Her Name In Lights #2
“I miss touching you. I miss you,” I confess as my hands travel to his length that’s growing harder by the second in his boxers.
“Just let me in baby, I won’t let you fall. I’ll catch you every time.”
I slide one hand in his briefs and use the other to push them down his sculptured ass and thighs. His head falls back on my shoulders as I slowly caress his pulsing dick with one hand and play with his left nipple with the other.
“Daddy I’ve been so distant and I’m sorry,” I apologized while stroking him from the head to the base and back again.
“Fuck,” he grunts as his hand joins mine to jack his hard dick until it makes a mess in my hands.
“I love being responsible for your pleasure. I love holding your release in the palm of my hand—literally.”
I take the hand playing with his nipple and ease it in and out his hot mouth until it’s perfectly wet. I ease my finger between his ass expecting him to tense up. He relaxes—allowing me to gently circle his rim as we chase his release.
“Let it go Daddy. I need to know you need me to make you cum. I need to know I’m still your perfect little slut,” I moan against his neck.
“Push it in Baby. Make Daddy cum,” his voice strangled with lust.
I slowly push into him—stroking him from the front and back—his body trembling.
“It’s right there My Love. I feel you near the edge.”
A roar rips from his chest as his seed spills all over my hand and his. I continue to pump my finger in and out until the last of his release lands on my hand.
He turns to face me. His breathing still ragged as he stares down at me. Never one to shy away from finishing what I start—I lick every drop of him from his hand and mine.
“Mmmm,” my delight evident.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod slowly. “Great.”
My hands move lower. I circle his waist with palms flattening over his stomach before sliding back up.
“You look good,” I say quietly.
He smirks faintly. “I know.”
I roll my eyes playfully and press my lips to his in a passionate lip lock.
“You look like a man about to bid too much money in Lena’s name.”
He exhales softly. “For her? Always.”
I lean my forehead against his spine for a moment.
“I’m nervous,” I admit.
His hand reached to cover mine.
“You’re going to be amazing up there.”
“What if I cry?”
“Then you cry.”
“What if my voice shakes?”
“Then it shakes.”
His eyes are full of love. His hands settle on my hips to comfort me.
“You think Lena would want you composed?” he asks gently.
I huff a quiet laugh.
“She would want me dramatic.”
“Exactly.”
We stand there body to body—taking in the moment and preparing for tonight.
The energy between us hasn’t been this intimate in months.
It didn’t feel forced. Nor guilt-ridden.
Only a warmth that reminded us we’re still living and loving for each other and Lena.
His thumb brushes lightly along my waist.
“You’ve been… different,” he says carefully.
“Good different?”
“Braver.”
I swallow. “I had therapy,” I admit.
He nods slowly.
“Solo?”
“Yes.”
He studies my face, waiting. I almost freeze. Almost default back into silence. But I remember Dr. Manning’s words. Move like a team.
“My family’s been reaching out,” I say quietly.
His jaw tightens instantly but relaxes again. “Is that good or bad?”
“Every time they reach out, they refer to me as Zaire.”
His hands shift slightly on my hips. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
There’s no anger in his tone.
Just hurt but not because I didn’t tell him. Hurt for me because he is fully aware of how harmful it is to deadname.
“I’m used to handling it alone,” I answer honestly.
He exhales through his nose. “You don’t have to.”
I meet his eyes fully. “I know.”
Silence settles between us.
“If they call again,” he says steadily, “we’ll handle it together.”
We.
The word means more to me than I’ve ever cared to admit.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He presses his forehead gently to mine. “I don’t want to be in the cold when it gets rough,” he adds softly.
“You won’t be,” I promise.
His hands slide down to squeeze my hips once before stepping back. “Now,” he says, reaching for his tailored tux jacket, “let’s go honor our girl.”
I step back to take him in fully before we clean up and finish getting dressed. I’m nearly drooling as he slips into the cream Tom Ford tux, crisp white shirt, velvet bow tie. I wonder if we have time for him to bend me over when his gold Rolex catches the light.
He looks dapper in a way only he can. Grief-polished yet powerful. Most importantly he’s mine. Tonight I didn’t feel like touching him erased Lena. It feels like carrying her forward together.
The hotel ballroom for the gala is breathtaking. Soft lighting drapes the walls. Crystal chandeliers shimmer overhead. Tall centerpieces of white orchids and deep red roses stand like quiet sentinels over linen-covered tables.
