Chapter 15
15
I left before the sun came up. Before I could talk myself out of it. Before I could turn over and let his body heat sink into my skin again. Before I could risk waking up to that deep, lazy voice murmuring morning, baby against my neck like last night didn’t shift something permanent between us.
It was easier this way.
Slip out of bed. Throw on sweats and a hoodie. Grab my bag. Leave.
My mind was still reeling. It had been hours, but I could still feel him—everywhere. My thighs ached from how hard I’d ridden him, my nipples were still sensitive from how greedy his mouth had been. My lips were swollen. My body… weak. And my heart …yeah. We weren’t talking about that.
Because this —whatever the hell this was—wasn’t supposed to happen. Even if I had dreamed of it happening for so long. Even if I had went there to practically get what I wanted.
From the outside looking in, I probably seemed confused—like I was playing coy, acting hard to get after giving him everything. But it wasn’t that.
Last night, I needed Amir. I needed every filthy, soul-claiming thing he gave me. And again early this morning, when he touched me like he knew my body better than I did. But even in the afterglow, the truth pressed at the back of my mind: this wasn’t something I could afford to believe in.
He’d said it himself—he was scared of hurting me. And that was my fear too. Because what if he did? Then what was I supposed to do with the pieces?
That question followed me into the shower, clinging to my skin like steam. I scrubbed slow, not because I needed to be clean, but because I needed space—from him, from us, from the weight of what we’d done.
I got dressed quickly after, tossing on jeans and a cropped sweatshirt, slipping out the door before I could talk myself out of it. I didn’t want to see his eyes. Didn’t want to drown in that rich chocolate stare, the one that always made me forget what was smart and remember what felt good.
I needed clarity. Because last night I didn’t have any. Last night, I let go. I let myself fall. Deeper than I meant to. Deeper than I was ready for.
And the truth was, I’d been hiding those feelings for years—because loving Amir out loud was dangerous.
And safer buried didn’t mean they weren’t still alive.
I knew what happened when I got too close. I knew how the world worked. The kind of women Amir always had on his arm weren’t the kind of women who had to overthink their feelings. They weren’t the kind of women who felt too deeply. And me.
I was too much.
Too much heart. Too much attachment. Too much of everything.
He didn’t need all that. He never had.
And if I was smart, I wouldn’t let myself forget that.
I had a meeting with Deirdre that morning, and I told myself it was fate. A reminder from the universe that my art—my purpose—was bigger than the whirlwind of feelings still clinging to me after last night.
Deirdre had been my agent for two years now. A beautiful Black woman in her early forties, with a warm brown complexion, deep-set eyes that missed nothing, and coiled hair always pinned in a soft, regal updo. She carried herself like a woman who had fought for every inch of her success—and won. Confident. Composed. But never cold.
She was the first person in the industry to see me. Not just as a talented girl posting illustrations online, but as an artist. One with vision. Voice. Value. Deirdre had spoken that over me when I barely believed it myself. She pushed me, yes—hard when necessary—but always with care. And over time, we’d grown from emails and contracts into something more familiar, more personal. A quiet sisterhood.
“You killed it with that last project,” she said, flipping through a folder as I sat across from her in her minimalist office, all cool greys and soft wood. “The Luxe feature gave you way more traction than we anticipated. Your inbox must be a jungle right now.”
I smiled, though it felt a little forced. “It’s been a lot.”
Deirdre glanced up from her tablet, eyes narrowing slightly as she scanned me. “You okay? You look good. Glowing, actually.” Her mouth tugged up at one corner. “You seeing somebody?”
My cheeks warmed, but I let out a soft laugh and waved her off. No way would I be sharing the Amir escapades when I was trying to escape them. “Just working a lot.”
“Mmhmm.” She didn’t press. Just tucked her smile into the corner of her mouth and tapped something on her screen. “Well, whatever it is, keep doing it. That energy? It’s magnetic.”
She clicked her tongue, scrolling. “Anyway—I've got some things in the pipeline. A few gallery inquiries, more digital features. And—” she paused, looking at me over her glasses, “—any interest in a showcase?”
My spine straightened. “A solo showcase?”
“It’s early,” she said, holding up a hand. “Still in the soft talks. But I think it’s time. Your work is too powerful to just live on screens.”
Something tightened in my chest. A flicker of fear, yes. But also wonder. And pride.
“I’d love that,” I said, voice softer than I meant. “Just let me know what I need to do.”
Deirdre’s grin widened. “That’s what I like to hear.”
We wrapped up soon after, but as I stepped back out into the crisp morning air, a quiet thrill curled in my gut.
Something was happening. I could feel it.
