He walked out onto the New York streets. It was late, and the city was finally cooling down.
He had done it. He was the King. He had the shoutouts, the hookups, the city in his palm.
He started humming as he got into his car.
Donovan plugged in his phone as the aux played I'ma boss
"Shawty asked me for a check, I told that bitch like no way," Donovan sang softly, looking out the window at the blurring lights. "'Cause I made it from the bottom there was nothin' our way... And I never had a job, you know I had to sell yay."
He bobbed his head to the beat. "Bitch I'm a boss... I call the shots..."
He felt like he had finally, truly, filled that void. The emptiness that had gnawed at him since Margot, the restless seeking, seemed momentarily quieted.
The thrill, the conquests, the sheer physical exertion—it had all coalesced into a potent balm.
"I'm with the murder team... Call the cops... We in the building... Y'all are not... You short on the paper, you gon' ball or not?"
Finally, he pulled his car into the front of his building. Valet was already there, a silent acknowledgement of his status.
He tossed his keys to the attendant, feeling a peculiar mix of exhaustion and exhilaration.
Donovan walked into the lobby, his stride long and confident.
He was tired, bone-deep tired, but it was the good kind of tired.
The kind that came from winning.
He headed toward the private elevator.
"Sir?"
Donovan stopped, turning around. The night security guard, an older man named Larry, was standing behind the desk.
"What's up?" Donovan asked, reading the nametag. "Larry."
"There's a woman here looking for you," Larry said, lowering his voice.
Donovan raised an eyebrow. He was exhausted. His legs felt like jelly. But the ego was a hungry beast.
Three in a night? That was legendary. That was Wilt Chamberlain numbers.
"Did you let her up?" Donovan asked.
"Said she was already here before you," Larry explained. "And knowing you... we let her in. She seemed... important."
"Thanks, Larry," Donovan nodded.
He stepped into the elevator, pressing the penthouse button. As the numbers climbed, his curiosity spiked. Who had the audacity?
The elevator doors opened directly into his foyer. The apartment was dim, lit only by the city lights flooding in through the massive windows.
He walked into the living room, loosening his tie.
Sitting in his favorite armchair, silhouetted against the skyline, was a figure holding a glass of his best whiskey.
"Girl, what are you doing here?" Donovan asked, recognizing the silhouette instantly.
Rihanna turned her head slowly. She looked impeccable, even at 3 AM.
"Think it's obvious," she said, her voice smooth and dangerous.
"How did you know where to find me?" Donovan asked, tossing his jacket onto the sofa.
"I've already been here," Rihanna reminded him, taking a sip. "Remember that party? The one where you kicked everyone out?"
"That was a madness," Donovan chuckled, rubbing his face. "I didn't know who was here half the time."
"It was a nice party," she conceded. "Funniest bit was watching you clear everyone out. You looked like a shepherd herding sheep."
"Well, I like doing my business in private," Donovan said, walking over to the bar to pour himself a water. "Girl, seriously, why you here? You got an award to polish."
"I think it's obvious," Rihanna said, standing up. She walked toward him, a predator closing in on prey. "I want to see if it's real."
"What?" Donovan asked, leaning against the counter.
"The talk," she said. "The 'Harlem Hammer'. The swagger. Unless... you're tired, of course."
Donovan straightened up. His fatigue vanished instantly, replaced by a spike of pure competitiveness.
"Seriously?" Donovan scoffed. "Challenging me?"
"Come on," she teased, stopping inches from him. "I've heard the rumors. SZA seemed happy. But SZA is nice."
She looked him dead in the eye.
"And if I'm being real... I don't think you're as good as they say. I think you're all talk."
Donovan laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. "What's it with you challenging me every time? First the Finals, now this?"
"I get bored," Rihanna shrugged. "And I like to win."
Donovan set his glass down hard. "Fine. Let's do this."
The declaration hung in the air for a charged moment before Rihanna moved. She launched herself at him, not with tenderness, but with a fierce, almost violent hunger.
