Chapter Text
“Come here, you little shit!”
“That’s one way to talk to your kid.”
The voice that rumbled from behind startled you so hard, your phone took flight—sailing across the seven seas as it slipped from your grip. The fact that she startled you when you were in her backyard was beside the point.
“Oh, please, spare me your holier-than-thou attitude.”
“Shit, that’s the impression I give?”
You planted both fists on your hips, raised your brows, and shook your head once. As if your statement was nothing short of obvious. “Yes.”
“Damn, here I thought I was being charming.” The tone in her voice conveyed anything but charm. As a matter of fact, she sounded utterly bored. Her eyes, though, told a different story entirely, traveling a dangerous trail up and down your body, void of any shame.
The real danger was the heat—how it licked across every cell of your skin. A real arrogant fucker, standing there with one hand in her pocket, the other grabbing her chin with a kind of touch that implied she wanted it on you. Then she dropped her hand and slipped it into her other pocket, finally meeting your eyes.
She wore trousers—black, and a button-down—also black. Sleeves rolled halfway up, some of the buttons left undone, her cleavage demanding your attention. Had she just got off from work? And if you squinted hard enough, could you see her nipples through her shirt?
“I apologize if I’m not susceptible to your nonexistent charm due to a whole year’s worth of lack of sleep,” you said. Lied. Somewhat.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“A. Whole. Fucking. Year.”
“Normal people sleep at night.”
“Yes—when they can work during the day.”
“This the day you finally tell me what you do for a living?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just making sure I’m not dealing with some crazy ass who spends her waking hours stalking her neighbors.”
“I sincerely believe you have to be the most boring person to stalk.”
“Now that’s a lie.”
It was.
As a matter of fact, she was the sole reason you’d overcome your writer’s block. One night, many, many weeks ago, Sevika had company. The circles under your eyes had matched the depravity in your soul, but none of it made it onto the screen. It was kind of a necessity if you wanted to make a living. Your erotica had been bland, dry, cut to the bone, then sawed to dust.
A single window had lit up her bedroom. The light wasn’t strong—just a soft, dim glow—but you’d never seen source of life inside Sevika’s house before.
Curiosity had you slam the laptop shut.
And that’s the image that flashed before your eyes just now—a woman on her knees, taking Sevika’s cock down her throat with ease.
With a firm grip on her head, she’d pushed her so far down you imagined the hairs on her lower stomach (if she had any) must have tickled her nose. You crinkled your own at the memory.
The woman had gagged. Her shoulders shrugged with the motion. As Sevika released her, the woman looked up at her with her mouth wide open, like her cock had left a permanent wound that wouldn’t close.
You’d leaned back in your chair. Planted one heel on the edge of the table, then the other, and spread your legs.
Sevika then proceeded by pulling the woman up by her elbow—manhandling her to the edge of the bed. It brought their bodies out of sight. Your brows furrowed. Disappointment seeped through despite the arousal pooling low in your gut.
Two seconds later, Sevika had moved back into view—one hand on the woman’s hips, the other pressing down on the small of her back to put her in a nice arch. The woman’s head stayed just out of view—a perfect opportunity to pretend that it was you.
So you did.
And you felt it between your legs when Sevika dragged her cock between her slick folds.
You’d pushed your panties to the side. Gathered slick from your opening, and started moving your middle finger in circular motions over the swollen nub.
You had expected Sevika to slam herself into the woman, but what she did next has been worse. She pushed herself in deep… so fucking slow.
The woman arched, her knees buckled, and she’d thrown her head back. Her dark hair splayed across her back, like a bucket of black paint thrown over a blank canvas.
You’d teased your entrance until you slid two fingers in. Your eyes kept flicking between Sevika’s bare chest and where their bodies connected. She pulled all the way out—then rammed back in with one brutal thrust. She’d fisted her hand in the woman’s hair, dragged her body up, head resting on her shoulder, hips pistoning into her.
Jesus. The way her ass had slammed back against Sevika’s hips told you everything. She was soaked.
Her moans had echoed through the window, seeping through the cracks of yours.
It wasn’t until Sevika moved their bodies to the floor-to-ceiling window— pushed her against it until the woman’s tits suffocated—and fucked her hard that you came.
And the moment you did come was because she knew you had watched, her eyes meeting yours.
Almost as if she was putting on a show meant for you alone.
“The house needed renovating.”
Your attention sliced through the tension as her voice snapped you back to reality.
“No, it didn’t.”
