Sunday Storms
Cw: rough sex, consensual choking, crying during sex, verbal conflict, and religious themes
The sky was still dark when Sammie eased outta bed, careful not to wake her.
She laid curled beneath the sheet, bare shoulder peeking out, lips parted just a little like she was still dreamin’. Her breath rose soft and slow, and he stood there a second longer than he should’ve, just watchin’.
Then he leaned down—pressed a kiss to her temple, warm and slow. Whispered against her skin, “Be back ‘fore long, baby.”
She didn’t stir. Just sighed a little, turned deeper into the pillow.
Sammie straightened up, ran a hand through his hair, and reached for his guitar case like it was armor. Stepped out the door into a world still quiet with sleep.
The Prayer House— 9:12 a.m.
The choir was already singin’ when Sammie walked in. “Power, Lord!” ringin’ from the rafters, the old church swayin’ like it remembered freedom in its bones.
He moved slow up the center aisle, Sunday suit hangin’ just right, guitar slung across his back. Folks turned to watch him pass, but he didn’t look at none of ‘em.
Only one man mattered in that room.
Reverend Moore locked eyes with him from the pulpit. That look he gave Sammie? Wasn’t fatherly. Wasn’t proud.
“You bring that devil’s music in here again, boy,” the reverend said low, but sharp, “you best be ready to answer for it.”
Sammie stopped at the altar, nodded once to the pianist, and took hold of the mic. The church quieted down, like breath caught in a throat.
“I ain’t bring no devil’s music,” Sammie said. “I brought what God put in me. That’s all I got.”
The first strum of his guitar rang out low and full. The kind of sound that came from a deep place—lonely, rooted, tired but still fightin’.
Not from the hymnal. Not from no book. Just from his chest.
It was the kind of voice that made old women clutch their hearts and made young folks lean in like it held secrets. He sang of wanderin’. Of bein’ misunderstood. Of findin’ God in the cracks—between hard days and blue notes. His voice was velvet rough, full of tears unshed and prayers not quite prayed.
Reverend Moore sat back tight-lipped, jaw workin’. He couldn’t deny the spirit movin’ in that room. Couldn’t argue with the way Sammie’s voice wrapped around them rafters like incense.
Sammie strummed one last slow, syrupy chord before stepping away from the mic. The congregation didn’t erupt—just sat in a hush, like they ain’t know if they should clap, pray, or cry.
When it was over, no one clapped. No one breathed. The silence itself was holy.
He nodded once. Packed up his guitar. On the way down the aisle, folks reached for him—shaky hands, whispered praise:
“Sammie, baby, the Spirit was in you today.”
“That voice—you touched somethin’ deep.”
“You sure you ain’t ready to come back home for good?”
He smiled polite, nodded soft, but didn’t linger. The sun was creepin’ in through the stained-glass, dust spinnin’ in the light. He was two steps from the door when—
His daddy’s voice. Still sharp enough to make the back of Sammie’s neck twitch.
Sammie looked over and saw Reverend Moore sittin’ in the second pew from the front, one hand on his Bible, the other drumming slow against the wood.
Church had emptied, but the air was still thick. Heavy with spirit, sweat, and all the things unsaid.
Sammie sat down slow, a pew between them. Guitar leaned close by.
For a long moment, neither man spoke. Just the creak of the wood under their weight, and the faint hum of cicadas outside.
“You enjoy that?” Reverend Moore asked, not lookin’ at him.
“I ain’t come for enjoyment,” Sammie said. “Came to tell the truth.”
“That ain’t truth. That was pain. That was rebellion. You turned the Lord’s house into a roadhouse.”
“I turned it into a mirror,” Sammie shot back. “What you mad at? The words I sang? Or the fact that folks listened?”
Reverend Moore’s fingers stilled. “They don’t need more music, son. They need saving.”
“And who said they can’t find it in a chord?” Sammie leaned forward, voice lower now, almost a growl
“Jesus walked with whores and drunkards, but you won’t let me sing cause my gospel got a backbeat?”
“You sound just like him,” Reverend Moore said. “Soft on sin. Loud with pride.”
That name again. His uncle’s ghost stirrin’.
Sammie’s jaw flexed. “He was more God-fearing than you ever been.”
The reverend turned now. Looked straight at him. “You keep walkin’ this path, boy, ain’t gon’ be no comin’ back.”
