Page 3 of Gotta Jones For Ya
I ignored him.
Okay—I triedto.
Then came the voice notes. That deep, raspy, slow-ass voice that sounded like he just woke up and was already thinking nasty…
Mine?
Sir, I let you fuckonce.Okay, technically, it was three times in that hotel room. But when he sent a voice note whispering…
I damn near threw my phone across the room.
He wasn’t wrong. I had posted a selfie at the rooftop lounge I went to every few days in between clients. I saved for over a year—tips from the bank, side gigs, birthday money—and finally, two years ago, I opened my own lash studio.
It was small, butmine, every inch curated in soft blush pinks, rose gold accents, and crisp white walls that made everything feel fresh and feminine. I remember hanging the gold-lettered sign myself, hands shaking but proud.Lashhh Me Out. Every tray, mirror, and lash wand was placed with love and intention. It wasn’t just a studio—it was my peace, my grind, my glow-up.
I just didn’t expect Knuck to CSI the angle of the damn sun and triangulate my location.
I was intrigued.
And annoyed.
And wet.
I hated myself a little bit for that.
“Girl, this nigga isnot okay,” I told Mikki, one of my best friends, one night over wine. “Like… you know those documentaries about stalkers? I’m living one.”
She snorted. “But did the stalker have tattoos and a vein on his dick that made you see stars?”
I threw a pillow at her. “You’re no help.”
“No, seriously. Is he a little off? Yeah. Is he fine as fuck? Absolutely. And you haven’t blocked him. So clearly the dick was dipped in voodoo, and now you’re his sex hostage.”
I sipped my wine and stared at the ceiling. “It was supposed to be a one-time thing.”
“And he’s tryna make it a saga. That man gon’ pull up on you soon. Watch.”
And the worst part? I didn’t entirely hate it.
On Tuesday, I finished up my last client for the morning and stepped out around lunchtime. I damn near dropped my new iPhone. Knuck was posted up at the corner, leaning against a fly ass truck with a bag in his hand. He looked too damn comfortable for someone I never gave a single address to.
But damn, I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t fucking fine. He had on a black tee, gray sweat Nike shorts that didn’t hide his third leg, chains on, and gold in his smile like he came to ruin my boundaries and my lunch break.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed, walking over. “How did you—”
“I told you, baby. You ain’t low.” He handed me the bag. “You ain’t eat yet either. Chicken Caesar wrap, extra croutons, strawberry lemonade. Don’t act like a nigga don’t pay attention.”
I opened the bag. It was exactly what I liked from the restaurant. I looked at him sideways. “This is stalker behavior, Keon.”
“Knuck.” He reminded me with a smirk. “And it’s called applyin’ pressure.”
I rolled my eyes and whispered, “You’re insane.”
“You like it though,” he murmured, close to my ear. “I got a room at the Fulton Seas Hotel for a day or two. Pull up on me tonight.”
I lasted twenty-four hours. A whole day of pretending he didn’t have my pussy yearning for more. Wednesday night, after dinner and drinks on a solo date, I drove to the hotel in a littleblack dress and heels, telling myself it was just one last time. One more fuck. One more night of scratching an itch. I was tipsy and horny as hell and knew Knuck could help with that.
Of course, he just had to open the door shirtless in just his briefs, chains on, and wearing a smirk already knowing what time it was.
