Chapter 11 Colecion
Ididn’t say anything for a moment. Just sat there watching him, blinking slowly, taking inventory of everything he’d just laid bare.
He let me sit with it, weigh it, and process the magnitude of what he was offering.
Because, to be honest, he hadn’t done right by me and hadn’t been fair.
But tonight wasn’t about holding grudges—though I wouldn’t hesitate to tell him exactly how I felt.
“I like that version of you,” I said finally, my voice soft but warm. “Lesley.”
“I plan to give you more of him. I apologize again for disappearing. I had a lot going on, and this—checking in, being accountable to someone—shits new territory for me.”
The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. Here was this powerful man, this king of the city, admitting he didn’t know how to be someone’s person. It should have been a red flag, but instead it made something tender bloom in my heart.
I understood that struggle more than he knew.
Connecting was hard when you’d learned how quickly you could lose someone.
I’d watched my mother battle cancer alone while trying to raise me to be independent, never to need anyone the way she’d required my father—the man who walked out when things got too real, too hard.
She’d taught me to be self-sufficient because she knew she couldn’t promise she’d always be here.
“I get it. It’s hard to be somebody’s safe place when you never had one.”
I pushed my chair back, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. The scrape of the legs against marble echoed through the quiet penthouse, but all I could hear was my heartbeat thundering in my ears.
“Two weeks was a long time to not see my husband. Hear his voice. Smell his cologne.” I stood, moving closer. “Fake or not, I missed you. I was worried about you.”
My fingers went to the back of his neck first—light, testing. I wanted to see if he flinched, if this whole vulnerable act was just that, an act. But he didn’t move. He just sat there, letting me touch him, his breath catching. He wasn’t as in control as he wanted me to think.
I dragged my hands over his shoulders, broad and solid, then down his chest. He was all muscle, hard under my palms, and I felt the way he tensed, jaw locking. It was taking everything in him not to grab me right back.
“You good?” I asked, dropping my voice into that tone I only used when I wanted something.
We’d been dancing around this for months—sharing a bed, moving through the same space, stuck in that weird middle ground between strangers and lovers. But we’d never crossed this line, not like this.
I moved around his chair slowly, fingertips dragging across his shoulders, down his arms. I felt the heat rolling off him, felt his head turn just enough to keep me in sight, even as he forced his body to stay locked in place.
“You still mad at me?” he asked, his voice lower, rough around the edges.
“No,” I said, letting my hand rest near his belt, not tugging, just reminding him I could. “But I should be.”
My own honesty caught me off guard. I was looking at him differently now.
I’d stopped pretending not to notice. The way his throat worked when he swallowed.
The way his fingers flexed against the arms of the chair, like he was fighting not to reach for me.
The way his eyes burned into me, no disguise, no filter, just want written plain across his face.
He grabbed my wrist—not rough, but firm—and pulled me toward him. I moved willingly, with no resistance or hesitation. When he lifted the hem of my dress and guided my legs on either side of his chair, I let him. When he positioned me so I was straddling him, I settled into place.
His large hands found my waist, and I could feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric of my dress. We were so close now I could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes and could count the lines around them that revealed years of responsibility weighing on his shoulders.
My body settled against him. A shaky inhale slipped out before I could stop it. There was no space between us now, my thighs pressed against his hips, my hands braced on his shoulders, my face inches from his.
My mouth parted slightly, words on the tip of my tongue, but nothing came out. was trying to read him and making it obvious.
He didn’t kiss me right away. Instead, he let us exist in that space between wanting and having, between the arrangement we’d made and whatever this was becoming. When my hips shifted slightly against his lap, I heard his sharp intake of breath.
“Coco,” he said, my nickname coming out strained.
I knew I looked good sitting there in his lap, my dress riding up my thighs, my hair falling around my shoulders. But more than that, I was here. I chose to be here, to let this happen.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, his hands tightening possessively on my waist. “Because once we cross this line, we’re done pretending this is just business.”
I searched his dark eyes, feeling the careful walls I'd built around my heart finally crumble into dust.
