ritchie felt his ears go red again. "It's not that—"
"Not that big? Nigga, please." She reached out and touched him through the boxers, just her fingertips along the length, and Ritchie had to close his eyes. "You got a third leg. You got a whole extra person in there."
"I—"
"Take these off." She hooked her fingers in the waistband. "I gotta see it."
He helped her. The boxers came down and his cock sprang free and Kymani actually gasped. Audibly. Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes went wide and she stared at it like it was something from another planet.
"Uncut," she said. "And—and you're—nigga, you're gonna kill me."
"We don't have to—"
"Don't you dare." She grabbed his wrist and pulled him down on top of her. "Don't you dare say we don't have to. I want this. I want you. You just—you gotta be careful with me, okay? I ain't never had nothing like this."
Ritchie looked down at her. At this girl who put up so many walls, who talked so tough, who acted like nothing could touch her. And here she was, under him, looking up at him with something that looked a lot like fear.
"Okay," he said.
"You promise?"
"Yeah."
She nodded. Then she reached up and took his face in both hands.
"But don't be too careful," she said. "I don't want polite. I don't want nice. I want you to fuck me like you mean it. I want you to—" She bit her lip. "I want you to be in charge."
Ritchie blinked. "What?"
"In charge. Take charge. Manhandle me. Do whatever you want to me. I ain't gonna break."
He should have been shocked. He should have pulled back and asked if she was sure, if she really meant it, if she knew what she was asking for. That's what nice guys did, right? That's what good men did.
But something behind his eyes went dark. Something hungry. Something that had been waiting.
"Roll over," he said.
Kymani's breath caught.
"What?"
"You heard me." His voice was flat. Calm. The kind of voice he used on drunk drivers and domestic disturbance calls. "Roll over. On your stomach."
"You didn't even ask—"
"You told me not to ask." He grabbed her hip and flipped her himself, and she yelped, and he dragged her up to her knees. "You told me to manhandle you."
She looked back at him over her shoulder, and her eyes were huge and dark and so goddamned turned on that Ritchie felt dizzy.
"You been listening," she said.
"I always listen."
He looked down at her. At the curve of her spine, at the round swell of her ass, at the wetness already visible between her legs. She was dripping. For him.
"About that condom," she said, and her voice was thin. "I got one in my purse. It's—"
"Where?"
"Living room. I dropped it when you—"
He didn't wait for her to finish. He was off the bed and down the hall and back in thirty seconds, her little purse in his hands, and Kymani took it from him with shaking fingers and pulled out a square foil packet.
She tore it open. Rolled it down over the tip of his cock. It stretched—then snapped.
"Shit," she said.
"Try again."
She pulled out another. Same result. The third one didn't even make it halfway. Kymani stared at the torn latex in her hand and then at his cock and then back at the torn latex and Ritchie could see the frustration flicker across her face.
"This ain't gonna work," she said.
"I know."
"So what are we gonna do?"
He thought about it. Should have been hard, the thinking. Should have been difficult to focus with her naked and wet and waiting in front of him. But it wasn't. Something in him had gone cold and clear.
"I pull out," he said. "I won't come inside you."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"And you're not gonna—"
"Kymani." He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled her head back, and she moaned, actually moaned, and Ritchie felt something savage in his chest. "I said I got it. You gonna trust me or not?"
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, I trust you, daddy, I trust you."
"Good."
He lined himself up. She was hot, wet, ready, and he pushed in and she screamed.
Not pain. Not exactly. More like shock. More like her body trying to figure out what the hell was happening to it. He was only a few inches in and she was already gasping, already clawing at the quilt, already saying words that didn't make sense.
"Too much," she panted. "Too much, too much, I can't—"
"You can." He pushed deeper. "You told me you could."
"I lied. I lied, I'm sorry, I—oh god—"
She came. Before he was even halfway inside her. Just from the feeling of being stretched open, the pressure of him splitting her apart, and Ritchie had never seen anything like it. Had never made a woman come just from that.
"Look at you," he said. "Coming already. You proud of yourself?"
"No," she whimpered. "No, I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't be sorry." He pulled out and pushed back in, deeper now, and Kymani's back arched and her whole body went tight. "Be a good girl and take it."
She took it.
He fucked her slow at first. Measured. Getting her used to him. But then she started pushing back, started meeting him thrust for thrust, started saying his name in that broken voice, and something in him snapped.
He grabbed her hair. Fisted it in his hand. Pulled.
