Page 35

The air inside Krys’ underground speakeasy smelled of aged whiskey and slow-burning cigars, though neither of them were smoking. A vintage jazz record spun lazily on the old-school turntable, filling the dimly lit space with the husky tones of a bygone era. The warm glow of amber sconces cast flickering shadows across the leather seating and exposed brick walls. It was intimate, secluded, untouched by the chaos of the outside world.

Kenyatta sat back in one of the sleek, black armchairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him, one hand lazily gripping a crystal glass of Montclaire XO, a cognac refined by Trinity Bay’s very own Black-owned distillery. He heard about it but never had the privilege of actually getting to taste it. It was an elitist drink. If a person had to ask the price, then they couldn’t afford it. Simple as that.

It was velvety, complex, with a dangerous smooth finish that lingered. No ice, no distractions; just respect. He definitely felt it.

He watched Krys from across the low-lit room, her petite frame perched on the edge of the bar, swirling her own glass but barely sipping it. She was running out of diversions.

“You always this tense, Krysta?” His voice was low, edged with amusement but laced with something heavier.

She grimaced, lifting her chin. “Tense? Please. I already told you; I just like to be in control of my space.”

Kenyatta hummed, taking a slow sip. “Your space, huh?”

Krys tilted her head, regarding him with a slow smirk. “You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

He chuckled, setting his drink down on the low table beside him. “Nah, just observing. You move like you don’t let nobody touch nothing unless you say so. Even conversation. Bet you hate surprises.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but there was intrigue there too. He wasn’t wrong. “And what if I do?”

Kenyatta leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his stare locking with hers in a way that made her breath hitch. “Then I feel bad for you,” he murmured. “Bet you ain’t never had nobody make you let go before. You so used to running shit, you don’t even know what it’s like to just…surrender.”

Her grip on the glass tightened slightly. The tension in the room shifted, the teasing edge thinning into something else, something deeper, something dangerous.

“And you think you can make me?” Her voice was steady, but he caught the flicker of uncertainty, that unspoken challenge wrapped in bravado.

Kenyatta grinned, slow and deliberate, before standing. He crossed the room with unhurried confidence, his towering presence swallowing the space between them. Krys didn’t move. She refused to be the one to back down.

But then he was there, standing between her parted knees, hands resting on the polished bar on either side of her. His scent, clean, dark, masculine, wrapped around her like silk and suffocation all at once. His voice dipped lower, huskier, his breath warm against her skin.

“Not think. I know.”

Her thighs clenched instinctively, but she still held his gaze, even as her breath shallowed. He was too close. Too confident. Too in control of this moment.

He lifted his hand, tracing a single finger down the side of her jaw, slow and deliberate, watching her body react before she could stop it. Her lips parted, barely, just enough for him to catch the smallest intake of breath.

“Mmm,” he murmured, tilting his head as if he’d just proven a point. “Look at that. Ain’t even touched yo’ ass yet.”

She swallowed, trying to find a steadying thought in the haze of his presence. “You like to talk, don’t you?” she mused, her voice lower than before.

Kenyatta gave a cocky smile. “I like to see you react. And I ain’t gotta say much ‘cause your body already answering for you.”

Her skin burned at the truth in that.

He lifted his other hand, his fingers trailing along her bare thigh, where the hem of her dress had ridden up. The touch was featherlight, teasing, purposeful. She could stop him. She should stop him, but she didn’t.

Instead, she exhaled, tilting her head up just slightly. “And what if I don’t wanna let go?”

Kenyatta leaned in, so close his lips barely brushed the shell of her ear. “Then I’ll make you.”

A shudder ran through her, sharp and electric.

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes again. “Lemme show you something, Krys. Let me show you how good it feel to stop thinking for once. To stop planning. To stop calculating. To just feel.”

His thumb dragged slowly across her bottom lip, his hooded gaze watching the way it trembled under his touch. The heat between them was scorching now, pushing past the threshold of tension and into something undeniable.

It wasn’t terrifying; it was intoxicating.

Her voice was barely above a whisper when she finally exhaled the words. “Show me, then.”

His grin was slow, triumphant before they locked into a sensual kiss full of fervor.