Sammie held his gaze. Steady. Defiant. “Then don’t expect me to crawl.”
He stood. Reached for his guitar.
“Pride goeth before the fall,” his daddy muttered.
Sammie turned, just before steppin’ into the sunlit aisle. “And truth goeth whether you like it or not.”
Then he walked out—boots echoing against the wood, leavin’ behind the pew, the pulpit, and the man who never saw the light in his voice.
The door creaked open slow, like even the hinges knew he was carryin’ more than just his guitar.
Sammie stepped inside, head low, jaw locked tight. Suit clingin’ damp to his back, face dark with somethin’ he couldn’t shake. He didn’t say nothin’—just shut the door behind him and stood there, stewin’.
You felt it the second he crossed the threshold.
You moved quiet through the kitchen, filled a glass—two fingers of brown, splash of ginger, a little sugar just to take the edge off. You pressed it into his palm. He took it, didn’t look, didn’t thank you. Just threw it back hard enough to make your throat ache in sympathy.
No flinch. No sigh. Just the sound of glass tappin’ back against wood.
“You let him get to you again?”
Your voice barely broke the stillness, but it landed like a stone on water.
He didn’t answer right away. Just rubbed a hand over his face, eyes still stuck to the floor.
“I ain’t never wanted him to hate me,” he muttered. “Ain’t never asked to be no disappointment.”
“You ain’t no damn disappointment, Sammie.” You stepped in closer. “You hear me? That man just mad the church loves you the way he never let ‘em love him.”
“I ain’t ask for none of that,” he snapped. “I just sang.”
“And you sang the truth. That ain’t no sin.”
He shook his head, jaw twitchin’. “You don’t get it.”
That got his eyes on you, finally. And they were blazin’.
“You don’t know what it’s like to carry his name,” he said, voice rising. “To be his son. Every note I sing, every chord I play, he see it as a stain on his damn legacy.”
You stepped up chest to chest now, voice firm. “So what? You gon’ let him shame you into bein’ quiet? Again?”
“You think this easy for me?!” Sammie barked. “You think I like feelin’ like I’m killin’ my daddy every time I open my mouth?”
“You doin’ what he never had the courage to do!” you shot back, voice rising to match his. “You tellin’ the truth! That ain’t weakness, that’s faith.”
Sammie’s hand slammed down on the kitchen counter, glass rattlin’ with the force. “You don’t get it! Every Sunday I show up, it’s like beggin’ for a father that don’t exist!
You flinched—but only for a second. Stepped right back in.
“And every Sunday I sit here watchin’ you come back torn to pieces, tryna patch you up just for you to shove me away like I ain’t tryin’! Like I ain’t the one stayin’ when he keeps rejectin’ you!”
His chest heaved. Yours too. Two fires facin’ each other, breathin’ the same smoke.
“I ain’t ask you to fix me,” he bit out.
“And I ain’t tryna fix you,” you snapped. “I’m tryna love you. But you so busy fightin’ ghosts, you can’t even see what’s right here.”
Silence dropped like a hammer. Heavy. Breathing ragged between you both.
Sammie looked at you like he wasn’t sure whether to run or fall to his knees.
Just turned his back, fists clenched at his sides, and said low—
“Then maybe you should stop tryin’.”
That line dropped like a match in gasoline.
You didn’t even think. Just saw red.
“The hell you just say to me?!”
Your voice cut the air in half, and his shoulders tensed—but he didn’t turn.
“Oh, you bold now?” You were already on him. “You think you can talk to me like I’m some damn stranger?”
You shoved him—hard. His body jolted forward from the force, and when he turned, that heat in his eyes wasn’t pain.
“Don’t start with me,” he warned, low.
But you wanted to fight. You wanted to make him feel everything he kept tryna bury.
“I’ll start and I’ll finish, Sammie! Don’t you ever talk to me like I ain’t the one holdin’ you down when your whole damn world falls apart!”
He clenched his jaw. Fists balled. Veins jumpin’. You saw it all.
“What you gon’ do, huh? Raise that voice like your daddy do? Ball up them fists like you him now?”
You shoved him again, chest to chest. “Go ‘head! You wanna shut me up, right? Make me stop.”
Snatched your wrists in his hands like he’d been waitin’ to, spun you and pressed you to the wall
“You bout’ done runnin’ that mouth ?”
His voice was a low growl, breath hittin’ your neck, hands pinning your arms beside your head.
