The Structure of Us
We don’t even make it past the foyer. The door barely clicks shut before Zaria is on me. Her mouth, her hands, and her hardness.
I barely get the lock turned before she pushes me back against the door letting her fingers curling into my lapels. She’s kissing me like she’s been starving for it all night.
Maybe she has.
I’ve been craving her for months and her speech made the flames of my passion for her burn hotter. Her honesty. Her courage. The way she stood in that ballroom and stood proud as herself—claiming our love—without shrinking.
It solidified that there is no version of my future that doesn’t have her in it. I cup her face and kiss her harder. Slower. Deeper.
“You were unbelievable tonight,” I murmur against her mouth.
She doesn’t answer with words.
She answers by unbuttoning my shirt with impatient fingers.
I walk her backward toward the living room, not breaking contact. My hands slide down the zipper of her gown and peel it from her body like I’ve been thinking about doing since the limo. Fabric pools at her feet as she steps out of it without looking away from me.
I strip her completely bare. Except for the Tom Ford padlock heels and the jewelry. Gold sparkling against bare skin never looked better.
Powerful. Untouched. Untamed.
Jesus.
“You trying to kill me?” I ask under my breath.
Her lips curve slightly. “I thought you liked surviving dangerous things.”
I laugh low. “I don’t survive you. I surrender.”
My slacks are already loosened. My shirt hangs open. The memory of what she did to me before the gala—her hand wrapped around me—stroking me provocatively. Pleasing me from the front and back until I made a mess all over her hand.
I need to feel her in every way possible.
I step closer.
“You feel what you do to me,” I tell her as my erection rests against her midsection.
I can see it in her eyes that she does. I can feel the heat. I see her devotion to not just me but our love. I feel her hunger. She steps back slowly until the back of her knees hit the edge of the couch.
Then she lowers seductively onto her knees and looks up at me. Her mouth parts as her tongue slides slowly along her bottom lip before she opens wider.
Invitation.
Worship.
Desire.
Something primal snaps in my chest. I look down at her—my shirt open and slacks unzipped—barely holding on to control. Stars don’t even begin to describe what’s in my vision right now.
It’s possession.
It’s gratitude.
It’s reverence.
I ease my hand into my briefs and free myself my throbbing dick slowly while she watches me.
She inhales sharply.
I step closer. So close that the heat of her breath hits me.
I stroke myself once.
Twice.
Then drag the tip slowly across her waiting tongue.
Her eyes flutter.
And I lose it.
“Look at me,” I command.
She does.
Unblinking.
Adoring.
I stroke myself as precum now drips onto her tongue and swallows it quickly as if she was clearing her plate make space for seconds. I push into her mouth immediately engulfed by heat.
“Take me, Baby.”
Forever wanting to please me—she looks up at me and takes my member complete down her throat until my testicles are resting on her chin.
“FUCK,” I yammer as she has her way with me orally.
Tears well up in her eyes and spill as I wrap my hand around her throat and start to fuck her pretty tear-stained face. I know I’m giving her every inch as saliva runs out the sides of her mouth.
“You taking me so good Z Baby. Keep going for Daddy.”
The praise illicit a moan from her even with a mouth full of dick. Being out on her knees has her body is dire want. I see her grab her shaft and start stroking while her mouth strokes me. I decide now is not the time to be controlled and measured.
I now have both hands around her throat and I’m pumping into her mouth with reckless abandon. My hand tightens in her hair, not to hurt—to guide. To anchor. She takes me deeper, slower, like she’s savoring me.
“Good girl,” my groan muffled and hoarse.
Her hands slide up my thighs, gripping, grounding herself as she gives herself over to the moment. Over to me.
I fight the urge to finish right there. Tonight isn’t about quick release. It’s about claiming her in every way, in every space. It’s about sealing what we declared publicly with something raw and private.
Not ready to release yet, I pull her up. I capture her mouth in a kiss so smoldering that I feel my release tipping closer. I step back—eyeing her nude body from head to toe as her chest rises and falls rapidly. She moans in protest at our disconnection.
I lift her effortlessly and carry her toward the bedroom.
