Waiting to Be Wanted

Copyright & Disclaimer

Copyright © 2025 by Latissha S. Perry (LSP)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book contains mature themes intended for adult readers only. Reader discretion is advised.

AI Assistance Notice

Portions of this book were developed with the assistance of artificial intelligence tools, used for brainstorming, drafting, editing, and/or design. All creative direction, decisions, and final content are the work and responsibility of the author.

Cover Design: Designed by Author

Published in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prelude

Chapter 1 – The Ache Beneath Her Skin

Chapter 2 – The Ghost in the Sheets

Chapter 3 – The Stranger’s Eyes

Chapter 4 – The Spark

Chapter 5 – The Pull and the Push

Chapter 6 – Kassie’s Return

Chapter 7 – Fracture Lines

Chapter 8 – Collision

Chapter 9 – Between the Silences

Chapter 10 – Shadows in the Glass

Chapter 11 – Cracks in the Mirror

Chapter 12 – The Breaking Point

Chapter 13 – Reclamation

Epilogue – Waiting to Be Wanted

Author’s Note

About the Author

Prelude

She had learned, over time, that silence could be louder than a scream. It followed her into empty rooms, curled into her sheets, and pressed against her chest at night until she forgot how to breathe without it.

Desire lived in that silence—hungry, restless, aching. But it was a desire that had teeth. To be touched. To be seen. To be wanted. Not as a passing pleasure, not as a body to be used and discarded, but as a soul to be claimed.

Tabanna did not yet know if such wanting existed outside of fantasy. All she knew was the pull—like a bruise beneath the skin—that something more was waiting for her in the shadows, something that could either shatter her or set her free.

And so she lingered in the half-light of her life, caught between memory and hunger, waiting for the moment when longing would finally break.

Waiting… to be wanted.

Chapter One

The Ache Beneath Her Skin

The mornings were the worst.

Tabanna sat at the edge of her bed, staring at the place where Kassie used to sleep. The sheets were cool, undisturbed, as if no one had been there for weeks. The absence felt louder than noise—like a ghost that pressed against her chest.

The apartment was beautiful. Carefully chosen furniture, muted tones, glass vases with dried eucalyptus stems Kassie had insisted on. It looked like a magazine spread, curated to impress. But it never felt like home.

Tabanna’s hand brushed the sheets, fingers curling into the cotton as if she could hold on to something that was never really hers. She whispered into the silence, though no one could hear:

“Why doesn’t it feel like enough?”

The ache beneath her skin stirred again, low and insistent. It wasn’t just loneliness. It was deeper, bone-deep. The longing to be touched—not carelessly, not in passing, but fully. To be seen. To be known in the places she hid.

Her phone buzzed. She didn’t need to look, but she did anyway.

Kassie: Don’t wait up. Out of town another week. Big things happening.

No warmth. No tenderness. Just words tossed like crumbs.

Tabanna exhaled slowly, setting the phone aside. She poured her coffee, opened her laptop, and tried to drown in work. But even deadlines couldn’t silence the question echoing in her chest:

What would it feel like to be loved without condition?

Chapter Two

Cracks

The folder wasn’t supposed to open. One slip of the mouse, and there it was—memories lined up in pixels.

Photos of her and Kassie: rooftop parties, wine glasses raised, Kassie’s lips pressed against her cheek while her eyes looked elsewhere. In some shots, Kassie’s grip on her hand was tight, almost possessive, her nails leaving faint crescents in Tabanna’s skin.

At first glance, they looked like love. To everyone else, maybe they were. But Tabanna remembered the fights before the smiles, the cutting words whispered between kisses, the silence that stretched for days after.

One photo in particular made her chest ache. Kassie’s arm draped around her, mouth against her ear. Tabanna remembered the exact words she’d said that night:

You’re so easy to want, Tabi.

It had felt like a gift at the time. But in the quiet years that followed, she realized it wasn’t want—it was ownership.

She closed the folder, but the memories bled into her dreams. Nights where Kassie’s body was pressed against hers, heat without softness, taking without giving. Nights when Tabanna cried into her pillow after, wondering if she was broken for needing more.

She woke drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around her. The ache beneath her skin pulsed stronger than ever.

She wanted love—not performance, not possession, not crumbs.

She wanted to feel real.

