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ALLURE

It had been a week, and I was still riding the high.

Not just the thrill of freedom, though that was a constant vibration beneath everything.

Not just the joy of being able to open a window when I wanted, walk barefoot across polished wood floors, or fall asleep without fear curling up in my chest like a clenched fist. No, this high was different.

Deeper. It lived in my skin now. It bloomed behind my ribs and burned low in my belly every time Riot looked at me like I was already his.

He hadn’t taken me yet, not all the way. I was still a virgin. My body had never known the full weight of a man, never been split open with pleasure and trust at the same time. And Riot, he knew that. He respected it. He never rushed me, never pushed past the boundary of my readiness.

But every night, he worshiped me.

He ate my pussy like it was his religion, like pleasure was something sacred and I was the altar he’d been waiting to kneel before his entire life.

He took his time, never greedy, always focused.

He kissed me like my mouth held answers he’d spent years searching for.

He tasted me like my thighs were honey-dripped fruit meant to be savored.

He whispered things into my skin that made my toes curl and my breath catch.

I didn’t know a man could use his tongue like that, didn’t know he could make me tremble with just his lips and hands.

I had no idea that surrender could feel like power.

That coming apart could feel like being stitched back together.

The first time he made me come, I cried.

Not out of pain. Not even out of pleasure, though it was the most intense thing I’d ever felt.

I cried because something inside me broke free.

Something I didn’t even know had been trapped.

Years of numbness. Years of silence. Years of keeping my legs closed so tight, I forgot what softness felt like.

And he gave it back to me without ever sliding inside.

He was patient, but not passive. There was nothing soft about the way his mouth claimed me. His hands were rough from work, from fight, from years of survival, but when they touched me, they moved with intention. Like I wasn’t just a body to him. Like I was the whole damn experience.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his mouth felt against me, the way his tongue curled just right, the way he moaned into my pussy like he was the one being pleasured.

I still blushed when I remembered how I had begged him to take me, how I had arched into him, fingers fisted in the sheets, trembling with need.

But he hadn’t.

He’d kissed the inside of my thigh, looked up at me with that devilish smile, and told me, “Not yet.”

That restraint only made me want him more.

And now, every time he passed me in the hallway, brushed my waist in the kitchen, or kissed the side of my neck when I wasn’t expecting it, my entire body lit up.

I could feel myself growing bolder. My walk had changed.

The way I looked at him had changed. The girl who once curled in corners and feared the sound of her own heartbeat was now daring to own her desire.

I still had so much to learn. About my body. About the world. About freedom.

But what I did know was this.

I wanted him.

And I was getting closer to asking for all of him. Every hard inch.

Because if he could make me feel this undone without even sliding inside, I couldn’t imagine what the rest would feel like.

And I was ready to find out.

I spent the morning wrapped in the rhythm of a city that was starting to feel like mine.

Harlem moved like a pulse that was steady, strong, never rushing but never still.

I walked beneath brownstone stoops and awnings, past vendors selling incense and mango slices sprinkled with chili powder.

The air smelled like ambition and soul. It made me feel like I could become whoever I wanted to be.

Today, I chose to be a woman in motion.

I signed up for a series of fashion courses at an art center tucked between a laundromat and a Caribbean takeout spot.

Advanced sewing. Draping. Intro to textiles.

It was time to super charge my skills. I’d been sketching and practicing at the house but I was quite rusty when it came to my technicals skills.

I needed to move my hands again. To create something out of fabric and fire. To tell the story of a girl who lived in white for ten long years and now wanted to drape herself in color. In defiance. In desire.

My fingers itched to cut, to pin, to shape. I wanted to make clothes that felt like freedom. Dresses that whispered survival. Coats that screamed power. I wanted women to wear my pieces and feel like no one could cage them.

But even with the city swirling around me, even with my new steps of independence, I wasn’t without shadows.

I still had flashbacks.

Sometimes it was the sound of a door slamming behind me too hard.

Other times, it was the echo of a man’s voice a little too sharp, a little too familiar.

My heart would pound, my knees would go soft, and I’d have to remind myself that I wasn’t trapped anymore.

That I wasn’t beneath that house. That my every move wasn’t being watched.

But now I was here. Walking free. Breathing free. Loving free.

My phone buzzed just as I stepped out of an African boutique where I’d picked up some Morrocan silks. Riot’s name lit up the screen.

“Hey,” I answered, already smiling.

His voice was low and gravel-smooth. “You good?”

“Yeah. I just signed up for some classes. Got some things to help me start designing again.”

“That’s what I like to hear. I’m proud of you.”

My heart swelled. He always knew how to say the right thing.

“I just got a call from my cousin. And he said Irina’s back with him,” he said after a pause. “She asked about you. Wants to see you.”

I didn’t respond right away. My feelings toward Irina were complicated. She had helped me, yes. Snuck me out. Lied for me. Risked something. But she’d also watched me live like that for years and done nothing for most of them.

Still, my curiosity was stronger than my anger.

“I want to see her too,” I said.

“I’ll come get you,” Riot replied. “Don’t worry about anything.”

There was a beat of silence before his voice dropped lower. “I’m gonna pump her for everything she knows about your father. And then I’m gonna end him.”

The air left my lungs in a slow exhale. He meant it.

I could hear the fire in his voice. Riot didn’t play when it came to me.

And as much as the thought of more bloodshed made my stomach twist, part of me needed that closure.

I needed to know Boaz wouldn’t crawl out of the shadows again. That his reign was finally over.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

“I got you,” he promised. “Always.”

When we hung up, I stared down at my phone for a long moment. There was something anchoring about his presence in my life. He wasn’t just a lover. He was becoming my armor.

I slipped my phone into my bag and looked out at the street, the people moving past me like a current, and felt something bloom in my chest.

This was my life now.

Messy. Complicated. Healing. Beautiful.

And I was done waiting for permission to live it.