Yes, it did. Old lady Berta had let the place fall into disrepair during her time there. Even long after she couldn’t properly care for it, she refused to sell—clinging to it for the view alone.
Yours and Sevika’s were the only houses on the cul-de-sac, perched high on a hill with a sweeping view of the city and the ocean in the distance. From sunrise to sundown, sunlight poured uninterrupted into both your backyards.
While your house had its own charm, Old Lady Berta’s looked like it could scare off the sun.
Which meant that, when Sevika bought it, she figured: why not tear it down and rebuild it from the ground up? Hence the construction work.
Hence the lack of focus to write.
Hence the writer’s block.
You needed complete and utter silence when writing. Even your breathing bothered you at times.
But that night—well, it had been enough to get your juices flowing. Clearly. You’d written your most depraved work thus far, naming it none other than Big Hot Mama.
Your daughter’s shadow swept across Sevika’s backyard—
Had she run out from inside her damn house?
“Serena, get your ass over here.” You caught her by the elbow, pulse skyrocketing with rage to a hundred and ninety. “What do you think you’re doing waltzing into stranger’s houses?”
Completely unfazed, the demon that was your child blinked as if she’d never disobeyed a day in her life.
“That’s not what you said to auntie Didi.”
Your confusion did not outmatch your daughter’s sudden devious smile.
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s not a stranger, mom.”
The realization hit you about two seconds too late.
“You said she was a big! Hot! Ma—” The speed of lightning had nothing on how fast you slapped your hand over your daughter’s mouth. Sevika crossed her arms, cocked her brow, and hinged and unhinged her jaw with the effort to hold back her true intentions.
“Let’s go.”
⋄ ✦ ⋄
“You can flip it now,” your daughter said.
You held the edge of the frying pan, sliding the spatula beneath the pancake, and flipped it. Quickly, you pulled the blindfold up to your forehead—just in time to see your success.
Serena sat on the counter beside you, focused on her drawing, but still reached out a hand for a high-five.
Before you had the chance to smack it, a loud knock sounded at the door, followed by two more.
You and Serena shared a look of profound suspicion.
“I’ll get it!” she yelled, hopping off the counter faster than you could blink.
You barely rounded the corner into the hallway before your daughter embarrassed you for a third time that day—announcing your guest as Big Hot Mama.
She showed Sevika her drawing, completely unbothered, while Sevika stood there in a tight crop top that showed off her armor—those gigantic fucking arms, locked and loaded. A pair of tight jeans completed the look, but with your daughter right there, you forced your eyes to stay at the most PG-rated level possible.
The drawing was a cartoonish portrait of you, making a disgusted face, with the title “trippophobia”.
In her defense, she was only twelve.
What twelve year old could spell trypophobia?
Sevika’s eyes flicked between the drawing and your forehead.
“Is there a reason you’re blessing us with your presence?” you asked, tone flat.
“That can’t be real,” Sevika said, eyes still glued to the blindfold on your forehead.
“What?”
“I just told her that you can’t make pancakes like a human because you start gagging and stuff. Because of the holes.” Your daughter was a little rat.
“A fear of holes. Holes?” Sevika asked, stunned.
A steady shiver licked up your spine, cold as ice. Your throat thickened with disgust, and the next inhale was deep enough for you to choke on.
“Serena, go eat your pancakes before they get cold, yeah? I’ll be right back.”
“Do I have to?”
You grabbed her by the shoulders, turned her around, and gave her a gentle (eh) shove.
“Do I need to call child services?”
“Do I need to punch you in the throat?” you countered. You decided that you didn’t want to risk her coming inside, so you stepped outside.
And how kind of her—to step aside, doing her best not crowd you—
Sorry. Cage you against the doorframe with that massive arm braced above your head.
How thoughtful.
The action exposed more of her stomach. Sevika was quite literally the only woman you knew that had a more lethal Adonis belt than any man you’d seen. And no man had ever made you want to follow it with your mouth, like she did just now.
Despite Serena’s dad, Adam, and the undeniable proof that you had spread your legs for a man on that one drunken occasion—you were very, very gay.
“That’s a cute top,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“A little tight.”
Then you should see my ass.
Wanna try my throat?
Maybe you’d love the way my pussy feels.
And if you wanna talk about slutty, let’s not forget that cute little crop top you’re wearing.
Don’t bite don’t bite don’t bite.
“Did you come here to talk about my wardrobe?”
“You really got a fear of holes?”
“Do you want to make me gag?”
Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Why don’t you just bend over and spread yourself wide?
But to your surprise, Sevika didn’t grin. She didn’t smirk, and she didn’t smile. It was the opposite—and you saw a flash of a storm darkening her eyes. It had happened so fast, you weren’t sure if you’d imagined it.
“I found something,” she said, pulling out your phone, the screen spiderwebbed with cracks. Oh, shit.
You reached for it, but Sevika pulled her arm away. Your chest brushed her sternum, her breath hot on the tip of your nose. If you tilted your head back, even the slightest bit, your lips would touch hers.
“How do I know it’s yours?” Sevika murmured, her words brushing your lips the way you wished her mouth did.
Behave.
“You know it’s mine.”
“Do I?”
“I’ll tell you the code.”
“Could be a lucky guess.”
“What do you want, Sevika?”
“You.”
You froze. The heat had started between your legs. It flooded your core like lava—molten, wild. At her admission, it exploded throughout your whole body.
The tension parted your lips before words escaped them.
“No. Give me my phone.”
Sevika reacted like she expected nothing less from you.
“A date.”
“No. I don’t date. I have a daughter.”
“Every other week, ain’t that right?”
“And how do you know that?”
“It’s easy when my backyard’s gremlin-free every second week.”
“You’re telling me you don’t live at your office?”
“You know I don’t.”
Your breath caught mid-inhale, her voice dragging that memory to the surface. The one that cured your writer’s block.
“Speaking of, do you mind closing the curtains so you don’t accidentally scar my daughter for life?”
A split second of silence filled the space. You couldn’t see anything but her lips, but you were sure there was a fuck ass brow cocked on her sculpted face.
“It wasn’t her week.”
“I don’t care.”
“What do you think she’ll find?”
You looked up at her.
“You balls-deep in a woman.”
“Won’t be a problem.”
You were about to say something—
“Unless you want it.”
You pressed harder against the wall, not relenting until there was a distance safe enough for your hardened nipples to not brush against her. The last thing you needed was for her to read your body like the back of her hand.
“Give me my phone back.”
“I still don’t know it’s yours.”
“Call it then,” you said, aware that this fight was already lost.
Sevika’s mouth curled into a grin. You found it hard to breathe. Everything that was her—heat, presence, want—started to close in on you. There wasn’t a soul alive that could break through the walls you’d built—all because of one man—and he, your father, was the only one who could get under your skin.
Until now.
Sevika had joined the party.
And as she closed the space between you, gravity pulling her in like your ear was its center, her bottom lip grazed the outer shell of it.
“I bet you make the prettiest little sounds.”
Instead of making you recite your phone number, Sevika slipped the device into your hand—saving you from the fate of giving into desires you had no intention of acknowledging.
And just like that, the writer’s block was back on track. The fantasy that had lived in a safe, silent corner of your mind now had a name, a voice, a body.
And she was standing right in front of you.
⋄ ✦ ⋄
Weeks passed. You heard nothing. Crickets. Silence.
When Adam picked up Serena for his week, you were sure that Sevika would do something. And with that certainty, you mentally prepared for a week of blowing her off, letting her down, telling her no.
It had been a humbling experience, indeed. Not only did you not hear from her, she actually avoided looking in your direction whenever you were in your backyards at the same time.
Wasn’t that what you wanted?
It was.
And since crickets were all you heard, you tried to write. And failed. When you told your best friend about it, she asked about your muse—well aware of who it was—and you couldn’t exactly say, well, I shot down my muse, and now I really want to fuck her, and now it’s really not just a fantasy anymore, so whatever the fuck I put out there—
You gave up on trying to write after the fifth time your pussy shriveled up reading what you’d typed on the screen.
Your fridge became your victim instead, raiding it like there was no tomorrow, like the action alone could keep you from snooping. Looking. Trying to find out if she worked at the office or not—and what did she do for work? You’d never asked. But you should know, right? She’s your neighbor, that’s perfectly normal.
She was loaded, that you knew. Her house had cost a fortune, and she’d spent even more renovating it. The modernity stuck out like a sore thumb compared to your Spanish-style home.
And she always walked around in crisp suits, like she was ready to take a call or jump into her black Jaguar sedan at any moment.
Rich people bored you.
You grew up with them.
Hell, you used to be one of them.
They were also crazy.
But most of all? Boring.
So fucking boring.
And sometimes, criminally hot.
You snatched your phone from the eat-in counter, pulled up Google, typed 'Sevika Voss'—froze—and hit backspace like it was your job.