The moment Kenyatta’s lips crashed against hers, the air inside the speakeasy grew into something suffocating. Heat coiled between them like a live wire, snapping and sparking with every move. Krys barely had a second to process before she felt herself being pulled in, both figuratively and literally.

He kissed her like he had something to prove. Like he’d been holding back for too long, and now that she’d finally given in, he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity. His grip was firm, possessive, as he wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her clean off the bar, pressing her back against the exposed brick wall.

With some quick maneuvering and fidgeting; panties were slid aside just enough. And she felt him. Hard. Girthy. Prying to get in. Her wetness betraying, accepting all of him on the third thrust, an unforgiving invasion.

She gasped into his mouth, her body instinctively wrapping around him, her thighs locking at his hips as if she’d been waiting for this moment all her life. The hem of her dress rode high, baring more of her skin to his hands. And God, his hands…they were rough in a way that sent a thrill straight through her, trailing fire up her legs, gripping her ass like he was staking his claim.

Kenyatta pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his grip still firm as hell. “Have you let go yet?” he murmured, his voice dark, rough, damn near dangerous.

Krys tried to find words, tried to reclaim some piece of control, but he didn’t give her the chance. His mouth crashed back on hers, devouring, tasting, owning.

She melted.

She fought it at first, but only for a second, because the way he dug deeper into her, gripping her in a way that made her stomach drop, she was no more good. She had let go. Completely. She released cries and moans that hadn’t escaped her lips in some time.

Her nails dug into his shoulders as he rocked into her, the wall behind her cool against her heated skin. Every movement, every touch was deliberate. He wanted her to feel this, to feel him. To feel how easily he could take her apart and put her back together, to make her unravel in his hands.

The heavy silence of the speakeasy was broken only by their labored breathing, moans, groans, and the soft, low growl coming from across the room.

Musa.

Krys barely had the presence of mind to register the massive Cane Corso sitting at the bottom of the stairs, his dark, intelligent eyes locked on the scene unfolding before him. His cropped ears twitched slightly, his entire posture alert; not aggressive, but questioning.

He didn’t move. Didn’t bark. But the weight of his stare was unmistakable.

“Your dog watching us, ain’t he?” Kenyatta murmured against her lips, amused as hell but completely unbothered.

Krys let out a breathless, half-laugh, her head tilting back against the wall. “He’s making sure I’m okay.”

“You a’ight?” Kenyatta asked, his lips trailing down her jaw, then lower, teasing the sensitive skin of her throat.

Krys swallowed hard, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. She could barely think straight, let alone form a sentence. “Do I…look like I’m not a’ight?”

Kenyatta chuckled low against her skin, his teeth grazing just enough to make her shudder. “Nah, you look like you getting exactly what you need.”

Musa shifted slightly, still watching, but his stance relaxed. He was alert, but he didn’t sense distress, just something different, something new.

Kenyatta lifted his head slightly, flicking a glance toward the dog. “You gon’ let me have her for a minute, big man? Or you need a room too?”

Krys swatted his shoulder, laughing breathlessly. “Don’t talk to him like that.”

“Nah, I respect it,” Kenyatta whispered, pressing another deep, slow kiss to her lips. “Loyal as hell. Looking out for his mama.”

Krys’ head spun. Everything was heat, sensation, and the undeniable knowledge that Kenyatta was right. She was getting exactly what she needed. And for once, she wasn’t in control. She didn’t mind because it felt damn good.

Krys barely registered how they moved from the wall to the lounge sofa, her body guided by the firm grip of Kenyatta’s hands. The world blurred around her, reduced to nothing but heat, breath, and the weight of him pressing into her. The smooth leather of the couch was cool against her back, a stark contrast to the fire burning between them.

Kenyatta settled between her parted thighs, his lips dragging along her neck, down the dip of her collarbone, igniting a slow burn that spread like wildfire. His hands traced over the fabric of her dress, fingers pushing it higher, pulling her deeper into him. Krys exhaled shakily, her fingers sliding under his shirt, needing to feel his skin, his warmth, something real to ground her in this overwhelming moment.

