Rhythm Brooks
Before Sincere even took me on the “date” part of the night, we had a stop to make for Bellamy Urban Development’s sponsorship obligations.
We pulled up to a studio on the north side where a local news crew was set up for a quick segment, one of those community spotlight pieces that ran during the evening broadcast.
When Sincere told me about the interview, I felt like I was going to faint.
I was damn near hyperventilating, asking a hundred questions at once, trying to talk myself out of it while my heart raced.
Sincere coached me on what to say, broke it down into simple points, and kept assuring me I was going to be fine.
And the crazy part was the second he told me I would do a great job, I wanted to do it even more, just to earn that proud look on his face again.
Because he was pushing me toward my dreams, when Kodi only distracted me from them.
The moment we walked inside, my nerves climbed up my throat. The bright lights, cameras, and producer wearing a headset were so intimidating.
The producer pointed at tape marks on the floor and walked us into position. A makeup artist dabbed my face, making me feel like somebody important.
As we waited for the interview to start, Sincere leaned close to my ear. “Breathe,” he coached. “You already know what you’re talking about. Just be you. Tell your truth.”
I nodded, trying not to look like I might pass out.
Soon, the anchor joined us on set, greeting us, and my nerves started to spiral again.
A producer stepped in first and explained where we would stand, when we would speak, and how long our answers needed to be.
She reminded us to keep our eyes on the anchor, not the camera.
A sound guy clipped a mic to my top and tucked the wire so it wouldn’t show, and a makeup artist came back one last time to blot my face.
Off to the side, a crew member counted down while the camera operator adjusted focus and the red light flicked on.
When the studio got quiet, the anchor smiled at us like she had known us forever and greeted us again on air.
Then the segment began. “Tonight, we’re highlighting a new arts initiative bringing community and culture to the forefront. Bellamy Urban Development is sponsoring an upcoming exhibit at Voss Contemporary House called Mothers of the Block, featuring work from local artist Rhythm Brooks.”
The anchor turned to Sincere first. “Mr. Bellamy, why was it important for your company to sponsor this event?”
Sincere didn’t even stutter. He was so calm under pressure.
“If you’re going to build in a community, you should also invest in what makes that community what it is.
You should invest in the people, the culture, and the families that have been holding that block down.
This exhibit celebrates the mothers who keep neighborhoods together when everything else is trying to pull them apart.
The women who raise kids, work jobs, stretch budgets, bury loved ones, and still show up.
If we’re serious about development being for the community, then supporting them isn’t charity.
It’s respect. And it’s worth putting our name and money behind. ”
Then the anchor looked at me. It suddenly felt like the entire world was looking at me and waiting for me to embarrass myself on national TV. “Rhythm, what can guests expect from Mothers of the Block?”
My hands were shaking, but I lifted my chin and tried to act like I was just as confident as Sincere.
I could feel him watching me, and I wanted to impress him.
I wanted him to be proud. “Guests can expect more than just paintings. It’s stories.
It’s sacrifice. It’s the women who raise families with pressure on their backs and still show up every day.
When people come to the show, I want them to feel seen.
I want mothers to feel honored. I want people who don’t understand our neighborhoods to finally understand the love and labor it takes to survive and still show up. ”
The anchor nodded slowly. “That’s powerful.”
I glanced at Sincere without meaning to. His eyes were proud, like he was watching me become what I kept saying I wanted to be.
The anchor asked, “How does it feel to have this kind of support from Voss Contemporary House and Bellamy Urban Development?”
I could feel the dreamy look in my eyes.
“Honestly, it feels like a dream. I’ve been painting for years, and there were times I was just hoping someone would buy one piece so I could keep going.
So, to have a gallery like Voss believe in me, and to have a sponsor back the show makes me feel like God is answering prayers I didn’t even know how to say out loud. ”
The anchor smiled. “When is the exhibit?”
Sincere answered, giving dates and details.
Though I was handling the interview, my heart was still doing backflips. I had gone from fantasizing about my art being out there to hearing my name on the news.
It didn’t feel real.
But it was.
And I was living in it.
After the interview wrapped up, Sincere suggested we head to a bar and grill downtown I'd been dying to try. We ate catfish and grits and gumbo while talking about how well the segment went.
All evening, Sincere looked at me like he was already imagining how to take me apart, piece by careful, deliberate piece. His gaze lingered on my mouth when I spoke and followed the curve of my neck as we ate and conversed. He would pull me close, like he was about to ruin me completely.
With Sincere, foreplay wasn't some checklist of touches or whispers; it was woven into everything.
Every word he chose had meaning, every glance stripped me bare, every pause between us exploded with intent.
I didn't want the night to end, but he hadn’t forgotten how excited I was about the new piece that I was making.
He told me that he was taking me home so that I could work.
Disappointment must've flashed across my face because he then said he was staying the night with me.
My place was nice, but it was in the hood. It was nothing like his sleek high-rise condo in the Loop. So, it was sweet and even sexy that he didn’t mind staying at my place. Here was this rich and well put-together man willing to downgrade without a second thought, just to be close to me.
