1. Egypt Armstrong #2
"I thought I said to keep your eyes on me.
" He said his lips close to mine. I watched him as he pulled his fingers out of me before putting them in his mouth and licking them.
"Who knew chocolate could taste so good.
" I could have died in this moment in bliss.
Everything I had been worrying about had been forgotten.
One thing about Nasseem, he was fucking nasty, and I loved every moment of it.
I watched him as he undressed taking off his t-shirt, his chain, sliding out of his black jeans, and his boxer briefs. I stared at the thick, long monster as he stroked himself before coming towards me. I licked my lips as the thought of tasting him crossed my mind, but he had other plans for me.
He spread my legs and ran the tip of his dick up and down my slit, causing those same flutters to manifest inside of me.
Again, more juices flowed, more than I'd ever expected.
He bent down and kissed me, and in the middle of our tongues wrestling with one another I felt him enter me, filling me to the core.
"Shit." I gasped but he quieted me with more kisses before gyrating his hips and stroking me slowly. The further apart he spread my legs the deeper inside of me he went all while going from kissing my lips to suckling my nipples, thumbing the one he didn’t have in his mouth.
The pleasure was soothing to my body, keeping me from thinking straight, keeping me from thinking about my stresses which was exactly what I needed.
Having this man inside of me was a delightful distraction, one I needed more than anything in this world.
Those same familiar flutters crept in my stomach before I released not one, not two, but at least three more times.
After nearly an hour of straight pleasure, we'd both succumbed to our releases, and we collapsed on the bed in pools of sweat. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed; it seemed like an entire millennium, since the first bit of pleasure fell upon my body.
Silence surrounded us as we both attempted to catch the little bit of breath that we could.
My chest pounded first with excitement and then with fear of what the hell I had just done.
I had sex with Nasseem again, after promising myself that the last time was the last time.
I let this man defile my body time and time again and a huge part of me enjoyed every moment of it.
His breathing was slow and even now. Always the same. Every time after—it doesn’t matter how explosive, how intense, how damn near otherworldly it feels—Nasseem would fall asleep like he was at peace. Like nothing about this arrangement bothered him in the slightest.
And me? I laid in the bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. The room was still dim, flickering candlelight dancing across the walls. My skin was still warm, my pulse still unsteady. But I felt that same little sting I always did once the fire fades.
Regret. Not for the sex. That’s never the problem. It’s the aftermath. The silence. The emotional fog. The reminder that I’m doing something dangerous. I glanced over at him eyes closed, at peace, and I hated him for it.
He was sprawled on the bed like some kind of fallen god.
The sheet rides low on his waist, exposing abs that rippled when he breathes.
His skin, deep and rich like warm molasses, glowed under the soft amber light.
His jawline’s sharp enough to cut glass.
His lashes long and thick, resting peacefully against those cheekbones.
He’s beautiful. Undeniably, unfairly, and dangerously so. And that’s the problem.
He’s everything I don’t need. Everything I’ve fought hard to avoid.
A man who grew up hard like me, was guarded like me, and had built walls like mine.
Nasseem knew how to touch me in ways no one ever had—and still made me feel like I was balancing on the edge of a cliff.
This was supposed to be a secret, a safe release, a controlled fire.
Now, I don’t know what the hell it is anymore.
I sat up slowly, careful not to wake him.
He stirred just a little, then went still again.
Of course. He hardly ever woke up after.
Which is why it was so easy for me to always dip like nothing happened.
I slipped out of bed and searched for my black dress and heels.
My clutch was where I’d left it, sitting neatly on the chair beside the door.
I moved quietly, practiced in this routine.
No goodbyes. No lingering. I left him there, looking peaceful—same as always.
By the time the sun broke over the hills, I was back in front of the cameras.
Heavy lights. Long hours. Fake blood. Witches, curses, and scripts I had half-memorized in my sleep.
We were filming the last few episodes of The Coven , and even though the show had been a hit, I was ready to let it go, ready to pivot into something real, something mine.
But today, I was barely holding it together. We were in the makeup trailer when Serenity eyed me through the mirror. Her naturally curly hair was perfectly styled, curls bouncing like normal, her dark brown eyes were sharp and observant as always.
“You good, Egypt?” she asked, raising a brow. “You look exhausted.”
Before I could answer, Averi chimed in, lounging in the chair beside me with a brow pencil in hand. “Facts. And don’t say it was a late studio night—because I was at that session, and we left early. Your idea, might I add.”
I swallowed a sip of green juice and gave them both a dry look. “Maybe I just couldn’t sleep.”
Serenity smirked, eyes narrowing. “Or maybe you had company last night that kept you up all night.”
I rolled my eyes. “Y’all need to mind your business and worry about remembering your lines.”
