7:00 PM
The penthouse was buzzing with activity. A stylist was steaming a suit in the living room. A barber was packing up his kit after giving Donovan a fresh fade.
Donovan stood in front of the mirror.
He looked sharp.
He was wearing a custom black Yves Saint Laurent suit, no tie, the shirt unbuttoned slightly to show a diamond chain.
It was understated but expensive. The kind of outfit that said, "I don't need to try, I just am."
Tonight was the MTV Music Awards.
It had been rescheduled due to venue issues earlier in the year, and now it was happening in the heart of the city, at Radio City Music Hall.
Usually, Donovan hated these things. Red carpets, fake smiles, people asking him about his "brand."
He preferred to be home with Big Dog.
But when he saw the guest list... when he saw who was performing and who was presenting... he knew he had to go.
He told himself it was just to be seen. To cement his status as the King of New York. But deep down, he knew he was looking for a distraction.
A way to fill the void that a certain blonde Australian had left, and that no amount of Instagram models could fill.
He arrived at Radio City in a black Escalade.
The red carpet was a zoo. Flashbulbs popped like strobes. Fans screamed his name.
"Donovan! Donovan! Bring us a ring!"
He waved, flashed the million-dollar smile, and breezed past the interviewers. He wasn't in the mood to talk about his jumpsuit.
He entered the auditorium. It was cool and dark, filled with the elite of the entertainment industry.
An usher guided him to his seat. Front row. Center.
"Here you go, sir." Donovan looked at the seat next to him.
Sitting there, looking like absolute royalty in a shimmering gold dress, was Rihanna.
Donovan sighed audibly. "Ah, great."
Rihanna turned, her eyes narrowing behind her sunglasses (which she was wearing indoors, because she was Rihanna).
"Oh, it's you," she drawled, her voice dripping with mock disdain.
The two had history. During the 2017 Finals, Rihanna—a die-hard LeBron James fan—had heckled Donovan relentlessly from the sidelines. Donovan had responded by hitting a three in her face and staring her down.
It had been a whole viral moment.
"What you doing here?" she asked, looking him up and down.
"New York," Donovan said, sitting down and adjusting his jacket. "King of New York. I got invited."
"Normally, the King of New York is a musician," Rihanna countered, sipping from a flask she had snuck in. "Or Jay-Z. Or Biggie. You just got here."
"Whoever runs the Garden is the King of New York," Donovan corrected her confidently. "And I got the keys. Ask management."
"So why did you actually leave the Warriors?" she asked, pivoting. "Trouble in paradise? Or were you just running away?"
"You really want to talk basketball?" Donovan asked, amused. "At a music award show?"
"Yeah," she said, removing her sunglasses to look him in the eye. "I just think you were afraid of the King. You knew LeBron was coming to LA, you knew he was coming for that throne, and you ran to the East to avoid him in the playoffs until the Finals."
Donovan laughed, a genuine, hearty laugh. "Afraid? Ri, come on. I've had Bron's number for years now. Like, be for real. I sent him home three times. I got the rings to prove it. I'm not running from anyone. I'm running to something."
"We'll see," she smirked, putting her glasses back on.
"We will," Donovan said. "So what awards you here for? You presenting?"
"No," Rihanna said. "A lot of you know who I am. I'm just here to look good."
"Yeah, I got to cheer for the opposition then," Donovan joked. "Who are you rooting for?"
"I'm going to win something," she stated as a matter of fact.
"Sure," Donovan said, disbelief evident. "Whatever you say."
The lights dimmed. The show began.
It was a spectacle. Fire. Dancers. Loud bass.
But for Donovan, it was excruciatingly long.
He tried to pay attention, but his mind wandered. He felt bored out of his damn mind. The performances were cool, but it wasn't real.
It wasn't the squeak of sneakers or the roar of a crowd after a dunk.
It was produced. It was fake.
He found himself zoning out, staring at the stage lights. He thought about Margot. Would she like this? She was Hollywood, so probably.
But she also liked dive bars.
