You saw him before he saw you.
White boy, tall and stiff, leaning in the shadows at the back of the juke joint like he was too smart for the room and too tired to pretend otherwise. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show collarbone. Hair a little messy like he didn’t care much about being looked at, but you looked anyway.
You weren’t subtle. You never were.
He wasn’t from here, and you? You were caramel-skinned and dangerous in Mississippi — thick where it mattered, curls swaying down your back, and too sweet for the kind of attention men like him couldn’t afford to give. But he looked. And kept looking.
“Didn’t think white boys came to this side of town,” you said, soft but sharp, glass in your hand, eyes on his.
He looked back slow. “Didn’t think women like you talked to ’em.”
You shrugged. “We don’t.”
⸻
You brought him home without a plan.
Didn’t take much. A look. A touch to his chest. A whispered, “You scared of me?” against his neck.
He wasn’t.
But he should’ve been.
⸻
You took your time undressing him.
He didn’t know where to put his hands at first — until you guided them to your hips and rolled your waist into his, soft and deep. His breath hitched, voice catching in his throat like he wasn’t used to women being gentle.
“You want me to stop?” you whispered.
He blinked up at you, flushed, already leaking against your thigh.
“…Please don’t.”
⸻
Remmick was smart. Sharp.
But beneath you? He lost it.
You rode him slow, watching his mouth part, his hands dig into the sheets, his chest stutter like he was trying to hold something in. His accent dropped into a groan, and when your hand wrapped around his throat — light, a reminder — he whispered, “God damn…”
His fangs popped mid-thrust.
You noticed. He noticed you noticing.
“I—shit—” he choked out. “Didn’t mean for that to happen.”
You leaned close, lips brushing his. “You gonna bite me?”
He shook his head, pupils blown wide. “No, ma’am.”
“Then take it.”
⸻
He came with a shudder, quiet, gripping your hips like he didn’t wanna leave your body.
⸻
The morning hit quick.
You were knocked out. Wrapped in a thin sheet, thighs sticky, hair a mess, and your chest rising slow when it happened:
A single, sharp, Southern-ass yell that rattled the damn windows.
“FUCK—”
You sat up fast.
Remmick was halfway out of bed, stark naked, sheet dragging behind him — smoke curling off his bare ass from the sliver of sun slicing through the curtain.
He slapped a hand over his left cheek, gritting his teeth.
“I’m fryin’ like a hog left out on a cast iron.”
You blinked. “What?”
“The fuckin’ sun—” he hissed, scrambling back into the shadows, “—burned me right on the ass, I knew I forgot somethin’ last night.”
You tried not to laugh. Failed immediately.
“Remmick, you screamed like somebody shot you—”
“I thought they did!” he barked, glaring. “I was mid-dream and then it felt like the Lord was settin’ my bare ass to broil.”
You bit your lip. “Want me to check the damage?”
“Don’t you dare laugh,” he muttered, face red. “You gon’ be kissin’ blisters if you do.”
You walked over, sweet as anything, brushing his hair off his face. “Maybe I will.”
He looked at you, face soft. “You’re dangerous.”
You smiled.
“So don’t go.”
You knelt beside him, sheet pooled around his waist, his back against the wall like he’d just survived a war. You kissed his chest, warm under your lips, then slid your hand down slow, tugging the blanket off his hips.
“Lemme see.”
He grunted. “Ain’t nothin’ to see but shame.”
You turned him gently and bit back a laugh. “Dios… it is red.”
“Yeah, well. Sun snuck up on me.”
You leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to the singed skin of his left cheek.
He jolted. “The hell was that for?”
“Respect,” you murmured. “For surviving the roast.”
Remmick groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You ain’t right.”
You grinned, crawling back into bed. “Neither are you. Get in.”