“Girl, you better reel it the fuck in.”
You made a boring trip to your mailbox, bearing no hidden agenda, just the usual bills, junk, and the faint hope of a royalty check. You shuffled the stack with your eyes glued to her entrance.
Jaguar in the driveway, not the garage. She was home… but going somewhere.
You looked down—and there it was. Again. Sevika’s mail.
The fifth time in three weeks.
“Well, don’t mind me,” you muttered, heading straight to her door and passing her mailbox without a glance. Tap tap tap. TAP.
The door flung open. A stunning creature with the aura of an angel revealed herself with a baby on her hip. Her hair was long, black—pulled taut into a high ponytail, but you could tell it would fall to the small of her back if she let it down.
She was a kind of stunning that had people gasp and say wow out loud, and you had to fight the urge to swallow back that exact word.
But she wasn’t that woman. Her hair hadn’t been that long. Or had it? Before your heart dropped to your stomach, you decided your memory couldn’t be trusted.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“I live next door—” You faced your house, about to point—
“Oh, come on in! Come on.”
She said it with such fervor that turning her down would’ve made you feel like a coldhearted bitch. You stepped inside. “We just had tea. Would you like some?”
“No, thank you, I just came to leave her mail,” you said, busy soaking in the details of her house, immediately understanding where the renovation money had gone.
The space was wide open, airy, the kind of house that made your Spanish one look like an antique (but cute) jewelry box.
To the right: a sleek, built-in alcove for coats and shoes, with a long bench under a row of matte black hooks. Across from it, stairs curved upward along the wall—floating steps, of course. Rich people didn’t do regular staircases.
The left side opened into a sunken living room that looked like something out of a magazine, but with her own personal touch you imagined—dark colors, velvet textures and oversized couches arranged around a coffee table made of the sturdiest wood.
Beyond it, in the far left corner, was a kitchen straight out of a luxury design catalog. It was huge, open, gleaming. Brushed gold accents. Deep brown cabinetry. A black marble island so wide you could lie across it like a corpse.
Between the kitchen and the living space sat a long wooden dining table, smooth and warm, mismatched chairs that somehow made it feel intentional and lived in.
You glanced at the woman and her baby. Nothing was child-proofed.
And then you looked directly ahead: wall-to-wall glass doors that opened to her backyard with a pool you knew damn well she didn’t use.
Warm light spilled into every corner, and somehow the whole space felt cozy. Modern, yes, but not cold.
The woman finally introduced herself as Malika.
Sevika’s sister.
The tension you weren’t aware held your face captive melted in an instant.
“She’s just taking a shower, she’ll be right down. We’re heading to this little one’s appointment. She’s one and a half,” she said. The baby girl stared at you with intensity that had to be genetic. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say she wanted to beat your ass.
She was lucky she was adorable.
“Are you sure you’re human?” you asked, blinking rapidly to convey the urgency behind your question. Because how the fuck did such angelic creatures walk this Earth?
You leaned forward, intending to tickle the baby—but she snatched your finger with the speed of a jungle predator, and you jerked back. “That’s how you want it to go down? Okay, I see you.”
The sound that erupted from Malika—her laughter—was a symphony only a harp from the heavens could conjure.
You pulled your hot pink velour hoodie tighter around yourself, trying to hide the pierced nipples that had decided to introduce themselves through your crop top, Sevika’s mail clutched to your chest like a damn hostage.
“Sevika told me you had a daughter of your own.”
“Yeah, she’s not as charming as this one.”
“I have a hard time believing that. Sevika said she was a spitting image of her mother.”
“Oh, so a gremlin,” you muttered. Malika’s eyes widened like you'd just confessed to a deep insecurity—when in truth, it was an inside joke. “Oh, no—no—it’s just a thing she said.”
“She called you a gremlin?”
“My daughter.”
Malika’s lips pulled into a tight line. She was trying to hold back a smile.
“She’s… she can be…” You watched as she fought to find words that would describe her sister without stabbing her in the back.
Malika glanced up toward the stairs.
“Let’s sit.”
“I can just—“
“Let’s sit.” She smiled, but there was a threat curled behind her lips. God damn, all right, then. The Voss ladies were bossy.
You sat down, and she sat right next to you. Her baby tried to reach for you. Malika held her back.
At first.
“She can be intense. But she does have a really good heart.”
You swallowed back a joke about her baby, obviously aware she was talking about Sevika, but not sure she’d recognize your humor for what it was or plain stupidity.
