Page 2 of Gotta Jones For Ya

Two weeks.

That’s how long it had been since I let Knuck dig me out in a hotel room like I was a mouthy groupie and he was the last dick on Earth.

Two weeks since he flipped me every which way, kissed me with his whole chest, and had the nerve to moan my name like he meant it.

The man was too damn fine, first off.

Chocolate skin with tattoos covering most of it, jewelry loud, mouth gold, a low haircut, and a full beard.

Plus, he was like six-four and two hundred something pounds. Big dawg. He always fresh as fuck. Granted, he was two years younger than me, his energy and big ass black dick were everything.

I should’ve left that experience in the one-time-only folder.

But no.

Knuck didn’t come with a closure button. He came with extra shit that I didn’t need, especially since I’d sworn off men after my last relationship shit the bed.

Caleb.

Toxic-ass, can’t-let-go Caleb.

My ex. My second life lesson. My "we had potential until you tried to gaslight me into therapy." When we first broke up, he would hit me up like, “you good?”

every four days like clockwork. He’d “accidentally”

send $11.11 to my Cash App with a message that said “for your peace.”

But, I was done with his lying, cheating ass.

I’d been knee-deep in my normal life after being flewed out.

Marketing firm deadlines.

Passive-aggressive Slack messages.

Daily Zoom calls with crusty-ass execs who stole my pitches and smiled about it.

The group chat with my girls kept me sane, though.

They were full of unfiltered commentary, shopping links, memes, and screenshots of men we had no business liking. So yeah, life was normal, with a sprinkle of bullshit. Until Keon started acting… extra.

It started small. He’d comment on my social media stories with shit like:

I ignored him.

Okay—I tried to.

Then came the voice notes. That deep, raspy, slow-ass voice that sounded like he just woke up and was already thinking nasty…

Mine?

Sir, I let you fuck once. Okay, technically, it was three times in that hotel room. But when he sent a voice note whispering…

I damn near threw my phone across the room.

He wasn’t wrong. I had posted a selfie at the rooftop lounge I went to every few days in between clients. I saved for over a year—tips from the bank, side gigs, birthday money—and finally, two years ago, I opened my own lash studio.

It was small, but mine, every inch curated in soft blush pinks, rose gold accents, and crisp white walls that made everything feel fresh and feminine.

I remember hanging the gold-lettered sign myself, hands shaking but proud.

Lashhh Me Out. Every tray, mirror, and lash wand was placed with love and intention. It wasn’t just a studio—it was my peace, my grind, my glow-up.

I just didn’t expect Knuck to CSI the angle of the damn sun and triangulate my location.

I was intrigued.

And annoyed.

And wet.

I hated myself a little bit for that.

“Girl, this nigga is not okay,”

I told Mikki, one of my best friends, one night over wine.

“Like… you know those documentaries about stalkers? I’m living one.”

She snorted.

“But did the stalker have tattoos and a vein on his dick that made you see stars?”

I threw a pillow at her.

“You’re no help.”

“No, seriously. Is he a little off? Yeah. Is he fine as fuck? Absolutely. And you haven’t blocked him. So clearly the dick was dipped in voodoo, and now you’re his sex hostage.”

I sipped my wine and stared at the ceiling.

“It was supposed to be a one-time thing.”

“And he’s tryna make it a saga. That man gon’ pull up on you soon. Watch.”

And the worst part? I didn’t entirely hate it.

On Tuesday, I finished up my last client for the morning and stepped out around lunchtime. I damn near dropped my new iPhone. Knuck was posted up at the corner, leaning against a fly ass truck with a bag in his hand. He looked too damn comfortable for someone I never gave a single address to.

But damn, I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t fucking fine. He had on a black tee, gray sweat Nike shorts that didn’t hide his third leg, chains on, and gold in his smile like he came to ruin my boundaries and my lunch break.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I hissed, walking over.

“How did you—”

“I told you, baby. You ain’t low.”

He handed me the bag.

“You ain’t eat yet either. Chicken Caesar wrap, extra croutons, strawberry lemonade. Don’t act like a nigga don’t pay attention.”

I opened the bag. It was exactly what I liked from the restaurant. I looked at him sideways.

“This is stalker behavior, Keon.”

“Knuck.”

He reminded me with a smirk.

“And it’s called applyin’ pressure.”

I rolled my eyes and whispered, “You’re insane.”

