The Undoing (The Lovers #5)

Prologue

He was standing near the back wall—half in shadow, half watching me like he already knew what my body sounded like when I fell apart, wrapped around the greatest dick ever.

I didn’t know his name yet. But I knew he’d matter. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. I was positive he’d shift my life and rearrange my guts if I let him. And damn, I wanted him to.

There were maybe forty people inside the gallery. All Black. All money and ambition. Black-and-white jazz prints lined the brick walls. The floor thrummed with low bass, spilled conversations, and too many eyes pretending not to look at the same things.

But mine only looked at him.

He wasn’t dressed for this room. Fitted tee, black jeans, boots still carrying the dust of somewhere he'd owned before he came here. Forearms thick and long like rope. Beard shaped but not too neat. Fade clean. Hands tucked in his pockets like he didn’t need to impress anyone, even though he had me in a rapture.

Men like him usually didn’t speak first. They let women circle, and I never did that. I loved a challenge. The bigger, the better the reward—or so my pussy thought.

I walked toward the back slowly, stopping once to nod at a woman I knew from an auction the week before. I could feel him watching me. Not scanning. Watching.

The stringed bass pumped with my pulse, made me feel powerful as I moved closer in my black silk dress with a slit up the back and nothing on underneath but shimmering body oil and a juicy pussy.

My heels were high, of course. Anything to give my short and curvy frame some height. A trick I used to command attention and be taken seriously after years of “shorty” jokes and being infantilized by men.

His dark gaze said that’s exactly the reaction I was getting from him. By the time I reached him, he still hadn’t looked away.

“You good?” I asked him, smile tucked away. Though it didn’t matter what answer he gave me. I would make sure he was good no matter what.

He didn’t answer right away—just let his eyes move from my face, down the line of my body, then back up like he was doing inventory.

“I was,” he said, his voice low and warm like gravel soaked in honey. “Now I’m not sure.”

That smile I’d tucked in… it spread, just like I wanted to do for him.

“What’s your name?” I felt my mouth water.

“Tariq.”

I didn’t say mine. Just looked at him. Let him wait for it. Men like him had patience. But I wanted him a little undone.

“I’m not from here, and I’m looking for someone who can show me around…and make sure I have a great time,” I lied.

He stepped in closer. Close enough for me to see that he loved a little danger.

“That right?”

I tilted my head, pretending to study a photograph behind him. “I like this one. Black men always look good in shadow.”

Tariq didn’t blink. “So do Black women.”

The pause that followed was thick.

I shifted my weight. My thigh brushed his. He didn’t move. Didn’t smile either. But his eyes—dark brown, soft around the edges—dropped to my mouth and stayed there.

I tilted my glass just enough to make it sensual, felt the wine glide past my lips.

One rebellious drop lingered—right there on the curve of my bottom lip.

My tongue darted to claim it, and that’s when he broke.

The growl slipped from him like a reflex, rough and hot, like I’d touched something he barely kept caged.

That’s when I knew. He wasn’t the kind you flirted with and left. He was the kind who followed you out the door, pressed you against a wall, pulled your dress up—and your name out—in the same breath.

This was promising.

I hooked my finger in the air, glossy black nail flashing. He leaned down without hesitation, towering over me like he already knew I’d fold under him eventually. So tall. So solid. Shit.

When he dipped close, his chest nearly grazing mine, the smell of him wrapped around my throat. I pressed my mouth near his ear, slow enough to feel the heat rising off his skin.

“Say something reckless,” I murmured. “Make me forget this wine and get on my knees for you instead.”

Tariq looked at me like I’d just unwrapped every part of him he kept hidden. Calm on the surface—but the shift was there. The flex of his jaw. The burn behind his eyes. His hand came up slow, fingers brushing my waist like he was tasting the idea of me.

“I’ll fuck you so good, you’ll forget you were ever thirsty,” he said with a voice filled with promise. “Wine won’t ever hit like this again.”

I handed him my glass.

We didn’t talk on the way out.