Still tryin’ to push back. “Let go of me.”
“You want me to make you stop? Here I am.”
You bucked against him and he pressed his hips flush to yours, holding you there, commanding your whole body without even breakin’ a sweat.
“Say another word,” he hissed in your ear.
You twisted in his hold, breath comin’ short now.
From the way he was claimin’ you without askin’.
So he dropped his mouth to your neck—bit. Hard. Just enough to make you gasp.
He pulled your arms down just enough to flip you around, back hittin’ the wall now, his chest pressin’ into yours. Eyes locked. Fire to fire.
It was a punishment. A reward. A command. Tongue deep, mouth hot, takin’ control of everything you had left.
“You done now?” he asked again, voice hoarse, lips hoverin’.
You still wouldn’t say it.
So he grabbed your thighs, lifted you clean off the ground, and pressed you tighter to the wall.
“I said—” his voice dropped dark— “You done now?”
He kissed you like it was the last word.
But you pulled back, chest heaving, eyes locked on his. And you smirked.
“That all you got, Preacher Boy?”
Breath slowed, but his eyes? Blazin’.
“Still talkin’,” he muttered, grip shiftin’ on your thighs, diggin’ in harder like he was remindin’ you who had you pinned.
You leaned in, your voice slick and daring, heat dripping from every word.
“If you gon’ shut me up, Sammie, then do it. But don’t half-step.”
He stared at you for half a breath, jaw clenched, teeth grit like he was holdin’ back a flood.
Then he dropped his head, low and dark at your neck, teeth grazin’, breath scorchin’.
“You want me to take it there?”
“Take it,” you hissed, bitin’ your lip, back archin’ into him. “Handle me.”
His hand slid under your thigh and he lifted you higher, slammed your back harder into that wall—not enough to hurt, but just enough to make you feel him. All of him.
His mouth crashed into yours again—teeth, tongue, spit, heat. Hands roamin’ like he was claimin’ territory, not beggin’ permission.
“Mouth still runnin’?” he growled, voice muffled against your lips.
You bit his bottom lip, pulled it between your teeth.
“You gon’ fix that, or you just gon’ look pretty?”
He chuckled—dark and dangerous.
Then he turned, carried you off that wall with one arm under your ass, stridin’ toward the nearest room like you ain’t weigh nothin’.
“You talkin’ a lotta shit for somebody who’s bout to be beggin’.”
He kicked the bedroom door open with his boot, you still gripped tight in his arms.
Tossed you on the bed like you ain’t nothin’ but breath and bad decisions.
You bounced, laughing—tauntin’.
“That all you got, big man?”
He stood at the foot of the bed, dark eyes draggin’ down your body like he was about to destroy it just for breathin’ too loud.
“You got one more time to test me.”
His voice was low. Threat-level low.
You sat up on your elbows, licked your lips slow, still smirkin’.
“Or what? You finally gon’ stop talkin’ and start doin’?”
He jerked his shirt over his head, muscles flexin’ tight with tension, skin gleamin’ with the heat he brought in from outside.
He was already on you—grabbin’ your ankle, yanking you down the mattress with one pull.
You squealed, tried to sit up—he shoved you flat.
He crawled over you, caging your body with his. “Keep that ass still.”
He grabbed your jaw, tight. Not cruel. Claimin’.
“You don’t wanna play with me right now, girl.”
“You don’t scare me, Sammie.” You grinned through clenched teeth. “I like this.”
“You gon’ beg me to stop by the time I’m done.”
He pressed his forehead to yours.
His hand slid down your body, no finesse, all possession. Grippin’. Squeezin’. Daring you to keep that mouth open.
“Gon’ have to do better than that.”
His hand shoved beneath your waistband, no warning, fingers draggin’ through you like he was searchin’ for somethin’ to ruin.
He laughed dark. “What happened to all that talk?”
You squirmed, grabbed at his arms.
Your breath hitched when he curled his fingers just right.
“Go on,” he said, teeth at your ear. “Tell me what I ain’t doin’. Run that mouth again.”
You gasped, eyes rollin’ back as he picked up pace, rough and unrelentin’, thumb circlin’ like he had a point to prove.
“There she go,” he murmured. “Knew I’d shut you up.”
He bit down on your shoulder.
“This what you wanted, huh?”
Your hips bucked into his palm.
You turned your head, lips brushin’ his.