Their lips met in an aggressive, consuming kiss, a clash of wills and desires.
Donovan met her intensity, matching her fervor, his hands immediately finding purchase on her waist, pulling her flush against him.
The force of their embrace sent them stumbling back, their bodies colliding with the elegant coffee table.
The sound only fueled their passion, a testament to the raw, untamed energy erupting between them.
Rihanna's mouth was a battlefield, her tongue warring with his, her teeth nipping playfully at his lips, eliciting a low groan from Donovan.
He tasted the unique, intoxicating blend of her lipstick, her wine, and something undeniably wild that was just her.
Her hands clawed at his shirt, pulling at the fabric, tearing at the buttons with a frantic urgency. He responded in kind, his fingers finding the zipper of her dress, yanking it down with unceremonious force.
The expensive silk hissed as it gave way, revealing glimpses of her dark, luminous skin beneath.
They swayed, a dance of pure, unadulterated lust, their bodies grinding together, sparking a thousand fires. Donovan felt an exhilarating rush, a potent mix of challenge and desire that completely eclipsed the fatigue that had been threatening to claim him.
This was different from Megan, different from SZA.
This was a direct confrontation, a battle he was determined to win.
It was similar to Margot, and he loved it.
He deepened the kiss, biting at her lower lip, asserting his dominance, letting her know he was more than ready for her challenge.
Rihanna responded with a fierce moan, her hips bucking against his, a clear sign of her own burgeoning hunger.
He backed her against a wall, pressing his body against hers, letting her feel the full extent of his arousal.
His hands roamed, pulling at her dress until it fell to her ankles, leaving her in exquisite, barely-there lingerie.
Her breasts, full and proud, pushed against him, and he savored the sensation, the feel of her soft curves molding against his hard chest.
He ravaged her neck with hungry kisses, his tongue tracing the delicate pulse beneath her skin, eliciting soft gasps and whimpers from her.
Rihanna, not one to be outdone, retaliated with equal ferocity. Her hands tore at his clothes, stripping him down with an impatient swiftness that left his shirt hanging precariously from his shoulders, buttons ripped, his pants barely clinging to his hips.
She angled her head, her lips attacking his with renewed vigor, her body arching and twisting against his, demanding more. The air crackled around them, thick with the scent of sex and shattered crystal.
This wasn't just passion; it was a primal contest, a clash of titans, each determined to dominate the other.
Donovan's blood pounded in his ears, every fiber of his being alive with the raw energy she exuded. He felt a deep, primal urgency, an instinct to conquer, to possess.
He lifted her effortlessly, his hands finding the firm curve of her thighs, hoisting her up until her legs wrapped around his waist.
Rihanna gasped, a sound of surprise and pleasure, digging her heels into his back, her arms locking around his neck.
Without breaking the kiss, Donovan turned, carrying her through the lavish living room, past the glittering cityscape, towards the sanctuary of his bedroom.
The trail of scattered petals and spilled water was left behind, a chaotic testament to their explosive entrance.
He shouldered open the bedroom door, not gently, but with a force that made the wood creak.
He carried her to the massive, king-sized bed, its crisp white sheets a stark contrast to the storm brewing within them.
With a final, decisive movement, he threw her onto the bed, not roughly, but with a deliberate force that made the mattress bounce and the headboard thud against the wall.
Rihanna lay there for a moment, sprawling luxuriously on the pristine sheets, her eyes narrowed in a playful challenge.
"Wow. Is that it?" she taunted, her voice a low, husky whisper, her lips curving into a defiant smile.
Her words, delivered with such casual defiance, ignited a fresh surge of determination in Donovan. He landed on the bed above her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his eyes blazing with a fierce, possessive hunger.
This wasn't merely about pleasure; it was about proving something, about asserting his power, about showing her exactly what he was capable of.
He silenced her taunt with a deep, punishing kiss, his tongue once again dominating hers, his hands gripping her hips, forcing her lower body to grind against his.
