Page 85 of Riot

She changed into leggings and a hoodie, something soft and simple, but even that had me looking twice. Her ass swayed when she walked. Her lips were full and kissable. I had to keep checking myself, reminding my dick that now wasn’t the time to get us in trouble.

Still, the air between us stayed hot.

In the car, she fiddled with her phone, but kept glancing over at me. I could feel the heat building again, that silent tension threading through the quiet. We were damn near vibrating with it. Every touch was charged. Every glance pulled deeper.

She was soft, but she wasn’t weak.

And I was learning quickly that she could flip a switch in me like nobody else.

I wasn’t just lusting after her.

I was fucking hooked.

By the time we hit Harlem exit, I reached over and took her hand, lacing our fingers together. She didn’t pull away. Just looked at me with those wide eyes. There was an innocence but something more hiding behind them. There was a fire that I wanted to stoke. I wanted her to burn brighter than she ever did. I hated that Boaz tried to stomp our light.

Yeah. I was in deep.

And this time, I wasn’t scared of drowning.

Finally we arrived at my brownstone. It was one of the first things I purchased when I got my own money back when I was 18. I bought it because Malia said she always loved Brownstones and I wanted to treat her. After what happened between us, I decided not to sell it but I never lived in it. I rented it for a while but my last tenants just moved out.

When we walked in, I looked around and took it all in. I hadn’t put much thought into the decor in the spot. It was pretty basic. I rarely spent time here. I was either at my mansion in Jersey or in my penthouse in the city.

“This is nice but it’s not you at all,” she said as she looked around.

“I know I never lived here so it hasn’t been decorated. If you’d like, you could set it up anyway you want,” I respond.

“I think I might like that. It needs some color. I hate drab, sterile homes.”

“Yeah, I feel you. Put your magic touch on it.”

“I think I will.”

After we put our bags down, we changed clothes for dinner. I threw on a clean black tee and a fresh pair of jeans, kept it simple. Low effort, but I still looked sharp. But when Allure came out of the guest room, the air changed.

She had on low-waisted camouflage cargo pants that hugged her hips like they were designed just for her. She wore a light green tank top that hugged her double d breasts. Gold necklaces adorned her neck, matching the bracelets around her wrists. Her makeup was light — lip gloss and eyeliner. No effort. Still looked like a fuckin’ billboard. Like Harlem royalty and rebel spirit wrapped in Rihanna's swagger.

My jaw damn near locked trying not to bite my lip.

She caught me staring and smirked like she knew exactly what she was doing.

We headed out around seven, sliding into the Harlem streets just as they started to buzz for the night. It wasn’t the Harlem I knew as a kid but it was still full of culture and unapologetic blackness. It was alive—music bumping from cars, old heads outside in the park arguing about the Knicks like it was '96, kids chasing each other in the street, laughter bouncing off brick walls.

We walked to Sylvia’s because I was craving soul food.

“You ever been here?” I asked her.

“Once with my parents when I was little. You know I mostly grew up on in California though. We moved out here when I was in high school.”

“So you haven’t gotten to see much of Harlem, have you?”

“Nope.”

“Well this is a staple. You’ll like this.”

“I believe you.”

Sylvia’s smelled like heaven. Like deep-fried joy. Catfish grease, yams, cornbread, and sweet tea—it all hit the second we stepped inside. We got a booth by the window. The hostess gave Allure the once-over like she was trying to figure out if she was famous. And honestly? She looked like she could’ve been. Like she should’ve been. Her deep dark skin was so perfect even without make up.

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