Averi snorted. “I know my lines. What I don’t know is who had you dipping out early like you were on a mission.”
I brushed it off, but my silence made it worse.
They were too intuitive, too close. That was the problem with being friends with somebody for over ten years and having lived together at one point in time as well; we all knew each other like the back of our hands.
Fortunately for me, we were called to set before they could press any further.
The scenes we were scheduled to shoot today were intense—me, Serenity, and Averi’s characters are gathered around a spell circle, dealing with betrayal, heartbreak, and the kind of emotion that usually only hits off-camera. Funny how close fiction and reality could get sometimes.
We wrapped by late afternoon; everyone was exhausted but in good spirits. There were hugs, makeup wipes, wardrobe being returned; the crew was already talking about the wrap party. But I had work to do and no time to sit around and join the conversations.
I pulled into the lot at LA Records, sunglasses low on my face, hoodie up. The lobby receptionist barely looked up before waving me through with a small nod.
Logan Zarelli, co-founder/CEO of the label, was already waiting for me in the glass-walled conference room, espresso in one hand, iPad in the other.
I couldn’t help but think about how much of a good looking white boy he was.
Dark hair, tall, muscular, with swag for days.
The kind of swag you could only have by growing up around black folks and having a black wife that kept you dressed to the nines.
“Egypt,” he greeted me, standing to give me a quick hug and a kiss on my cheek. “Looking every bit like a star.”
My eyes narrowed as I dropped into the seat across from him. “Flattery first? What do you want Logan?”
He laughed. “Only to celebrate. Notice Me is picking up momentum. Streaming numbers are solid, playlist placements are climbing, and the feedback from the soft rollout has been better than expected.”
I nodded, a small breath of relief slipping past my lips. “Averi’s a genius. She wrote the hell outta that song.”
“She did,” he agreed. “And between that and the Concrete Roses feature, you’ve got real momentum. The fans are talking. The industry’s watching. We want to position you not just as a talented actress who can sing—but as a real artist. A standalone name.”
“That’s the goal,” I said. “Music’s the focus now. Acting’s… background noise.”
“Well, let’s turn up the volume then.” He grinned, and I couldn’t help but return it. It was the first real smile I’d had all day.
By the time I made it home that night, I was running on fumes. Nestled in the Hollywood Hills, my house glowed softly as I pulled into the driveway. It was peaceful here, quiet in a way I rarely allowed myself to be.
The open-concept living space welcomed me like an old friend: oak floors beneath my tired feet, Caesarstone countertops catching the last trace of golden-hour light.
The kitchen, with its stainless steel appliances and oversized island, still smelled faintly of lavender cleaner.
The electric fireplace crackled gently in the living room, and the balcony doors were cracked just enough to let in the soft hum of night and the glitter of the LA skyline.
The master suite was my favorite space in the house.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a painting I never got tired of.
My walk-in closet was a mess, but my soaking tub called my name.
I dropped my bag on the bed and pulled my phone from my pocket turning on my relaxation playlist and exhaled as Snoh Aalegra’s, I Want You Around blasted from the speakers in my bedroom.
I went into my ensuite, running a bath, getting it to the perfect temperature and adding bath salts.
I thought about putting my phone on DND, but I didn’t just in case my Nana called me for an emergency.
She was getting up in age and I never knew when she would need me.
I had asked her so many times to come live with me in California; I had plenty of space.
But she kept refusing, insisting she didn’t want to crowd me.
Little did she know, I needed her more than she needed me.
I walked through my house, back down the stairs and went into the kitchen to grab my chilled bottle of wine I had in the fridge.
I grabbed one of my oversized wine glasses and poured myself a hefty serving before grabbing the wine bottle and glass and marching back up the stairs to my bedroom.
By the time I got back, the tub was quickly filling so I set my wine bottle and glass down on the small table next to my tub before wrapping my hair and then getting undressed.
Seconds later, I was lowering myself into the deep depths of the tub; I could feel my body relaxing as I did.
By now Wicked Games by Kiana Ledé was playing and all I could do was think about Nasseem.
I shouldn’t have been. Thinking about him was torture for me.
It made everything so much more complicated than it had to be, but then again, we had made things complicated ourselves.
We should have left it at one time, but a part of me knew that it was too good for that.
As if on cue, like he knew I was thinking about him, a special ringtone I used for him played on my phone interrupting my music.
I sighed, wondering if I should just let it go to voicemail or answer.
Whatever he wanted couldn’t be good for my soul.
So, I let it to go voicemail but then I got a text notification instead.
Nasseem: Meet me at the spot. I need you.
And just like that, without hesitation, I was climbing out of the tub and headed for the shower. I didn’t even have to think about it. That was the problem. I never did any thinking when it came to him.