Chapter Three

The Stranger

The gallery was dim, all raw concrete and steel beams. She hadn’t planned to come. She never went to things like this anymore. But the silence of the apartment had felt suffocating, and her body had ached for movement, for something.

She drifted from canvas to canvas, glass of red wine untouched in her hand. People murmured around her, trading critiques she couldn’t hear. She kept her head down, her coat wrapped tight.

And then she stopped.

A painting pulled her in—violent swathes of purple slashed with red, like bruises blooming beneath skin. She stared, chest tight. Something in it mirrored the ache she carried, hidden fractures beneath the surface.

That’s when she felt it.

A gaze. Heavy. Present. Intentional.

Tabanna turned.

The woman stood across the room, tall, sharp lines softened by shadow, curls brushing her jaw. She didn’t look away. Didn’t smile. Just looked.

Tabanna’s breath caught. She shifted her weight, glanced back at the canvas, tried to shake it off. But when she turned again, the woman was still watching, still steady, as though she saw everything Tabanna thought she had hidden.

When the woman finally spoke, her voice was low, textured. “Do you see it?”

Tabanna blinked. “See what?”

“The fracture. Beneath the red.”

Tabanna leaned in, noticing for the first time a fine crack cutting through the layers of paint. Almost invisible. Almost deliberate.

“I missed it,” she admitted.

The woman’s gaze never wavered. “Most people do.”

Tabanna’s pulse stumbled. She wanted to ask her name, wanted to step closer, wanted something she couldn’t even name. But her phone buzzed.

Kassie: Contract delayed. Out longer. Don’t wait up.

The message sliced through her. When she looked up again, the woman was gone.

But the ache beneath her skin had shifted.

It wasn’t longing anymore.

It was hunger.

Chapter Four

The Spark

The mixer wasn’t her scene. She told herself she was just filling space, avoiding another night alone with silence. But when she walked into the converted warehouse strung with amber lights, she knew she was lying to herself.

She was chasing that gaze.

The crowd was a blur of wine glasses and curated laughter. Tabanna moved among them, ghostlike, pretending interest in brushstrokes and small talk. Her body felt taut, her senses sharpened.

And then she felt it again.

That pull.

That current.

Zaire stood near a column, a drink in hand, curls catching the light. Her eyes locked onto Tabanna’s as if she’d been waiting.

Tabanna’s steps slowed, her pulse stumbling into her throat.

“You came,” Zaire said softly when she drew near.

“I don’t even know why,” Tabanna whispered, truth slipping out before she could armor herself.

Zaire tilted her head, gaze steady. “Because you wanted to.”

Tabanna’s lips parted, breath uneven. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know hunger,” Zaire said simply. “And I know when someone is starving.”

The words carved through her. Tabanna felt stripped bare, exposed, seen in a way that was almost unbearable.

They drifted to a shadowed corner, their conversation folding into fragments—books, art, loneliness, the feeling of being misplaced in one’s own life. But beneath every word was something else. The air around them buzzed, charged, alive.

When Zaire’s hand brushed hers on the edge of the bar, the contact was electric. Tabanna pulled back, heart hammering, whispering, “I can’t—”

“You can,” Zaire murmured, voice low and certain. “You’re just afraid of what happens if you let yourself.”

The ache beneath her skin roared, a tidal wave she could no longer deny.

Her truth slipped out in a tremor: “I haven’t felt anything. Not like this. Not in years.”

Zaire stepped closer, her presence a slow, deliberate heat. She didn’t touch her. Didn’t kiss her. Just held her there with a look that felt like a promise.

“Then let me remind you,” she said.

The air between them vibrated with inevitability. Tabanna knew in that moment that the darkness inside her had finally found its spark.

Chapter Five

The Pull and the Push

The night pressed against her like a second skin.

Cold air wrapped around Tabanna as she stepped out of the rideshare, her heart hammering with the same question she’d been asking herself all day: What am I doing?

The message had been impulsive. One word, shaky in its simplicity: Where?

Zaire’s reply had been steady, almost inevitable: Studio. Come.

Now she stood before the warehouse door, nerves thrumming, her body already aching as though it knew what was coming.

The studio smelled of graphite, varnish, and steel filings. Wide windows let in strips of city light. Drafting tables stretched in long rows, covered in sketches and scattered notes.

