CHAPTER 2 #2
"I'm the woman who paid his rent for two years while he was lying, cheating, and begging for gas money," Sasha snapped, her voice cutting through the bar area like a blade.
"You want him? Take him. He's a broke-ass, lying-ass dog who steals out of garters and leaves his trash behind.
Enjoy the leftovers, sweetheart. They come with a whole lot of debt. "
Jermaine’s face flushed dark red. The casual posture vanished. He stepped off the footrail, holding his hands up at chest height, trying to play the reasonable man for the growing audience of patrons who were turning in their seats to watch.
"Come on now, Sasha," Jermaine said, his tone turning whiny, defensive. "Why you gotta act like that in front of people? That shit was months ago. You the one who threw my shit out in the rain, remember? You put me out!"
"I put you out because you were fucking another woman in a twenty-dollar motel room on my birthday!" Sasha roared, stepping directly into his personal space, her chest heaving violently.
The rib-knit fabric of her dress stretched tight over her heavy, dark breasts, the silver barbells of her nipple piercings clearly outlining against the material with every jagged breath she took.
"I remember every single text!" Sasha continued, her voice echoing off the brick walls now, raw, unfiltered, and furious.
"I remember the smell of cheap-ass body spray on your neck when you walked in at four in the morning telling me you were working overtime! I remember packing every piece of fake designer clothes you owned into trash bags while you stood there blubbering like a bitch! And I remember telling you that if I ever saw your lying face in public again, I’d put a hole through you! "
The entire back half of the lounge went dead silent.
Jermaine swallowed hard, looking around nervously as he realized half the high-spending clientele in the room were watching him get shredded by a woman who looked capable of snapping him in half.
Natasha stepped up smoothly, taking her place directly at Sasha’s shoulder. She didn't look angry; she looked like a judge delivering an administrative execution. Her hand rested warm, heavy, and grounding on the small of Sasha’s back, her thumb stroking once along the base of her spine.
"Is this the individual who was harassing your residence, Sasha?" Natasha asked softly, her voice carrying a quiet, terrifying authority that instantly caught the attention of the two massive security guards standing near the front entrance.
"Yeah," Sasha panted, her eyes locked on Jermaine’s sweating face, her hands trembling with the sheer effort of keeping herself from driving a heel into his jaw. "That's the bitch."
Natasha didn't lift her voice. She simply looked over her shoulder and raised two fingers toward the entrance.
The two security guards—both six-foot-four, dressed in tailored black suits with earpieces—moved immediately. They crossed the room with silent, terrifying speed, stepping up on either side of Jermaine before he even realized they were moving.
"Alright, man," the larger guard said, his voice a deep, rumbling baritone as his heavy hand landed firmly on Jermaine’s shoulder, turning him toward the door. "Time to wrap it up. You're leaving."
"Hey! Get your fucking hands off me!" Jermaine yelled, trying to twist his shoulder out of the guard's grip. "I didn't do shit! I'm a paying customer! I'm just having a drink!"
"You were just talking yourself into an ambulance," Natasha said, stepping forward, her dark eyes looking down her nose at Jermaine as if he were a stain on her Italian leather shoes.
"These gentlemen are going to escort you off the premises.
You will not return to Woodwork. You will not approach Ms. Washington in this venue, on Woodward, or anywhere else in Wayne County.
If you attempt to communicate with her, my legal team will file a formal restraining order by morning, and I will personally contact your employer regarding your outstanding financial obligations. "
Jermaine froze. His eyes flicked from Natasha’s immaculate silk blouse to the silver at her temples, recognizing instantly the kind of wealth and power he couldn't fight with loud talk or street posturing.
"This is bullshit," Jermaine muttered, his voice dropping as the second guard took his forearm, applying just enough pressure to turn him toward the exit.
"Move," the guard commanded quietly.
Sasha stood there, her chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gulps as she watched them march Jermaine toward the heavy oak doors.
The two young women at the bar quickly grabbed their purses and slipped away toward the bathroom, terrified of being associated with the scene.
The heavy doors swung shut with a quiet, dull thud, cutting off the humid summer air from outside.
The lounge slowly returned to its baseline hum, though several patrons were still casting curious, lingering glances toward the booth.
Natasha turned Sasha around so they were facing each other directly. She reached up, her cool, soft palms framing Sasha’s flushed cheeks.
