I like things quiet when I’m on top.
Not silent — just controlled.
The city below the windows is alive in that distant, indifferent way, all lights and movement and people who don’t know my name. Miami hums, unaware of what’s happening thirty floors up, and I like that. I like being unobserved. Unaccountable.
He’s tied to the chair the way I asked him to be. Ankles. Wrists. Not tight enough to hurt, not loose enough to forget they’re there. The knots are neat. Deliberate. My handiwork.
He watches me like men always do when they realize they’ve misjudged the situation.
I lean forward and rest my palms on his chest, feeling his breath hitch. He smells like expensive cologne and nervous anticipation. He has no idea who I am beyond what I’ve chosen to show him tonight — a woman with confidence, a smile that lingers, and rules he’s already agreed to without reading the fine print.
“You’re comfortable?” I ask softly.
He nods. “Yeah.”
I smile, slow and reassuring. “Good. I am too.”
That’s the point.
I swing a leg over him, settling in with unhurried precision, and feel his attention lock completely. There’s a moment — there always is — where men think being restrained makes them vulnerable.
They never realize it’s the opposite for me.
Being tied means he can’t surprise me. Can’t overpower me. Can’t pretend this is anything other than what it is: something I’m allowing.
I lean down, close enough for him to feel my breath brush his ear.
“You can touch with your eyes,” I murmur. “Nothing else.”
His jaw tightens. I feel it beneath my palm. He likes rules. Most powerful men do. They just don’t like admitting it.
I straighten again, rolling my shoulders back, letting him see exactly what he’s been waiting for all evening. The anticipation stretches between us, taut and deliberate. I want him aware of every second.
“Relax,” I say gently. “I’ve got you.”
And I do.
I begin to ride him, bouncing gently at first, just to gauge his reaction.
He seems to like it. He beings to groan.
I let the moment build the way I like it — slow, teasing, inevitable. His reactions are honest now, stripped of bravado. I guide the pace, adjust when I want to, withdraw just enough to remind him who decides what happens next.
“Look at me,” I tell him when his eyes start to close.
He does. Immediately.
“Good,” I whisper. “Just like that.”
My phone buzzes on the table behind me.
I ignore it.
Whatever it is can wait. I don’t like interruptions, and I’m too aware of the heat between us to give anything else my attention. The city keeps glowing. He keeps responding. Everything is exactly where it should be.
The phone buzzes again.
I sigh quietly, more amused than annoyed, and lean forward, resting my forehead briefly against his. “Sorry,” I murmur. “Some people don’t understand timing.”
I shift, reclaim the rhythm, let myself enjoy the way his breath stutters when I do. I’m close — not to the edge, but to that place where control feels sharpest, where everything is heightened and deliberate.
The phone buzzes a third time.
I still don’t look.
“Focus,” I tell him softly. “On me.”
He nods again, eyes dark, obedient now in a way that feels earned. I straighten, drawing the moment out, savoring the balance of power and pleasure.
Then my phone buzzes again.
Longer this time.
Reluctantly, I reach back and glance at the screen.
Unknown number.
One word.
College.
My body stills.
Not freezes — not yet — but something shifts, subtle and unmistakable, like a misstep on familiar ground. My pulse changes. My breathing changes. I don’t like that.
I swallow and force myself to keep moving, to keep the moment intact. It’s nothing. Just a word. A coincidence.
It buzzes again.
This time, a photo loads before I can stop it.
My breath catches.
Malik.
Older than I remember. Broader. Familiar in a way that reaches straight into a part of me I don’t keep unlocked anymore. The angle is casual, unposed — the kind of image you don’t send unless you want to be recognized.
My hand stills.
The room tilts, just slightly.
I close my eyes…
And the memory hits with startling clarity.
—
I’m standing in a hallway that smells like cheap cologne and cardboard boxes, knocking on Sean’s door with more confidence than I feel. Laughter spills out before he opens it — familiar, careless, male.
“Coming!” he calls, voice already a little too loud.
The door swings open to reveal chaos: half-packed bags, open suitcases, clothes draped over chairs like they’ve given up trying to behave. Sean grins when he sees me, already flushed from drink and excitement.
“Odete,” he says. “Perfect timing.”
“Am I interrupting?” I ask, glancing past him.
“Only my dignity,” he laughs. “Come in.”
I step inside, taking in the room — the balcony doors open, the city lights beyond them dizzyingly high. He’s leaving tomorrow. We all are. Endings have a way of sneaking up on you like that.
“Who is it?” a voice calls from behind the wall near the bathroom.
Sean rolls his eyes. “Just my homegirl.”
“I’m not your homegirl,” I say automatically, half-smiling.
There’s a pause.
Then Malik steps out.
He’s wearing boxers and nothing else, a glass of scotch in his hand, utterly unbothered by the situation or my presence. He looks me over with open curiosity, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Oh,” he says. “You didn’t mention she was trouble.”
Sean snorts. “Malik. This is Odete.”