I place her back on her feet and turn her to face the wall. She’s my favorite masterpiece. Every dip and curve of her canvas is committed to my memory.
“We’re not done,” I tell her as I tilt her head back.
“We better not be,” she breathes.
She’s my fantasy actualized. Bare. Heels still on. Diamonds I bought still shimmering. Hair wild. And most importantly—Mine.
“I’m insatiable when it comes to you,” I admit quietly.
Her voice is softer now. Deeper. “Then don’t be satisfied.”
That’s all I need to hear. I grab the lube off the dresser.
I push her forward, putting the perfect arch in her back as I let the warming jelly run slowly down until it’s right where I need it to be.
She’s squirming. Hot. Ready. I stroke myself to make sure I’m fully lubricate for her pleasure and mine.
Letting the night truly begin when I push into her slow and steady. Her puckered hole always opens nice and wide for me.
“Mmmmmm, Daddy.”
“Open up for me, Baby. Take me deep like only my perfect girl can,” I praise as I start pumping in and pulling out to the tip. At some point, the pace shifts. Normally it’s intimate. Soft. Careful.
Tonight I need to take her wild. I need her to feel the fire she ignites in me. I’m not making love to Zaria to night—I’m fucking her up against the wall as I stake my claim.
“I meant what the fuck I said,” I whisper.
“You’re mine.”
“If I didn’t think that hoe ass nigga would get more enjoyment than pain from it, I would’ve invited him to watch me fuck you just like this,” I say arrogantly before continuing, “make him watch you tell me how nobody has every fucked you like Daddy fucks you while you swallow every inch of me.”
“Ohhhh fuck Calil,” she whimpers as I reach around and stroke her fat dick to the rhythm of my strokes.
She smiles, even through the wreckage.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours! I belong to you Daddy!”
I slap her ass hard enough to make her yelp as I soothe it. “If you belong to me, cum with me like a good girl.”
I’m pounding in and out of her. Taking her surrender. I feel the pressure of my orgasm building with every stroke.
“I fucking love you and I can’t wait to give you my last name,” I growl.
My declaration tips us both over the edge as her release covers my hand in thick cream—mine filling her up. I ease out of her slowly watching the evidence of my orgasm leak and drip from her open hole. I’m still turned on watch the way her body reacts in the aftermath of our fucking and lovemaking.
We finally make it to the bed and fall into the sheets — sweaty, spent, satisfied but still wanting—I know this wasn’t just sex.
It was affirmation.
She stood in front of the world tonight and claimed herself. Loved herself the way Lena loved her. The way I love her. Proud and out loud.
The room still smells of amber when she tells me.
We’re tangled in sheets. Good sex always puts you in a haze you never want to get out of.
Zaria’s head rests on my chest. My fingers tracing slow patterns along her spine.
The heat from earlier has softened into the type of intimacy I’d been craving.
Then she goes quiet. I feel it before she speaks.
“They reached out again,” she says finally.
I don’t have to ask who.
“Deadnamed you?” I ask anyway.
She nods against my chest.
My jaw tightens.
“I want to meet them,” she says. “In person. I want to see what they want. And I want to correct them. Face to face.”
I don’t hesitate to ask. “You want me there?”
She lifts her head, searching my face.
“Yes. If it’s not too much trouble.”
No pause. No question. “If they’re going to look at you, they’re going to look at both of us.”
Her shoulders relax slightly.
Later that afternoon, we pull up to her parents’ house a few towns over.
The house looks exactly like I imagined it would. Perfect lawn. Perfect shutters. Perfect silence. Nothing about it feels warm. I step out of the car first and walk around to open her door.
She squeezes my hand once before we walk up together. Dr. and Mrs. Thomas answer the door. They blink when they see me. Their surprise and disdain for their child isn’t subtle.
“Oh,” her mother says stiffly. “Zai—”
Zaria straightens.
“It’s Zaria.”
The correction hangs in the air like a blade. They don’t apologize. Don’t show a lick of love or remorse. They don’t ask my name and they appear extremely irritated to see her.
“Oh,” her mother says stiffly. “Come in.”