You sat with your legs crossed, shielding your pierced nipples behind Sevika’s mail, unsure of why her sister was trying to sell Sevika in.
And you didn’t know what it was about you, because your attitude was rarely inviting—if at all—but Malika decided to open up.
“I don’t know if you know this, but we’re adopted. She… we had a rough relationship with our father.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Your father’s passed too?”
“I wish.”
Your eyes snapped open the second you blurted those words out. She held up a hand. “It’s okay. Our father was not a good man.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. Sevika’s done everything in her power to take care of me, and well, now… me and Ayesha.”
You nodded, eyes still wide, unsure why you were even there. Internally pleading for Sevika to come down already—if only to stop her sister from humanizing her, tearing down your carefully built walls while dialing your curiosity up to eleven.
“It’s not my place to tell you what to do. She told me you don’t date.”
Did she now? What else did she tell you?
“And she’d kill me for ratting her out. Let’s just keep this between us, okay?”
You pinched your thumb and index finger, zipped your lips, and mimed throwing the key over your shoulder.
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
Malika laughed again. She was about to say something, but her babygirl yanked on your ponytail.
“Ayesha!”
You wrestled to free your hair from her chubby fingers, but a baby’s grip strength was unmatched.
It wasn’t until Sevika appeared at the bottom of the stairs—and the baby caught sight of her—that she finally let go.
“I’ll get her strapped in the car seat in the meantime.” Malika turned toward you. “It was really nice meeting you.”
“You too, Malika. And you—” You pointed two fingers to your eyes, and then one at Ayesha. “Sleep with one eye open.”
Malika laughed—again—and walked outside. The silence lingered until the front door shut behind her.
Sevika approached. Adjusted her sleeves. Dark skin rippled with the flex of muscle. The crisp black button-down bunched a little around her waist but fit perfectly across her chest, like she hadn’t gotten it tailored to her measurements just yet.
She’s probably going to the office after the appointment, then.
Half her hair was pulled into that slutty ponytail. The only reason you knew that was because she had pinned your gaze with the heat of her own.
She stopped just shy of touching you. Close enough that you forgot how to breathe.
“Did you just threaten my niece?” Her dark lashes flicked with the movement of her eyes—first your mouth, then your eyes. Then, your chest.
And there they stayed.
She finished adjusting her sleeves, then raised one hand—her index and middle finger skimming through her mail.
One purpose.
One motion.
To part it just enough to reveal your cleavage.
“She pulled my hair.”
Her gaze snapped back to meet yours. And just like that, the warmth was gone. Darkness washed over her eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
“I—your mail got delivered wrong. Are you doing it on purpose?”
“You think I need an excuse to talk to you?” She let out a half-scoff, half-chuckle. “I’ll just let you come to me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why didn’t you just put the mail in the mailbox?”
“I—”
“Wanted to see me?”
Yes.
“You’re reading into it way too much.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Your sister’s nice.”
“She is.”
“Unlike you.”
Without looking, Sevika pulled out the mail from your hands and tossed it onto the vanity table behind her. She trailed her knuckles down your collarbone, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your hoodie. She dragged it with her, exposing one side of your chest.
Her hand made a pit stop right above your beating heart. Pressed harder.
And the magnetic pull between her touch and the muscle beneath your ribs had you convinced it might rip through bone and skin.
Before she could brush her knuckles over your pierced nipple, you uncrossed your arms, swiping at her hand—an attempt that failed miserably.
She caught your wrist. Yanked you into her. If you hadn’t jerked your head back at the last second, your lips would’ve collided.
Her breasts pressed against you through the fabric—soft.
And nothing like the hard tension straining in her pants.
“You don’t want me nice.”
If you tried to speak, you’d moan. So you stayed silent.
The heat of her seared through your clothes, anchoring you in place until the weight of it forced your head to drop to the side. Her lips brushed a straight line from your cheek to your ear. You flexed and unflexed your fingers where she still held your wrist, her grip firm, unmoving.
A sharp rap at the door cut through the tension. Malika’s voice came muffled through the thick wood, reminding Sevika that they had to go.
⋄ ✦ ⋄
Serena sat on the toilet beside you, sketchbook balanced against her propped up knees. You leaned over the vanity, mouth parted as you dragged the mascara wand through your lashes.
You caught a glimpse of one drawing as she flipped between a blank page and the one before it.