“I don't want to pretend anymore,” I whispered, leaning down until my lips were almost touching his.
Raw need replaced the careful control he’d been wearing all night. He reached behind me and swept everything off the table in one rough motion. Crystal glasses, plates, and silverware crashed to the floor in an explosion of sound that echoed through the penthouse.
Surprise hit me first, but it didn’t last. Hunger took over before I could catch my breath. When he gripped my waist and lifted me onto the edge of the table like I weighed nothing, the coolness was a stark contrast to the heat radiating between us.
“You sure about this?” he asked, his voice rough with want, hands framing my face like I was something precious he was afraid to break.
I answered by pulling his mouth down to mine, kissing him like I’d been starving for the taste of him. Like my body had been waiting for this moment since the night we first met.
“Lesley—” I started, but he swallowed whatever I was going to say with his mouth on mine.
I moaned into his mouth, the sound slipping out before I could hold it back, vibrating between us and shaking my nerves loose. My nails scraped down his back through his shirt, and I didn’t care if I marked him up. I wanted to. I needed to. I wanted him to feel me long after this moment ended.
I kissed him like he’d been gone too long. Like my body remembered the silence and hated it. I could feel everything I’d held in bleeding through my mouth, how worried I was, how mad I had been, how much I missed him and hated missing him. And how much I was still willing to forgive.
Shit.
His lips were rough, his mouth greedy, but I gave it back to him just as hard. I kissed him like I was trying to start something and end something at the same time. I didn’t want to need him. I didn’t want to feel this deep. But I did. And the way I kissed him said it all.
“Don’t disappear like that again,” I whispered against his mouth, voice unsteady. My forehead pressed to his, and even though I tried to hold it back, I knew he saw it, that little flicker of vulnerability in my eyes. I hated how much it showed. But he needed to know.
“I won’t,” he said, his voice low and jagged. “I missed your chipper ass.”
A soft gasp slipped when he yanked me forward, dragging me flush against him. He leaned me back on the table making me the dessert.
I didn’t even wait. I lifted my legs and placed them on his shoulders like I knew what time it was.
And baby, I was right.
He didn’t say a damn word. I watched his eyes drag over me, land on my pussy, and stay there like it was the only thing that existed.
There was something so hungry in his face, so serious, like this wasn’t just about sex.
Like I was a luxury, he felt privileged to taste me, as if I were some imported delicacy.
And the way he dipped into me?
Proved that I was.
His mouth was everything, wet, greedy, slow, methodical. He licked me like he’d been starved for forty days and nights. Like he missed it. Like he missed me.
And I wanted to cry and cuss and laugh and scream, because the way he moved, the way he ate—it felt like he was trying to say something without words.
He gripped my thighs tighter when I rocked against his face, chasing the high he was building slowly and intentionally.
“Stop moving and let me feast, baby,” he growled between strokes.
My whole body jerked.
I whimpered, an ugly, raw sound I didn’t mean to let out, and that only made him smile against me. I felt it. Felt his tongue flick against my clit. He kept playing with me, teasing to pull back, then burying deeper just when I thought I had a grip on reality.
He was showing out.
My fingers clawed for anything solid, I found his head and held on like my life depended on it. I tried to guide him, but he already knew. Already had me figured out.
Lazy circles turned into long strokes. Then fast flicks right when I thought he’d go gentle. It was a game for him, and I was losing every damn round.
“Lesley, please, please baby—”
“Please, baby, what?”
“Let me cum. I can’t take it anymore.”
His mouth latched onto my clit, and just like that, I snapped.
My body locked up, then untangled all at once. I came hard, legs shaking on his shoulders, breath caught in my throat. My whole body trembled.
But he didn’t stop.
Didn’t even think about stopping.
He kept going, as if he needed something else. Like the orgasm wasn’t the goal. Like I was the goal.
He slowed me down, let me fall a little, then pulled me right back up. The second one hit harder. I clawed at the table, trying to get away, but he held me down.
Made me feel him.
By the time he stood, mouth glistening, dick rock hard against his joggers, I felt like I’d been through a ritual.