"Look at me, Sasha," Natasha murmured, her voice dripping with warm, liquid control. "Look at me. Is he gone?"
Sasha let out a long, shaky breath, her eyes focusing on Natasha’s deep brown irises. The adrenaline that had surged through her veins was beginning to clear out, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache in her chest—the lingering shadow of old betrayal and humiliation.
"Yeah," Sasha whispered, her voice cracking slightly. "He's gone."
"Good," Natasha said, her thumbs gently stroking the high, dark curve of Sasha’s cheekbones. "You held your ground. You showed him who you are now. You're not the girl he took advantage of in that apartment. You're the woman who owns the city."
Sasha looked down, her dimples appearing weakly as she let out a quiet, tired laugh. "I still wanted to break his jaw, Natasha."
"I know," Natasha smiled, her eyes softening with an intense, fierce warmth. "And that's precisely why I had security handle it. I can't have my business partner facing assault charges three weeks before we open the lounge."
Natasha let her hands slide down from Sasha’s face, resting them lightly over her shoulders, her fingers brushing the bare skin above her neckline.
"You're exhausted," Natasha stated softly. "The fight drained you. You're not driving that Impala back to the East Side tonight."
Sasha hesitated, looking toward the glass doors where the valet was stationed. "My car..."
"Will be parked safely in the private structure until tomorrow afternoon," Natasha interrupted smoothly. "My driver is outside in the Maybach. We're going home."
Sasha looked into Natasha’s eyes—dark, hungry, yet intensely protective—and felt the remaining anger in her body melt away, replaced by a sudden, heavy wave of pure, unfiltered desire.
"Yeah," Sasha whispered, her voice dropping into a raspy, hungry register. "Take me home."
***
The ride from the riverfront to Sasha’s apartment building on East Grand Boulevard took less than fifteen minutes, but inside the sound-dampened, leather-trimmed interior of Natasha’s Maybach, time seemed to stretch into something thick, heavy, and dense with anticipation.
The privacy partition was rolled up, shutting out the quiet driver in front. The rear cabin was bathed in a soft, ambient amber glow, scented with rich leather, warm vanilla, and the sharp, clean ozone of the air conditioning unit working against the sticky Detroit heat outside.
They didn't speak for the first five minutes. Sasha sat back against the butter-soft leather seat, her long legs stretched out, her head tilted back against the headrest.
Natasha sat beside her, unhurried, composed, yet radiating a steady, pulsing heat that filled the entire backseat. Slowly, deliberately, Natasha reached across the console. Her long, manicured hand landed flat against Sasha’s thigh—right over the heavy, dark curve where her dress rode up.
The touch was firm, possessive, and scorching.
Sasha let out a quiet gasp, her eyes snapping open. She looked down at Natasha’s hand. The contrast was striking: Natasha’s smooth, elegant fingers resting against the thick, dark, muscle-bound strength of Sasha’s thigh.
Natasha’s thumb began to move, dragging slow, heavy arcs across the jersey fabric, pushing it further up her leg, exposing the dark, flawless skin beneath.
"You were incredible back there," Natasha whispered, her voice barely louder than the hum of the tires against the wet pavement outside. "The fire in you... it's intoxicating, Sasha."
Sasha shifted her hips, pressing her leg harder against Natasha’s palm, feeling heat pool instantly in the space between her thighs. The barbell piercing tucked inside her lips throbbed against her skin.
"I felt like a fool," Sasha admitted, her voice raspy. "Letting a broke-ass nigga get under my skin like that in front of your friends."
"Don't ever apologize for having passion," Natasha murmured. Her hand moved higher, her fingertips sliding beneath the hem of Sasha’s dress, brushing the smooth, bare skin of her inner thigh.
"He was a parasite. You cut him out. And now...
" Natasha leaned closer, her breath warm against Sasha’s ear, "...
you belong to a completely different tier. "
Sasha’s breath hitched. She turned her head, her lips brushing against Natasha’s jawline. "Is that right? I belong to a tier?"
"You belong to me tonight," Natasha corrected softly, her fingers pressing firm into the thick flesh of Sasha’s inner thigh, just inches away from the thin lace edge of her panties. "If you'll have me."
"I've been waiting for you to take me since that spa, Natasha," Sasha breathed, her hands reaching out to grab the silk fabric of Natasha’s blouse, pulling her closer. "Stop talking."