I have to tell her tonight.

I’ve been putting it off, but I need to register for next semester. Getting my degree online has always worked for the busy pace of my life, but Dr. Israel Hammond, renowned criminal justice activist, will be a guest professor at NYU, and I need to be on campus. His book about racism in America completely rocked my world, and I need to take that class.

Rationally, I know it won’t wreck us if I spend a semester in New York and Bristol stays here in LA. We survived eight years of games—chase, hide and seek, pin the tail on the donkey, with each of us playing the role of jackass from time to time. You name it, we played it. We survived Parker’s sick attempts to destroy us, and he’s stewing in a minimum-security resort-like prison suite because we figured out how to shut him down. We survived contempt and condemnation from people as distant as Black Twitter trolls and as close as members of my family who didn’t want to see us together. They are slowly, surely, one by one, coming around. Jade will be the hold out; I know this, but eventually she’ll see the light, too.

We win. Love prevails. I get it.

But that doesn’t make the reality of me being on one coast while Bris lives on the other any easier to accept, even for a few months—not with the way I need her.

I flip our steaks, losing myself in thought and the smoke rising from the grill. Do I have to go? I’m a rapper, an entertainer . . . do I really want to uproot my life for five months just to sit at the feet of some professor I don’t even know?

Hell yeah I do.

When I’m forty years old, I don’t want to still be just rapping. Jay Z is a hip-hop unicorn. Who else is out there rapping and relevant at almost fifty?

I’ll wait . . .

Yeah. Like I said. Dude’s a unicorn.

I’m passionate about the causes affecting my community, and I’m educating myself now, equipping myself now so I don’t squander this platform I’ve been given, but use it to do some kind of good. We have problems, and Dr. Hammond may have solutions. He’s a brilliant man who, even as he rails against the system, is smart enough to work within it, who cares enough to reform it.

“Mmmmm, that looks good.”

The comment grabs my attention, and I find myself smiling for the first time since I left Bristol. As she walks toward me, the approaching sunset paints the roof in shadows, but I see her clearly. Dark hair, burnished in places, falls around her shoulders. She has already discarded the dress she wore at lunch today in favor of a T-shirt and nothing else; it’s the one I just tossed into the hamper.

She tugs at my HABITUAL LINE STEPPER T-shirt, the hem landing at the top of her thighs. Where the T-shirt stops, my eyes keep going, past the lean muscles of her legs and the cut of her calves, the delicate bones of her ankles and to her bare feet. I love this girl, head to toe. Beyond this gorgeous packaging, it’s everything beneath that makes me beyond grateful she’s mine. The loyalty, the bottomless pit that is her heart, her sense of humor. The toughest girl I know is also the most tender, and I’m so honored I get to see both sides, all her sides.

“You out of clean clothes?” I nod to my T-shirt. “You gotta wear my dirty stuff now?”

An impish smile tugs at her bare lips. She’s washed away her makeup, and with it, all the sophistication she wraps around herself for her job. Up on this roof in my T-shirt, she’s just my girl. I love her in every iteration, but this is the one only I get to see, so it’s probably my favorite.

“I have clean clothes.” She steps close enough for me to smell her scent and mine mingling in the fabric. “I like the way this shirt smells.”

I drop a look over her, my eyes resting on the curves of her breasts in the soft cotton, where her nipples have gone taut under my stare.

“How does the shirt smell?” I ask, my voice as smoky as the steaks I should be paying attention to.

“Like you.” She leans forward until her breasts press into my chest. “It smells like you.”

My hands are twitching to touch her, and I finally surrender, slipping under the shirt to grasp her waist, pulling her up the few inches until our lips meet. I’ve been thinking about these steaks all day, and before Bristol arrived, I thought I was starving—but this, what I feel having her in my arms after hours apart, this is starving. It starts in my balls and tunnels up through my chest, infiltrates my heart, and presses its way to my mouth, which is open and devouring in a lips-searching, tongues-dueling kiss. I grip her by the ass, grinding our bodies together until the texture of her skin and mine, the scents of her skin and mine meld into this one panting, voracious thing that never seems to get enough.

