This bitch wanted to talk shit?
I’d fuck a baby into her.
Then she wouldn’t just betheirfamily.
She’d also be mine.
Sophia’s legs locked around my waist, nails raking down my chest, her voice shredded and shaky as she whispered, “I hate you.”
“Good,” I grunted, fucking her so hard her back arched off the floor. “Hate this dick.”
“I do.”
“You’re lying,” I chuckled, and didn’t stop until she came again, screaming into my mouth as I swallowed the sound.
I followed right after, growling her name and coating her insides with every ounce of the war still living in my blood.
We lay there tangled, breathless, dripping in sweat, cum, and mutual disrespect.
And when she finally spoke, voice rough, throat sore, lips swollen—she said the coldest shit I’d ever heard.
“Good dick, Dallas... but it’s still not unforgettable.”
Chapter 15
He Owns Me
Tatum
My head was in the damn toilet, and for once, it wasn’t because of a hangover, though I wished that was the case. Nausea hit hard, leaving me clinging to cold porcelain as if I were praying to God. I stayed there longer than I should have, listening to my breathing and wishing the sickness would go away.
Naeem was already gone for the day, and thank God for that. I didn’t need him hovering over me, asking a hundred questions I wasn’t ready to answer. Shit, I barely had answers for myself.
After rinsing my mouth and splashing cold water on my face, I sat on the edge of the tub, reaching for my phone with shaky hands. Something didn’t feel right, and it wasn’t just because of the vomiting. I had other symptoms as well, such as fatigue, random mood swings, and sore breasts.
I opened my period tracker, not expecting anything wild, but I wanted to rule out the worst-case scenario. However, there was no skirting it. It had been seven weeks and five days since my last cycle.
I blinked at the screen, hoping the app was malfunctioning. Maybe I’d logged it wrong, or maybe I’d skipped a month and forgotten. I scrolled back through the dates, double-checked the notes, and even refreshed the app as if that would somehow change the math. However, it didn’t. I was still seven weeks and five days late. It stared back at me, bold as hell.
This couldn’t be real. The Nexplanon was still in my arm, within its window, with a less than one percent failure rate. I wasn’t supposed to be part of that one percent. Everything had been up to date. I hadn’t missed any checkups and had no complications. Nah, this wasn’t supposed to happen right now, especially not with things already tense between me and Naeem.
I stood, pacing the bathroom, one hand on my hip, and the other still clutching my phone. This had to be a mistake, at least that was what I wanted to believe, but my gut told me I wasn’t just stressed. However, before I let myself spiral, I had something I needed to do. Holding my finger down on the period tracker, I deleted the app, then rearranged the icons to fill the gap.
I’d figured out weeks ago that Naeem had mirrored my phone. When messages I hadn’t opened were suddenly marked as read, locations were shared when I hadn’t turned on tracking, and deleted calls still somehow came up in conversation with Naeem, I knew just how he’d gotten down.
I remembered him once telling me that a man who didn’t know what his woman’s doing didn’t deserve her. At the time, I thought he was being possessive, but now I know it was a confession. The most insulting thing about this was that hethought I wouldn’t notice. He had failed to realize my father left me in charge of all his hard work for a reason.
I was smarter than the average bear. Besides, I grew up around obsessive, controlling men like him who needed to know every move their woman made. He wasn’t the first to try it, but I would make him regret ever crossing this line.
Naeem’s phone displayed the things I was doing in real-time. He’d have to be watching to catch me looking at the tracker, which I doubted he was. His meeting with the city planning board had started fifteen minutes ago. He should’ve been too busy to look at the phone right now. Still, I couldn’t take any chances.
Fuck, I needed to talk to somebody. Two somebodies, matter of fact.
Reaching underneath the mattress, I grabbed my burner. It was usually tucked in my purse, powered off unless I had something to say he didn’t need to hear, but something in my spirit told me to take it out last night. I powered it on and called Sophia and Riley on a three-way video call.
Sophia answered first, barefaced and sipping coffee, and I could tell she had just rolled out of bed. Riley popped in a second later, lashes already done, hair laid, chewing on her breakfast.
“I need to see y’all—today,” I said, skipping the small talk. “We can do lunch at that spot you keep trying to get me to go to, Riley.”