“You like it though,”

he murmured, close to my ear.

“I got a room at the Fulton Seas Hotel for a day or two. Pull up on me tonight.”

I lasted twenty-four hours. A whole day of pretending he didn’t have my pussy yearning for more. Wednesday night, after dinner and drinks on a solo date, I drove to the hotel in a little black dress and heels, telling myself it was just one last time. One more fuck. One more night of scratching an itch. I was tipsy and horny as hell and knew Knuck could help with that.

Of course, he just had to open the door shirtless in just his briefs, chains on, and wearing a smirk already knowing what time it was.

“Bout time,”

he said.

“Been dreamin’ ’bout that pussy since you left.”

He didn’t even let me set my purse down. He grabbed my wrist and yanked me into the room like he owned the lease on my body. Slammed the door behind us and pressed me against it with that wild look in his eyes like I’d been gone too long.

“You think you slick,”

he growled against my neck, kissing, biting.

“Think you gon’ gimme that pretty pussy and never see me again? You gon’ pay for that.”

Stepping back, he admired me.

“Take that shit off. All of it. Slowly. Keep them heels on, though.”

Breathless and turned the fuck on, I slid out of my black dress inch by inch. Let it pool at my feet, revealing nothing but smooth skin and lace. His eyes got darker. His dick got harder. He stripped down fast. No teasing. Just muscles, veins, and a big ass, thick dick that stood like it had every intention of ruining me.

He got on his knees and kissed the insides of my thighs and then grabbed behind them and lifted me off the floor like I weighed air.

“I want that pussy on my tongue,”

he muttered, laying me on the edge of the bed. He guided me up his chest, leaned back on the pillows, and grabbed my hips. I slid forward until I was sitting fully on his face, grinding against his tongue, thighs trembling. He sucked and moaned like he needed me to live.

“Mmm… fuck, Keon… right there. Yesssss…”

His tongue flicked, swirled, and dipped. He alternated between slow circles and deep strokes, nose buried, hands gripping my ass like it was his last meal. He didn’t stop when I came the first time. Or the second.

I panted, grabbing his dick, stroking it while my legs still shook. He grinned, lips shiny.

“You dyin’ to ride this dick, huh?”

“Shut up,”

I whispered, climbing over him.

I straddled him forward first, slid down onto his dick slowly while watching his face twist like I’d just saved his life. “Fuck,”

he grunted. His hands flew to my hips. I moved slowly, grinding, swiveling, bouncing, and clapping down on him like I needed it. Shit, I did. I leaned forward, kissed his neck, then sat up and arched, bouncing faster.

“You tryna have a nigga wife you right fuckin’ now,”

he groaned, biting his lip. Then I spun around, reversed, and dropped back on him with that nasty grind. Riding backwards, hands planted on his thighs, while I popped my pussy like a pro.

“That’s it,”

he moaned, fingers finding their way to my clit.

“Let everybody hear who this pussy belong to.”

I came so many times that I lost count. Knuck held me in place, dick buried deep, groaning. Then, he stood up, picked me up with him still inside, and walked us over to the mirror. I should’ve seen this position coming.

“Look at yourself,”

he said, holding me up, fucking me standing. I stared into the mirror, watching him behind me just drilling my pussy. Sweat dripping, muscles flexing, eyes locked on mine.

“I want you like this every mornin’. Every night. I want niggas scared to even look at you. I wanna tatt your name on my fuckin’ dick, Nyomi.”

“Keon, please…”

I moaned, trembling, overstimulated, and cumming again.

“I said you mine,”

he growled in my ear, digging in deep, pulling my hair gently.

“Say it. Say that shit.”

“I’m not…” I gasped.

“And I’m not lettin’ you go,”

he said between deep, powerful strokes.

“Don’t care if you block me, call the cops, or change cities. I’m in you.”

He pounded into me with so much passion, I cried out and clawed at the damn mirror like it could save me from the orgasms ripping through me. My body was done. My soul was trembling. My logic? Long gone. I came again and again.

And when we both collapsed on the bed, sweaty, tangled, and breathless, Knuck kissed my forehead and whispered, “You can lie to yourself, but your pussy don’t lie. And it’s tellin’ me we meant to be together, baby." As I lay there, legs still twitching, chest still rising fast, I blinked slowly up at the ceiling and realized one thing. This fool was legit crazy.