“Holy shit, baby. You did this?” You reached out, fingers hovering over the drawing in question—an elaborate rose, detailed enough to look almost three-dimensional. You didn’t know a thing about art, but the shadowing alone made it feel alive, like it might bloom off the page.
Serena didn’t even look up, but you could feel the weight of her eye-roll in the way she responded.
“No, mom. Sevika did.”
You blinked, dropping your other hand to brace the edge of the vanity. “She did what?”
“She fixed it,” she said casually. “I drew one and it looked weird, and she was like, ‘Here, let me show you’, and then, bam, she just did. That.” Serena jabbed a finger at the rose.
“She said if I wanted to learn more, she’d teach me.”
“Excuse you?”
“So I invited her over today!”
“To the barbecue?”
“Yea.”
“That we’re having with my spoiled ass siblings?”
“You said ass.”
“I said shit too.”
“Oh wow. Mom. That’s very irresponsible of you.”
You wanted to say fuck, too.
“Are you messing with me right now? You’re messing with me. You didn’t actually invite her. Did you?”
“You’re being weird.”
“So you did. Fuck.”
“Mom!”
“Shit. Sorry. Go draw downstairs. Think about why you’ve made me cuss.”
The food wasn’t an issue. Your brother Jack threw money at problems—and your cooking was a problem. And if you could barely cook, you definitely didn’t know how to manage a grill. Which meant that his staff prepared enough food to feed your entire neighborhood, and would have it delivered when he arrived—with your best friend and their two demon children.
With a third on the way.
You had to call Diana.
“Hello—Liam, put the gun down! I thought we said no guns? Where did he get a gun, Jack? Did you buy it? I will kill you if you bought it. Kill. You. With my bare hands.”
“Not the gun, then?” You heard your idiot brother say in the background.
“Serena invited my neighbor to the barbecue.”
Diana’s howl nearly blew out your speaker.
“Big hot mama? I love your child. Can we switch children, please?”
“Absolutely not.”
“No Juicy Couture, do you hear me?”
“My ass looks great in them, why not?”
“Your ass looks great in everything.”
“You want a piece?”
“Jack doesn’t share.”
“Fuck Jack.”
“I did this morning, actually. Your brother rocked my world.”
You gagged. “I actually called to tell you that I need to be kept at a safe distance from her.”
“Why? You need to get over yourself. There’s no harm in some fucking.”
“She’s my neighbor, Diana.”
“Think of the square footage. Endless fucking. Since you don’t date,” she said, the word ‘date’ spiked with enough venom to let you know that by not putting yourself out there, you were automatically the dumbest bitch alive.
“I’m a mother.”
“And what’s next, you’re gonna tell me your name’s Theresa?”
“This pregnancy has given you quite the attitude, Miss Diana.”
“The next time we talk I better hear details about your trip to pound town and it better be all-fucking-inclusive.”
“Stop putting ideas in my head, okay, thank you, bye.”
One would imagine that you’d spend half an hour rummaging through your closet, and another half hour trying on different outfits. Or hell, maybe throw on Juicy Couture just to prove a point—even if thirty is a little late to be beefing with your own maturity.
But in reality, you picked out one dress—and draped it across the bed.
The same one your main character wore in Big Hot Mama. A black, skin-tight tube dress, layered with sheer mesh that softened its edges—roses blooming across the silhouette in deep, decadent red.
The words from your erotica etched into the fabric—passages speaking to you, melting your bones with desire as your eyes traveled down the length of it, debating whether you should wear it or not.
It would be fun.
No harm.
Your little secret, right?
Right.
⋄ ✦ ⋄
Diana and Jack arrived first. The kids—Serena, Liam and Sarah—were already running like a pack of wild animals in the backyard, while Diana lounged in a sun chair pretending to care. Her cat-eye sunglasses covered half her face and stretched past her temples—more mask than accessory—and with her swollen feet propped up, she looked like she’d officially clocked out of anything resembling responsibility.
Then came Elena, clean, composed, and infuriatingly graceful. The eldest. Always had her shit together. Always butted heads with you, the youngest. It was tradition at this point.
Gabriella, your favorite out of the sisters and the second oldest, was in Italy with the third sister, Aurora—at least, that’s what you assumed, since none of you had spoken to them in two weeks. Safe to say, they wouldn’t be showing up.
The greeting between you and Elena was stiff; the one between her and Jack, anything but. Then she excused herself to freshen up—though in about five minutes, you’d realize it was because she’d caught sight of none other than Sevika in the hallway.
You were just about to go inside when Jack stopped you at the patio doors.
