TIED IN SILK

The Only Ride She Can’t Control

Zuri had finally stopped choosing between the two.

She padded across the room, barefoot, dressed in nothing but Fahim’s black T-shirt — oversized, soft, and falling just past her hips. The faint glow of the lamp traced her curves like worship. Her skin still held the heat of his touch from earlier.

Fahim watched her from the couch, one arm behind his head, the other cradling a cold beer. His eyes moved slowly down her body — lingering at the gentle bounce of her breasts beneath the cotton, their round shape outlined with every step. Tender, full, and achingly soft — the kind of breasts made for both worship and sin.

Her waist, narrow and sculpted, dipped into hips that rolled with each step. Her ass — round, high, and firm — swayed naturally, perfectly. She wasn’t trying to seduce him.

But she always did.

“You keep looking at me like I’m dessert,” she said, stopping beside him.

“I’m a hungry man,” he said, voice low and rough.

She took his beer, sipped it, then straddled him slowly, her thighs pressing against his. The shirt rode up, exposing the smooth arch of her hips and the hint of lace between her legs.

“You ever think about forever?” he asked, eyes locked on hers.

“Only when I’m sitting on it,” she whispered.

Fahim groaned as his hands gripped her hips, strong fingers sliding up her back, then down — cupping her ass like he’d missed it all day. His thumbs dipped into the curve just above her waistband, tracing her skin.

“You’re so damn soft,” he murmured. “But this—”

His hands tightened.

“This is all muscle. All power.”

She rolled her hips against him, slow and steady, feeling the growing heat beneath his sweatpants. His chest rose against her, his abs tightening.

“You like my power?” she teased.

“I worship it.”

His lips found the side of her neck, then trailed down — kissing just above her collarbone, then lower. With each kiss, her breathing hitched, her back arching naturally. He lifted her shirt, revealing her breasts inch by inch, until they were fully bare in the soft lamplight.

They were perfect — round, perky, still slightly sensitive from his mouth hours earlier. He kissed the underside of one, then gently took the n****e into his mouth, sucking slow, tender. Her moan was instant — deep, soft, raw.

“Fahim...” she whispered, tangling her fingers in his hair.

He laid her down on the couch, his body sliding over hers like silk and heat. He kissed down her stomach, biting gently at her hipbone. She gasped as he hooked his fingers around the lace panties and pulled them down slowly, eyes never leaving hers.

“You still want control?” he asked again, voice full of fire.

“No,” she whispered, breathless. “I want you.”

And when he entered her, she gasped — not from surprise, but from how deeply she felt it. How deeply she felt him.

Each thrust was slow, deliberate. Her hips rose to meet him, her nails raking down his back, her breasts bouncing gently with each motion. He kissed them, bit them, groaned against her skin.

He filled her completely — emotionally, physically, fully. Every moan, every whisper, every look between them was a promise: this is real.

And when she came — hard and shaking beneath him — she cried out his name like a confession.

He followed right after, growling against her neck, holding her as if letting go would undo the world.

Later, wrapped in his arms, her head resting against his slick chest, she whispered:

“You’re the only ride I can’t control.”

Fahim smiled, kissed her forehead, and whispered back—

“And you’re the only woman who makes me want to be tamed.”