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She’d played the part in both dominant and vanilla relationships over the years, but nothing had ever really hit that deep place in her. That place where control becomes comfort. Where the right touch, in the wrong place, from someone who understands what you crave before you even say it... lingers.

“Show me,” I murmured. She didn’t waste time. She slid onto her knees between the seats, her hands tugging my sweats down, gasping softly as my cock sprang free. She looked up at me, eyes dark, lips glistening with spit, she licked them before wrapping them around me.

She gasped, grabbing my wrist, but not to stop me—to hold me there. I curled two fingers inside her, feeling her walls clamp down, her breath coming fast. I whispered against her ear, “You’re dripping for me already.”

The thrill of it, the risk, the primal need—we couldn’t get enough. That staircase became our secret haven, a place we returned to again and again,

The car ride started normally enough, with the usual small talk about travel and the weather, but soon enough, the conversation took a turn when she mentioned how she had a thing for black men, how she'd always been curious but never had the chance to act on it.

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