Not because there was nothing to say—but because anything spoken aloud might've slowed us down. And neither of us wanted that. Tariq took the glass from my hand, set it on a ledge near the door like he already knew I wouldn’t be coming back for it.

Then his hand settled on my lower back. Firm. Intentional. Not asking.

That was the first thing I noticed—how sure he was.

The night air met my skin the moment we stepped outside. It clung to me, warm and heavy, like his presence beside me. He walked like he’d done it before. Like he knew exactly where I was headed even though I hadn’t said a word.

“My car’s this way,” I said, watching him out the corner of my eye.

“I know,” he replied.

I stopped mid-step and looked at him. My instincts didn’t scream, but they stirred. Girl, is you in danger?

Tariq didn’t smile. His gaze stayed steady, dark, calm. He waited for me to test him.

“How?” I asked, swallowing hard.

He stepped in, close enough for the scent of him to wrap around me again. “You walk like a woman who doesn’t like being boxed in,” he said. “You parked where you could leave fast.”

That did something to me because he was fucking right.

I hit the unlock without another word.

The second the car door shut behind us, his hand slid into my short hair, his large palm warm against my scalp, tilting my head just enough.

His mouth was on mine—hard, fast, deep. A kiss that tasted like a stolen promise.

My lips parted without hesitation. I kissed him back like I’d been waiting on him all night. Because I had.

His tongue moved with slow pressure. His kiss was wet and full, like he already knew how I liked to be kissed.

I moaned into him, unashamed.

“Yeah,” he murmured against my lips. “That.”

His other hand slid up my thigh, and I gasped when I felt skin-on-skin. I’d worn nothing under that dress for a reason. His fingers traced the curve of my ass, gripped it, then pressed me into the seat like he couldn’t get close enough.

I broke the kiss, just barely. “We’re not doing this in the car.”

Tariq’s mouth moved to my neck. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

I gave him my address.

The ride was quiet, but it wasn’t calm. Every red light felt like a dare. Every glance he threw at me across the console made my nipples tighten. His jaw stayed clenched. One hand on the wheel, the other resting too close to my thigh. Controlled tension. I wanted to ruin it.

When we reached my place, everything changed.

Shoes hit the floor. The door slammed behind us. He backed me into it, kissed me again, deeper this time—like he needed it to breathe. His hands slid beneath the hem of my dress, found the backs of my thighs, and lifted me. I wrapped around him without a second thought.

His dick was already rock hard, thick and hot through his jeans. I arched against it, wanting to feel more. All of him.

“Fuck,” I whispered, breath catching.

Tariq’s mouth curved against mine. “You know what to do with it?”

“Do you?”

His low laugh made me clench.

He carried me to the bedroom. Didn’t toss me—laid me down like I mattered. His eyes traveled down my body, pausing at every curve, every stretch of skin. His hands followed, slow. Reverent. He pushed my dress up and groaned when he saw how wet I already was.

“You always this ready?” he asked, thumb grazing through my slick folds before stroking my clit.

I gasped. “When I want it bad enough.”

His eyes locked on mine. “You want me?”

I nodded, voice gone. “Tariq...”

That was it. The sound of his name lit the fuse.

He stripped fast. Controlled, clean movements. His body—dark brown, solid, carved, fucking beautiful—moved over mine like it belonged there. When he finally slid inside me protected, I arched, mouth open, vision blurred.

He was thick. Deep. Perfect.

“Shit,” he groaned, staying still for a moment. “You feel like trouble.”

“Then fuck me like it.” Clenching around him.

He did. Slow, deep strokes that had my hips lifting to meet him. His hand slid to my throat and held it—not hard, just enough to anchor me, to own me. I moaned louder with every thrust. My legs wrapped tight around his waist. My nails left marks.

It was filthy. It was worship. It was everything I didn’t know I needed.

When I came all over his dick, I screamed. He followed with a curse, spilling deep into his rubber, burying his face in my neck like he’d come home.

After, we lay tangled—limbs, sweat, heartbeat against heartbeat. Neither of us spoke. Because there wasn’t anything left to say. Not yet.

But everything had just begun.

“My name is Sanaa,” I whispered into his chest.