Not warm. Not welcoming. Just…procedural. We step inside. The inside of the home is starkly different the outside. While clean and pristine—smelling of lemon polish—it’s outdated and says the wealth that once was is no longer.
They don’t offer us drinks. Don’t offer seats. They gesture vaguely toward the sitting room like they want to get this over with. Her father doesn’t waste time. He clears his throat before we’ve fully settled.
“We won’t keep you long,” he says briskly. “I know you’re both busy.”
Translation: We don’t want you here long.
Zaria’s spine straightens. “Then let’s get straight to it,” she replies evenly.
Her father nods as if this is a business meeting. I stare at him. I’m sure the loathing is etched on my face.
“I’ve heard you’re connected to some influential people in Winston Hills.”
There it is. No small talk. No acknowledgment. No apology.
Just transaction.
He continues, as if we’re at a networking brunch.
“I’ve been attempting to secure a position at Winston Hills Memorial. I was hoping you might know someone who works there and put in a good word.”
Zaria goes completely still beside me. Her face turns to stone. She’s not angry. Her face holds no emotion. She seems accepting. Accepting of the face that she’ll never get the love and acceptance she deserves from them.
For a moment, she just looks at them. Years of abandonment sitting behind her eyes.
“You abandoned me when I transitioned,” she says quietly. “You refuse to call me by the correct name. You didn’t even bother to show up to any of my graduations.”
Silence.
“But you call me when you need something. To make it worst, you don’t even have enough wherewithal to pretend to respect and accept me to get what you need from me. Even in need you disrespect me!” Her voice now raised.
Her mother shifts uncomfortably. “That’s not fair—”
“It’s very fair,” Zaria replies.
Her voice doesn’t raise this time.
It sharpens.
“You erased me for years. Acted like I was an embarrassment. Like I didn’t exist. And now you want proximity to powerful people that have grown to love and adore me for nothing more than being myself?”
Her father’s face tightens.
“You are an embarrassment! You were supposed to follow in my footsteps. Carry on the family name.”
She laughs maniacally. “If this old ass house is where those footsteps would’ve landed me—I’m glad I walked in a different direction.”
That’s when I step forward and extend my hand calmly. “Dr. Calil Black.”
He doesn’t take it and I’m fine with that because he’ll regret it sooner rather than later.
I smirk. “Brother to Caleb Black,” I continue evenly. “Brother-in-law to Layanna Black—Chief of Surgery at Winston Hills Memorial.”
Recognition then regret flickers in his eyes.
“And you would have known that,” I add, “had you handled your daughter and I with decency when we entered your rather outdated home.”
Zaria snickers.
Her mother inhales sharply. I turn my attention fully to her father.
“And let me be clear about something else.”
My voice lowers. “You deadname her one more time and we’re going to have a different kind of conversation. One where I whoop your ass twice since I don’t hit women,” I finish peering menacingly at her parents.
The threat is loud and bold.
Her father bristles. “Are you threatening me in my own home?”
“I’m promising you,” I reply evenly. “In your old ass home.”
Silence.
“You want a good word?” I continue. “Right now, I’m inclined to put in the opposite.”
Zaria’s hand tightens in mine.
“You won’t step foot in Winston Hills without someone worth knowing looking at you sideways for being absent and bigoted against your own child when it mattered.”
Her mother looks stunned.
“You can’t—”
“I can,” I say calmly. “And I will.”
I step back slightly. “Don’t call her. Don’t contact her. Not until you learn how to respect her name and who she is.”
Zaria looks at them one last time. There’s no pleading in her eyes. No longing.
“Get your shit together,” she says softly.
Then we turn and walk back to the car. The door shuts behind us. I expect her to cry but she doesn’t. Instead she lets out a long and heavy exhale of relief.
I reach for her hand.
“You okay?”
She nods slowly. “Old ass house,” she blurts.
We both crack up as I pull away.
“House catfishing is a new one,” I add.
I felt immense pride that she allowed me to support and protect her. She didn’t go there expecting to reconnect. She went there to reclaim her respect and dignity from the very people who should’ve sung her praises in every room.
But make no mistake—anybody who wants access to her has to go through me first.