Because I had.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, slow, deliberate, like he wanted me to see exactly what he’d just done. Then he leaned in, lips grazing my ear, voice low and unshakable.
“I’m not walking away from this. From you.”
The words lit through me, left me trembling but steady enough to answer. “Good. Because I’m not letting you.”
His hand slid to my throat, grip firm, not choking, just anchoring me there while his eyes burned into mine.
“That’s what the fuck I needed to hear,” he said, voice rough.
I nodded, wide open, every nerve raw, every defense gone.
“You finished?” he asked, tone sharp, daring me to lie.
I shook my head, breath catching. “No. Hell no. I want the dick. I need it.”
That was all he needed. He spun me, bent me over the table, palms flat against the table. My dress was up in seconds, his hands rough, greedy. No panties. I’d been ready for him. “You missed me, huh?” he muttered, dragging the head of his dick over wet lips.
“Yeah,” I breathed, arching back.
He pushed in slowly, every inch stretching me until I swore I was built for him. His hands locked on my hips, guiding me, filling me. My breath caught, my body already trembling as I opened for him.
“You so fuckin’ wet, Coco. What the fuck…” His voice broke roughly against my neck.
The rhythm built fast, his hips slamming into mine, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. I cried out but didn’t flinch, didn’t run. I gave it back to him, harder, meeting every stroke.
“This mine now,” he growled, one hand dragging up my spine, anchoring me.
“Yes—fuck, yes, Lesley. It’s yours.”
“Say it louder.”
I shoved back against him, voice breaking. “It’s yours, Lesley. All yours.”
My voice cracked, thighs trembling, breath shattering with every push. He bit into my shoulder, holding me still, but the grip wasn’t just control—it was him keeping me close.
He moved slower, deeper, the roughness in him folding into care. Every thrust wasn’t just taking, it was giving. It was him saying without words that I was his woman, his wife, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
His fingers rubbed my clit as he stroked deeper. I felt myself crumbling again.
“Come on, Coco. Coat yo husband dick. I know you can do it.”
I screamed. Moaned. Came so hard I thought I might black out. My body pulsed around him, trying to pull him in. Hold him there.
Did I have a praise kink?
“Fuck,” he hissed, slamming into me at a rapid pace before spilling inside me.
We stood there, breathless. I trembled. He tensed. The silence between us was louder than anything we’d just done. He pulled out slowly, both of us hissing. I stayed bent over, trying to get my breath.
Dinner was a mess. Dishes everywhere. My dress still up around my waist. We’d wrecked more than the room.
“Coco,” he said, reaching for me.
I turned, hair wild, lips swollen, satisfaction still humming through me. Underneath all of it was fear and hope sitting side by side, and the quiet understanding that I wasn't the same woman I'd been an hour ago.
He caught my waist. “We just crossed into different waters. You’re my woman now more than ever. If I say it, I mean it. I’mma settle up.”
Neither of us moved for a minute. We just stayed there, breathing. His forehead dropped to my shoulder, and I felt his weight on my back.
I put my hand on the back of his neck and held him there.
This was the part nobody warned you about. Not the falling, not the wanting — but the after. When everything you’d been holding gets set down, and you finally feel how heavy it was. Something had shifted. I felt it, and I didn't fight it.
“Come on,” I said softly, sliding off the table. We didn’t speak again until we’d showered and crawled into bed. He called the housekeeper to clean up. By the time she came, See No Evil was playing, and the dining room looked brand new.
He ran his hands through my scalp as I turned to him with a smile.
“I spent every second in St. Louis thinking about that moment. About how I’d rather be home with you. I made them niggas pay for taking me from you.”
“I was being a brat too,” I admitted.
“I should’ve called and shit, but I was tryna get my feelings about you together. I wanted to be sure that I was ready for this.”
“I need reassurances.”
“I can’t promise I’ll never leave,” he said. “But I can promise you’ll know why. And when I come back, it’ll always be to you.”
I searched his face and found what I was looking for. I settled against him, my breathing evening out, and let myself believe him for the first time.
I felt his lips on my hair as I drifted off to sleep.