TRUTH
Two weeks later…
He was still asleep when I opened my eyes.
I lay on my side, watching him the way I’d started doing every morning without meaning to—this man who moved through the world like a lit fuse but looked like peace itself when he wasn’t paying attention.
His locs were spread across the pillow. One arm rested over his stomach, the other loose at his side.
His chest rose and fell in slow, even pulls.
But his fingers were curled.
Not tight. Not braced for anything. Just—ready.
Like his body refused to fully commit to stillness even while he slept.
In two weeks, I’d figured out that Amai Landry did not fully switch off.
He dimmed. He got quiet. He let me see something underneath the armor that I didn’t think many people got to see.
But some part of him was always positioned toward the door.
I didn’t mind it anymore.
I pushed up onto my elbow and watched him another moment. Then, I dipped my head and pressed my lips to his neck—soft, slow, right below his jaw where I knew he was warm.
He didn’t stir.
I did it again. Lower. Dragged my mouth down to his collarbone, let my teeth graze just enough to feel the texture of his skin.
His breath shifted. Still asleep, but not for long.
I kept going. Slow and deliberate, down the center of his chest, my lips mapping each ridge of muscle, taking my time because I had it and because the noises he made when he was still half-asleep and didn’t have his guard up were mine.
I got to the flat plane of his stomach and felt his abs contract involuntarily.
His hand moved—found my shoulder, not gripping, just landing there like a question.
I answered by going lower.
I took him into my mouth slowly.
“Truth—”
His voice broke on my name. Low and wrecked and not fully awake.
His hand moved from my shoulder to my hair, and he hissed through his teeth as I found a rhythm, sloppy, warm, and intentional, the way I knew he liked it.
His hips lifted toward me—just once—then he caught himself, his stomach clenching, that control he wore like a second skin fighting its way back to the surface even now.
I looked up at him.
His head was back against the pillow, jaw tight, hair fanned out beneath him. He looked like something between agony and religion.
Good, I thought, and took him deeper.
“Fuck—” He exhaled hard, his grip tightening in my hair. Not forcing. Just holding on. His thighs tensed on either side of me. “Baby. Baby, I need you to—”
I hummed against him.
“Jesus Christ.”
I worked him until his breathing was ragged, and his whole body had gone tight.
Until he was muttering my name in pieces, and his hand in my hair had gone from gripping to trembling.
Then, I pulled back, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and looked at him like I hadn’t just taken him apart at seven in the morning.
“Good morning,” I said.
He looked at me with dark eyes and zero patience. “Come here.”
“I’m right here.”
“Now, Truth.”
I moved up the length of him, and he flipped us in one motion, careful of my stomach the way he always was—instinctive, automatic, like protecting me was just built into his muscle memory now. He settled between my thighs and looked down at me, chest heaving, hair falling forward.
“You think that’s funny?” he said.
“A little.”
He reached down and stroked me once, slow and direct, and the sound I made was embarrassing. His mouth curved.
“Say that again,” he said.
“Don’t be smug.”
He did it again, slower, and my back arched off the mattress.
“Amai—”
“There it is.” He pressed his forehead to mine, his voice dropping to something low and unhurried, even though nothing about the rest of him was unhurried. “Tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
I pulled him down to my ear, my lips brushing his skin. “I want you inside me. Deep. I want to feel you everywhere.”
His breath caught. “Fuck, Truth—”
“Don’t make me wait,” I whispered. “I’ve been waiting all morning.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his jaw tight, his eyes dark and fixed on mine. “You’re going to take all of it?”
“Every inch.”
A low sound rumbled from his chest—something between a groan and a curse. He shifted his weight, positioning himself, and I felt the head of him press against me.
“Say it again,” he demanded. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want you,” I breathed. “I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”
He entered me in one smooth motion. The first thrust pulled a sound out of me I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried.
He pressed his face into my neck and moved—deep and slow, finding the rhythm like he’d been keeping time to it all night.
I dug my fingers into his back, and he groaned low in his throat, the kind of sound that came from the chest.
“Right there,” I breathed. “Don’t stop. Right there.”
“I got you.” His mouth found my ear. “It’s not supposed to be this fucking good, bae.”
He picked up the pace, and I stopped trying to think.
We moved together the way we had for two weeks now—no negotiation, no adjustment, just this locked-in synchronization that still felt new enough to catch me off guard and familiar enough to feel like coming home.