And there she was.

Zaire. Sleeves rolled, glasses perched low, curls slipping into her face. She looked up, startled for only a moment, then softened, her voice dropping into something quiet and raw.

“You came.”

Tabanna closed the door behind her. “I shouldn’t have.”

“But you did.”

The words were not judgment. They were fact. And they made the air between them hum.

Zaire stepped closer, slow and deliberate, as though crossing a threshold she had measured carefully. Her hand lifted, brushing Tabanna’s jaw. The touch was featherlight, reverent—so different from Kassie’s sharpness, so different from the absence Tabanna had been drowning in.

Tabanna’s eyes fluttered closed, her body leaning into that touch as though she had been waiting her whole life for it.

Then Zaire kissed her.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t polite. It was hunger, molten and claiming. Their mouths collided, deepened, teeth clashing as Tabanna gasped against her lips. She gripped Zaire’s shirt in both fists, pulling her closer, desperate to drown in the fire consuming her.

“Tell me to stop,” Zaire whispered, breath hot against her mouth.

“Don’t you dare.”

Zaire’s hands found her hips, sliding beneath her coat, beneath her blouse, palms hot against her skin. Tabanna shivered. The kiss grew rougher, hungrier. With a sudden push, Zaire lifted her onto a drafting table. Papers scattered to the floor.

Tabanna parted her thighs without hesitation, pulling Zaire into her. The pressure, the closeness—it was intoxicating.

Zaire’s mouth trailed down her throat, biting at the soft flesh, dragging moans out of her that echoed against concrete. She fumbled Tabanna’s blouse open, pushing the fabric aside, lips closing around her breast. The suction was greedy, unrelenting, and Tabanna arched into it with a cry.

“Oh God—Zaire…”

The sound of her own voice startled her. She hadn’t heard herself like that in years—unrestrained, raw, alive.

Zaire’s hand slid higher, then lower, beneath her skirt. Fingers pressed against soaked fabric. She groaned against Tabanna’s chest. “You’re already drenched.”

Tabanna’s face burned, but her body bucked shamelessly. “Don’t stop. Please.”

Zaire’s hand pushed her panties aside. Fingers stroked her slowly, testing, before pressing harder, slipping inside. The stretch made Tabanna moan so loud she slapped a hand over her own mouth, shame crashing with need.

Zaire caught her wrist, pulled it away, and growled, “I want to hear you.”

The rhythm built—faster, deeper, Tabanna’s hips rising to meet each thrust. Her head fell back, gasps turning into cries.

“Fuck—Zaire—I—”

Zaire dropped to her knees before the sentence finished. The sudden shock of her mouth between Tabanna’s thighs made her shout, the sound ragged and helpless. Zaire’s tongue was merciless, stroking, sucking, devouring. Fingers pinning her open, nails digging into her skin.

Tabanna came apart violently, the orgasm ripping through her body in waves she couldn’t control. She convulsed against the table, nails scraping across Zaire’s scalp, crying out until her throat went raw.

When the storm finally ebbed, Tabanna collapsed back against the cool surface, trembling, sweat dripping down her temple.

Zaire rose slowly, lips wet, eyes dark. She kissed her again, this time slow, tender, almost reverent.

“You’re dangerous,” Tabanna whispered, voice cracked, body still shaking.

Zaire’s smile was small, feral. “So are you.”

And for the first time in years, the ache beneath her skin wasn’t emptiness.

It was fire.

Chapter Six

Kassie’s Return

The high from Zaire’s touch lingered for days, clinging to her skin like perfume she didn’t want to wash off. She worked with new energy, slept with restless satisfaction, moved with a strange lightness that terrified her as much as it thrilled her.

But the spell shattered when she stepped into her apartment and saw the light.

Soft, warm, spilling from the bedroom.

“Kassie?”

Her voice shook.

The figure turned, lounging across the bed in a robe Tabanna hadn’t worn in months. Plum silk slipped from one shoulder, exposing smooth skin and the curve of her collarbone.

Kassie smiled slowly. “Surprise.”

Tabanna’s stomach dropped. She hadn’t told her she was coming. She hadn’t expected—

“You didn’t say—”

“I wanted to see that look on your face,” Kassie interrupted smoothly. She rose, bare feet soundless against the floor. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

Tabanna’s throat tightened. She tried to summon relief, joy, something. But all she felt was dread.