"Fuck," Kymani gasped. "Fuck, yes, don't stop—"
He didn't stop.
His other hand went to her throat. Not hard—not yet—just holding her there, feeling her pulse jumping under his palm. She made a sound, a desperate little sound, and tried to nod.
"More," she said. "More, daddy, please—"
He squeezed.
Her whole body shook. Her pussy clenched around him like a fist. And Ritchie felt himself go deeper than he thought possible, felt something shift inside her, and when he looked down he could see it.
A bulge in her stomach. Small, but there. The outline of him, pressing up from the inside.
"Oh," he said.
"Yeah." Kymani laughed, breathless. "Yeah, you feel that? That's you. That's all you, nigga. Fucking me so deep you're in my fucking guts."
He didn't answer. He just fucked her harder.
The bed creaked. The headboard slammed against the wall. Ritchie heard something fall off the nightstand—a lamp, maybe, or a book—and he didn't care. All he cared about was the girl beneath him, the sounds she was making, the way she was coming again and again and again, clenching around him every time.
"How many?" he asked.
"What?"
"How many times you gonna come?"
"I don't—I can't—" She was crying. Actually crying, tears running down her face, and Ritchie should have stopped but he couldn't, he was too far gone, and she was begging for more anyway, begging for him to keep going, telling him his big white cock was ruining her, telling him she'd never felt anything like this.
He felt the pressure building. Felt it coiling in his gut.
"I'm close," he said.
"Don't stop."
"I have to—"
"Don't stop, daddy, please, I want—"
He pulled out.
Kymani whined—a sharp, frustrated sound—and then she was moving, pushing him onto his back, climbing over him, straddling his thighs.
"Your turn," she said.
"What are you—"
She grabbed her own tits and wrapped them around his shaft. Her skin was slick with sweat, and they slid around him like silk, and Ritchie groaned and closed his eyes.
"Oh my god," he said.
"Yeah." She squeezed them together, moved them up and down, watching his face with something that looked like triumph. "Yeah, you like that? You like my pierced tits on your big dick?"
"Yeah."
"Say it."
"I like it."
"Say the whole thing."
"I—" He opened his eyes and looked at her. The tears on her face, the mascara running, the curls tangled, the tits wrapped around his cock. She was a mess. She was perfect. "I like your pierced tits on my big dick."
She grinned. "That's what I thought."
She moved faster. Pumped him with her chest, with her hands, with her whole body, and Ritchie felt the pressure building again, felt the heat gathering low in his spine, felt himself get right to the edge.
"Where do you want it?" he asked.
"Everywhere."
"What?"
"Everywhere. My tits, my face, my mouth. Give it to me, daddy. Give me all of it."
He couldn't hold back anymore.
The first rope caught her across the cheek. The second landed on her chin. The third, fourth, fifth—paint across her collarbone, her chest, her nipples. She tilted her head back and caught some on her tongue and Ritchie felt something in him break open.
He came and came and came. More than he thought he had. More than he'd ever come before. By the time it stopped he was empty, drained, and Kymani was covered—face, tits, stomach, all of it slick and white and glistening.
She looked down at herself. Then up at him.
Then she scooped a finger through the mess on her cheek and put it in her mouth.
"Mm," she said.
Ritchie couldn't speak.
She cleaned her fingers off one by one. Licked her lips. Wiped her chin with the back of her hand and then licked that too.
"I'm keeping you," she said.
"What?"
"You heard me." She climbed off him and collapsed onto the bed, and the quilt, Wendy's cross-stitched quilt, was ruined. "You're mine now. That was—" She shook her head. "I ain't never had nothing like that. I ain't never gonna have nothing like that again. So you're mine."
Ritchie stared at the ceiling. At the water stain in the corner. At the crack in the plaster that looked like a lightning bolt.
"I'm yours," he said.
"Good."
She reached over and grabbed his hand. Her fingers were sticky with his come. He didn't care.
"Hey," she said.
"Yeah?"
"You gonna stay? Till Grandma gets home?"
He should have said no. Should have gotten dressed and driven home and tried to figure out what the hell just happened. Should have thought about his job, his reputation, the fact that she'd been the one in handcuffs three days ago.
"Yeah," he said. "I'll stay."
Kymani smiled. A real smile, soft and sleepy and young.
"Good," she said. "Cause I ain't done with you yet."
And Ritchie, lying in a bed that wasn't his, covered in sweat and guilt and something that felt dangerously close to happiness, believed her.