He missed that. He missed the banter. Rihanna was giving him banter, sure, but it was hostile. Margot's was playful.
He checked his watch. 9:30 PM. He had training at 9 AM. Maybe he should dip.
Then, the announcer's voice boomed.
"And the winner for Best Collaboration is... SZA!"
The crowd erupted.
Donovan clapped politely. He liked SZA. She had vibes. Her music was always on his playlist during late-night drives.
SZA walked up to the stage, looking stunning in a dress that seemed to be made of spiderwebs and dreams. She accepted the Moonman trophy, looking genuinely emotional.
"Oh my god," she breathed into the mic. "This is crazy. Thank you to TDE, thank you to my mom..."
She paused, looking out into the crowd. Her eyes scanned the front row. They bypassed the musicians, the actors, and locked directly onto Donovan.
"Shoutout to Rodarte for making my dress," she said, clutching the statue and grinning. "And shoutout to Donovan Knight... because he's going to be taking it off for me tonight."
The crowd gasped. There was a split second of silence, followed by a roar of laughter and cheers. The camera cut immediately to Donovan.
Donovan froze for a second, surprised. Then, a slow, appreciative smile spread across his face. He leaned back in his chair, pointing a finger at the stage and nodding.
"Well damn," Donovan mouthed to the camera.
Rihanna nudged him hard in the ribs, laughing. "Okay, player. I see you."
Donovan chuckled, adjusting his collar. He looked up at SZA, who was winking at him as she walked off stage.
He thought about the empty bed at home. He thought about the need for a distraction. He thought about how easy this was going to be.
He was definitely taking up that offer.
The dazzling lights of the awards show still painted the night sky, a vibrant, pulsating tapestry of celebration and excess, but Donovan was already making his exit.
He had plans, or rather, he had an agenda that didn't involve lingering in the gilded halls.
He navigated the thinning crowd with practiced ease, his mind already mapping out the next few hours, when a sudden, jarring impact brought him to a halt.
"Woah?" Donovan exclaimed, steadying himself as a plush, velvet-covered shoulder bounced off his chest.
The collision sent a faint, sweet perfume wafting through the air, tinged with a hint of something fierce and undeniably alluring.
He blinked, refocusing his gaze as the figure before him regained her balance, a cascade of dark, glossy hair swinging with the movement.
It was Megan Thee Stallion, her eyes wide with a momentary surprise that quickly melted into a cool composure.
"I wasn't watching where I was going," Megan said, her voice a low rumble, laced with a natural husky undertone that made the simple apology sound less like regret and more like a challenge.
Donovan's eyes, already keen from years of appraising everything from rival performers to prime real estate, took a slow, deliberate journey over her.
She was a vision, a force of nature sculpted into human form.
His gaze started at the crown of her head, where her perfectly laid hair shone under the venue's softer, post-show lighting. It framed a face that was both striking and beautiful, her makeup immaculate, emphasizing sharp cheekbones and full, glistening lips.
His eyes drifted lower, tracing the elegant line of her neck, admiring the strong, confident set of her shoulders, barely contained by the sleek, form-fitting gown she wore.
The fabric, clinging to every curve, highlighted an hourglass figure that defied belief, a testament to dedication and genetics.
He noted the subtle shimmer of the material, catching the light as she shifted her weight, revealing the powerful, athletic grace beneath.
He admired the way the gown hugged her waist, flaring slightly over her hips, accentuating their generous swell before flowing down to her endlessly long legs, which seemed to stretch for miles, culminating in a pair of impossibly high heels.
Every inch of her, from her glossy nails to the confident tilt of her chin, exuded a raw, unadulterated sex appeal that was both intimidating and irresistibly inviting.
She carried herself with an air of unshakeable confidence, a palpable aura of power and beauty that could stop traffic, or, in this case, stop Donovan dead in his tracks.
He drank her in, processing the visual symphony before him, a slow, appreciative survey that bordered on worship. She was, quite simply, stunning, and Donovan wasn't one to shy away from stating the obvious, especially when it played to his advantage.