“You better not burn my steak,” Bristol pants in between kisses.

I angle my head to send my tongue deeper into her mouth, holding her still, teasing her until she’s straining up, open and begging when I pull back.

“Grip.” My name is a whimpering complaint. She cups my neck and tugs my head back down.

“Oh, no.” I resist, laugh, and turn to the grill. “You were so concerned about me burning these steaks, Ms. Medium Rare.”

“I am.” She slides her arms around me from behind and I feel a sweet sting, her teeth gently biting my shoulder through my T-shirt. I love it when she bites me, but I’m not giving her that satisfaction yet. “But that doesn’t mean you get to stop kissing me. You have to multitask.”

One slim hand slides over my abs and past my belt to cup me through my jeans.

Damn. Not sure how long I can keep up this charade that I don’t want to screw her into the wall on the roof where anyone with half a telescope could see.

“Wow,” I say, keeping my tone unaffected, though she’s gotta feel me getting longer and harder in her hand. “Somebody’s horny as hell.”

She makes a sound that’s half outraged laughter, half indignant grunt before stepping around to stand in front of me by the grill.

“I will not be slut-shamed by my own boyfriend.” Amusement lights her eyes, turning them to quicksilver.

“Shamed?” I put down the grilling fork I’m using for the steaks and reach for her again. “No shame in being horny for me, baby. I wanna give you a gold star.”

Her eyes slide down to the erection poking her in the stomach. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Should we name it?”

“Guys who have to name their dicks probably aren’t using ’em right.”

“So I ask again . . . should we name it?”

I cock a brow and press our hips together.

“Are you implying that I don’t know how to use mine? Because that’s not the impression I got this morning when you came so hard you were singing like a bird.”

She tilts her head, her eyes wide and considering. “Did you say like a bird?” A small smile plays around her lips. “What made you say that?”

“I don’t know.” I give a careless shrug. “Why?”

“It’s silly,” she says, rolling her eyes in self-derision. “I was thinking today when I laughed it sounded like . . .”

Bristol blushes about once every Halley’s Comet, so the color washing across her cheeks makes me wonder.

“What?” I probe. “Your laugh sounded like what?”

“Like a happy bird,” she mumbles, peering up at me like I’m going to laugh in her face.

Which I do.

“Stop laughing at me.” She narrows her eyes in mock warning.

“Right.” I dip my head to catch her eyes and tease her. “Because when you tell me you laugh like a happy bird I’m just supposed let you get away with that.”

“I’m not telling you things anymore.” She narrows her eyes and folds her arms over her chest.

“Yeah, right. I’m your best friend.” I pull her back into me. “You’ll tell me everything like you always do.”

“You are, you know.” Her voice softens. “My best friend, I mean.”

When she looks at me like this, her eyes stripped of every defense, no guard in sight, completely honest and open and vulnerable, I feel slightly invincible. It’s a trick of the heart, I know, but I can’t help but think that as long as she looks at me like this, there isn’t anything I couldn’t survive, that our love is the stuff of legends, rolled in Teflon, disaster-proof. I’m as fanciful as Bristol, my laughing bird.

“You’re mine, too,” I echo her sentiment. “My best friend.”

“I won’t tell Rhyson,” she promises with a grin.

“I’m pretty sure he spits the same line to Kai.” I keep a straight face. “We have to say that shit to get laid.”

“I hate you.”

“Orrrrrrrrr do you love me and want to blow me after dinner?” I shrug and lift my hands, my palms up. “Just saying. Listen to your heart, Bristol. Listen to your heart.”

“I’m listening to my belly right now, smartass, and it’s growling. Feed me.”

“Like my mama used to say, ain’t no freeloaders in this house. What’ll you give me for feeding you?”