“Find a job yet?” Jack asked. You let out the biggest sigh.
“I have a job.”
“Writing porn’s not a job.”
“And kissing daddy’s ass doesn’t qualify as one either, yet, here we fucking are.” You blinked, and he didn’t bite. With one hand in his pocket, a glass of whiskey in the other, he stared at you like the conversation you were having was about life and death and rainbows and sunshine.
“A job. You need it.”
“Do you ever think about how much money you’d save if you weren’t a lazy rich bastard?” you said.
“Do I ever think about how peaceful my life would be without siblings? Every damn day.”
You tsked and rolled your eyes. “Boo, you whore.”
“Listen. I know your money’s running out, and you won’t—”
“Jack.”
“Sis.”
“Can you get on my nerves after dinner?”
“I’m ahead of schedule.”
“Jack.”
“You need to get a job. Talk to dad, come back to the company.”
If this were ancient Greece, the look in your eyes would’ve turned him into stone. The fact that he even brought up your father—as if he didn’t know you and what lines you’d never cross, or the kind of hate that hollowed you out just hearing the man’s name—made you question everything about the bond you shared. You and Jack had always been the closest. Thick as thieves. Inseparable. Always bickering, always at each other’s throats, but when push came to shove, there wasn’t a world where you didn’t choose each other.
And then, stuff happened.
Jack raised both hands—whiskey still in one—as if waving a white flag, realizing he’d crossed it.
“When have I ever not pulled through? For Serena?”
Jack’s lips pulled into a tight line, and then he relaxed. “Never.”
He pulled his hand out of his pocket, swung his arm around your neck, and pulled you into a tight headlock. Your whole body bent forward with the motion, and you struggled while he didn’t break a sweat. “You’re going to get a job, ain’t that right, Pinkie?”
“Get off me.” You shoved him away at last. He tried slapping your face, but you dodged at the last minute.
“My God, I can’t believe Diana ever agreed to marry you.”
“I held her at gunpoint.”
“Poor fucking thing.”
“She’s not complaining,” he said, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth as his gaze drifted over her pregnant frame.
“Get your stupid ass face out of mine before I clock it, Jack.”
“No.”
“You’re a motherfucker.”
“A very lucky man, indeed.” Jack adjusted the boxers through his trousers, shooting another horny gaze toward the love of his life. Your best friend. His wife. Ugh.
“Disgusting.”
Someone cleared their throat behind you.
“Can you two behave, for once?” The judgment in Elena’s voice cut through you like an ice cube down your spine. You turned, and broke into a wry smirk. Elena was standing behind you, and Sevika was standing behind her.
Elena was just as gay as you were—so naturally, she had to overcompensate by being her absolute snobbiest in front of the hot butch at the barbecue to make a lasting impression.
Not that Sevika noticed. Her gaze wasn’t on Elena.
It was locked on you. Recognition hit her like a body blow. You watched the shift in real time: the slight tilt of her head, the slow drag of her eyes down the sheer mesh, the rise of her shoulders as she pulled in a breath.
Her gaze remained glued to the dress.
There was just no way she recognized it. It was the first time she saw you in anything but casual clothes. If you could tear yourself away from the trance the hunger in her eyes put you in, you could return to functioning like a human being.
Luckily, your brother did that for you.
“Name’s Jack,” he said, extending a hand with enough self-assurance that Sevika’s arm seemed to move on instinct, grabbing his without hesitation. The corner of her mouth curled into a smirk. She was impressed—with him.
You moved your head to catch Diana squinting at Jack and Sevika, lifting the edge of her sunglasses to get a better look. God damn wasn’t just written on her face. It was etched into every line of her expression.
Sevika barely got her name out before Serena grabbed her arm and dragged her to the massive outdoor table. Elena mirrored the very disappointment you refused to acknowledge.
The barbecue went on without you. Mentally. Physically, you were there, but clocked out. Your daughter was locked in a battleground with Elena, fighting for Sevika’s attention.
Jack perched on the edge of the sun chair, Diana’s feet propped up on his thighs, those massive hands kneading into the arch of one foot. With no regard for you or the kids’ mental health—he dragged his fingers slowly up the length of her calf, in a way that made it painfully clear: he’s initiated foreplay on your fucking patio.
You went to the bathroom. No one noticed, and no one missed you. Sevika’s presence warped you—so thoroughly, so deeply—that when you looked in the mirror, you couldn’t even see yourself.
You could’ve used a drink or two, but drinking when Serena was around was one of the few lines you didn’t cross.