Lena would’ve rolled her eyes at the extravagance. Then secretly loved every second of it. The guest list is unreal.
Caleb’s athlete friends. Surgeons and hematologists from across the state.
Philanthropists. Tech founders. The kind of people whose names carry weight in rooms like this.
People who worked with Lena both as a dancer and therapist were there to celebrate her life.
The owner of Provocateur was in attendance with a six-figure donation and some of the staff that Lena had gotten close to were there.
Olive & Oak catered the event, of course. I spot Knox across the room arguing playfully with a sommelier about plating. Maison Noire wine flows freely at every table, dark bottles lined like trophies.
The entire Black clan is here. Caleb and Yanna hugged up looking as radiant as ever.
Calla is chatting with some of her tech industry friends sharing a laugh.
Ajaih glowed beside Maverick and Knox. Ahmir is laughing too loudly near the silent auction table, and Dana is looking like money and mischief near the wine display.
Amiyah tucked against James Jr’s side as they both watch Calla adoringly.
Lena’s parents stand near the stage, dignified and soft all at once.
DJ looks older tonight. Grief ages people but I know he’s getting better by the day because we talk daily.
Calil’s hand rests at my waist as we stand near the stage waiting to begin. I take a second to really look at us. He is breathtaking.
He’s wearing tailored Tom Ford. The ivory tuxedo jacket is perfectly cut to emphasize his broad shoulders and powerful frame.
A crisp white shirt sits smooth against his chest, finished with a velvet black bow tie that contrasts beautifully against the cream tones.
Black trousers fall clean and sharp on his frame.
His hair and beard are lined to perfection.
The glimmer of gold shine at his wrist and cufflinks.
Rarely flashy—tonight he screams wealth and legacy.
He’s mine and I made sure I matched his energy.
I’m wearing an ivory tuxedo-style gown that fits like it was stitched directly onto my body.
Structured shoulders. Deep neckline. A daring thigh-high slit that shows just enough leg to ooze sex appeal.
The fabric drapes smooth over my curves.
It’s giving elegant and commanding. My hair is styled in soft old Hollywood glamour waves that fall over one shoulder.
Diamond earrings catch the light every time I move courtesy of my man.
We look like a unified couple and Calil wanted it that way.
After mingling and greeting guests, Caleb signals that it’s time. Calil squeezes my hand once before we walk toward the stage with Lena’s family. David Sr takes the mic first. He stands tall, but his eyes soften the moment he looks out at the crowd.
“My baby girl,” he begins, voice steady but thick with emotion, “spent her life teaching me something I thought I already understood.”
He pauses.
“Strength.”
The room stills.
“She fought her body every single day,” he continues. “And yet, she never let that fight steal her joy. She never let it make her bitter. She loved too big for bitterness.”
Kimberly reaches for his hand.
“She told me once,” he adds while glancing down briefly, “‘Daddy, don’t cry for me when I’m gone. Cry for the people who never learned how to love like I did.’”
A quiet wave of emotion ripples through the room. He clears his throat. A faint, knowing smile touches his lips.
“Tonight we honored her freedom.”
He bows his head. “Let us pray.”
The room follows.
“Father God, we thank You for the gift of Lena Barré. We thank You for the love she poured into every life she touched. We thank You that though her body failed her, her spirit never did. Tonight, we ask that You bless this room. You bless this mission and bless every person fighting sickle cell disease. Let Lena’s legacy be healing.
Let it be research. Let it be hope. In Jesus’ name. ”
“Amen,” the room echoes.
When he turns to me and hands me the mic, the room quiets. My heart pounds, but I step forward.
“My name is Zaria Thomas,” I begin, voice steady enough to carry.
“I had the honor of loving and being loved by Lena Barré.”
I pause.
“And I want to be clear about something tonight because Lena always told me to be me unapologetically.”
The room leans in.
“I’m a Black trans woman. An extremely beautiful one at that.”
The room erupts in whistling, applause, and cheers before ripple of stillness spreads through the crowd.
“And Lena loved me for the woman I was and the woman I was becoming.”
My voice tightens slightly. “She loved me so fiercely that I found the strength to love myself just as loud. Just as fierce.”
I glance at Calil. “And through her love, I even met the man of my dreams.”
Emotion surges unexpectedly. I pause, swallowing hard. Lena’s face flashes in my mind — that knowing smile.
My voice wavers but before I can regain it. Calil steps forward and gently takes the mic from my hand.