Page 18 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

FIFTEEN

H is place smelled like oud and something darker. Something warm. Masculine. Not cologne—presence. Like heat still lived in the walls.

Like secrets had been fucked into the furniture and never fully left.

It reminded me of the scent I chased along his neck.

A body oil he once said came from Jamil’s in East Liberty.

“It’s called Amber Smoke. What, you like it?”

“I love it,” I’d practically purred.

I stepped inside his condo apartment slowly, pulling my coat tighter—even though I wasn’t cold.

It was nerves. Tight around the edges. Trying to keep me small when I’d come here to open.

The foyer gave way to an open-concept living space—wide and intentional. Hardwood floors stretched beneath my heels, dark and matte, like they’d been chosen just to hush the sound of footsteps.

To the left, tall built-in shelves cradled rare vinyls and first-edition books. A console held a vintage record player gleaming like it was loved.

A mic stand stood in the far corner, spotlighted by a track light overhead—silent, but not forgotten.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline. Curtains open. City lights pouring in like applause.

The couch was low, deep, and masculine—charcoal velvet with clean lines, draped in a single soft throw the color of wine.

No clutter. No noise.

Just mood.

Just him.

Lighting glowed amber from recessed strips hidden in the ceiling, casting the whole place in a hush. Every detail whispered that he knew beauty—had studied it, trusted it, touched it often.

Taraj dropped his keys in a black stone dish by the door still carrying that delicious restraint that made my thighs press together just to survive him.

I looked at him— really looked.

Hair loose from his braids—he took them out on the flight. Chestnut brown skin golden under the low lights.

That mouth—the same one that made me cum so hard I forgot my name. And those eyes? Already undressing me again. Like memory wasn’t enough. He needed more.

“You want something to drink?” he asked, heading toward the kitchen.

“Water’s fine.”

I followed and stayed on the other side of the island like that slab of stone could protect me from what we both knew was coming.

He passed me the glass. Our fingers brushed. And just like that, my pussy pulsed. No warning. No finesse. Just raw need, curling in my belly like smoke.

Still, we danced around it.

The want. The danger. The lie we’d both agreed to that was unraveling with every second we were alone.

“I came to hear more of your work,” I said, lips brushing the rim of the glass.

His eyes dropped to my mouth. Stayed there.

“Right. Studio’s in the back.”

But neither of us moved.

“That’s where the magic happens?” I asked, voice light even though my pulse wasn’t.

His dark eyes pinned me in. Reading me. Knowing me. “Some of it.”

We both knew we weren’t talking about the booth.

He set down his drink. Rounded the island.

Stopped in front of me—all heat and quiet pressure.

“You good?” His voice was deep enough to stir something slick and messy between my thighs.

I nodded, no more pretending. “Yeah.”

He stepped closer. So close I had to tilt my chin to meet his gaze.

“So if I kissed you right now…”

A pause. A breath .

“You wouldn’t stop me?”

I licked my lips. “No. I’d kiss you back.”

Why lie, when the truth tasted better?

He didn’t wait. His mouth found mine like it belonged there.

He kissed me like he’d been starving since the second I left his bed. And I kissed him like I was still wet from the memory of his tongue.

Like I still had his cum on my tongue and wasn’t ready to let it go.

His hands gripped my hips. Mine slid up his chest, fingers grazing the chain he never took off—resting just above the heart I hadn’t meant to touch.

I wanted to taste all of him. So I did.

We didn’t make it to the studio.

He backed me up against the island, pressed his mouth to mine, and kissed me like he was trying to undo the flight, the photo, the silence. Then he gripped the backs of my thighs, and lifted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing.

My skirt slid up easily. His hands pulled it higher—fingers dragging up the backs of my thighs, parting them.

He dropped to his knees.

And when he pushed my panties to the side and saw how wet I already was—he groaned. Low. Deep. Like I was the only thing he wanted to pray to.

He didn’t say a word. He just ate me. Tongue wide and slow. Focused. Devoted.

He licked through my folds and sucked my clit like he was trying to pull a melody from it.

He took his time, like he was making music and I was the beat.

I cried out. Loud. Desperate.

Legs open, trembling, one heel banging softly against a cabinet .

One hand in his hair. The other gripping the edge of the counter like it could keep me from floating away.

He moaned against me, like the taste had wrecked him.

And when I came—shaking, dripping into his mouth, hips lifting off the counter—he didn’t stop.

He licked me through the aftershocks, eyes half-lidded and locked on my face. Like he needed to see what he’d done to me. Like he wanted to be sure I’d never forget.

He didn’t stop. Not even when I came once, twice—shaking, gasping, dripping down his face.

He just rose, eyes dark and glazed, lips shining and kissed me like he needed me to taste what he’d just done to me.

We crashed on the couch.

Limbs tangled. Breaths uneven.

Ordered Thai. Something spicy. Neither of us touched it.

“I don’t usually do this,” I said, curled into his side, cheek pressed to his bare chest.

“Me either.”

I looked up. “You sure about that?”

He smiled. “Not like this.”

I believed him.

The music played low—Chaka, Chante, Marvin. A playlist made for sweat and skin.

He told me about his sister Mena. About his mom leaving. The split that shaped him and then he looked at me, like he needed to know more.

“What about you?”

I sighed. Let it spill.

“I sacrificed a lot for this career. Family. Time. A real shot at love.

I think people forget women like me want softness too. I want to be touched. Desired. I want pleasure without performance. But I rarely let myself have it.”

He didn’t speak.

Just listened .

And that —that gaze? That stillness? That presence ? It unraveled me more than any tongue.

“I wasn’t planning on sleeping with you again,” I whispered. “But my body didn’t ask for permission.”

“Neither did mine.”

He kissed me again. Reverent. Then he laid me down—right there on the rug in front of the speakers.

The city outside didn’t matter. Not tonight. He kissed every inch of me. My mouth. My throat. My breasts. My thighs.

Bit my shoulder when I whispered his name.

Licked my clit until my legs trembled again.

Then finally— finally —he slid inside. Thick. Deep.

One slow thrust that felt like he was filling me with truth.

He didn’t pound. He pressed.

Body to body. Soul to soul.

He fucked me with his eyes locked on mine, his voice in my ear.

“This pussy mine now?”

I moaned. Nodded.

“Say it.”

“It’s yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Fuck, Taraj. It’s yours.”

His hand slid under my ass. He lifted me to meet every thrust.

His mouth found mine again—wet, messy, hungry.

And I told him through moans, through breath, through touch— I want you.

I need this.

I need you.

When I came, it was a quake—low and long, dragging me under.

When he followed, he wrapped me in both arms, groaning against my neck like he couldn’t let go of me .

And I didn’t want him to.

We stayed like that.

Sweaty. Tangled. Silent.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t think about what I might lose.

I thought about what I might be brave enough to keep.