8. Inelastic
Inelastic
A ll week, I tried to keep my mind on the work.
Pulling wire through conduit. Stripping insulation. Splicing lines. Focus, Rae. Don’t fry yourself daydreaming about a man.
Didn’t matter. He kept creeping in.
His voice at night when he called—low, steady, wrapping around me like a hand at the small of my back. You sound tired. You need to let someone take care of you sometimes. I laughed it off, changed the subject, but the words stuck.
I hadn’t let myself feel this in years. Not since Vontrell Hill in high school. Smooth smile, fast mouth, promises I believed until he took another girl to the homecoming he swore he didn’t care about. Seventeen taught me a hard lesson: never let them close enough to cut me.
But Quentin was different. Careful, steady—but bold enough to call instead of text. Bold enough to kiss me like patience was optional. And for the first time since high school, I really liked someone.
By Friday night, I was smoothing my dress in the mirror after he’d already wrecked me against the wall.
Quickie, my ass. Nothing quick about the way he ate me until my legs buckled, or the way his dick stretched me open like he wanted my body to memorize him.
My hair had to be redone, lipstick reapplied, thighs still trembling.
He leaned in the doorway, tie loose, eyes dark. You’re beautiful, he said simply.
I almost melted right there.
We finally made it out the door. In his truck, his palm landed heavy on my thigh. He didn’t move it higher. He didn’t need to. Every stoplight, his thumb stroked my skin, steady and claiming, buzzing me head to toe. By the time we walked into The Loupe, I was lit.
The place was alive—jazz spilling warm from the stage, low lights catching on wine glasses, conversations rising and falling like a tide. Quentin’s hand slid to the small of my back. Later, it found mine. Constant contact. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he didn’t want to.
A man broke from the crowd before we even reached the bar. Dark chocolate skin, smile wide enough to outshine the stage lights. Shorter than Quentin but broad through the shoulders, moving with an ease that said he knew everybody and everybody knew him.
“Well, look at you, Mr. Hale,” he boomed, pulling Quentin into a hug before turning his attention on me. His grin widened. “And you must be Rae.”
“Rayna,” I corrected, though my smile softened it. “Rae if you want to keep it simple.”
He chuckled, shaking my hand with warmth.
“I can tell you are far from simple,” he said, glancing back at Quentin with a knowing look that men shared when conversations were being had about you.
It didn’t bother me because this look wasn’t dirty—it said something else—something special.
“Now I see why you been walking around grinning like a fool all week.”
“Ignore him.”
“I never ignore a man who sounds like he’s about to roast somebody,” I said, tilting my head. “So tell me—what’s this benefit really about? I heard robotics, jazz, auctions… what’s the story?”
His smile shifted from playful to proud. “Funding for the after-school robotics program, plus Jamal’s music studio. Whole goal is giving the kids hands-on tools, keeping them busy, giving them a shot.”
I nodded, impressed. “That’s smart. Wiring circuits and wiring a sound board aren’t so different—both teach you control, both give you rhythm. You give kids that early, you give them confidence. You give them choices.”
Both men looked at me like I’d said something heavier than I meant .
“Damn,” the friend said finally, eyebrows lifted. “You come ready with a whole sermon?”
I laughed. “No sermon. I just know a little about how things connect.”
Quentin’s hand pressed at the small of my back again, touch saying what his mouth didn’t: proud.
Later, while his friend was across the room holding court near the stage, I leaned toward Quentin. “So how long you two been friends?”
His eyes softened. “Since I moved in with Grandma. I was thirteen, hurting bad. Malik lived two doors down. Showed up with a beat-up controller and a stack of video games, dragged me into his living room like I’d always belonged there.
First time I laughed after my parents passed.
” He shook his head, smiling. “Been my brother ever since.”
Something tugged low in my chest. I looked over at Malik—loud, funny, larger than life—and then back at Quentin. I could picture it. Two boys, one broken, one determined to fix it with laughter and late-night button mashing.
It made me see Quentin in a whole new light—steady, yes, but also the kind of man who held on to people that mattered.
We mingled, picked at hors d’oeuvres that cost too much for too little, let the music slide into our bones.
Quentin stayed close, always close—leaning down to murmur jokes at my ear, his breath tickling the curve of my neck, his hand brushing my waist like it lived there.
I was drunk on it all—the wine, the bass line, the steady hum of his body near mine .
I slipped away to the ladies’ room, still carrying him in my chest. Still replaying the way he looked at me like I was both problem and solution.
When I came back, I stopped dead.
She was stunning. Deep brown skin glowing under the lights, hair cropped close in a sleek taper that showed off cheekbones made to wound, body poured into a red dress that turned heads without asking permission.
She leaned into him, fingers trailing his sleeve, smiling like she was already halfway to yes.
Heat spiked low in my stomach—sour, ugly, uninvited.
Jealousy. A feeling I’d sworn off years ago, when Vontrell taught me the cost. Seventeen, watching him grin at me with the same mouth that kissed another girl on homecoming night.
Back then I swore I’d never let another man make me feel second choice.
For a second, the old ghost whispered: maybe Quentin would slip too.
But he didn’t. He leaned back, shook his head, said something low I couldn’t hear. Whatever it was made her laugh awkward, step away, smoothing her dress like she knew she’d overplayed.
Then—he looked up. Straight at me. Found me across the room like no one else existed. And the smile he gave me was easy. Certain.
The heat in my stomach cooled, embarrassment replacing jealousy. I shoved the ghost out. Why waste energy when he’d just shown me his focus wasn’t shifting?
Still, history made me wary. My brain said careful. But my body—my body already trusted him. My body believed him .
I walked up, lifted a brow. “Everything good?”
“Perfect,” he said, threading his fingers through mine.
And just like that, the rest of the night smoothed out. Laughter, music, his hand steady at my back. Every touch of his palm, every slide of his thumb on my skin, reminded me he was here—with me, not anywhere else.
By the time we stepped back into the cool night air, I was floating.
He walked me to the truck, his hand still warm at the small of my back.
That pressure had me humming, thighs pressing every time his thumb stroked low.
I could still feel him from earlier—my body clenching at the memory, nipples tight, pussy slicking just from his glance.
And those glances? Darker now. Hotter. Like he’d been biting down on restraint all night and was one brush away from breaking.
The city blurred by on the drive—neon, streetlamps, brake lights bleeding into gold streaks. None of it mattered. All I felt was his hand on my thigh, inching high enough to remind me exactly how wet I was. How swollen. How ready.
When we pulled into his place, I didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t.