“You still tryna hold on?” Kenyatta murmured against her skin, his voice thick, knowing.

Krys bit her lip, her breathing uneven. She was trying, God, she was trying to stay collected, to keep some semblance of control, but it was slipping through her fingers with every move he made.

“That’s what the fuck I thought,” he smirked, his fingers teasing at the hem of her dress before gripping her thigh, spreading her further beneath him. “Let me do this.”

She had no words; only the sharp inhale she took as he took his time exploring, savoring every reaction, every sound, every way she responded to him. He moved like he was reading her, like he already knew what she needed before she could even ask. And Krys, for all her power, for all her control, she let him. She relented.

The soft leather creaked under them, their bodies tangled, lost in each other. The tension that had simmered between them for so long finally reached its peak, boiling over into something raw, undeniable. Their mouths clashed, movements fevered, hands desperate to memorize every inch.

For the first time in a long time, Krys wasn’t thinking. She wasn’t planning, wasn’t calculating.

She was feeling.

Kenyatta made sure of that.

The world outside ceased to exist, the only thing that mattered was the way they moved together, the way their bodies spoke a language neither of them could deny. The heat, the rhythm, the give and take; it was unspoken, intense, explosive.

Musa had long since retreated to the edge of the room, his ears twitching at the occasional sound, but he stayed put. Still watching. Still aware. This definitely wasn’t danger; it was something else.

And when it was over, when the last remnants of breathless gasps and tangled limbs gave way to stillness, Krys lay sprawled across Kenyatta’s chest, her body still humming, her heart still racing.

His fingers lazily traced her spine, his other hand resting possessively on her thigh. Neither of them spoke, the weight of what had just happened settling between them.

Musa finally stretched, standing from his spot at a distance before padding over to the couch, sitting beside it with a quiet huff.

Krys turned her head, eyes locking onto the massive dog, amusement flickering through her exhaustion.

“You okay, Musa?” she murmured, her voice still breathy, teasing.

The Cane Corso let out another deep huff, his eyes assessing her before giving the closest thing to an approving grunt.

Kenyatta chuckled, his fingers tightening slightly around her hip. “You know he ain’t used to you making all that kinda noise. Wanted to make sure I wasn’t hurting you. Just making sure you was straight.”

Krys smiled softly, her fingers tracing absent patterns against his bare chest. “Well…I am.”

Kenyatta’s grin was slow, knowing. “Yeah. I know.”

She felt the dangerous realization settling into the air between them.

Shit just got real.

**********

Krys stirred beneath the smooth silk sheets, a satisfied sigh escaping her lips before she even fully woke up. The warm weight of Kenyatta beside her, his arm draped lazily over her waist, was a foreign but welcomed sensation. It had been a long time since a man had been allowed to stay the night, let alone wake up in her California king.

She stretched slightly, the soreness in all the right places reminding her just how thoroughly Kenyatta had put in work last night. A slow satiated grin tugged at her lips as she turned over, propping herself up on one elbow.

Kenyatta was knocked out.

Laid out on his stomach, the sheets barely covering his waist, his back muscles flexed even in his sleep. His face, usually so sharp and serious, was relaxed, lips slightly parted as his body rose and fell in an easy rhythm.

Krys bit her bottom lip, her fingers trailing over his back lightly, tracing the outline of his many tats along his shoulders and at his flanks. She liked seeing him like this; comfortable, unguarded, here.

The bed dipped at the foot, grabbing her attention. She glanced up to find Musa posted there like a silent guardian, his massive black frame taking up damn near half the space. He stared at Kenyatta, then at her, then back at Kenyatta again.

“Oh, now you checking on me?” Krys whispered, reaching out to scratch behind Musa’s ear.

Kenyatta groaned, shifting slightly, his voice thick with sleep. “That dog still watching me?”

Krys laughed softly. “Mmhmm. He wants to make sure you ain’t do me dirty.”

Kenyatta cracked an eye open, his lips curving into a lazy smirk. “You look like a woman who got handled last night. Bet he smell the difference.”

Krys rolled her eyes, swatting his shoulder, but she couldn’t even fake an argument.

