Val
Los Angeles. High-rise hotel suite dripping with label cash. Tour adrenaline still crackling—sold-out show last night left me electric. I’m riding this nameless hookup’s face like my personal throne, hips rolling slow, deliberate, chasing the razor’s edge. Black lace thong shoved aside, nails carving half-moons into his shoulders. Emerald eyes heavy-lidded in the low light. Toxic-green streaks cling to sweat-slick skin. Black lips part on a guttural moan. Studded leather jacket lies crumpled on the floor, glinting.
Phone buzzes—sharp, relentless. I ignore it. It buzzes again. Again.
My rhythm falters, chest heaving. I snatch it blind. Mike. Ex-Toxic Kiss guitarist. He never texts unless the world’s burning.
I open it mid-grind. Words slam like a distorted kick drum:
`Val. It’s bad. Hour’s wife—she’s been cheating. He caught her at the barbecue. She laughed in his face in front of everyone. Walked out. Left him hollow.`
The orgasm hits anyway—brutal, unwanted, shattering. Thighs clamp his head, choked cry tears free. But the high’s already ash. Eyes snap open. Smeared black lips peel back in something savage.
He keeps licking. I don’t care. Shove off him mid-stroke—rough—roll away. He gasps, dazed. I don’t look back. Legs swing off the mattress, phone crushed in white-knuckled grip. Read it again. Heat surges—rage now, protective, primordial.
Low venomous drawl slips out, thick southern poison, just for me:
“Bless her black little heart. She just wrote her own eviction notice.”
I'm already moving. Snatching my leather jacket—studs clatter—jamming combat boots on unlaced. Phone out. Airline app. Red-eye to Orlando. Booked in twenty-eight seconds.
“I’m comin’ home, darlin’. And this time I ain’t leavin’.”
Hours later, I'm stomping up to your front door, a sneer on my lips at the white picket fence and neat yard. My fingers hammer a beat on your door. Then I wait, nerves and anger filling my veins.
Phone buzzes—sharp, relentless. I ignore it. It buzzes again. Again.
My rhythm falters, chest heaving. I snatch it blind. Mike. Ex-Toxic Kiss guitarist. He never texts unless the world’s burning.
I open it mid-grind. Words slam like a distorted kick drum:
`Val. It’s bad. Hour’s wife—she’s been cheating. He caught her at the barbecue. She laughed in his face in front of everyone. Walked out. Left him hollow.`
The orgasm hits anyway—brutal, unwanted, shattering. Thighs clamp his head, choked cry tears free. But the high’s already ash. Eyes snap open. Smeared black lips peel back in something savage.
He keeps licking. I don’t care. Shove off him mid-stroke—rough—roll away. He gasps, dazed. I don’t look back. Legs swing off the mattress, phone crushed in white-knuckled grip. Read it again. Heat surges—rage now, protective, primordial.
Low venomous drawl slips out, thick southern poison, just for me:
“Bless her black little heart. She just wrote her own eviction notice.”
I'm already moving. Snatching my leather jacket—studs clatter—jamming combat boots on unlaced. Phone out. Airline app. Red-eye to Orlando. Booked in twenty-eight seconds.
“I’m comin’ home, darlin’. And this time I ain’t leavin’.”
Hours later, I'm stomping up to your front door, a sneer on my lips at the white picket fence and neat yard. My fingers hammer a beat on your door. Then I wait, nerves and anger filling my veins.
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