He stripped away the last vestiges of her lingerie with impatient hands, tossing them aside like discarded trophies.
Her naked body, a vision of dark, toned perfection, lay exposed beneath him, glistening in the soft light filtering through the windows.
He savored the sight, his eyes devouring every curve, every shadow.
Then, without further preamble, he pushed into her, a deep, powerful thrust that elicited a sharp gasp from Rihanna.
She was tight, incredibly so, and her muscles clenched around him, a sensation that sent a jolt of pure pleasure straight to his core.
Donovan groaned, burying his face in her neck, inhaling her unique scent, a potent mix of expensive perfume, sweat, and raw arousal.
He began to move, slowly at first, deliberately, savoring the profound connection, the incredible tightness.
Rihanna responded with a low growl, her hands finding his back, her nails digging in, urging him to go faster, harder.
And he did. His thrusts became a relentless assault, powerful and deep, driving into her with an almost violent passion.
The bed began to creak and groan under their combined force, rocking with their furious rhythm.
Rihanna's body arched off the mattress, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him in even deeper, her hips bucking to meet his every plunge.
Her moans, initially soft and controlled, quickly escalated into raw, guttural cries that echoed in the spacious bedroom.
Donovan watched her face contort beautifully, her lips parted, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
He drove into her with a savage intensity, determined to push her to her limits, to break her composure, to make her scream his name.
This wasn't just physical; it was a battle of wills, a contest of endurance and pleasure.
He wanted to claim victory, to see her surrender completely, to admit that he was indeed "as good as they say."
He felt a primal satisfaction in conquering her defiance, in pushing her past her carefully constructed cool.
He lifted her hips, angling her body just so, allowing him to hit her G-spot with every powerful plunge.
Rihanna cried out, a high-pitched, almost desperate shriek, her body trembling violently under his.
"Oh, Donovan! Oh my God!" she screamed, her words muffled against his shoulder as he buried himself within her. He felt her inner muscles clenching, tightening around him, milking every last inch.
Her entire frame vibrated with the building tension, her head thrown back, her hair a wild cascade against the pillows.
Donovan pushed, harder and faster, his own body nearing its breaking point, but his resolve unshaken. He wanted to see her shatter, to witness the moment of her complete capitulation.
He leaned down, kissing her fiercely, trying to absorb her cries, her gasps, claiming her pleasure as his own. Her hands raked down his back, leaving faint, stinging trails, her legs locked around him, holding him captive.
He felt the tremors starting in her body, a deep, resonant vibration.
"Donovan... please... I can't... ahhhh!" she screamed, her voice hoarse, raw with nearing ecstasy. Her entire body tensed, then released in a torrent of quivering pleasure.
A long, drawn-out moan ripped from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy as she screamed his name, her body convulsing around him, milking every last drop of his offering.
She collapsed back onto the bed, breathless and utterly spent, her chest heaving, her eyes still closed, a look of sublime satisfaction etched on her face.
Donovan pulled back slightly, his own breath coming in ragged gasps, a triumphant smirk on his lips. "1-0," he declared, his voice thick with unspent passion, his eyes still blazing with a competitive fire.
Rihanna lay there for a moment, recovering, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm.
Then, slowly, she opened her eyes, a dangerous glint returning to their depths. She pushed herself up, her movements fluid and seductive, her gaze locked on his.
With a mischievous smirk, she straddled him, her body slick with sweat, her hips undulating provocatively as she lowered herself back onto him.
"Not so fast," she purred, her voice husky with triumph and renewed desire. "My turn."
She began to ride him, slow and deliberate, her movements sensual and powerful. Her hips bucked and swayed, a wild, untamed rhythm that immediately rekindled the fire in Donovan's loins.
She leaned back, her hands braced on his chest, her hair swaying like a dark curtain around her shoulders as she arched her back, showcasing her magnificent body.