“I wanted it rough. Not lazy.”
That line hit him like a slap.
His face twisted—something dark, something hungry.
Then he slammed his fingers back inside you, deeper than before, faster, thumb rubbin’ circles that had your back archin’ off the bed.
“Say it again,” he growled.
“Say it with your fuckin’ chest.”
Your jaw dropped, breath caught.
“Nah, don’t start cryin’ now.”
His hand moved like punishment—no rhythm, just need. Sloppy, wet, deliberate.
He leaned over you, watchin’ your face as he worked you.
“Said I was lazy, right? You want effort?”
Your legs shook, hips jerkin’, hands clutchin’ the sheets—tryin’ to brace for how good it hit.
His other hand grabbed your thigh, shoved it wider.
You couldn’t speak—just noddin’, eyes wild.
He was locked in now—movin’ mean, wrist flexin’, knuckles hittin deep. His breath heavy as yours.
Back arched, mouth open, eyes shut—you finished hard, loud, legs tremblin’ around his wrist.
You barely came down before he yanked his hand out, wet and glistening, wiped it across his tongue like he was tastin’ victory.
he shoved you flat back on the bed, hands firm on your thighs, yanked your bottoms off with no patience.
You barely caught your breath before he was there—
face between your legs, mouth on you like revenge
“Thought I was gon’ stop?”
He growled it, breath hot, tongue mean.
He didn’t ease in. He devoured.
Suckin’ your clit, tongue flickin’ like it was tryin’ to break you open again.
“Don’t run,” he said, holdin’ your thighs down.
“You wanted this, remember?”
He shook his head into you, tongue draggin’ through slick, nose nudgin’ your most sensitive spot—no mercy.
He paused just long enough to spit on it—then went right back in, two fingers slidin’ back inside without missin’ a beat.
You choked on your breath, legs kickin’.
“Uh-uh,” he said, mouth full of you.
“You gon’ take all this shit.”
No warm-up. No sweet nothin’. Just two rough hands spreading you wide and that mouth diving in like he had somethin’ to prove.
His tongue landed fast and hard, flickin’ over your clit like it pissed him off, suckin’ it sharp, steady, mean. No rhythm to ease you in—just pressure, punishment, purpose.
His fingers followed, slick and quick, two slid in deep with no warning, curlin’ upward and pressin’ like he was tryin’ to wring you out from the inside.
You yelped, back archin’.
“F-fuck, Samm—” you stammered.
Pop. His hand slapped your thigh, fingers never slowin’ inside you.
“I said shut that pretty mouth.”
You gasped, hips twitchin’.
His mouth pulled off just long enough to speak, breath hot.
“Keep talkin’, I’ll stuff it full.”
Then he dove right back in.
His tongue lashed over your clit like it was beggin’ to be tamed. No teasing, just relentless heat, the wet sound of him suckin’ you down loud and obscene between your thighs.
Your hands scrabbled at the sheets, mouth falling open in another gasp.
“I—Sammie—baby, please, I can’t—”
Another slap to your thigh, harder this time.
“Did I say you could speak?”
He leaned up just enough, lookin’ down at you with fire in his eyes, mouth and chin glistening.
“Nah. You gon’ take this. You run that mouth so much—now you gonna learn how to lose it.”
His fingers pumped faster, thumb draggin’ tight, rough circles over your clit like he was tryna send you to hell and heaven in the same stroke.
You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, body burnin’ up with every curl of his knuckles.
Your legs shook, a moan caught deep in your throat. “S-Sammie, I’m—fuck—I’m—”
He watched you, eyes locked, jaw clenched.
“Yeah? You gon’ cum? Go on then. Let it out. Squirt on my fuckin’ face—let me see you fall apart.”
You cried out as your whole body seized up, hips jerkin’, thighs closin’ tight around his face. But he grabbed your hips and held you down—made you take it.
The pressure burst, a hot flood pouring outta you, wet and wild, coating his mouth, his chin, the damn sheets. You squirted hard, loud, and messy—guttural moan spillin’ from your lips as your body shook through the high.
But Sammie? He didn’t stop.
He growled into you, tongue flickin’ faster, suckin’ you through every tremble.
“That’s it,” he rasped, mouth still locked to you. “You’ll never forget who made you cum like that.”
Your voice broke into sobs of pleasure, words lost in the mess he made of you.
