Chapter 4 #4
Synthia was intoxicating.
Every touch. Every sound she made. Every time she looked at me with those eyes—half-afraid, half-wanting—it made me crave her more.
I ain't never been strung out off pussy in my life. But Synthia? She had me feenin' like a junkie.
"This has to be the craziest shit I've ever gotten myself into," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
"There ain't no denying that," I agreed, my hands now fully palming her ass. "But this crazy shit has gotten you ten times richer than you were before. You got enough money to put your grandkids through college. That's a flex."
I bit down on my lip as my fingertips traced slow circles on her lower back, feeling goosebumps rise under my touch.
"And I'll let you have it all in exchange for freedom," she said quietly.
My grip tightened.
Those words—freedom—hit me like a punch to the gut.
"You know what happened the last time you said some shit like that," I warned, my voice dark.
She leaned forward, her hands pressing into my chest, her face inches from mine. The scent of her lotion—cocoa butter and vanilla—mixed with that peach perfume she always wore.
"You can't use your life as a pawn every time I say something you don't like," she argued, her voice stronger now. "Start being accountable for your own actions. I didn't start this war."
"Then who did?" I shot back, my voice rising. "How the fuck did you think I was gonna respond when you tried to sell me back iPhones that you stole from me? You think I wouldn't have killed anybody else for that shit?"
I paused, letting that sink in.
"My nigga Allen is maggot food right now because of you. I'm territorial when it comes to my money. I don't play. This ain't some fairy tale where everything goes your way just because you want it to."
She bit her lip, looking away.
"I had plans for you from the jump," I continued, my voice softer now. "This wasn't random. This wasn't some impulsive shit. I've wanted you for a long time, Synthia."
"The deeper you go, the more I realize how much I can't take," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"I determine how much you can take," I said firmly, my hands gripping her hips. "Not you. Let me be the one to decide that. You're gonna take whatever I give you—money, dick, all of it."
I pulled her down so our faces were level.
"Stop running away from me and let me give you what you deserve. You're so damn stubborn."
She pouted, her lips forming a perfect little frown that made me want to kiss her.
"And then what?" she asked.
I shrugged. "Let it play out however it plays out. You leaving me? That ain't happening. But everything else? We'll figure it out."
"I swear..." She shook her head, still pouting. "You have all the right answers to make a good girl fall for you. But I'm not that na?ve."
"Who said you were?" I frowned. "And what I tell you about putting words in my mouth? You don't want to test me, Synthia."
"I'm not a daddy's girl," she said defensively. "I've never been a daddy's girl."
"Damn, you strict as fuck," I muttered, half-amused, half-frustrated.
"No, I just know how to see through bullshit. And I don't live in La-La Land."
"Why would you need a ticket to La-La Land when I own the whole damn fairground?" I countered. "I don't know why you think I'm running game on you. I know what this is and what it ain't. And I know what it should be."
I paused, making sure she was looking at me.
"Haven't I told you? You're not some rebound pussy. You're not a placeholder. You're it."
She shoved me, pressing her palms hard into my chest. "Then show me."
"Show you what?"
"That I'm not the rebound. Go out of your way. Do shit you're not used to doing. I want the princess treatment. I want all the things other bitches don't get from you."
I smirked. "That's light work."
Synthia wanted the fairytale—the jewelry, the trips, the grand gestures. She wanted to feel special. Valued.
And I'd give it to her.
Because she deserved it.
She deserved to be treated like a queen.
And I'd do whatever it took to make sure she knew that.
The Connect Four pieces were still scattered across the living room floor—red and yellow discs under the couch, behind the coffee table, forgotten.
We'd moved to the kitchen.
I don't even remember who suggested it. Maybe neither of us did. Maybe we just gravitated there naturally, like our bodies knew what was about to happen before our brains could catch up.
Synthia was leaning against the kitchen island now, her arms crossed over her chest, watching me as I poured two glasses of water from the filtered pitcher in the fridge.
The kitchen was dimly lit—just the under-cabinet lighting casting a soft yellow glow across the granite countertops. The rest of the house was dark, quiet. Peaceful.
I handed her one of the glasses, and she took it, our fingers brushing in the exchange. That brief touch sent a jolt through me—electric, undeniable.