A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips as his gaze finally met hers, a silent pact of mutual acknowledgement passing between them. "Girl, it's fine, just like you fine," Donovan smoothly replied, his voice a low purr that held just enough charm to be disarming.
A slow smile spread across Megan's face, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Okay, that's smooth."
"Well, I try," Donovan chuckled, adjusting the cuff of his jacket, a subtle gesture of self-assuredness.
"I know, everyone sees it," Megan countered, her gaze lingering on him, a hint of playful challenge in her voice.
"Do you see it though?" he pressed, leaning in slightly, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I do," she affirmed, her smile widening, a spark igniting between them.
"How about we get lost here and I show how fine you are," Donovan suggested, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his gaze flicking briefly towards a less-trafficked corridor.
Megan's eyebrows arched, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Don't you already got a date?"
Donovan feigned innocence, a glint in his eye. "Can't I have two?"
Her laughter, a rich, full sound, filled the space between them. "No, I'm more of a solo act and I don't swing that way."
Donovan's smile didn't falter. "You don't have to swing that way, I can give you that Harlem Hammer and treat you like the solo act." He delivered the line with a suggestive wink, letting the double entendre hang provocatively in the air.
"Seriously, the Harlem Hammer?" Megan scoffed, though the amusement in her tone betrayed any actual offense.
"It's a nickname," he clarified, a proud smirk on his face.
"For your dick I'm guessing," she deadpanned, her eyes raking over him with an almost clinical appraisal, not missing a beat.
"Maybe," Donovan conceded, his grin broadening. "Also my rap name." He paused, letting that sink in, then leaned in closer again, his voice a low rumble. "You want a duet with the Harlem Hammer?"
Megan gazed at him, her expression a mix of disbelief and intrigued fascination. "You're something else."
Without another word, she grabbed him by his hand, her touch surprisingly firm and electric, and led him away from the lingering chatter and artificial glow of the main hall.
She pulled him into an unassuming door, pushed it open, and tugged him inside.
It was a private dressing room, dimly lit and thankfully empty, still smelling faintly of hairspray and nervous anticipation.
The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them off from the world, the distant thrum of the awards show now muffled.
Megan wasted no time.
Her fingers were already at the buttons of Donovan's shirt, moving with a practiced ease that suggested a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to take it.
Donovan met her halfway, his hands sliding around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The silk of her dress was cool and smooth beneath his palms, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her body.
Their lips met in a hungry, urgent kiss, a collision of burgeoning desire.
It wasn't a tentative exploration but an immediate plunge into a deep, passionate embrace. Donovan's mouth was demanding, devouring hers, and Megan responded with equal fervor, her lips parting willingly, inviting his tongue to duel with hers.
The kiss deepened, becoming a dizzying vortex of sensation. Donovan tasted the lingering sweetness of champagne on her breath, mixed with the unique, intoxicating flavor that was purely Megan.
His hands roamed, exploring the exquisite curves of her back, pressing her closer until there was no space left between them.
He felt the firm swell of her breasts against his chest, the delicate arch of her spine, the powerful flex of her muscles as she shifted. Megan's fingers, agile and strong, deftly unbuttoned his shirt, peeling it back from his shoulders.
She pulled it open, her nails lightly raking over his skin, sending shivers down his spine.
Her hands then found their way into his hair, gripping the strands firmly as she angled her head, deepening the kiss even further, drawing a low groan from Donovan.
He was lost in the moment, the taste of her, the feel of her, the intoxicating scent of her perfume filling his senses.
His mind, usually a whirl of strategies and calculations, was momentarily blank, consumed by the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of her.
He felt a primal pull, an undeniable connection to her raw, confident sensuality. Her hips pressed into his, a soft, teasing grind that promised more.
He responded instinctively, molding his body against hers, letting his hands wander lower, cupping the luscious curve of her behind, eliciting a soft moan that vibrated against his lips.
Her kiss grew more aggressive, more possessive, as if she were staking her claim.
Donovan found himself mirroring her intensity, biting gently at her lower lip, eliciting a gasp before he deepened the kiss once more.