Donovan gasped, the sensation of her riding him, of her taking charge, was exhilarating. Her power, her control, was undeniable, and it stoked a different kind of hunger within him.
Rihanna's pace quickened, each downward thrust deep and consuming, each upward lift a tantalizing tease.
She was a natural, a queen on her throne, riding him with an insatiable hunger.
Her moans, now more confident and assertive, filled the room, matching the rhythmic creak of the bed.
She watched his face, her eyes sparkling with a victorious challenge, silently asking if he could handle her. Donovan met her gaze, his own eyes burning with desire, a silent promise that he could, and would.
He reached up, gripping her hips, pulling her down, urging her to plunge deeper, to take all of him.
She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest, her lips moving to his ear.
"Think you're the only one who can make someone scream?" she whispered, her voice laced with seductive taunt, before she pulled back, her hips pumping furiously.
She bucked wildly, a blur of motion, riding him with a ferocity that left him breathless, every nerve ending screaming with pleasure.
He felt the unmistakable tremor starting in his own body, the coil tightening, the pressure building.
He let out a raw, guttural groan, his hands gripping her hips, holding on as if for dear life.
"Ahh... Rihanna... fuck!" he cried out, his voice choked with pleasure, his body arching off the bed. She continued her relentless assault, driving him closer and closer to the edge, her eyes still locked on his, a triumphant glint in their depths.
The pleasure was overwhelming, consuming, burning through his veins.
He felt the precipice approaching, the sweet, terrifying drop into oblivion.
Rihanna pulled back slightly, her eyes still holding his, a wicked smile spreading across her lips. "1-1," she declared, her voice a triumphant purr, barely audible above their ragged breaths and the rhythmic slamming of their bodies.
And with that, she plunged back down, her hips bucking with renewed ferocity, driving him over the edge.
Donovan cried out, a raw, primal roar, as his body convulsed, emptying himself into her in a powerful, explosive wave.
His muscles seized, his body trembling violently, utterly consumed by the release.
He collapsed back onto the bed, breathless and spent, his arms wrapping around her, holding her tight, unwilling to let go of the sensation.
But the competition, it seemed, was far from over. Rihanna wasn't satisfied with a tie.
Even as Donovan lay there, sated and slightly stunned by the intensity of his orgasm, she shifted, her hips beginning to undulate again, a slow, sensual grind that immediately reignited sparks he thought were extinguished.
She leaned down, kissing him deeply, her tongue exploring his mouth with a renewed urgency, her body moving against his with a fresh, insatiable hunger.
Donovan groaned, a mixture of pleasure and exhaustion.
His body had just been pushed to its absolute limit, yet Rihanna, like a phoenix, seemed to rise from the ashes of their shared climax, her energy boundless, her desire unyielding.
She moved off him, her eyes still blazing with a competitive fire, and pulled him up, flipping him over so he was on his back, then straddling him again.
This time, her movements were a blend of raw power and seductive artistry, each thrust deep and deliberate, each grind teasing and tormenting.
He felt the familiar ache in his muscles, the lingering fatigue from the night, but Rihanna's determination, her sheer force of will, spurred him on.
This was a battle, a test of endurance, and he would not be the first to yield. He reached up, grasping her hips, trying to match her rhythm, to assert his own dominance, to show her he still had fight left.
But even as he pushed, even as he thrust upwards with fierce determination, a nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered.
This isn't Margot.
With Margot, there was an effortless synchronicity, a natural ebb and flow that transcended mere physical exertion. It was a dance, a profound connection that felt infinite, where his stamina seemed to renew itself endlessly, driven by something deeper than lust.
Here, with Rihanna, it was a magnificent, unparalleled physical performance, a battle of titans where every thrust was a challenge, every moan a point scored. It was thrilling, exhilarating, pushing him to his absolute physical limits, but it wasn't the same.
The peak he had reached with Margot, that sublime, transcendent experience, felt like a distant memory, something he was desperately trying to recreate, to match, but ultimately falling short.