“Um . . .”

“I do have a suggestion, if you’re searching.”

“Let me guess—you have a ‘Will fuck for food’ sign up here somewhere?”

“I used bubble letters.” I laugh and give her ass a light smack. “You can barter that booty.”

It’s so damn easy with Bristol—our banter, the chemistry, the perfect rhythm of our conversation. It was one of the first things I noticed when we met all those years ago. We didn’t read each other’s minds or finish each other’s sentences. It wasn’t cosmic, but it was a connection that seized me by the brain and grabbed me by the balls. She was as smart as she was sexy, as curious as she was forthcoming. There were years in between when we made things complicated, when things were strained, but now with our hearts settled on each other for good, it’s simple.

This.

Her.

Us.

I’m as sure of her as I am that every night the moon will show up, the stars will shine down, and hours later, the sun will rise again.

This is my favorite part of every day. The sun is down, and we eat by fairy lights strung overhead. We both devour the steak and salad I prepared. When our plates are scraped clean, I’m on my second beer and Bristol has gone through half a bottle of red wine. We’re cracking each other up and just sharing what happened during our day, which leads her back to lunch with Kevin.

“Your fans would eat up a poetry book from you.” Bristol pours another glass of red. “And it would showcase the breadth of your talent beyond hip-hop.”

I stand and gather our plates. Bristol, bottle in one hand and wine glass in the other, follows me to the door that leads back to the loft.

“I’ll think about it.” I gesture for her to walk ahead of me down the steps, mostly so I can catch glimpses of her ass under my shirt.

“Don’t just say you’ll think about it.” She looks over her shoulder, rolling her eyes when she catches me checking her out. “Really? You see me naked every day. Don’t guys ever mature beyond tenth grade?”

“Chronologically, yes.” I drop a kiss in her hair as I pass her propping the door open for me. “In dick years, no.”

Her phone dings from the coffee table in the living room. I hate that phone sometimes. Managing entertainers, her work is around the clock and all over the globe. Bristol’s clients are usually spread across a few different time zones and never take into account the one she’s in.

“Hmmmm.” She takes another sip of her wine without glancing up from her phone. “You still interested in that panel in New York? The Artist As Activist thing?”

As soon as she says ‘New York,’ I’m reminded of my quandary. I have to talk to her about next semester before the night is over.

“Uh, yeah.” I load our plates and utensils into the dishwasher, watching her across the open space. “Definitely.”

“Hmmmm.” Bristol continues scanning whatever she’s reading, a slight dip between her brows.

“What’s up?” I ask. “Something wrong?”

I cross the room to read over her shoulder. It’s an email from the organizer, a popular New York-based radio personality named Angie Black with an army of loyal followers. I’m pretty sure Black isn’t her real last name, but she’s a titan on Black Twitter, #BlackGirlMagic at its best. I study the details, trying to figure out what has Bristol grunting and scowling, and then one name leaps from the list of panelists Angie provided.

Qwest.

“I didn’t know Qwest was invited.” I keep my voice casual, pull Bristol’s hair back, and tuck my chin into the crook of her neck and shoulder.

“Hmmmm,” she non-comments again, stepping away to set her wine glass on the counter, her monosyllable speaking volumes.

“You okay with that?” I grab her wrist, forcing her to face me. I cup the smooth line of her neck and lift her chin so I can see her expression. “I don’t have to do the panel.”

She squints in consideration for a few seconds, her lip between her teeth.

“No, it’s fine,” she finally says. “Qwest performed on tour with you this summer for a few shows and everything was okay, right?”

Qwest joined me on tour for two shows and everything seemed fine, but then I did avoid her like syphilis when we weren’t on stage together.

“Yeah.” I nod, keeping the syphilis qualifier to myself.

“And you have to work on her next album, right?”

We struck a deal from the beginning—Qwest featured on my album, and I’d feature on hers. I also agreed to produce two of the other songs on her project.