He lifted her slightly, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling her up until she was practically suspended against him, her heels dangling inches from the floor.
The shift in position brought their bodies into even more intimate contact, the friction a sweet torment that only intensified the burgeoning ache in his loins.
She moved with him, adjusting her weight, her arms locking around his neck, holding him tight as their mouths remained fused.
He felt the swell of her hips against his, the soft, yielding flesh a tantalizing promise. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to heighten the pleasure, letting out soft, guttural sounds against his lips.
The air in the small room grew thick with their combined desire, each breath they took shallow and ragged.
Their tongues danced, intertwined, mapping every crevice of each other's mouths. It was an all-consuming kiss, demanding and electrifying, stripping away inhibitions and leaving only primal hunger.
Donovan felt a surge of adrenaline, a delicious rush of excitement at the clandestine nature of their encounter. The idea of being discovered, the thrill of stolen moments, added a potent spice to the already heady mix of passion.
He let his lips trail from her mouth, down her jawline, pressing soft kisses along her neck, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his lips.
Megan arched her neck, giving him full access, her fingers digging gently into his shoulders as a soft, drawn-out moan escaped her throat.
She smelled incredible – a mix of expensive perfume, sweat, and something uniquely her own, a scent that was rapidly becoming an obsession.
Donovan's hands were everywhere, tracing the contours of her body, feeling the tautness of her skin, the strength of her muscles.
He slid his hands under the silk gown, his fingers grazing the bare skin of her lower back, sending another shiver through her.
She gasped, a small, breathless sound that he devoured with another kiss to her throat. He felt the delicate lace of her undergarments, the warmth of her skin, the undeniable curve of her hip. This was raw, untamed passion, an intoxicating rush that consumed him entirely.
He lifted his head slightly, breaking the kiss, his eyes hazy with desire as he gazed into her equally passion-filled eyes. "I'm on a bit of a time crunch," Donovan murmured, his voice husky, though his body language screamed anything but hurriedness.
The words felt almost sacrilegious, interrupting the symphony of their shared desire, but a flicker of practicality, a lingering sense of his initial agenda, tugged at him.
Megan's lips, swollen and red from their kisses, curved into a pout. "Man, you rushing, you turning me off."
Donovan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. "Girl, I'm just saying, I don't think a room with hundreds of your peers is the place to be doing it this way."
He gestured vaguely around the small, utilitarian dressing room, a playful warning in his eyes. The thrill of the forbidden was one thing, but complete disregard for discretion was another.
Megan's eyes widened slightly in realization, a smirk replacing her pout. "You right, you right." She unwrapped her legs from his waist, sliding down his body in a slow, tantalizing descent that reignited every spark they had just kindled.
As her feet touched the floor, Donovan's hands, still on her waist, helped her gently turn. With a swift, practiced movement, Donovan reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, foil-wrapped square. He tore it open with his teeth, the crinkle of the wrapper a surprisingly loud sound in the charged silence.
Megan watched him, her eyes glittering. "You brought a condom with you, were you prepared for this?" she teased, a playful challenge in her voice.
"Better safe than sorry," Donovan replied, his gaze unwavering as he quickly rolled it down, his movements smooth and confident.
He then reached for the zipper of her dress, but she stopped him, her hand covering his.
With a flick of her wrist, her own opulent gown, which had seemed so impenetrable moments ago, slid down, pooling around her ankles in a shimmering silk puddle. Underneath, she wore a minimal amount of delicate lace, showcasing the powerful, athletic physique that Donovan had only glimpsed before.
A soft gasp escaped Donovan as he took in the full glory of her figure, her skin glowing under the dim lights. Her eyes locked with his, fiery and demanding.
She then reached for his pants, pulling down the zipper, her touch sending an electric jolt through him.
With another expert tug, his trousers joined her dress on the floor. Now, clad only in their underwear, the air between them thickened, vibrating with an almost unbearable tension.
Megan, ever the one to take charge, reached out, her fingers curling around his erection, a satisfied hum escaping her throat. She guided him, her eyes never leaving his, a silent question passing between them.