He poured every ounce of his remaining strength into each thrust, gritting his teeth, determined to prove her wrong.
Rihanna wasn't letting up. She rode him like a storm, her body a blur of motion, her moans becoming a low, continuous hum of pleasure and triumph.
She shifted positions effortlessly, moving from cowgirl to reverse cowgirl, then bending over him, driving into him from behind, each angle bringing a fresh wave of exquisite torture and pleasure.
Her hands were on his chest, her fingers clawing gently, then sliding lower, tracing his abdomen, teasing him, urging him deeper. The competitive fire burned in her eyes, a relentless demand for more, for complete surrender.
Donovan felt his body screaming for a reprieve, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. His mind, usually sharp and calculating, was hazy with pleasure and fatigue.
He watched her, a mixture of awe and desperation in his gaze.
She was a force of nature, an indomitable will wrapped in a goddess's body. He recognized the sheer, unadulterated power she wielded, a power that could break even the strongest man.
And he was being broken, slowly, wonderfully, by her relentless assault.
He pushed back, trying to regain some semblance of control, his hips bucking against hers, his hands gripping her waist, trying to guide her, to dictate the rhythm. But Rihanna was too strong, too determined.
She rode him harder, faster, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her own body glistening with sweat, yet showing no signs of slowing down.
She was relentless, a beautiful, powerful machine of pleasure, punishing him, challenging him, demanding every last drop he had to give.
His mind flashed back to Margot again, to the moments of effortless, boundless passion, where the energy never seemed to wane, where he felt he could go on forever.
With Rihanna, he was fighting for every thrust, every moan, every second of endurance. He was pushing his body past what he thought were its limits, but the comparison, even in his hazy state, was undeniable.
This was incredible, truly magnificent, a testament to Rihanna's prowess and his own, but that unique, almost spiritual connection, that boundless, effortless energy he'd found with Margot, was simply not here.
He was trying to replicate a feeling, to climb a mountain he'd already summited with another, and the ascent, while breathtaking, felt different. He was being spent, depleted, in a way he hadn't been before.
He let out a series of raw, guttural groans, his own body nearing its second, perhaps final, breaking point. He felt the familiar building pressure, the coil tightening, but it was tinged with a profound exhaustion, a weariness that seeped into his bones.
His hips bucked, his muscles spasmed, and he felt another, less powerful, wave of orgasm wash over him, a release fueled by sheer exhaustion and the relentless pleasure she was inflicting.
Rihanna watched him, her eyes glittering with triumph, feeling his body convulse beneath hers.
She kept going, relentlessly, her hips still bucking, driving into him, milking his every tremor. She wanted to prove her point, to extract every last ounce of surrender.
The competitive fire in her eyes never dimmed, even as her own body began to show signs of profound exertion, a fine sheen of sweat covering her skin, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps.
She pushed for another five minutes, then ten, then fifteen, driving him deeper and deeper into a realm of pure, exhausted sensation, until finally, with a collective groan, they both collapsed onto the bed, utterly spent similar to what happened to Margot that night
Donovan lay flat on his back, his chest heaving, his eyes closed, his body trembling, limbs heavy like lead as he had a small smile.
He felt completely drained, every muscle aching, every nerve ending tingling with the aftermath of their marathon.
He opened his eyes, glancing at Rihanna who lay beside him, equally breathless, her body glistening with sweat.
"I won," Donovan whispered, his voice hoarse, a hint of defiance still lingering in his tone, even though he knew, intellectually, that he had probably "came less" in this relentless competition.
He had given his all, pushed himself to the absolute brink, but the feeling of utter, boundless satisfaction, that endless reservoir of desire he found with Margot, had eluded him.
He had sought to fill a void, to match a peak, but even after all this, the incomparable ghost of Margot still lingered, a phantom limb of desire that none could truly replace.
Even after three women, he couldn't match the peak with Margot.
He was becoming afraid, he would never match it, and the only way he could was by reaching out to her.
And that was something he couldn't do.