Kassie touched her chin, tilting her face upward. Her nails grazed skin just enough to sting. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“You’ve been gone,” Tabanna whispered.

Kassie’s laugh was soft, dismissive. “Always so dramatic. You know why. This app is going to change everything for us. All the sacrifices will be worth it.”

Tabanna’s eyes stung. “You’ve said that before.”

The softness in Kassie’s gaze sharpened for a split second, then smoothed over again. She leaned close, lips brushing Tabanna’s ear. “Don’t start a fight. Not tonight.”

And then she kissed her.

It wasn’t a kiss of longing. It wasn’t hunger like Zaire’s. It was possession. A reminder.

Kassie pushed her back onto the bed, robe slipping further open, body pressing against hers. Her hands moved fast, practiced, forcing Tabanna’s body to respond.

“You’re shaking,” Kassie whispered with a smile. “Still nervous around me after all this time?”

Tabanna opened her mouth, but Kassie’s hand slid lower, stealing her breath. Fingers pressed hard, sharp, leaving no room for choice. Her body betrayed her—heat blooming, hips arching—shame flooding in behind it.

Kassie’s smirk widened. “See? You always want me. No matter what I do.”

Her voice was velvet over a knife. Every thrust of her fingers was a command, not a gift. Tabanna gasped, trembling, caught between arousal and disgust. The orgasm that came wasn’t release. It was surrender.

When it was over, Kassie kissed her forehead like a queen granting favor. “Don’t forget who you are without me,” she murmured, already curling back into the pillows.

Tabanna sat in silence, heart pounding, tears burning unshed in her eyes.

For the first time, she saw it clearly.

Kassie’s touch had never been love.

It was hunger. Control. Ownership.

And deep inside, the ache that had once been her curse whispered its truth:

She wanted more.

She wanted real.

She wanted out.

Chapter Seven

Fracture Lines

Morning came like an accusation.

Sunlight spilled over Kassie’s robe crumpled on the floor, over the sheets that smelled like perfume Tabanna hadn’t missed. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her body sore, her throat raw, her mind thick with contradictions.

Kassie slept curled beside her, one arm draped across Tabanna’s waist like a chain. To anyone else, it might look tender. To Tabanna, it felt like captivity.

The ache beneath her skin twisted differently now. Not just hunger. Not just loneliness. It was conflict—two currents colliding, tearing her in opposite directions.

When she finally slipped free, dressing quietly, Kassie’s voice broke the silence:

“Don’t be long. We have things to talk about.”

Tabanna froze. “What things?”

Kassie rolled onto her back, hair spilling over the pillow, smirk sharp. “Us. Your place in this. What comes next.”

Tabanna nodded faintly, the weight of her words heavy in her chest. Her place. Not her choice.

The day blurred. Work emails unanswered, coffee cups half-drained, her focus shredded by flashes—Zaire’s mouth between her thighs, Kassie’s nails down her chest, the sound of her own moans warped by guilt.

When night fell, she stood at her window, city lights glittering below, the reflection of her own face ghostlike in the glass.

What did real love feel like?

She thought of Zaire’s hands, steady and reverent, pulling sound out of her she didn’t know she had.

She thought of Kassie’s smirk, the way she made her body betray itself.

One burned her alive.

One hollowed her out.

And still—she didn’t know which she was strong enough to choose.

Chapter Eight

Collision

The message came after midnight.

Zaire: Are you awake?

Tabanna stared at the screen, pulse racing. Her thumbs hovered. She should ignore it. She should. But the silence of the apartment pressed too hard, the ghost of Kassie’s touch still staining her skin.

Tabanna: Yes.

The reply came instantly. Come downstairs.

Her heart slammed. She pulled on a coat, moving on instinct, slipping out the door like a thief. The city night was cool against her flushed skin, the streetlamp casting Zaire in shadow where she leaned against a parked car.

When Tabanna approached, Zaire’s gaze devoured her, steady and unyielding.

“You look haunted,” she said softly.

“I am,” Tabanna whispered.

Zaire’s hand lifted, brushing Tabanna’s cheek with aching gentleness. “Tell me what she did.”

