Page 36 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

THIRTY-THREE

T he cheesesteak was messy—grease slicking the paper wrap, onions slipping out with every bite, hot sauce painting the corner of my mouth.

Taraj watched me devour it with amused disbelief, his own half-eaten sandwich forgotten in his hand.

“I’ve seen you take down a stage in six-inch boots,” he said, voice low, that grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But this might be your most savage performance.”

I licked my thumb slow, then raised a brow. “Don’t disrespect the art.”

His laugh was warm, quiet, thick with something heavier than humor. He leaned back against the brick wall behind us, elbows propped, gaze locked on me like I was a song he was trying to memorize.

And just like that, it hit me.

New York. That night with the pizza slice and the streetlight catching the edge of his smile. How he’d looked at me like I was half sin, half miracle. Eyes dark, hungry, reverent. Like every bite I took made him harder.

He was looking at me the same way now.

Same smolder. Same restraint.

Like he was already playing back the sounds I made in his bed. Like he was counting the minutes until he could strip me down and eat every damn thing I left on the wrapper.

My stomach flipped, heat curling low and slow.

He didn’t say anything else.

Just kept watching.

And Lord, I felt it.

Between my thighs. In the rise of my chest. In the pulse beneath my skin that beat like a drum made just for him.

We were tucked into a narrow alley off South Street, posted up in front of a no-name cheesesteak spot with no signage, just a window, a bell, and a line that always curled down the block.

Locals knew.

But now…

Thanks to a teenager who caught us mid-bite and whispered, “Wait—is that Sienna and Taraj?” loud enough to summon the TikTok gods, a different kind of line started to form.

Two girls in pastel hoodies fake-scrolled nearby, stealing glances. A guy in a Sixers jersey pointed at Taraj like he couldn’t believe it. One woman stood across the street, hand to her chest, tears in her eyes just from looking at us.

I offered a small wave.

That was all it took.

Phones came out like the spectators they were.

“Is it really you?”

“Oh my God, I just watched your Florence performance again— All of You had me in tears.”

“Taraj, bro… that last verse on Heavy Soul ? Whew. Sermon.”

We took pictures. Signed a napkin. Hugged a woman whose hands were shaking. Taraj kept one hand on the small of my back the whole time, eyes scanning the crowd, soft but steady. Protective without words.

We’d been moving without security because I trusted my people, but one never really knew, so I understood his position.

Eventually, a man in an apron popped out the front door, waving a dish towel.

“Y’all good, but we gotta move the crowd,” he said with a grin.

That earned a round of laughs, a few more selfies, and then it was just us again. Brick wall. Grease-stained paper. The buzz of the city around us.

And the heat of his stare, still on me like he couldn’t wait to finish what I’d started with that first bite.

I let the silence hang, then met his gaze head-on.

“What?” I asked, licking the last of the sauce from my thumb slow. Deliberate.

He didn’t answer. Just tilted his head and smiled like he knew exactly what I was doing—and loved it.

“I’m just saying,” I went on, dropping the crumpled wrapper into the bag between us. “You keep looking at me like that, we’re gonna have to find a dark corner somewhere.”

His jaw flexed .

“You don’t think I’ve already been thinking about that?” he murmured, voice low, gravel-rich. “Since bite one.”

A flutter shot down my spine. I moved in closer, toes brushing his. “Then maybe you should do something about it.”

He stepped forward, real close, his mouth just shy of mine.

“Oh, I will,” he said, voice silky smooth. “But not in some alley with people still around the corner pretending they’re not listening.”

“Obviously not.”

His hand found my waist like it was home, fingers splayed wide, warm through the fabric. And I swear, if the cheesesteak hadn’t already done it, that touch alone would’ve melted me.

“We’re not gonna make it through dessert, are we?” I asked, already breathless.

“That was dessert,” he said. “You’re the main course.”

I gasped—laughed, swatted his arm, but my thighs pressed together anyway. Because I knew him.

And when he looked at me like this? He meant every filthy word.

Distraction had a way of interrupting a good thing, however. My phone buzzed.

Brielle: Need your eyes on this pitch deck. They’re asking about a third leg of the tour.