Malik’s smile widens. “Lucky me.”
I feel it then — that pull. Immediate. Unapologetic. The kind that doesn’t ask permission.
I don’t have time to respond before Sean bumps into me accidentally, sending me stumbling back toward the balcony. The railing wobbles beneath my hand, a sickening lurch that sends my heart into my throat.
Strong arms catch me before I can scream.
Sean’s breath is warm against my shoulder, his grip firm, grounding. “Hey,” he says urgently. “Careful.”
Malik’s laughter rings out behind us, sharp and careless.
“Damn,” he says. “That would’ve been one hell of a send-off.”
Sean doesn’t let go straight away.
He holds me a second longer than necessary, hands firm at my waist, breath uneven like he’s only just realized how close that came. The city yawns beneath us — a hundred feet of lights and consequence — and my knees are still weak when he finally steps back.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod, a little dazed. “Yeah. Just… wow.”
Malik claps slowly from behind us, grinning like he’s just watched a stunt instead of a near-death experience. “Ten out of ten,” he says. “Would watch again.”
I shoot him a look. “You’re horrible.”
He lifts his glass in salute. “Alive though.”
Sean rolls his eyes, already halfway back to laughing it off, because that’s how he survives things — humor first, reflection later. “Come on,” he says. “We’re not spending our last night in this place staring at railings.”
Alarna appears beside me, looping her arm through mine like nothing happened, like this is just another chapter in a long story. She smells like citrus and sweat and ambition — the javelin always leaves her wired.
“Bars,” she declares. “Music. Bad decisions.”
“Speak for yourself,” I say, but I’m smiling.
We spill out into the night together — four bodies loose with relief and adrenaline, the kind that only comes when something could have gone wrong and didn’t. The streets are loud, forgiving. Graduation week energy. Endings pretending to be beginnings.
Sean is already drinking too fast.
By the second bar, he’s leaning on the counter like it owes him money, laughing at his own jokes, bumping shoulders with strangers. Malik drifts through the crowd like he owns it — effortless, unbothered — while Alarna and I dance near the edge of the room, watching men pretend not to watch us.
“This is it,” Alarna shouts over the music. “Real life next.”
I laugh. “Don’t say that. Makes it sound permanent.”
She grins. “Everything is.”
Sean reappears with shots, eyes bright. “Karaoke,” he announces. “Mandatory.”
“Absolutely not,” I say immediately.
“Absolutely yes,” Malik counters, already steering us toward the stage. “She has opinions. I want to hear them sung.”
I glare at him. “I will end you.”
He beams. “Promises, promises.”
Sean takes the mic first — disastrously — slurring his way through something classic and completely inappropriate. The crowd cheers anyway. Alarna howls with laughter. I clap because it feels easier than stopping him.
By the time he stumbles back to us, flushed and triumphant, he throws an arm around my shoulders like we’ve been doing this forever.
“Your turn,” he says.
“I don’t sing.”
“You run,” Malik says. “Throw sticks. Same thing.”
I flip him off, but I’m laughing.
Sean leans closer, breath warm with alcohol and something sweeter underneath. “You know,” he says, conspiratorial, “you and your track people… all intense. All timing and discipline. Weirdos.”
I arch a brow. “You’re calling me a weirdo?”
“Affectionately,” he says quickly. “You know I mean it affectionately.”
I smile despite myself. “You’re drunk.”
“Very,” he agrees. “Which is why I’m going to say this before I chicken out.”
Malik perks up immediately. “Oh, here we go.”
Sean straightens, wobbling slightly, eyes serious now in that unguarded way drunk honesty brings. “I like you,” he says. “Like… actually like you. More than classroom friends. More than late-night notes and shared coffee.”
The room seems to tilt — not dangerously, just enough to demand attention.
“Sean,” I say gently. “You’re wasted.”
“I know,” he says. “But I’m not wrong.”
I soften. He’s earnest. Sweet. And absolutely not thinking this through.
“You’re a good guy,” I tell him. “But not tonight. Maybe not like this.”
He nods, accepting it faster than I expect, shoulders slumping only slightly. “Yeah. Fair.”
Malik laughs — not cruel, just amused — wrapping an arm around Alarna as if to punctuate the moment. “Ouch,” he says. “Public rejection. Brutal.”
I glance at him, something sharp flickering. “Careful.”
He shrugs. “What? I’m entertained.”
Alarna elbows him. “You’re impossible.”
Taxi lights flash outside. Malik checks his phone. “That’s me.”
He disentangles himself, grabs his jacket, and gives Sean a mock salute. “Better luck next life.”
Then he turns to me, eyes lingering just long enough to be noticed.
“Try not to fall off any more balconies,” he says.
Something twists in my chest.
“You know what?” I say suddenly.
Everyone looks at me.
I meet Sean’s eyes. He looks hopeful but braced.
“You did save my life,” I say. “So… one date. One. You get to take me to a movie.”
Sean blinks. “Really?”