Tabanna’s throat tightened. Words tangled, shame rising, but Zaire waited, silent, patient. Finally, it broke:

“She takes. She always takes. And I let her. I don’t even know who I am without her.”

Zaire’s jaw clenched, her eyes burning. “She doesn’t see you. Not the way I do.”

The words hit so deep Tabanna swayed. “And how do you see me?”

“Hungry. Starving. Alive in ways you’re afraid to admit.”

Tabanna’s tears spilled before she could stop them. She leaned into Zaire’s chest, trembling. Zaire wrapped her arms around her, solid, grounding, holding her like she might shatter.

And then the kiss came—slow at first, sweet with salt and tears. But it deepened fast, turning desperate, their bodies pressing together as if they could erase the world around them.

Zaire pushed her gently against the car, her hand sliding beneath Tabanna’s coat, stroking her ribs, her waist, her hips. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she murmured against her mouth.

“You won’t,” Tabanna gasped, already tugging her closer. “Just—don’t stop.”

The hunger between them ignited again, fiercer, tangled with guilt but undeniable.

For the first time, Tabanna realized she wasn’t choosing between Kassie and Zaire.

She was choosing between drowning and breathing.

Chapter Nine

Between the Silences

Zaire’s studio became a secret world.

Some nights, Tabanna told herself she wouldn’t go. That she’d stay home, that she’d be good, that she’d be loyal to a woman who had only ever taken. But the silence of her apartment always pressed too heavy, and her body always ached, and soon she’d find herself at Zaire’s door, pulse hammering.

And Zaire always opened it like she’d been waiting.

Sometimes they didn’t even touch at first. They would sit, Tabanna curled against Zaire on the worn leather couch, her head resting against a shoulder that smelled faintly of turpentine and sandalwood. Jazz hummed low from an old record player, rain tapping against the windows.

“Why do you let me?” Tabanna asked once, her voice a whisper against Zaire’s shirt.

“Let you what?”

“Come here. Stay. Break rules I don’t even understand.”

Zaire tipped her chin up, eyes steady, unflinching. “Because when you’re here, you’re real. And I can’t turn that away.”

The words lodged in Tabanna’s chest like a knife of light. She kissed her then, slow and aching, tasting both longing and relief.

Other nights burned hotter.

Zaire would press her against canvases, paint smearing her coat as their mouths clashed, hands tangling beneath clothes, gasps echoing into the shadows. Sometimes Tabanna came undone so hard she cried, and Zaire kissed the tears away without shame, whispering, “You’re safe. You’re mine right now.”

But it wasn’t just sex.

It was the way Zaire memorized her. Fingers tracing her jaw like she was sketching her into memory. The way she listened when Tabanna spoke of her loneliness, her doubts, her hunger. The way she never demanded more than Tabanna could give—but always held her open when she did.

One night, lying spent against Zaire’s chest, Tabanna whispered the truth that had been clawing at her throat.

“She’s killing me.”

Zaire’s hand stilled on her back. “Then why stay?”

Tabanna’s voice cracked. “Because I don’t know who I am without her.”

Zaire’s silence was heavy, but when she finally spoke, her words were a vow.

“Then I’ll remind you until you do.”

Tabanna closed her eyes, her body trembling. For the first time in years, she let herself believe in the possibility of something more.

Chapter Ten

Shadows in the Glass

Kassie noticed.

Tabanna could tell in the way her gaze lingered longer, sharp and searching. In the way her questions turned pointed—Where were you? Who were you with? Why didn’t you answer? The charm remained, smooth and polished, but beneath it was steel.

One night, Kassie came home unannounced, lips painted the color of blood. She poured two glasses of wine, pressing one into Tabanna’s hand with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Drink,” she said softly.

Tabanna sipped, throat tight.

“You’ve been distracted.” Kassie’s tone was velvet, but her fingers gripped Tabanna’s wrist just a little too hard. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

Tabanna swallowed, heart pounding. Images of Zaire’s touch flickered in her mind, guilt clawing at her chest. “I’ve just… been tired.”

Kassie’s smile widened, cruel beneath the gloss. “Tired. Hm.” She leaned closer, her lips brushing Tabanna’s ear. “I could fix that. Unless you don’t want me to?”

It wasn’t a question.

