Page 107 of Kentrell

TEN

ZOE

Lying flat on my back,eyes fixed on the ceiling, I tried counting the three lines carved into the crown molding. Over and over. Hoping the repetition would lull me to sleep.

It didn’t.

My mind wouldn’t let go of him—Kentrell. The way he opened me up and devoured every inch of me, slow and sure, like he had all the time in the world.

I turned onto my side and hugged a pillow between my thighs, biting down on my bottom lip as his face filled my mind again—rich brown skin, sharp jaw, those eyes that looked right through me. Every moment we shared played in flashes, like stills from a film I couldn’t stop watching.

I had it bad.

Today felt like a dream. But now, wrapped in the quiet of my bedroom, this was the part where I woke up. And it hurt. Not because I regretted anything—but because now I knew. Knew what it felt like to be touched like that. Kissed like that. Taken like that. And I didn’t know how to come down from it.

I thought I was ready. I thought I had it under control. But I didn’t.

Now I’m wide awake, gripping the sheets in frustration, the imprint of him still fresh on my skin. My body still humming with the memory of his mouth, his hands, his voice whispering filth and praise all at once.

I thought about calling him. Just to hear him. Just to?—

No. I can’t.

“Oh, my goodness,” I groaned, rolling onto my side in pure agony.

I tossed the covers off with a dramatic huff, the heat between my thighs making it impossible to stay still. My bedroom had betrayed me—turned into a playground for every filthy, delicious thought I was trying not to have.

Snatching my robe from the foot of the bed, I slipped it on and padded barefoot down the hallway. It was late—Thursday night or maybe early Friday morning. After I hung up on that call Wednesday night—right before Kentrell popped up on me—I already knew my girls wouldn’t let me off the hook this week.

And they didn’t.

They bumrushed my brownstone with overnight bags like they paid the mortgage.

Ayesha had wine, Stacia brought snacks I wasn’t supposed to be eating, and Mars claimed the biggest throw blanket like it was her birthright. Within twenty minutes, they had candles lit, charcuterie on the table, and a playlist of sultry R&B playing low in the background like it was Girls' Night protocol.

And then came the interrogation.

They didn’t ease into it either. No warm-up. No small talk. Just a full-on assault of raised brows and barely-concealed smirks.

The old me would’ve folded, turning pink at every question. But not this version of me. Not Kentrell’s Zoe.

He’d unlocked something in me. Boldness. Craving. Power.

So I gave them everything—every moan, every whisper, every way he made my toes curl and my back arch. It felt good to let her out… the version of me I’d been keeping in a box labeled “too much.” But she wasn’t too much—she was honest, sultry, alive. And she liked being touched. Taken care of. Tamed… just enough to make her wild again.

Kentrell’s Zoe didn’t need permission. She didn’t ask for approval. She just needed to be scratched when the itch came back—and God, it was back with a vengeance.

Everyone should’ve been asleep by now. The hall clock confirmed it—well past midnight. My house was still, eerily so, as I padded down the stairs to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Normally, I loved the quiet. Relished it. But ever since I let Kentrell in—into my space, my body, my head—this kind of silence felt different. Empty. Almost cold.

I shook off the loneliness with a huff.

“You’ve slept alone all your life, Zoe. What’s one more night?” I whispered to myself as I grabbed a glass from the cabinet.

It was my go-to line. A little internal coaching to keep me from unraveling. But tonight, it didn’t land with the same strength. The words sounded hollow, like something I’d outgrown.

Truth was, I hadn’t even thought about my reputation at Anderson & Hartman. Not once. Not even a flicker of guilt. And that scared me.

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