It started with a look—that kind of look that wraps around your waist and pulls you under, deep, fast, no breath, no air. The kind of look you regret and remember in the same breath.
Tessy didn't mean to answer his text. Her robe was already half-off, her thighs bare and smooth from a fresh wax. Her apartment smelled like coconut oil and poor decisions. The city outside roared like it was warning her. But she didn't listen. Her thumb tapped back: "Door's open."
David came in like sin wrapped in sweat. Hoodie on. No words. Just that smirk. That fucking smirk. He saw her laying there—robe untied, no panties, just her. Waiting. Wanting.
No talking. Just hands. Mouth. Moans.
He tasted her like hunger. Mouth on her clit, tongue sliding in like he had something to prove. She gasped. He didn't stop. He grabbed her thighs like they owed him rent. Sucked her like the wet was holy. And Tessy? She gave in. Legs over his shoulders, her back arched like a scream.
"Keep my clit warm with that tongue," she moaned. "Don't stop. Don't ever stop."
He didn't.
Her pussy dragged like okra, wet and slippery. She moaned louder, fingers gripping his locs. Her body shook with every flick, every suck.
"Fuck, David," she gasped. "You freak me out."
He looked up, lips soaked, eyes blazing. "Then cum on me."
She did. Loud. Messy.
He stood. Pants down. Dick hard. Thick.
"Put your mouth out," she whispered.
He shoved it in. Deep. Warm. She sucked like it was her last meal.
"Fuck, girl," he growled. "You gonna make me cum."
She pulled back, spit dripping from her lips. "Then cum in me."
He lifted her, bent her over the kitchen counter. One slam. Then another. The whole apartment smelled like sex and sweat and regret.
"I'd never make it off your dick," she cried. "Go harder. Dig in till I want no more."
He pounded her. Deep. Loud. Her pussy ached. Her moans turned to screams. The sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the room.
"I want you to ruin me," she sobbed.
And he did. Again. And again.
When it was over, she lay there—naked, shaking, satisfied. Cum dripping down her thigh like truth. He didn't say a word. Just pulled on his jeans and walked out.
Texted:"This never happened."
But it did.
And it would happen again.
The next morning, the air in Tessy's loft still reeked of sex and surrender. The blinds hadn't been drawn, and morning light cut through the chaos of tossed lingerie, a cracked champagne bottle on the counter, and a pair of David's cufflinks that glimmered like guilt on her coffee table.
She sat at the edge of her velvet couch in nothing but his oversized t-shirt, staring into the mess. Not just the physical one — but the emotional, dirty, slick, pleasure-stained one between her thighs and in her conscience.
Chicago moved outside like it didn't know she had betrayed her best friend. Like the city didn't care.
Maybe it didn't.
Maybe she didn't either.
Her phone dinged. A text.
David:"Last night... fuck. You're something else."
She didn't reply. Not because she didn't want to, but because her fingers trembled. It wasn't love. Not even lust. It was ownership. He had tasted her, and now, whether he admitted it or not, he was going to come back for more.
She pulled the shirt off and headed for the shower. The water ran hot, almost scalding. She let it hit her chest like a confession she wasn't ready to speak aloud.
In the mirror afterward, her hickeys bloomed like violets around her neck — not love marks, but evidence. Shame wore itself like an accessory.
By afternoon, she was backstage again. Another casting. Another day pretending that all she offered the world was a walk, a look, and a lie. Models came and went, all teeth and smiles, all craving validation from designers who couldn't remember their names by the next fitting.
Tessy wasn't like them. She had already arrived. She didn't beg. She took.
"Tessy, Versette wants you to walk for the Milan pre-show preview," her manager barked.
"When?"
"Tonight."
"Tonight? I've got drinks with Kiesha."
A pause.
"Cancel. This gig is gold."
Tessy didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
"Tell them yes."
And just like that, Kiesha was brushed to the background again.
That night, the hotel was tinted red. Velvet everywhere, even the wine glasses. Tessy walked like she owned the city, like the spotlight was a crown. And the show was a blur — all hips, heels, and whispered fantasies in the front row.
David showed up.
He always did. Like regret's favorite shadow.
After the last walk, they met in the service elevator. No words. Just hands.
He slammed her against the wall, his mouth rough on hers. His hands gripped her ass like it owed him money.
"I need to fuck you before I lose my mind," he growled.
"Then don't hold back. Shove your dick in. Put your mouth out. I want your tongue on my pussy till I'm dripping like okra stew."
He dropped to his knees right there, burying his face between her thighs like a man drowning in thirst.
She moaned, loud. Didn't care who heard. It wasn't about secrecy anymore. It was addiction. She tugged at his hair.
"Keep my clit warm with that slippery-ass tongue, baby. Come on, freak me out."
He growled into her, and she came fast, shaking against the metal wall.
Later, as they lay tangled in the hotel sheets, she whispered,"I'd love to have your babies… but till then, fuck me."
He laughed. But there was something wild in his eyes. Like she was the storm he craved and feared all at once.
The next morning, Kiesha called.
"Where were you? I waited at the bar for an hour."
Tessy's voice stayed level."Shit. I got caught up at a shoot. I'm sorry, babe. I should've texted."
"You sure you okay? You sound… off."
"Yeah. Just tired. You know how these gigs go."
"I miss you. We haven't had a girls' night in forever."
"Let's plan one. Soon. I promise."
Promises.
She made them like cocktails. Sweet, intoxicating, easy to forget after the buzz wore off.
That night, Tessy stood in front of her floor-length mirror. Her robe hung open. Her body was marked. Scratches. Hickeys. Bite marks. She traced one with her finger.
How did she get here?
How did she become this girl — who traded friendship for flesh and pleasure?
She wasn't proud. But damn it, she wasn't sorry either.
She laid back on her bed, spread her thighs wide, and whispered to herself,"You're a bad bitch, Tessy. And bad bitches break rules."
She slept alone that night, but her dreams were filled with hands that knew her body better than her own thoughts.
And voices whispering —"Just one more time."
She woke up to silence. For the first time in a while, it wasn't David. No text. No knock. Just absence.
Her chest felt hollow. Not from missing him. But from realizing how easy it was to throw herself away — piece by piece.
She walked into the kitchen and poured herself coffee. Black. Bitter. Just like the truth she wasn't ready to face.
The phone rang again.
Not David. Her agent.
"Tessy, the Paris gig's open. You're in. Leave Thursday."
She looked at her calendar. Thursday was Kiesha's birthday.
"Book it," she said.
Because Tessy didn't cancel dreams for birthdays. Not anymore.
But that night, as she curled under her silk sheets, she stared at the ceiling and whispered to herself —
"How many promises do I have to break before I'm empty enough to finally feel full?"
And in that hollow moment —she knew the answer.
Too many.