Just as you were about to step outside to the patio and join the others, you stopped by the sliding doors.
You don’t want me nice.
That’s the last thing she said to you. Even now, at your barbecue—an hour in, food demolished for seconds—you hadn’t spoken to each other.
Sevika looked up at you from where she was flanked by Serena—eager to learn from her—and Elena—eager to fuck her.
You turned to search for Diana among the guests, and the two of you spotted each other at the same time. You shot Sevika one last look as she said something both to both Serena and Elena. You turned back inside before Sevika could stand up.
You made it about halfway through your house before a large palm pressed against the small of your back. Your steps slowed, only to feel her touch deepen against the base of your spine.
Electricity crackled through your bones, rattling you enough to make you stop in your tracks. What the fuck were you doing?
“Come on. Got something to show you.”
“Okay.”
Sevika guided you out of your house. Down the porch. Across the sidewalk. To her own.
That thick stone of heat between your legs slowed your steps and sent constant ripples of tingles throughout your body. With every stride, it grew heavier.
By the time you stepped into her house, it was almost too much.
She made you walk ahead of her, up the damn stairs. Her face hovered behind your ass the whole way, and you prayed you wouldn’t trip and fall on your face. Honestly, you’d rather fall on hers.
Focus.
You finally stepped inside a room opposite her bedroom. It looked like the only room in her house that remained untouched from demolition during the renovation, and merely underwent a facelift.
There was a battered easel in the left corner, its legs dark with old smudges of charcoal. The windows along the left wall and opposite the door spilled pale light across the faded floorboards.
Everything else was practical. A heavy stool positioned at a perfect distance from the desk. The surface held a single stack of charcoal sticks arranged by length and darkness. A few sketches lay underneath a weighted glass pane, corners aligned. A wooden pencil tray sat flush with the edge of the desk, each pencil set horizontally in its own shallow groove. Perfectly spaced, sharp-tipped, untouched.
OCD, much?
Right before her hand drifted to the swell of your ass, you nearly leapt forward, toward the portrait on the easel.
Serena, with her bangs and signature ponytail, her arms wrapped around your neck, flashing a wide smile, as if Sevika had caught her mid-laugh.
And you—blindfold slipped across your forehead. Painted like some goddess who’d decided to descend from heaven and walk among mortals. Seeing yourself through Sevika’s eyes—caught on her canvas—nearly overwhelmed you. For one breathless second, you saw yourself as she saw you.
It stole the air from your lungs.
You don’t want that.
This is manipulative.
She’s being a manipulative bitch.
See it for what it is.
You better be smarter than that.
Don’t fall for her trap.
Sevika sensed the shift in you. You couldn’t lie and say it was just okay. It was a masterpiece. She’d even captured the twinkle in your daughter’s eyes.
Just as you were about to step aside, her hand shot out to your waist. It was pathetic, really, that using your whole body strength wasn’t enough to break from the hold she had on you.
With just one hand, mind you.
“I’m not done.”
She slid her hand over your stomach, fingers blooming across like a rose shedding its petals. Her thumb brushed the underside of your breast, just a hair away from touching your nipple. She pulled you flush against her until you felt the unmistakable press of her arousal poking into your back. Thick. Insistent. Aching for your attention.
You drew a sharp breath. It lifted your chest and pulled your stomach inward. Her palm followed as if it were glued to your skin. You arched into her, hips rolling upwards as you ground against her. She dragged her nails through the fabric of your dress, and with a possessive grip, she cupped your breast.
Sevika dipped her head to the space between your neck and shoulder, her breath warm against your skin, hovering just short of a kiss.
She reached out toward the portrait in front of you, her thumb pressing into the corner of the canvas. With a flick of her middle finger, she hooked the edge and gradually peeled it away—revealing a second drawing beneath.
Wrists.
Tied.
Strained.
Arms, stretched taut.
Hair, tousled and unkempt where it fanned beneath the arms.
Your face.
Twisted in perfect ecstasy.
Your chest.
Nipples, pierced and manhandled.
Your left tit, groped with such force the flesh spilled between dark fingers.
Your hips.
A wide hand splayed over your hipbone, holding you down.
A thumb shoved between your lips—planted firm on your clit.
Your legs.
Spread wide, and on the tender skin of your inner thighs, large letters read:
SEVIKA’S - WHORE
Her cock.
Buried deep inside you.
And bunched around the middle of your waist—
The very dress you wore.
Not so much your little secret anymore.