Donovan met her gaze, a fierce desire burning in his own, and nodded, surrendering to her command.
Megan turned, bending slightly, then, with a fluid motion that showcased her incredible athleticism, she straddled him. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders, her breasts swaying tantalizingly close to his face.
Her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, held his. A small, wicked smile played on her lips as she slowly, deliberately, lowered herself onto him.
Donovan gasped, the warmth of her enveloping him, the exquisite tightness a revelation. He watched her face, the way her features contracted with the first wave of sensation, the soft sigh that escaped her lips.
She moved slowly at first, a gentle rocking motion, finding her rhythm.
Each downward press was a delicious torment, each upward lift a tantalizing withdrawal. He felt her muscles clench and release around him, a powerful, rhythmic embrace that stole his breath.
He instinctively reached up, his hands finding purchase on her firm, rounded hips, guiding her, encouraging her to deepen the thrusts.
"Oh... Megan," he groaned, his voice rough with burgeoning pleasure. Her pace began to quicken, a primal rhythm taking over, her hips bucking and grinding with increasing intensity.
She was a natural, a force of nature in every sense, her movements both powerful and graceful.
Her hair, previously so perfectly styled, now swayed around her shoulders, a dark curtain framing her flushed face. A faint sheen of sweat began to gather on her brow, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each intoxicating thrust.
His mind, even amidst the escalating pleasure, began to drift, a subconscious current pulling him back to another time, another woman.
This is good, he thought, damn good.
The thrill of being caught, of engaging in such raw, illicit passion in a place so public, yet so private, was undeniably exhilarating.
It added a dangerous edge, a potent spice that amplified every sensation. He felt his heart hammering against his ribs, not just from exertion, but from the delicious risk.
The rush was immense, a heady cocktail of forbidden desire and primal satisfaction.
But then, a fleeting image, unbidden, surfaced in his mind: Margot.
The way her eyes would sparkle, even when they were doing something equally reckless. The subtle arch of her back, the particular sound of her gasps, the way she would tease him with her laughter even as she clung to him.
Would Margot have led me to a dressing room like this?
He wondered.
The thought was instantly dismissed; Margot had a different kind of wildness, a more refined, perhaps even more dangerous, allure.
The current thrill, this hot, urgent rush with Megan, was potent, undeniable even.
But it felt... different. More overtly sexual, less tangled with the complicated, intoxicating emotional landscape he shared with Margot.
This was a pure, unadulterated physical release, a primal dance. It was incredible, but was it the same?
The peak, the absolute zenith of sensation, that he had experienced with Margot months ago, felt like a distant, almost mythical plateau.
He tried to chase it, to push deeper, to lose himself entirely in Megan's rhythm, hoping to match that impossible high.
He urged her on with a soft groan, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her down, desperate to bridge that subtle, nagging gap.
Megan's breathing grew ragged, becoming a series of short, sharp gasps as she rode him. Each thrust was deeper, more consuming than the last.
Her head was thrown back, her eyes closed, a raw, guttural moan escaping her lips. "Ahh... Donovan... fuck!" she cried out, her voice laced with pure, unbridled pleasure.
A flicker of another memory, an unbidden comparison, flashed through his mind. Margot. He pushed it away, or tried to.
He was here, now, with Megan, and she was doing things to him that were utterly phenomenal.
But the underlying current, the subconscious calibration, was still working. He found himself mentally scoring the experience, not consciously, but a ghost of a scale existing somewhere in his mind.
The exhilaration of this moment, the delicious risk, was incredibly potent. It was the kind of thrill that Margot had brought, too, in their own wild, unspoken adventure.
The sheer audacity of it all was a turn-on in itself, the knowledge that they were doing this mere feet away from potentially hundreds of people, celebrities, colleagues.
It was a shared secret, a defiant act against the mundane.
When her moans grew louder, threatening to spill beyond the confines of the room, Donovan instinctively reached up, pulling her face down to meet his.