“Those are all things I’m legally committed to do, though.” I kiss the corner of Bristol’s mouth. “If you don’t want me to do the panel, I won’t.”

“But you really want to do the panel.”

It’s a statement, not a question. She knows I’m taking every opportunity I can to talk about criminal justice reform and improving relations with law enforcement . . . so yeah, I really want to do the panel, but I don’t want Bristol feeling some type of way about Qwest and me doing this event together.

“I want to, yeah. It’s important.” I link our fingers and dip my head so we’re looking into each other’s eyes. “But not more important than you.” I settle our linked fingers over my heart. “Not as important as us, Bris.”

After a moment, she yields a smile.

“I’m fine with you doing the panel—on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Piggyback ride.”

I fake exasperation, allowing her to shift the subject and lighten the air around us.

“Carry you up them steps?”

“Yes, up them steps.”

She turns me around and presses on my shoulder until I’m squatting. When she jumps on my back, my hands hook under her long, smooth legs. I pretend to struggle under her weight and she laughs. She sounds so happy I can’t help but grin thinking of my driven, sarcastic girl describing herself as a bird.

“If I give you a piggyback ride,” I tell her at the bottom of the staircase, “you give me a blow job. We’ll call it even.”

“What’s so special about a blow job?” She tightens her arms around my neck when I start up the stairs. “I give you one like every other day.”

“First of all, I can’t believe you actually just asked me what’s so special about a blow job. You may as well ask what’s so special about the Taj Majal. A blow job is practically an eighth wonder.” I press on as she laughs into my neck. “Second, the operative words there are every other day, so obviously, there’s room for improvement.”

“No, the operative word is blow job.” She lightly smacks the side of my head. “Sounds like work for me.”

“Well you’re employee of the month.”

“I better be the only employee.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me cheating.” I squeeze her thighs. “I like my balls attached.”

Her husky laugh draws an answering chuckle from me. We’ve reached the bedroom and she slides off my back, walks around me to stand at the foot of the bed, mischief in her eyes, and smiles.

“What’s a habitual line stepper?” She tugs at the hem of my shirt, emblazoned with the tagline, flashing black silk panties at the apex of her thighs. My eyes are glued there in case she lifts the shirt again—wouldn’t want to miss that.

“Huh?” I burn a look over her breasts taunting me through the white cotton. “What was the question?”

“Habitual line stepper?” she asks patiently, pointing to the front of the T-shirt.

“Oh, uh . . . it’s from a Dave Chappelle sketch, the one where Prince slaps Charlie Murphy.”

“Prince slaps who?” She shakes her head. “I don’t get it. I watched an episode and wasn’t that impressed. He just makes a bunch of racial jokes.”

“At least he makes fun of all races equally, and religion and politics and everything in between. Nothing and no one is safe. He’s a master of satire and social commentary, and funny as hell. You must have seen a weak episode.”

I take a step closer, lifting the hem to expose the smooth skin of her waist. I pull the shirt over her head and toss it into a corner. Her hair settles back around her shoulders, falling forward so her naked breasts poke through the dark strands.

“Forget Dave Chappelle,” I say huskily.

I could write a sonnet to Bristol’s nipples, the way they tip her breasts, the blend of pink and brown, roses and chocolate, shading her areola. I lean down to hover over them, my eyes snaring hers. Anticipation thickens the air.

“,” I whisper, paraphrasing the Neruda poem before taking one nipple in my mouth and laving it with my tongue. Like a flower waiting for spring, she blossoms. She blooms like sweet fruit ripening between my lips. I pull away, but her hands urge me back to her breast, pleasure tightening her pretty features.