You were tremblin’ now, damn near sobbin’ through clenched teeth, thighs sticky and twitchin’ with every flick of his tongue. He was still down there—mouth locked, fingers deep, thumb pressin’ circles over that same oversensitive spot like he wanted to make you scream till you had nothin’ left.
“P-please—” you gasped, body buckin’ under him
He growled against your skin, eyes dark, wrist flickin’ sharp inside you.
“That don’t sound like you beggin’. Come on, pretty girl—cry for me.”
You sniffled, chest stuttering with each breath.
“Cry right,” he whispered, mouth dragging up your thigh, “or I’ll take you there again.”
And just like that, you fell apart again—chest archin’ off the bed, a high-pitched sob spillin’ from your throat as another wave hit you. He held you through it, tongue slow now, just enough to keep the sparks dancing on your skin while your body tried and failed to settle.
Your thighs trembled. Your arms weak. Your eyes slick with tears as you stared up at the ceiling, wrecked.
And only then—only when he’d finished you good and raw—did Sammie rise.
He crawled up your body slow, deliberate, mouth still wet, chin glistening, breathing hard through his nose. Your legs were still twitchin’, body heavy, arms limp at your sides.
He reached down, pulled himself free, thick and heavy, already throbbin’ from everything he’d done to you.
Pressed the weight of him right against your mess.
Didn’t slide in just yet.
Just leaned over—forehead to yours, breath mingling—and spoke:
“I ain’t wanna be angry with you, baby.”
His voice was low, honest, but still edged in heat.
You whimpered, lips parted, body still flutterin’.
“Don’t you worry. I’ma fix it.”
Slow. Deep. Thick enough to punch the air out your lungs.
Your mouth opened, but no sound came
He filled you inch by inch, stretchin’ you around him like he was tryna make space where there wasn’t none.
His forehead dropped to yours. His breath ghosted over your lips, hot and rough.
You blinked through tears, eyes heavy-lidded.
“Keep lookin’. You feel that?”
He rolled his hips, pulled out halfway, then slid back in with a grunt.
“That’s me. Deep. Right where I belong.”
You tried to speak—tried to say his name—but all that came out was a whimper, broken and raw.
Sammie leaned back, braced his hands on your thighs, and folded you up slow, pushin’ your legs toward your chest, thighs pressin’ down on your stomach.
Still inside. Still thick. Still ownin’ every inch of space in you.
He sat back on his heels, palms steady on your knees, lookin’ down at you like you were a song he’d written just for this.
“Now be good,” he said, hips startin’ to move, “And let me finish teachin’ you.”
Sammie stayed sittin’ back on his heels, deep inside you, thick and stretchin’ you wide as his palms held your legs up against your stomach. He stared down at you—face tight, breath comin’ hard.
And then he started movin’.
Grindin’ his hips forward ‘til you felt him press deep at the top of your walls, then pullin’ out slow, makin’ your body ache with the loss, only to slam it back in with a grunt.
Your mouth opened, but nothin’ came out yet. You was too stunned, too full.
His voice came like a sermon.
“You know where you fucked up?”
“First—runnin’ that mouth like you ain’t know who you was talkin’ to.”
“Tryna tell me what I was and wasn’t doin’. Lazy? Me?”
“Then pushin’ me—again. After I told you, stop.”
You whimpered, body squirming beneath him.
“Ain’t no safe word in attitude. You asked for this.”
Another thrust—hard enough to shake the bedframe.
Your voice cracked on a moan.
His hands slid under your thighs, pushin’ ‘em higher. He leaned in, angle changin’—stroking deeper.
“You loud now?” he taunted, smirking as your breath stuttered.
You tried to answer, but all that came out was a broken cry.
That made him grunt—approval, possession, pride. And then he picked up the pace.
Sharp, thick strokes. Slappin’ skin.
Every inch he gave, he took back harder.
You were moanin’ now, voice high, pitch hittin’ something desperate.
“Loud again. Just how I like you.”
Your body jerked, legs tremblin’, hands graspin’ for anything to hold onto—but he was already leanin’ down, pressin’ his chest to yours.
Bear hug. Tight. Locked. Still fuckin’ you.
One arm curled under your shoulder, the other hand slid to the back of your neck, holdin’ you still. His lips came right to your ear.
“Shhhh. It’s okay now, baby.”
“You done run your mouth.”
“Lemme take care of it now.”
“Don’t cry, baby. I got it.”
