Parker

I w o k e u p sore and satisfied. My body ached in the best way possible, a deep, slow throb between my thighs that made me squeeze them together beneath the silk sheets. My mind was still foggy, replaying that raw, passionate, toe-curling sex we had last night. I’d never tried out-fucking a man before but something about Shooter’s cocky ass made me want to try. I’d be damned if it didn’t feel good to try.

Nothing could come close to that type of sex. I wasn’t a virgin. There had been two men before Shooter, both carefully chosen under my father’s watchful eye. One had been a calculated business arrangement; the other, an acceptable distraction. But sex with Shooter was different.

I turned my head, expecting to see him beside me, but the bed was empty. The spot where he’d laid was still warm, but he was long gone. My eyes flicked toward the bedroom door just as he stepped inside, already dressed, already in business mode. Black button down, dark-washed jeans slung low on his hips, some designer shoes, and those chains gleaming around his neck. His icy blue eyes swept over me, lingering on my bare skin peeking from beneath the sheets, and the smallest smirk tugged at his lips.

“Morning, wifey.”

I rolled my eyes and stretched out, purposefully letting the sheets slide lower down my body. His gaze darkened slightly, but he didn’t make a move. “You really just got up and left?”

I muttered, my voice still raspy from sleep.

“For your information,”

Shooter started to say, as he fastened his watch, glancing at me in amusement. “I went to grab breakfast. Figured you needed the rest after how I had you last night.”

My cheeks burned. This nigga was so cocky and arrogant. I flipped onto my stomach, propping my chin on my hand as I watched him. “You’re not even gonna come back to bed and give me more?”

Shooter chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, baby, you got shit to do.”

I scoffed, pushing up onto my elbows. “What?”

He tucked his gun behind him and shot me a look. “You got a mission for today.”

I arched a brow. “A mission?”

He smirked, leaning against the dresser. "Laundry, cleanin', and cookin'. Wifey duties.”

I sat up fully, gripping the sheet to my chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

He reached for his cologne, spraying it across his wrist before rubbing it against his neck. That warm, spicy scent hit my nose instantly, and I almost forgot I was pissed. Almost.

I folded my arms. “First of all, I ain’t no damn maid. And second, what if I wanna come with you?”

Shooter paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. He hadn’t expected that. “You tryna tag along all of a sudden?”

he asked, sounding both amused and suspicious.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

He let out a short laugh. “Nah, . Not today.”

I huffed. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t need to be out in the streets with me today.”

His voice was final, leaving no room for argument. “Stay here, be good, and do what I said.”

I rolled my eyes dramatically, yanking the sheet over my head like a child. Shooter laughed under his breath and walked out.

I laid there, fuming, before finally dragging myself out of bed. If I had to be here all damn day, I might as well make myself comfortable. I threw on a silk robe and padded to the kitchen, opening the fridge and pouring myself a glass of orange juice. That’s when I felt him behind me. Before I could turn, Shooter’s hands were on my waist, his body crowding me against the counter. His heat, his scent, his overwhelming presence wrapped around me, making my pulse skyrocket.

“Poutin' ain’t gon’ change shit,”

he murmured, his minty fresh breath ghosting over the shell of my ear. “You ain’t comin’ with me today.”

I exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the counter as he pressed against me. “You act like you’re hiding something,”

I muttered.

His lips curved against my skin. “Nah, I act like I want you to do what the fuck I say.”

I sucked in a breath as his fingers trailed up my sides, brushing beneath my robe. My whole body responded instantly, and I hated that he had me like this. “Just ‘cause you got the dick last night don’t mean you need to go crazy over it yet,”

he teased, his voice dripping with amusement.

I whipped around, glaring up at him, but before I could snap back, his hands were around my throat and his lips were on mine. Quick, deep, and possessive. Then, just as fast, he released me, smirking. “Be good, wifey.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving me breathless, pissed off, and already wanting more.

I ended up making breakfast more out of frustration than hunger. Bacon sizzled in the pan, eggs fluffed up as I scrambled them, and the toast popped up golden brown. I wasn’t even thinking about eating—I was thinking about him.

Shooter had the audacity to wake up, look that good, kiss me like that, and then just leave me with chores like I was some 1950s housewife. Arrogant. Cocky. Annoying. I hated that he’d managed to get under my skin. Hated that last night was all I could think about. And even worse? I hated that I wanted more. I plated my food and sat at the counter, mindlessly picking at it. By the time I finished eating, I had no excuse not to do what he left me to do.

First was laundry. I gathered up our clothes—his smelled like weed and cologne, which pissed me off more than it should have—and threw everything into the high-tech washing machine. Then I moved on to cleaning the already immaculate penthouse, wiping down surfaces, fluffing pillows, and mopping even though there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

And the whole time, my mind was stuck on him. Every single thing reminded me of him. The lingering scent of his body wash in the bathroom. The slight indent of where he had sat at the breakfast bar. The gun he’d left on the nightstand, a stark reminder of who he was and what he did.