But before I could dwell on it too long, my phone buzzed.
Amir.
I swallowed hard, staring at his name, before sighing and answering.
"What?" I said, because attitude was my only defense right now.
He chuckled. Deep. Smooth. Still thick with morning sleep. "Damn, good morning to you too, Amaya."
I shut my eyes, willing my body to stop reacting to the way he said my name. "Why are you calling me?"
"I forgot my keys."
I rolled my eyes. "Sounds like a personal problem."
"Nah, sounds like your problem, 'cause I know you got a spare."
I groaned, already moving toward my car. "You’re a menace."
"And you love it. Bring me my damn keys."
I hadn’t planned on staying.
I stepped into the studio, spotted Amir and Raj mid-session, and walked straight toward him with the keys in hand. I was going to drop them off, say a quick “thanks again,” and dip. That was the plan.
But Amir glanced up at me from behind the soundboard, his eyes locking with mine just long enough to send a pulse through my chest. Then he held up a hand—just a small gesture, his fingers spread, palm steady—as if to say, wait. His other hand was still adjusting levels, his mouth moving low into the mic, guiding Raj through the next pass.
I huffed, annoyed. Mostly with myself for not just leaving the damn keys on the counter like a normal person. But I didn’t walk out.
The beat kept me there.
It was... different. Evolved. A slowed, stretched version of what I’d heard the night before, but fuller now—layered with something lush and deliberate, the kind of sound that lived in your bloodstream.
I let out a slow breath, moved to the corner, and sank onto the worn leather couch with a soft exhale. Fished my iPad from my bag. Pressed play on my sketch app.
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
But the music made me stay.
It pulled me under, deep into the haze of memory and need. The echo of last night’s filth flashing behind my eyes—the slick heat of Amir’s mouth between my thighs, the sharp stretch of him filling me, the wild way he’d said my name like it was a song only he knew how to sing.
My thighs pressed together.
I tried to shake it off. To focus. To draw.
And I did.
Because that's what my art did for me. It grounded me. Even in chaos. Even when the boy I swore I wouldn’t fall for was ten feet away, making the kind of music that sounded like he’d been inside my body.
The sketch came fast—sharpened lines, instinctive swipes of color and shadow. A man. Fragmented. Beautiful. Haunted. A body built of chaos and brilliance. A heart buried but aching to be known.
I didn’t notice how long I was lost in it until a voice broke through the air, smooth and thick like smoke.
“Damn.”
I looked up, blinking like I was waking from a dream.
Taraj Ferrell stood over me, tall and unreadable, arms crossed as his gaze locked on my iPad. He had that presence—the kind that didn’t announce itself, just was. Mysterious. Still. Dangerous in the quietest way.
I felt Amir before I saw him. The air shifted first—warmer, heavier—then came the sound of his footsteps, the scrape of the stool as he pushed back from the board. I didn’t have to look to know his eyes were on us. On me. On him.
"This yours?" Taraj asked, tilting his head.
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just something I was playing with."
Taraj’s gaze flicked from the iPad to me. "Nah. This ain’t just something ." He gestured to the screen. "This is it ."
My breath hitched. " It ?"
Taraj nodded, his expression serious. "I’ve been looking for the right cover. Something that feels like the album. And this? This is it."
His words landed heavy. Deep. I should’ve been floating, high off the compliment, off the opportunity sitting right in front of me—but instead, I felt something else rising in my chest.
A pressure.
Like I was being watched.
I looked up, past Taraj’s shoulder.
And there he was.
Amir.
Standing behind the board, posture locked, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle ticking at the side of his face. His arms were crossed, his chest rising and falling like he was trying hard to stay still, but his eyes—those deep, dark, dangerous eyes—were fixed on me.
Possessive. Heated. Direct.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He just watched me, like he was daring me to look away first. And I couldn’t. My breath caught in my throat.
The same mouth that had been on every inch of my body last night was now tight with tension. The same hands that had held me like he’d die without me were now balled into fists. That same deep voice that had whispered filth into my ear was silent now, but his eyes... his eyes said everything. It scared me if I were being truthful.
But it also made my thighs clench. I felt like I was straddling something invisible—desire and doubt, certainty and chaos. And all of it pulsed around him.
Taraj didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he did and just didn’t give a fuck. He gave me a small smirk, then stepped back. “Let’s talk soon,” he said. “I want that piece.”
I gave a tight nod, my voice lost somewhere between my lungs and my mouth.
He walked off and out of the studio, leaving the music playing low, the lights dim, and me sitting there—still tangled in Amir’s stare.
When I finally forced myself to look away, my whole body buzzed.
Not from Taraj.
From Amir.