His voice was soft. Sweet. Condescending.
Like he was rockin’ a child.
Like this wasn’t him fuckin’ the lesson into your body—this was him takin’ over.
You sobbed out his name again, walls clenchin’, breath short and fast.
He smiled into your neck.
“That’s it. Let me fix you.”
Still inside you, chest to chest, Sammie breathed through his nose—slow, heavy, hot against your cheek. The bear hug stayed tight, one arm coiled around her back, holdin’ you like you was some fragile thing he was done bein’ gentle with.
But the other hand… it moved.
From the back of your neck—soft at first, thumb slidin’ along your jaw. Then firmer. Fingers curlin’ under your throat.
Chokin’ you. Not too tight. Just enough to hold your breath, make you focus. Make you feel the control—every inch of it.
You gasped, eyes flyin’ open as his palm flattened against your throat, fingers snug, thumb restin’ just under your chin.
“You feel that?” he whispered, voice calm like this was just conversation.
He rolled his hips slow, deep, grindin’ up into you like he was moldin’ you around him.
Your legs kicked a little.
“This right here’s a correction.”
Your hands clawed at his back, mind foggy, but body on fire.
“I said shut that mouth—now look at you,” he rasped, pressure on your throat increasing just enough to make your breath hiccup.
“Loud. Wet. Shakin’. And still not done.”
His hips picked up—deep grind, then a sharp thrust. Then again. And again.
You couldn’t even speak. Couldn’t beg. Your breath was stuck under his grip, the sound trapped and rising in your chest like a scream with no exit.
And he felt it. All of it.
Your walls flutterin’ around him, thighs tremblin’, tears spillin’ down your cheeks as that wave crept up again.
“Mmm, yeah,” he murmured against your mouth. “Go ahead. Give it up for me, baby. Let that pussy break for me one more time.”
You tried to nod. Tried to answer.
But that hand on your throat? It held everything.
And that’s when it snapped.
Your body arched, legs stretchin’, arms flailin’ as another orgasm ripped through you—harder, deeper, full-body violent. Your moan barely slipped past his grip, just a choked sob as you squirted again, coating both your skin and his, shakin’ like you was comin’ undone from the inside out.
He held you through it—didn’t let up. Didn’t stop strokin’.
Just watched your face twist with pleasure, pain, surrender.
“That’s it, baby,” he whispered, mouth on your cheek, hand still firm around your throat.
“Let me teach you what your mouth forgot.”
You ain’t even had a second to breathe ‘fore Sammie snatched you over, face-first to the mattress, legs spread, ass high. That sweet boy gone—all that was left was heat, muscle, and spite.
He grabbed your hips up and drove in deep, thick and full, makin’ the whole damn bed creak under you.
“Unnnhh—fuck, girl…” he groaned, voice dragged low and gritty, accent thick like swamp air.
“Told yo’ ass, keep talkin’… now look atcha.”
His palm flattened ‘gainst your back, pushin’ you down each time the bed bounced you forward. He held you like that, pinned, used, his hips smackin’ into you over and over, the slick slap of skin echoing off the walls.
“Ain’t goin’ nowhere now. Naw.”
You tried to speak—voice caught, cracked, a sob laced with a moan.
“Sam—Sammie please—too deep—”
Your hand reached back, tryin’ to catch breath, catch mercy.
He slapped that hand away, grabbed both your wrists up, pulled ‘em back behind you with one big hand.
“Told ya I don’t give a fuck.”
His voice was strained now, words meltin’ at the edges.
“Said too deep, huh? Mm. Good. That’s where I live.”
“You gon’ feel me in that spine, sugar. Gonna limp for days.”
You cried out, sobbin’ straight into the mattress.
“You sound so goddamn sweet when you hurtin’.”
His mouth fell open, breath hot and wild as he ground into you. That drawl slurred more with each stroke.
“Mmmfuck—make all that mouth just to end up cryin’ on this dick.”
You was shakin’ now, belly clenchin’, whole body caught in that rhythm, that storm of him.
And he was gone. Eyes rollin’, muscles flexin’, hips drivin’ like he was tryna bury himself in you.
“Your attitude. Your smart mouth. You all mine.”
Each one hit harder, deeper, uglier.
You wailed, and that pushed him over the edge. He leaned in, wrapped that thick arm around your waist, pullin’ you up, his chest on your back, body shakin’ behind you.