He silenced her with a deep, passionate kiss, devouring her cries, absorbing the sound into his own mouth.
Their tongues tangled again, a desperate dance as her hips continued their relentless, powerful rhythm.
The kiss was a double-edged sword: a gesture of discretion, but also an act of possessive passion, claiming her sounds, her pleasure for himself.
He tasted the salt and sweetness of her, felt the subtle tremors beginning to run through her body. Her nails dug into his shoulders, leaving faint crescent marks, a testament to the intensity of her climax building.
She leaned back again, breaking the kiss, her eyes fluttering open, glazed with a wild, untamed pleasure.
"Oh my God... Donovan... faster," she panted, her voice breathless, on the precipice. Her hips pumped furiously, a blur of motion, riding him with an insatiable hunger.
He matched her intensity, thrusting up, meeting her every movement, their bodies slamming together with rhythmic force.
The room seemed to spin, the air thick with their combined scent and urgent sounds.
The internal comparison to Margot was unavoidable.
The raw, animalistic energy from Megan was incredible, truly. It matched the wildness, the sheer lack of inhibitions that he'd found with Margot.
There was a fearlessness in Megan's movements, a complete surrender to pleasure, that mirrored the abandon he cherished. But there was a different kind of connection with Margot, a profound intimacy that wasn't just physical, but soul-deep.
He tried to ignore it, to fully immerse himself here, in this moment, in Megan's powerful embrace. He wanted to feel this, fully and completely, without a single thought of anyone else. He pushed his hips up, meeting her thrusts, adding his own power to her rhythm.
Her gasps became choked cries, her nails now raking down his back, her body trembling violently atop his. Donovan watched her face contort beautifully, her lips parted in silent scream, her eyes rolling back in her head as she found her release.
A powerful shudder wracked her frame, her muscles spasming around him, milking every last drop of pleasure. "Aaahhh!" she screamed, a primal sound that Donovan again smothered with a kiss, crushing her mouth with his own as her body went rigid, then slumped against him, breathless and sated.
He felt his own climax building, a deep, resonant rumble starting in his core and spreading outwards. His hips bucked, matching her final tremors, pumping deep within her, letting out a guttural groan as his own release washed over him in a searing, explosive wave.
The pleasure was immense, overwhelming, a delicious, consuming heat that spread through every fiber of his being. He rode the wave, emptying himself into her, his body arching, his hands gripping her hips with desperate strength.
He felt the reverberations of his own climax mingle with the lingering echoes of hers, their bodies spent, intertwined, sticky with sweat and cum. He pulled away slightly, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm.
"How was the Harlem Hammer?" Donovan asked, his voice still thick with post-coital haze, a smug satisfaction seeping into his tone even as he gently pulled out, the sensation still lingering, warm and wet.
Megan, still catching her breath, looked down at him, a slow smile spreading across her face. "It was good," she purred, her voice a little hoarser than before, her eyes sparkling. She shifted off him, her body still languid with satisfaction.
Donovan glanced down at his chest, where a faint, damp stain bloomed on his still-unbuttoned shirt. "You stained my shirt," he observed, not with annoyance, but with a certain pride.
"My bad," Megan mumbled, reaching out and gently touching the wet patch, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"It's fine, I can tuck it in," Donovan shrugged, already starting to re-button his shirt, a swift return to practicality.
He stood up, pulling on his pants, the brief, intense interlude quickly drawing to a close. Megan, still moving a little slower, gracefully retrieved her gown, slipping it back on with practiced elegance.
They moved with an unspoken efficiency, the air still thick with the aftermath of their passion but also a growing sense of the world beyond the four walls of the dressing room.
"I got to bounce, you good?" Donovan asked, finishing with his shirt, tucking it in to hide the tell-tale stain.
"Yeah," Megan replied, her eyes meeting his, a lingering warmth in their depths. She stepped closer, offering a quick, lingering kiss, a silent acknowledgement of their shared secret. "See you."
Donovan gave a final nod, a confident smirk on his face, and slipped out of the dressing room, closing the door softly behind him.