His hand slid under my lower back, tilting me toward him, and I gasped.
“There,” he said against my skin, like he’d been looking for it. “That’s it.”
“Amai.”
“Say my name again.”
“Amai.” I said it into his jaw. “Right there—don’t you dare stop—”
He didn’t stop. He pressed deeper and held. I felt the tension coiling low and tight, and I grabbed his face and made him look at me because I wanted to see his face when it happened, wanted him to see mine.
“Come on,” I breathed. “Come with me—”
“Truth—” My name in his mouth like it cost him something.
“I got you,” I said. “Let go. Let go, baby—”
He made a sound I’d never heard from him before—low and broken and completely unguarded—and I felt him shudder, felt it move through his whole body as I came apart underneath him. We held onto each other through the whole of it, neither of us quiet, neither of us anywhere else.
When it was over, he didn’t move right away. Just stayed, breathing hard, his weight shifted to the side so I could breathe. His hand found my stomach without him seeming to think about it. I put my hand over his.
The ceiling fan turned. Outside, a neighbor’s dog was going off about something.
Neither of us said anything for a long moment.
“You’re dangerous,” he said finally, voice still rough.
“Mm.” I closed my eyes. “You started it.”
He laughed—quiet, real, the kind that lived in his chest. I felt it more than heard it.
“Nah,” he said. “You did. I just finished it.”
The doorbell rang.
Amai moved like someone had flipped a switch. One second, he was relaxed against the pillows, and the next, he was up, pulling on gray sweatpants with one hand while reaching for the gun on the nightstand with the other.
“Is that necessary?” I asked, watching him check the chamber with practiced efficiency.
“You expecting someone?”
“No.”
“Then it’s very fucking necessary.”
I grabbed my robe and hurried after him, tying it as we moved down the stairs. He was already at the door, checking the peephole before opening it.
Raven stood on the porch, holding a bag of orange juice. Honor had a tray of beignets. Saroya was grinning like she’d won the lottery.
And then Raven’s eyes dropped.
They dropped straight to the front of Amai’s sweatpants, where the evidence of what we’d just been doing was still very much visible.
“Daaammmnn,” she said, drawing the word out like it had five syllables.
Honor’s gaze followed, tracking from his bare chest down to the same place, and her eyebrows shot up. “If something as fine as that was knocking my back out, I’d be MIA for two weeks too, hell.”
Saroya burst out laughing.
I felt my face go hot. “Oh, my God.”
Amai simply said, “Good morning,” like three women weren’t standing on the porch cataloging his dick print.
I stepped in front of him, mortified. “Go put clothes on.”
He kissed me—slow, deliberate, his hand cupping the back of my neck like my sisters weren’t watching—and then pulled back with that slight smile that meant he’d done it on purpose.
“I have to get to the office anyway,” he said, his voice carrying that edge of amusement.
He looked at my sisters. “It was nice seeing you all.”
Then, he disappeared upstairs.
The second his footsteps faded, Raven, Honor, and Saroya came inside, and the laughter started.
“Girl,” Raven said, setting the juice down on the counter. “That man is fine as fuck.”
“And clearly very happy to be here,” Honor added, still grinning.
Saroya was already moving toward the kitchen. “Two weeks. She said two weeks, and now I understand why.”
“Stop,” I said, but I was laughing despite myself.
“Nah, we’re not stopping,” Raven said, pulling me into a hug. “We’re just getting started.”
Honor waited until she heard the shower turn on upstairs before she rounded on me, hip cocked against the counter, orange juice bag still in her hand.
“Okay.” She set the bag down with purpose. “I need you to know that I see you.”
“See me doing what?”
“Working your set.” She said it slow, like I might need the words repeated. “For two whole weeks. Girl.”
“I’m not—” I started, but Saroya was already cackling from the kitchen doorway.
“Don’t even try it,” Saroya said. “We watched that man kiss you like we weren’t standing right here. That’s not a set. That’s a whole campaign.”
“And I’m not mad at you,” Honor said, holding both hands up like she was surrendering something. “I’m just saying. Two weeks. That’s dedication.”
“It’s not a set,” I said, even though my face was doing that thing again where it wouldn’t stop being warm. “We’re just—”
“Fucking like rabbits,” Raven supplied helpfully.
“Raven.”
“I’m just filling in the blanks, so you don’t have to.” She shrugged and reached into the cabinet like she lived there, pulling down plates for the beignets. “You’re welcome.”