Kenyatta chuckled, finally rolling onto his back, stretching with a deep exhale before looking around the room like he belonged there. His gaze roamed over the high ceilings, the soft natural light spilling in through the oversized windows, the expensive but cozy decor.

“You really living good in here,” he mused, running a hand over his face before resting it behind his head. “Ain’t gon’ lie, I could get used to this.”

Krys arched a brow, leaning over him, her sheet slipping slightly exposing the swell of her breast. “Oh yeah? Who said I was tryna let you get used to it?”

Kenyatta grinned, his large hands gripping her waist, pulling her onto him effortlessly. “The way you was acting last night? I dare you to act brand new now.”

She squealed as he flipped her beneath him, his lips brushing against her ear. “You was all on me like you ain’t never had nothing that good before.”

Krys swatted at his chest, laughing breathlessly. “Boy, shut up.”

“Nah, I think I’ll stay a while,” he teased, nipping at her neck before she finally wiggled away, escaping his grasp and hopping out of bed. She snatched up her silk robe and secured it around her curves.

She stood at the edge of the room, grinning. “As much as I’d love to let you stroke your ego all morning, we got places to be.”

Kenyatta groaned, sitting up. “Where the hell we gotta be on a Sunday?”

Krys crossed her arms. “Brunch.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Brunch?”

“Yes, brunch. Mimosas. French toast. You know, a cute little Sunday vibe.”

Kenyatta scratched his beard, considering. “A’ight, I’m down. But Musa ain’t riding wit’ us.”

Krys gasped dramatically. “Wow. So, you tryna leave my baby behind?”

Kenyatta eyed the massive dog, who was still sitting at the foot of the bed, staring at them like he was taking mental notes. “Hell yeah. I ain’t tryna be out here picking up elephant-sized shits on the sidewalk while I’m tryna enjoy my meal.”

Krys cackled, shaking her head. “Not elephant-sized!”

Kenyatta shrugged, dead serious. “That dog too damn big. I ain’t trying to be that dude in the street holding a little plastic bag tryna clean up after him. That ain’t the flex.”

She wiped away a tear from laughing. “Fine, fine. Musa can chill here. But you are wearing something decent.”

Kenyatta raised a brow. “Damn, so now you really tryna dress me?”

Krys sauntered over to him, pulling him up from the bed and pressing her body against his. “I’m just sayin’,” she purred, her fingers toying with the sheet. “I like my man to look good when we step out.”

His grip tightened on her hips, his eyes darkening slightly. “Your man, huh?”

Krys felt the warmth in her cheeks but didn’t back down. She smiled playfully, tapping his chest playfully before stepping away. “Don’t let it go to your head, Yatta.”

Kenyatta shook his head, grinning. “Too late.”

As they moved through the house, he walked like he’d always belonged there, moving through her space naturally, like he’d been doing it for years.

And maybe…just maybe, she wouldn’t mind him getting used to it.

**********

The city was alive with the weekend buzz; music playing from passing cars, couples walking hand-in-hand, groups of friends piling into brunch spots with laughter spilling into the streets.

Krys and Kenyatta pulled up to Rosé he wanted her to know exactly where he stood.

“You were more beautiful than I imagined,” he admitted, voice low, sincere. “And the way that shit felt?” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Beyond what I expected. Beyond anything.”

For the first time, Krys actually blushed.

It was quick, barely there, but Kenyatta caught it. Judging by the way her lips pursed slightly, she caught herself too. But, true to form, Krys recovered fast.

She swirled her mimosa lazily, regaining her composure. “I mean…what can I say? I am impressive.”

Kenyatta let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Here we go.”

Krys half-shrugged, keeping her energy light. “I’m just saying, you should be grateful.”

“Oh, I’m grateful.” His voice dropped slightly again, something deliberate in his tone. “So…when we running that back?”

Krys hummed, pretending to think it over. “Hmm…wouldn’t you like to know.”

Before Kenyatta could press the issue, a familiar voice interrupted.

“Aye, ain’t this some Midtown bougie-ass shit?”

Kenyatta looked up, shaking his head as Jay-1 strolled over, already smirking.

