Page 17 of You Deserve Good Things
I wasn’t asking no more. I wasn’t waiting, wasn’t hesitating, and sure as hell wasn’t about to let her love tiptoe through fear.
Tonight, she was gon’ feel me—fully, deeply, eternally.
She was gon’ feel me in her pulse, in her breath, in every damn heartbeat like I was part of her anatomy.
There wasn’t no more room for doubt, and definitely not no more runnin’.
This was our reckoning. A redemption wrapped in passion, soaked in sweat, and sealed with the kind of love only we could create.
The moonlight bled through the curtains in wide streaks, painting her caramel skin in strokes of silver and seduction.
She looked like a dream dipped in honey—warm, glowing, and far too divine to be real.
My fingers traced slow, reverent circles along her thighs like I was sketching a masterpiece on soft canvas, takin’ my damn time, savoring every inch like it was gospel.
She lay beneath me, breath uneven, her chest rising like waves crashing against the shore. Her lips were swollen from all the biting, glistening with unspoken words and raw emotion. But I didn’t want words—I wanted surrender. That deep, soul-deep surrender that didn’t come from fear but from trust.
“You can have me, Yaya,” I murmured, my voice low and thick like warm syrup sliding over southern biscuits.
She shook her head, her hands gripping my arms like they were the only thing tethering her to this world. I moved slow, deliberate, my lips brushing her collarbone like soft silk and promising, electric with intention.
But I needed her to say it. I needed her to own it.
“Nah, baby. I wanna hear you say it.” My lips barely touched her ear, breath hot and reverent. “Say you want me. Say it with that sweet-ass voice God gave you.”
Her nails dug deeper into my back, a soft whimper escaping her lips, but the words still didn’t come. So, I dropped my hand lower, fingertips gliding between her thighs like a whisper, teasing just enough to make her squirm.
“Say it, beautiful,” I said again, voice rumbling like a thunderstorm rolling in from the bayou. “Tell me you want me.”
Her body bucked beneath me, that tension building in her like she was a rubber band on the verge of snapping. And when she finally whispered it—“I want you, baby”—it was soft and sticky sweet, like molasses dripping slow in July heat.
But it still wasn’t enough.
“Nah.” I growled low, like her need was fuel and I was starving. My fingers pressed deeper, sending a jolt through her whole frame. “Say it again.”
She gasped, her breath hitching like her soul was catching up to her flesh. “I want you so bad,” she moaned, desperate and delicious.
That was the key. That was when I unlocked her.
“That’s my girl,” I whispered, my mouth sliding back down her neck, laying kisses like little fires along her skin. “You have always been mine, Yaya. I was just waiting on you to come home.”
She tilted her head back, surrendering fully, and I took my time makin’ love to her like she was sacred ground. Kissin’ her, touching her, drowning in her. The way she trembled under me? That shit made me feel like a god.
“Goddamn, you sexy as hell.” I groaned, letting my hands memorize every dip, every curve, every stretch mark that told the story of a woman who survived.
“You feeling me, baby?”
She nodded, eyes glazed over like she was caught between prayer and sin.
“Say it,” I coaxed, voice hoarse and needy. “Talk to me.”
“I feel you, Jacory,” she breathed out. “I feel you everywhere.”
And that was it. That was church.
I worshipped her body like it was scripture, lips and tongue tracing verses she didn’t know she carried. When I kissed her thighs, she quivered. When I finally went lower, tasted her, her hands tangled in my locs like she was tryna keep from falling apart.
And when she came undone, moaning my name like it was her only prayer, I felt that shit in my chest. In my veins. In the part of me that had been waiting four years to be this close to her again.
But I wasn’t done.
I slid up her body, slid into her slow, deep, like I was home.
“Baby,” she whispered, shaking beneath me.
I kissed her mouth, slow and deep, lettin’ her taste her own sweetness. “You think we done, baby?” I smirked. “We just getting started.”
We moved together like a slow song in the summer. Sticky. Sweat-slick. Sensual. Every stroke was a promise. Every moan was a confession. I loved her with my body the way I’d always loved her with my soul—wildly, deeply, and without hesitation.
She wrapped her legs around me, locking me in like she was never lettin’ me go again.
And I wasn’t letting her.
When we finally crashed together one last time, bodies shaking, breath ragged, skin hot, I held her close like the world outside didn’t exist.
She lay on my chest, her fingers drawing lazy circles on my stomach, our heartbeats thumping in rhythm like a slow jazz drumline on Frenchmen Street.
I brushed her curls off her face, kissed her forehead soft and slow.
“You locked in now, my love,” I murmured.
She tilted her head up, eyes hazy, lips swollen from our confessions.
“I been locked in,” she whispered.
That wrecked me in the best way. I held her face in both hands, kissing her slow, kissing her deep, like I was kissing every broken part of her back together.
“You never gotta worry about me leaving you, baby,” I whispered, my voice raw like scraped knuckles and bleeding truth.
“I love you past the moon and stars, Yaya,” I said. “I love you beyond forever.”
She relaxed into me, body limp, spirit safe.
“And ain’t no one,” I added, eyes locked on hers, “not no bitch, not no situation, not no storm or shadow—ever coming between us. You hear me?”
She nodded, soft tears clinging to her lashes, and then she said the one thing that made my whole soul exhale?—
“I love you too, baby.”
I smiled, heart feelin’ like it was damn near floating.
“Good,” I whispered, pullin’ her tight.
“’Cause, I only got eyes for you, my love. Ain’t no woman alive could ever come close to my beautiful-ass queen.”
And right there, in the warmth of our bodies, tangled in sheets and forever, she didn’t look scared no more.
She looked loved. She looked found. She looked mine.