"You trying to sober me up?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You ain't drunk," I said, leaning against the counter across from her. "But you might need to hydrate for what I'm about to do to you."
Her breath hitched. I saw it—the way her chest rose sharply, the way her pupils dilated slightly, the way her grip tightened on the glass.
"Romelo..." she said, her voice a warning and an invitation all at once.
"What?" I asked innocently, like I didn't know exactly what I was doing.
"You can't just say shit like that."
"Why not? It's true."
She set the glass down on the counter with more force than necessary, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. "Because it makes me want things I shouldn't want."
"Like what?"
She looked away, her jaw clenching. "Like you."
There it was. The admission I'd been waiting for.
I pushed off the counter and closed the distance between us in two strides. My hands found her waist, pulling her flush against me. She gasped, her hands instinctively coming up to press against my chest—not pushing me away, just... holding on.
"Say it again," I demanded, my voice low and rough.
"Romelo—"
"Say it," I repeated, my grip on her waist tightening. "Tell me you want me."
Her eyes searched mine, conflicted and wanting and scared all at once.
"I want you," she whispered, so quietly I almost didn't hear it.
"Louder."
"I want you," she said again, her voice stronger this time.
"Good girl," I murmured, leaning down to capture her lips with mine.
The kiss started slow—tentative, exploratory, like we were both testing the waters. But it didn't stay that way for long.
Within seconds, it turned hungry. Desperate. My hands slid from her waist to her ass, gripping hard, lifting her slightly so she was perched on the edge of the island.
She moaned into my mouth, her legs parting instinctively to make room for me to step between them. Her hands fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer, like she couldn't get enough.
I broke the kiss to trail my lips down her jaw, her neck, her collarbone—tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse racing beneath my mouth.
"Romelo," she gasped, her head falling back to give me better access. "We shouldn't—"
"We should," I corrected, my hands sliding under the hem of her crop top, my palms flattening against the warm, soft skin of her stomach. "We've been dancing around this shit for too long."
"But—"
I silenced her with another kiss, this one deeper, more demanding. My tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her, showing her exactly what I wanted to do to every other part of her body.
She melted into me, her protests dying on her lips as her body took over—arching into my touch, grinding against me, seeking friction.
I pulled her crop top over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind me. I didn't care where it landed.
She wasn't wearing a bra.
Her breasts were full and heavy, her nipples already hard from arousal. I groaned at the sight, my dick straining painfully against my joggers.
"Fuck, you're perfect," I muttered, dipping my head to take one nipple into my mouth.
She cried out, her hands flying to my head, her fingers tangling in my waves as I sucked and licked and teased.
"Romelo, please," she whimpered, her hips rolling against me, seeking relief.
"Please what?" I asked, switching to her other breast, giving it the same attention.
"Touch me," she begged. "Please."
"I am touching you," I teased, my hands sliding up her sides, over her ribs, cupping her breasts.
"Not there," she said, breathless and frustrated. "Lower."
I smirked against her skin. "You gotta tell me exactly what you want, Juicy. Use your words."
She let out a frustrated groan, but she obeyed. "Touch my pussy, Romelo. Please."
"That's my girl," I praised, my hands moving to the waistband of her pajama shorts.
I hooked my fingers under the elastic and pulled them down—slowly, deliberately, letting the anticipation build. She lifted her hips to help me, and I slid the shorts and her panties down her legs, letting them pool on the floor.
Now she was completely naked, perched on my kitchen island, legs spread, pussy glistening in the low light.
"Goddamn," I breathed, taking a step back just to look at her. "You're fuckin’ beautiful."
She blushed, trying to close her legs, but I stopped her with a hand on each thigh, holding her open.
"Don't hide from me," I said firmly. "I want to see all of you."
She bit her lip, nervous but compliant, and let me look my fill.
Her pussy was pretty—bare, pink, already wet. I could see her clit peeking out from between her folds, swollen and begging for attention.
"You ever touch yourself with someone else watching, aside from the shit that happened on the camera, when you were on the pole?" I asked, my eyes locked on hers.
She nodded, her cheeks flushing deeper.
"Show me."
Her eyes widened. "What?"
"Show me how you touch yourself," I repeated. "I want to see."
"Romelo, that's—"
"Do it, Synthia," I commanded, my voice leaving no room for argument.