“Really,” I say. “But you’re sober.”
He grins like he’s won the lottery. “Deal.”
Malik snorts. “Unbelievable.”
“Seattle,” I add. “And we’re watching the new Mission Impossible.”
Sean laughs. “Of course we are.”
Malik backs toward the cab, shaking his head. “Whatever,” he says. “Have fun, hero.”
He dumps Alarna’s bag into my arms with a careless grin, hops into the taxi, and drives off.
I watch him go — the easy swagger, the unbothered confidence — something warm and inconvenient pooling low in my stomach.
Sean doesn’t notice. He’s too busy gagging over the river railing, retching dramatically while Alarna pats his back and laughs.
I look away before I can overthink it.
—
My eyes open.
I’m back in the penthouse.
Back on top.
The city hums beneath the windows, unchanged, indifferent. My body remembers the rhythm before my mind does. The man beneath me looks up, expectant, waiting for my attention to return fully.
It does.
I inhale, center myself, let the past slip back where it belongs — not gone, just filed.
I smile down at him, slow and reassuring.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “Got distracted.”
He nods, breath already uneven again.
I roll my shoulders, reclaim the moment, and let the night continue — unaware that some memories don’t stay buried once you wake them.
The past doesn’t loosen its grip politely.
It lingers.
It hums beneath my skin like a second pulse, like something unfinished that’s decided now is a good time to stretch.
I don’t let it.
I roll my hips forward instead, sharper this time, more deliberate, reclaiming the moment with intent. The man beneath me gasps — not because I surprise him, but because I change the rules without warning.
I like that.
I like when desire stops being passive and starts paying attention.
His hands twitch uselessly where they’re tied, fingers flexing like he’s trying to remember how control works. I lean down, letting my hair fall around his face, letting him feel how fully I’m back in my body now.
“Eyes up,” I murmur.
He obeys instantly.
Good.
Whatever ghosts tried to pull me backward lose their footing as the present tightens again. The city outside blurs. The glass. The lights. The altitude. All of it fades until there’s only heat, breath, rhythm.
I move harder now — not frantic, not desperate — but purposeful. Like I’m making a point to myself.
I’m here.
I’m in control.
I didn’t choose wrong.
I let it build without rushing the ending. That’s the trick most people don’t learn — restraint inside intensity. I watch his reactions, adjust my movement when his breath stutters, pull back when he thinks he’s close to something he hasn’t earned yet.
“You like that,” I say softly, not asking.
He nods, words gone now, honesty stripped down to sound and movement.
I smile — not kind, not cruel — just aware.
This is what I’m good at.
Not the sex.
The timing.
The way control feels like generosity when you wear it right.
I lean back, letting him see me clearly, shoulders rolled, chin lifted, confidence settling into place like it belongs there. I don’t look away when he looks at me like I’m the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking.
The city keeps glowing.
The night stays open.
And for a few suspended minutes, nothing else exists.
Then my phone rings.
Not a buzz this time.
A call.
I freeze — not outwardly, not enough for him to notice — but something inside me pauses, alert. The sound cuts clean through the moment, slicing the rhythm in half.
I exhale slowly and reach for the phone without looking away from him.
Sean.
Of course it’s Sean.
I answer.
“Hey,” I say, voice steady enough to pass.
There’s a pause on the other end — just long enough to mean something.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” he asks.
I glance down. The man beneath me watches my face now, curious, breath still uneven. I place a palm on his chest — a silent instruction to stay still — and he does.
“No,” I say. “What’s up?”
Sean hesitates. I can hear it — the way he shifts his weight when he’s choosing his words carefully.
“So… I probably should’ve told you earlier,” he says. “But something came up.”
My stomach tightens just a fraction.
“What kind of something?”
He exhales. “Someone’s coming to stay next week.”
I lean back slightly, heart rate adjusting, instincts already ticking through possibilities.
“Who?” I ask.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“You remember Malik,” Sean says.
The room tilts — not violently, not dramatically — just enough to remind me that balance is a temporary condition.
I close my eyes.
The man beneath me makes a small sound, confused, wanting. I don’t move.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I remember Malik.”
Sean laughs, unaware of the shift he’s caused. “Good. Because he’s flying in. Thought it’d be nice to have him around before the wedding. Help with a few things.”
Nice.
Of course.
“Odete?” Sean adds. “You still there?”
I open my eyes and look out at the city again — at the lights, the height, the open night — and feel something old and sharp coil beneath my calm.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m here.”
I end the call a moment later, hand lowering slowly, deliberately, as if nothing’s changed.
But everything has.
I look down at the man beneath me — still waiting, still open — and give him a soft, apologetic smile.
“We’ll finish another time,” I tell him gently.
He nods, disappointed but compliant.
I step away, gathering myself, pulling the night back into order with practiced ease. As I move toward the window, my reflection stares back at me — composed, controlled, unreadable.
But inside, something stirs.
Because this time…
This time, I could be in trouble.