His other hand slid up—from stomach to chest, to your throat.
“Shhh now,” he breathed, right by your ear, that Southern lilt drippin’ like wet heat.
“Hush now, baby. S’okay. S’okay… gon’ take it.”
You sobbed his name, and he held it right there, pulsin’ inside, rockin’ his hips in short, deep strokes.
“Tha’s it… go on ‘n finish again for me. One mo’ time, baby. Jus’ one mo’…”
Still inside—deep, thick, all him. Her ass high, her body tremblin’ against his, her face hot and flushed , cryin’ soft now.
He leaned over her, chest on her back, mouth open at her ear, breath hot and hitchin’.
“Still clenchin’ on me, girl…”
His voice was slow, lazy with heat, all Mississippi drip and thunder.
“Like yo’ body don’t know when to quit.”
And then his hand came down between her legs—slick, sure, mean.
Two fingers rubbin’ her clit, not soft.
“C’mon, baby… you finishin’ again witcha man.”
His hips rolled into her slow.
“Ain’t goin’ nowhere till you do.”
She whimpered, tryin’ to shift, to breathe.
Shaky fingers slid low, findin’ his sack, cuppin’ his balls soft, thumb draggin’ ‘cross the bottom like she was feelin’ how full he still was.
“Mmmfuuuck—” he growled, voice breakin’ straight through his throat.
“Tha’s how you gon’ touch me? You nasty lil thing…”
She rubbed him gentle but firm, that grip sendin’ fire straight through his spine.
And he sped up—fingers draggin’ tighter over her clit, hips grindin’ harder, deeper, his balls hittin’ her hand with every thick stroke.
“Lemme—lemme feel you lose it, baby…”
He choked out the words, hips stutterin’.
“One mo’ time f’me, c’mon now—fuck—lemme fill you up while you cry.”
And she did. Her body broke again.
A sob, a moan, a shudder ran through her, her hand squeezin’ on him as she came, loud and wet and ragged.
Her thighs jerked, back archin’, palm still on his balls like she was tryna milk him down with her.
“God—DAMN!” he shouted, slamming into her once, twice, then holdin’ deep, pulsin’, emptyin’ all that heat inside.
His chest collapsed to her back, that hand still trapped between her legs, twitchin’ from the aftershock.
Sticky. Loud. Torn down and rebuilt.
“Mmm. You earned that, baby… earned every drop.”
The room was quiet now—heavy with sweat and breath and the ghosts of every cry you’d let loose against them sheets.
Sammie still lay pressed to your back, arms around your waist, breath slowin’ against your neck. But the tight hold he had on you loosened, just enough for him to pull out with a low, shaky groan.
You whimpered—sore, spent, legs weak.
He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, gentle this time, before shiftin’ off the bed, barefoot on the hardwood. No words yet—just movement. A hand draggin’ down his face, another reachin’ for a clean towel from the dresser.
He came back quiet, eyes a little glassy now. All that fire faded down to embers.
Kneelin’ beside you, he wiped you clean slow, careful over your thighs, the back of your knees, down where y’all were still stickied together.
“Didn’t mean to say all that,” he mumbled, voice thick, accent warm like Sunday syrup.
You blinked at him, rollin’ onto your side. “Me neither.”
He gave a small, tired smile. “You cut deep when you want to.”
You breathed a laugh, eyes glossed but soft. “So do you, Sammie.”
For a minute, just the hush of cotton on skin, his hand movin’ gentle as water. He tossed the towel toward the hamper, missed, didn’t care.
You reached up, dragged a lazy finger along the line of his jaw. “Your daddy ever hear you scream the Lord’s name like that again…”
“…he might actually combust.”
Sammie huffed—a real laugh this time, low and from his belly.
“Man, he’d start speakin’ in tongues… ‘cept not the holy kind.”
You both cracked up, exhausted and grinnin’, breathless in a whole new way.
He shook his head, leaned in, crawled back into bed, stretchin’ out over you like he was home.
“Mmm,” he hummed, mouth on your temple, “If I’m goin’ to hell, I’m takin’ you with me.”
You let him kiss you slow—real sweet this time, mouth warm, lips draggin’ over yours like he was sayin’ “I’m sorry” with every stroke.
No more fire. Just you, him, and the peace that only comes after losin’ yourselves in each other.
I AINR PROOFREAD YALL HOPEFULLY ITS FINE mommy’s sleepy