By the time I was done, sweat clung to my skin, and I felt like throwing myself onto the couch and never moving again. But I still had to figure out dinner. I opened the fridge, searching for something to cook. After a minute, I settled on some salmon, pulling it out to defrost while I grabbed a bottle of water and leaned against the counter to catch my breath.

And that’s when the buzzer rang. Frowning, I walked to the security panel and flipped on the camera. My breath caught in my throat. My father. He stood by the elevator, dressed sharp as always in a dark tailored suit, his presence commanding even through the screen.

I hesitated for only a second before pressing the button to let him up. A moment later, the elevator doors slid open, and he stepped out, his sharp eyes scanning the penthouse before settling on me.

“.”

“Daddy.”

The tension was immediate. It had been two weeks since our last phone call. Since he’d been overseas handling oil business. Not that I expected much. My marriage to Shooter wasn’t about love—it was about power. About keeping the Whitmore and Mosley families connected in wealth, influence, and control. I swallowed down my emotions as he approached, his gaze assessing me.

“You look well,”

he finally said, his deep voice carrying that authoritative weight it always had.

I forced a smile. “Thanks, I guess.”

His eyes swept over the space again before settling back on me. “How’s married life?”

I let out a short laugh, crossing my arms. “Oh, you know. Just thrilling.”

His gaze sharpened. “.”

I sighed, rolling my eyes. “I’m doing fine, Daddy.”

“Good,”

he said, nodding approvingly. “That’s what I want to hear.”

I should have known that was all he cared about. Not how I was actually feeling. Not how I was adjusting. Not what my life looked like now. Just that I was doing my job. He took a step closer, his expression unreadable. “This marriage is about securing our family’s future. Keeping the power where it belongs. I trust you’ve learned to understand that by now?”

I pressed my lips together, my fingers tightening around my arms. “I understand.”

“Then don’t fuck it up with that smart mouth of yours.”

His voice was calm but firm. A warning.

Anger simmered in my gut, but I kept my expression neutral. “I won’t.”

“Good girl.”

I hated how those words made my stomach twist, but not in the way they did when Shooter said them. My father reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a black card, holding it out to me. “I upped the limit on your credit card but I’m sure Shooter has kept his word and is taking care of you.”

I stared at it for a second before taking it. “Yeah. Mm-hmm,”

I said, my voice flat.

He cupped my chin, forcing me to look at him. “I love you, . I’ll call you soon.”

Then, just as quickly as he came, he pressed a kiss to my forehead and turned, striding back toward the elevator. The doors slid shut behind him and I was left standing there, gripping the card in my fingers, my emotions a tangled mess. I didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or laugh. So I did none of the above.

Nothing about that visit sat right with me, but it wasn’t anything new. His love had always come in the form of power moves and dollar signs. Not affection, not real concern—just control.

I dropped the card on the counter, shaking my head as I pushed off toward the bedroom. I needed a shower. I stripped down in the bathroom, turning the water up as hot as I could stand it before stepping in. The heat eased the tension in my muscles, but it did nothing for the thoughts running rampant in my head. Shooter. That was my biggest problem.

I leaned against the tile, letting the water run over me as I exhaled. I had never felt like this about a man before. Not the two I had been with before him, not any of the ones who tried to impress me over the years. Shooter was different. Dangerously different.

Last night had been everything I didn’t know I needed. Raw. Intense. Passionate. But I hated that I wanted more. And even worse? I hated that I was sitting here in this penthouse, bored out of my mind, waiting for him to come back like some desperate housewife. Oh, hell no. That wasn’t me.

I turned off the water, stepping out and wrapping myself in a towel before heading to the bedroom. I wasn’t about to sit around all night twiddling my thumbs. If Shooter could go about his day doing whatever he pleased, then so could I.

I threw on a pair of fitted lounge shorts and a cropped tank top, comfortable but still cute. My hair went up into a messy bun, and I swiped on some coconut oil, letting my skin glow. Then, I grabbed my phone and hit the group chat.

What y’all bitches on?

It didn’t take long before the responses started rolling in.

MECCA: Ummm, where you been??

RETIA: Right, you been ghost. That nigga got you locked in a cage or sum?

I rolled my eyes, smirking as I flopped onto the bed.

No, I been chilling. But I’m tryna drink and catch up. Y’all pulling up or what?

KALEA: Say less. I’m bringing the Casamigos.

RETIA: And I got the hookah.

Bet. See y’all in an hour.

I tossed my phone on the bed and headed back to the kitchen. Wine. Snacks. Music. That’s what I needed. A Saturday to unwind with my girls, sip some wine, talk some shit, and remind myself that I was still that bitch with or without Shooter Mosley in my head.

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