The night became a punishment dressed as passion. Kassie’s hands were rough, demanding, forcing moans from Tabanna’s throat whether she wanted them or not. Each touch was a reminder: I own you. I always will.

Afterward, Kassie curled against her, satisfied, stroking her hair as though she’d given her a gift instead of taken another piece away.

“You’d fall apart without me,” she murmured, voice dripping with false tenderness. “I know you, Tabi. Better than anyone ever could.”

Tabanna lay rigid, eyes burning with tears she refused to shed. Because she knew now—it wasn’t true. Zaire had already seen more of her than Kassie ever wanted to.

And that realization was the beginning of the end.

Chapter Eleven

Cracks in the Mirror

The apartment no longer felt like hers.

Every corner seemed to carry Kassie’s shadow—the robe slung over a chair, the wine glasses left in the sink, the perfume that clung to the sheets. Tabanna felt herself shrinking, moving quieter, breathing shallower, as though she could make herself small enough to go unnoticed.

But Kassie noticed everything.

“You’re restless,” she murmured one evening, eyes narrowing as Tabanna paced by the window. “Your energy is… different.”

Tabanna froze. “Different how?”

Kassie smirked. “Like you’ve been touched. Like you’re hiding something sweet from me.” She rose, crossing the room with a predator’s grace, circling Tabanna as if scenting prey. Her fingers brushed Tabanna’s hip, nails grazing fabric. “Have you?”

Tabanna’s chest burned. Words tangled in her throat—lies, confessions, denials. None escaped.

Kassie’s smile widened. “I don’t need an answer. I can feel it. But remember this—no one will ever know you the way I do. No one will ever own you like I do.”

Tabanna’s stomach twisted. For the first time, the word Kassie had chosen—own—landed like a blade.

And in that moment, she saw it: the fractures running through her years with Kassie. The cruelty disguised as care. The control disguised as love. The way she’d been molded, silenced, caged.

The mirror cracked.

And it could never be whole again.

Chapter Twelve

The Breaking Point

It happened in the middle of the night.

Kassie had come home drunk, perfume sharp, laughter still clinging to her lips. She pressed against Tabanna, demanding touch, demanding surrender. But Tabanna’s body wouldn’t respond. Not this time.

Kassie’s eyes darkened. “What’s wrong with you?”

Tabanna swallowed hard. “I don’t want this.”

The silence that followed was knife-edge sharp. Kassie pulled back slowly, smile curdling into something cold. “Oh, you don’t want this? Since when do you get to decide?”

Something inside Tabanna snapped.

She rose from the bed, trembling but resolute. “Since I remembered what it feels like to be seen. To be wanted without being broken.”

Kassie’s face hardened, disbelief flashing into rage. “It’s her, isn’t it? Whoever she is. You think she can love you? You think she’ll want you when she sees what you really are?”

Tabanna’s voice shook, but her words were steel. “She already does.”

The room exploded. Kassie’s voice turned venomous, spitting accusations, threats, promises of ruin. She threw words like stones—weak, ungrateful, worthless. But each one hit softer than the last.

Because for the first time, Tabanna wasn’t absorbing them.

She was standing against them.

Finally, she picked up Kassie’s robe, pressed it into her chest, and said the words that ended it all:

“Get out.”

Kassie froze, lips parted, shock flickering across her face. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

The silence was thunderous. And then, with a bitter laugh, Kassie slipped into her robe and swept out, leaving only the echo of slammed doors behind her.

Tabanna’s knees gave out. She sank to the floor, sobbing—not from loss, but from release. From the weight that had finally, finally broken free.

Chapter Thirteen

Reclamation

The studio door was unlocked.

Zaire stood at her easel, brush moving in wide strokes, music low. She turned when Tabanna entered, and in her eyes—steady, knowing, tender—Tabanna found her breath again.

“She’s gone,” Tabanna whispered.

Zaire set the brush aside, crossing the space between them. She didn’t ask for details. She didn’t demand explanation. She just opened her arms, and Tabanna collapsed into them, shaking.

For a long time, they said nothing. Zaire held her, hand stroking her back, anchoring her to something real, something present.

When Tabanna finally lifted her face, Zaire kissed her—not with hunger this time, not with desperation, but with reverence. A kiss that asked nothing, that gave everything.