I ghost my lips over the other neglected nipple. Where at first I was sweet, now I’m all teeth and rough suction, stretching my mouth, wide and hungry, over the other breast. Where I laved the other nipple, this one I lash with my tongue. Her nails sink into my shoulders and she fills the room with whimpers. I release her nipple, satisfied by the vivid red marks slashing the delicate skin. Breath fights to free itself from her lungs, laboring past her lips, heaving her breasts. I gently turn her around by the hip to face the bed and almost bite my fist at the sight of her.

Thong.

Teeny, tiny thong. Ass out.

I coax her panties down her legs, inch by torturous inch. When she’s a naked, lithe stretch of lines and curves, I reach around to cup her breasts, tugging on those nipples until they peek between my fingers. Bristol’s breathing grows more ragged and she presses her back into my chest, circling her ass into my crotch.

I really wanted that blow job, but I’m not sure there will be time for that tonight. One hand stays right where it is, toying with her nipple as the other hand dips between her legs.

“Can you open for me?” I dust kisses across the elegant slope of her shoulders. She widens her stance no more than an inch, but I’ll take a mile. I press the flat of my hand between her legs and the thick, wet lips of her pussy press into my palm. I vary the cadence of strokes over her clit until she’s pumping into my hand, her hips chasing every thrust and her cries dying in her throat before they hit the air.

“Oh, God, Grip.” Her voice verges on a sob. Even when she vices around my fingers, I don’t let up the passionate pace between her thighs.

“That’s it, baby.” I drop to my knees, dragging my tongue down the smooth center of her back and over her ass. I clip the sweet flesh of each cheek between my teeth, relishing her startled gasp. Slowly, I press my hand to her back, bending her at the waist until she bows on the bed, on her knees. I scoot her forward, tilting her chest down and her ass in the air. With a rear view of her spread wide for me, I swipe my tongue down the inside of her thighs, drinking from the silky skin, wet with her juices.

“I’m getting drunk on you,” I mutter.

“Grip.” My name shatters on her lips, but it’s not enough. I want her unintelligible. I suckle her clit and slip two fingers in, smiling against her pussy when she pants into the duvet. I stand and strip then run my cock up and down her divide, soaking in her wetness as she presses back into me, offering me more.

“You have to fuck me now.” Her plea is breathless and urgent. She looks over her shoulder, her eyes glassy. “Please, right now.”

Her eyes beg me. Her pussy weeps for me. The complete surrender in every line of her body undoes me, the last strands of control snapping and popping as they give. The wild, loose parts of me grab her hips and flip her onto her back. I push her legs wide until her knees almost touch her shoulders and run my finger over the hot, wet pleat of flesh between her thighs. Her eyes flutter closed.

“Open your eyes, Bristol,” I say huskily. “Look at me when I fuck you.”

When she looks at me, her hair like a dark river twisting behind her on my bed, my damn knees feel weak. That’s what Bristol does to me with one look. That’s how weak she renders me without even trying. Her eyes are the color of moonlight and her love glows like stars. My whole universe is right here, and I don’t want to leave her and go to New York when the time comes.

Restless arousal shudders through her while she waits, while I stare. I shake off worry and uncertainty, dropping to my knees on the bed and lifting her by the hips. The sound of her breath hitching when I push in, when I invade that sacred space, tightens my balls. She’s a tight, slippery tunnel, and after one stroke, I lose my mind. Body overtakes brain, a coup of instinct usurping reason. I push her knee farther back so I can go deeper. I twist our fingers together, pressed into the pillow by her head. I’m vaguely aware of Bristol moaning, of her tightening around me, of her coming again, the evidence of her pleasure spilling all over me, and then it’s building in me, drawing my balls tight, flexing the muscles of my abs.

My love erupts. It blows.

I’m a geyser, a constant flow until the unrelenting rhythm of my body slows into something gentler, something tender. We press together, and beneath me she is crushed silk. My hot flesh and hers are slickened with the rigor of our passion, the sweat that bathes our skin. I don’t know if it’s mine or if it’s hers, but this moment, this perfect glass-blown moment where our bodies unite and our souls intersect, this moment belongs to us.