Krys, barely sparing him a glance, went back to cutting into her food. “Didn’t nobody invite you.”

Jay-1 grinned, sliding into the booth next to Kenyatta like he belonged there. “Ain’t have to. My boy said where he was headed, but I ain’t think he meant a whole rooftop, pastel colored drink ass brunch spot.”

Kenyatta sighed, already knowing this was about to be a whole thing. “Nigga, don’t start.”

Jay-1 leaned over, eyeing the glasses on the table. “Mimosas?” He let out a sharp whistle. “Damn, Yatta. Next thing I know, you gon’ be rocking loafers with no socks.”

Krys grinned, finally looking up. “What? You don’t like Midtown, Jay-1?”

Jay-1 scoffed, shaking his head. “Man, Midtown cool for business, but I ain’t tryna be out here on no brunch tours.” He looked around dramatically. “Everybody dressed like they got trust funds. It’s crazy.”

Krys laughed, shaking her head. “Maybe it’s ‘cause you don’t belong.”

Jay-1 clutched his chest in mock offense. “Damn, boss lady. That’s cold.”

Kenyatta chuckled. “She got a point.”

Jay-1 sucked his teeth. “Man, whatever. You let a woman convince you to drink mimosas, you ain’t got no room to talk.”

Kenyatta gave a genuine smile. “She didn’t convince me. I was being polite.”

Krys wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out at Jay-1. “Exactly.”

Jay-1 rolled his eyes, then shifted slightly, his expression turning more serious. “Nah, but real talk, Yatta. I needed to holla at you.”

Kenyatta immediately picked up on the shift. “What’s up?”

Jay-1 looked around slightly before lowering his voice. “Been hearing some shit in the Water. Something about some Cuban nigga tryna slide in and set up shop.”

Kenyatta’s expression darkened slightly. “What Cuban nigga?”

Jay-1 exhaled. “That’s what I’m tryna figure out. All I know is, Rico been tryna link up with him.”

Kenyatta’s jaw flexed at that. Rico was already an issue, but if he was making moves with outside niggas then that wasn’t good.

Krys’ phone vibrated, breaking the moment. She glanced at the caller ID, her expression unreadable.

“I gotta take this,” she muttered, standing from the booth.

Kenyatta gave her a look. “Everything straight?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, grabbing her clutch. “Just something I need to handle real quick.”

Kenyatta didn’t press, but something about the way she said it made him pause.

Krys glanced at him, her tone light again. “I’ll meet y’all at the mall in an hour, is that okay?”

Kenyatta studied her for a second before nodding. “Yeah. Bet.”

Krys didn’t say anything else. Just gave him one last look before walking off, phone to her ear.

Jay-1 watched her disappear, then looked back at Kenyatta. “She always move like that?”

Kenyatta shook his head slightly. “I’on even know, bruh.”

Jay-1 chuckled. “Mmm. That’s that Midtown money behavior. Secret business calls. Fancy-ass meetings.”

Kenyatta snorted, shaking his head. “You talking all that shit, but last I checked, you was just eating her food.”

Jay-1 leaned back, hands up. “Hey, I respect the boss lady, I do. But you know I gotta talk my shit.”

Kenyatta dismissed. “Yeah, yeah.”

Jay-1’s expression shifted again, getting back to business. “But look, back to what I was saying. I really think this Cuban dude might be tryna set up for a takeover. And if Rico linking up with him…that mean he making moves outside the Bay.”

Kenyatta exhaled, rubbing his hand over his chin. “Damn.”

Jay-1 studied him. “You gon’ let that shit rock?”

Kenyatta shrugged. “Ain’t my problem.”

Jay-1 gave him a look. “Yeah? That’s what you think.”

Kenyatta met his gaze, jaw tight. “That’s what I know.”

Jay-1 sighed, shaking his head. “A’ight. What’chu gon’ be ready to do once Rico accomplish whatever it is he tryna do? You know he gon’ really come after you harder. He ain’t gon’ let off yo’ ass, Yatta.”

Kenyatta didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Because in the back of his mind as well as Jay-1’s, he already knew he wasn’t going to be able to ignore this shit for much longer.