And Tabanna wept into it. Because it was the first time in years she had been kissed like that.

They made love slowly that night. No rushing, no taking. Just skin against skin, mouths tracing every inch, breaths whispering promises into shadow. Zaire touched her like she was holy, like every scar and ache was worth knowing. And Tabanna let herself believe it.

Afterward, lying tangled in sheets that smelled of paint and sweat and sandalwood, Tabanna whispered into the dark:

“I don’t want to feel empty anymore.”

Zaire kissed her temple, her hand warm against her heart. “Then don’t. I’ll help you remember, every day, until you don’t forget again.”

And for the first time, Tabanna believed it wasn’t just possible—

It was hers.

Epilogue

Nine Months Later

The storm had passed.

Kassie was behind bars now, her three-year sentence sealing away the shadows of stalking, threats, and lies. Tabanna had survived the trial, the smears against her name, the late-night knocks that left her shaking. And through every jagged piece of it, Zaire had been there—holding her, fighting for her, loving her with a steady fire that never wavered.

Nine months later, Tabanna knew she wasn’t just alive—she was free.

The proof was in the way she spread beneath Zaire now, body slick and open, laughter spilling through her moans as Zaire’s mouth moved over her, tongue teasing, fingers pressing deep, finding her so easily it felt like destiny.

“Oh, baby,” Tabanna gasped, nails scraping over Zaire’s shoulder. “You make me feel—God—you make me feel like I’m not even in my skin anymore—”

Zaire lifted her head, lips shining. “No, love,” she whispered, voice husky. “You’re finally in it. All of it.”

The words broke something open in her. Tabanna pulled Zaire up, kissed her fiercely, tasting herself on her lover’s lips. Their bodies slid together, slick heat against heat. Tabanna wrapped her thigh around Zaire’s, pulling her close until their cores ground together, desperate, wet, perfect.

They moved in rhythm, gasps breaking into laughter, laughter breaking into cries. Tabanna clutched her, hips grinding harder, her clit sparking fire each time it dragged against Zaire’s swollen flesh. Their breasts pressed, hearts hammering, sweat slick between them.

“Yes—yes—don’t stop,” Tabanna moaned, their bodies rocking faster, harder, the friction building into something unbearable.

Zaire’s forehead pressed to hers, eyes burning. “Come with me, baby. Right here. Right against me.”

The orgasm tore through them almost in unison—Tabanna crying out, Zaire’s voice breaking against her mouth, both of them trembling, clutching, grinding until the waves finally ebbed and left them breathless, tangled in the sheets.

Tabanna’s tears wet Zaire’s neck as she whispered, “I’ve never felt this alive. I’ve never felt this loved.”

Zaire cupped her face, eyes fierce with tenderness. “You’re mine. Not because I take you. But because you choose me. Every time.”

Tabanna kissed her again, slow, reverent, and thought: This is it. This is what I was starving for. And I will never let it go.

Author’s Note

Tabanna’s story is about survival, but more than that—it’s about reclamation. About how love, when it’s real, is not ownership or punishment, but freedom and fire.

The eroticism was always meant to be more than heat; it’s a language. Zaire and Tabanna speak through their bodies what words could never capture: reverence, hunger, devotion, release.

If you have ever mistaken control for love, know this: love does not hollow you out. It does not silence you. It does not cage you. Love ignites, fills, and sets you free.

Thank you for taking this journey with me. May you always find the fire that makes you feel alive.

With gratitude and heat,

Latissha

About the Author

Latissha is a psychological fiction and erotica writer whose work pulses with emotional realism, haunting intimacy, and the quiet ache of longing. Her stories often unfold in Ohio, where identity, desire, and silence collide in atmospheres thick with tension and truth. With a gift for crafting layered characters and slow-burning sensuality, Latissha explores the spaces between what’s said and what’s felt—where love becomes dangerous, and pleasure becomes revelation.

She is a digital storyteller, a visual thinker, and a fierce advocate for queer representation. Her writing is both raw and refined, blending minimalist elegance with psychological depth. Whether she’s unraveling the emotional aftermath of a fractured relationship or tracing the first spark of forbidden attraction, Latissha invites readers into worlds that feel lived-in, vulnerable, and unforgettable.

This is her debut, but not her beginning.