Seconds later?—

Jalen: Yo, I know y’all in Philly but the label needs both y’all on that Zoom tonight. Re: campaign rollout.

I looked at Taraj. He was glancing down at his screen, too.

He met my eyes. “Jalen.”

“Brielle.”

He shook his head and tucked the phone into his jacket pocket.

“Later. ”

I did the same. “Yeah. Later.”

We stood in silence for a moment. Just breathing each other in.

Then he extended his hand. “C’mon, superstar. Let’s finish this walk.”

I laced my fingers through his and followed. Past the mural of Black jazz legends. Past the corner barber shop with Anita Baker spilling from cracked windows. Past three more fans who recognized us, whispered excitedly, but didn’t interrupt.

It wasn’t normal. But it was ours.

“I missed this,” I said, leaning into his side. “The in-between stuff. The parts nobody claps for.”

He glanced down into my eyes. “I missed you.”

My chest warmed. My phone buzzed again. I didn’t even look.

“Meetings going okay?” I asked.

He exhaled through his nose. “Heavy. Labels want everything. Brand deals. Appearances. They pitched me a podcast and a fashion collab in the same breath.”

“Damn.”

He nodded. “Not complaining. Just… I didn’t expect it all to land this fast.”

“You mean after More Than a Moment blew up?”

His mouth curled into that smirk I loved. “You mean after you blew it up.”

I stopped walking and turned to face him. “You ready for all of that? The heat, the press, the constant motion?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m ready to make music that matters. That lasts. And I’m only doing this if it still feels like us. No matter how loud the world gets.”

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.

“They offered me another tour,” I said softly.

He blinked.

“Europe. Asia. The whole thing. With way less turnaround than before. ”

“You thinking about it?”

I hesitated. “I’m thinking about how to move without losing myself. Without losing you.”

I reached for his hand again. “I don’t want to be a silhouette on a world stage with no light inside. I want this… us … to still feel real when the noise fades.”

He leaned in. Pressed his forehead to mine.

“Then let’s build it like that,” he murmured. “Real. Grounded. Yours.”

A breath passed between us. Heavy with heat and truth.

“I’ve been writing,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “Something raw. Something that sounds like skin and confessions and truth you can’t take back.”

His gaze darkened. “What’s it called?”

“Siren.”

The name hung between us like steam—fierce and feminine. Dangerous in all the ways a woman should be.

He traced his thumb along my jaw. “Of course it is.”

I smiled, just a little. “Because when it comes out... I want it to sound like I kissed the mic with my whole mouth. Like I gave the world every moan I ever held back.”

His eyes burned. “Then I hope I’m in the room when you record it.”

I leaned closer, brushing his lips with mine. “You already are.”

He kissed my hand, slow and deep. “Then let me hear you, baby. Loud.”

A beat passed. My chest rose. So did his.

“Yes,” I breathed. “And no more hiding. No more dodging calls just to get a few minutes of peace.”

He smiled, mouth brushing mine. “Except for today. Because we’re ignoring the hell outta those calls.”

I grinned. “Exactly.”

We reached the steps of my brownstone. He took the keys from my hand, unlocked the door, then turned to face me, his eyes molten.

“Time for dessert.”

I stepped in close. “You must love dessert because you look like you plan to devour me.”

“I do—I will.”

We stepped inside. Kicked the door shut.

Shoes off. Clothes soon after.

He pressed me against the wall and kissed me like the mic was still hot, like he had something left to say. Then again, slower, whispering against my lips?—

“I want to put music inside you.”

I whimpered. “Then do it.”

My body burned for him—already parted, already pleading. Every inch of me ached with the memory of him, the promise of him. He made me feel like a temple and a temptation all at once. Like I was something sacred that he still wanted to sin with.

He laid me on the couch, on the floor, up the stairs—everywhere we had breath.

Worshipped me with hunger.

Told me what I meant to him with every stroke, every kiss, every claim.

Told me I was his harmony, his melody, his reason.

And when he finally slid inside me, deep and slow, my soul fractured open.

I sang. Shouted. Cried. Came undone.

For him. Because of him.

We were a whole damn song.