At first, I worried I wouldn't get any work done with him there.
I felt like I needed to entertain him, and I wanted to drop my tools and curl up in his lap.
But Sincere made himself at home at my dining room table, nursing a drink while I sat on my stool in the corner studio space.
He just watched as I painted. His attention fueled me, and I started to feel like I was performing for him.
Two hours had gone by of me painting and us simply talking when he said, “I feel like I'm watching a work of art make a work of art.”
Heat rushed through me, and I set down my brush.
I wiped my hands on a rag as I stood. My heart pounded as I crossed the room to him.
I stepped between his legs, and my thighs brushed his.
I looked down at him, seeing the hunger mirrored in his eyes, and leaned in, capturing his mouth with mine.
His hands slid to my hips, pulling me closer as our tongues met in a slow, teasing dance.
I could feel the hard line of him through his pants, pressing against me, and it made my core ache with need.
Sincere broke the kiss first, but his eyes were fixated on my body. “I’ve been waiting all night to see all of you.”
He took his time letting his fingers trail up my sides, hook under the hem of my shirt and lift it, exposing my skin to the cool air of my apartment.
He didn't just undress me; he studied me. His gaze raked over every curve like he was memorizing the map of my body.
When the shirt came off, he roughly whispered, “Beautiful.”
It wasn't empty praise. It was reverence that made my nipples hard.
He unclasped my bra slowly, letting the straps slide down my shoulders, and when my breasts spilled free, he cupped them gently.
His thumbs circled my nipples until I arched into his touch.
His hands explored lower, unbuttoning my jeans, peeling them down along with my panties.
His face was level with my hips, breath hot against my thighs, but he didn't touch where I ached most. He made me wait, standing there exposed, while his eyes drank in the sight of my shaved pussy.
I felt wanted without a single finger on me. His stare alone set my skin on fire and made my clit throb with need.
“Sincere,” I breathed, but he just smiled, rose to his feet and pulled me against him again.
He kissed me slowly. Relaxed sweeps of his tongue mimicked how I craved him to lick me elsewhere, all while his hands held my waist like he was starving.
I could feel his dick straining against his pants pressing into my belly.
I whimpered into his mouth as my hands fumbled with his shirt.
“Please,” I begged as I palmed the bulge in his jeans.
He groaned, finally giving in a little, unzipping and shoving his pants down. As I yanked his shirt open, his dick sprang free. But even then, he didn't rush.
He guided my hand to it, letting me stroke the length, but pulled away before I could drop to my knees. “Not yet, Rhythm. I want to feel you first.”
Our lips crashed together and our hands went everywhere.
My foot caught the edge of a paint can I'd left open, and it tipped, spilling blues and reds across the floor.
Neither of us stopped, though. Sincere just scooped me up and lowered me onto the unmounted, blank canvas stretched out on the floor.
The edges of it caught the pooling paint.
As he laid me down, I could feel the coolness of it running under me.
He settled between my legs, and his body covered mine.
His dick nudged against my inner thigh but didn’t enter me.
He kissed a path down my neck, sucking lightly on my collarbone, then lower to latch onto one nipple.
His tongue flicked the bud while his hand kneaded the other breast. I moaned as my hips bucked up, seeking friction, but he pinned me with his weight, making me ache deeper.
“Tell me what you need,” he demanded softly. As his free hand slid down my side, his fingers teased the crease where thigh met pussy.
“You,” I gasped. “Fuck me, Sincere. Please.”
Giving me the sexiest, devilish grin, his fingers parted my folds.
Two slid in deep, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes.
I cried out, clenching around him as he pumped slowly, thumb circling my clit.
The paint smeared between us as I writhed.
Reds and blues streaked his arms, my back, and I could feel it sliding down the crack of my ass.
He watched my face the whole time, studying every gasp and every flutter of my lashes, until his hands knew my body better than I did, until he knew exactly how to make me shatter.
When I was trembling on the edge, he withdrew his fingers, and positioned his dick at my entrance. He pushed in slow, inch by thick inch, stretching me.
“So tight for me,” he growled, holding still once he was buried deep, letting me adjust to the delicious pressure.
Then he started giving me long, deliberate thrusts that ground against my clit with every snap of his hips.
I wrapped my legs around him. My nails dug into his back, and the canvas crinkled beneath us as paint squelched and spread.
Making love to him was superior. He touched me so softly that I finally realized how rough everyone else had been with me. Every slide of his dick inside me sent waves of pleasure radiating from my core. I felt exposed yet cherished.
His eyes never left mine as he told me, “You’re perfect.”
He braced one hand beside my head and the other gripped my hip to angle deeper. “I needed this just as much as you did, baby.”
I came, hard and suddenly. My pussy spasmed around his dick, and my walls milked him as ecstasy ripped through me. It was like fire and silk, pleasure so intense it bordered on overwhelm, leaving me gasping, tears pricking my eyes from the release.
He didn't stop, stroking me through it, drawing out every tremor until I was boneless beneath him. “That's it, baby.”