Chapter 1

The late summer sun had dipped low over the Tennessee horizon, casting a golden glow across the dusty fairgrounds. From Savannah Grace Harper’s vantage point on the makeshift stage, the air buzzed with the twang of banjos and the chatter of the crowd spilling from the grandstand—cowboy hats and plaid shirts stretching out like a sea of rural pride. At 21, she stood at the heart of it all beneath a banner reading “Wilson County Fair,” her slender frame steady as the final notes of her signature song, “Blessed Dirt Roads,” poured from her lips, her voice a sweet, crystalline lilt that could hush a storm.

Savannah knew she was beautiful, though she never dwelled on it—her oval face framed by waves of honey-blonde hair that tumbled past her shoulders, catching the light like spun gold. Her fair skin glowed with a faint rosy flush from the heat, and her wide, hazel eyes, flecked with green, shimmered with earnest innocence. High cheekbones lent her an ethereal quality, while her full, naturally pink lips curved into a shy smile that felt pure yet carried an allure she didn’t intend. At 5’4”, her body was lithe, with gentle curves that whispered of a quiet, untapped sensuality—her breasts modest but firm, her hips swaying just enough to turn heads without her trying. She was a preacher’s daughter, unaware of the power her beauty held.

She’d chosen blue jeans for the night, snug but not tight, hugging her long, toned legs down to her scuffed tan cowboy boots, a dusting of fairground dirt clinging to the heels. A white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, tucked neatly into her waistband, the top button undone to let her breathe in the humid air. Her silver cross pendant rested against her collarbone, cool against her warm skin, a constant reminder of her faith. A simple charm bracelet jingled on her wrist—a gift from Cody, her fiancé—but otherwise, she kept it plain, her understated look somehow amplifying the natural magnetism she didn’t mean to wield.

As the band strummed the final chords, Savannah leaned into the microphone, her voice rising with tender conviction:

“And when the dust settles down at night, / Blessed dirt roads lead me to the light, / With faith in my heart and my Savior near, / These humble paths are all I hold dear.”

The crowd erupted—whistles, cheers, a few “Amens!”—and Savannah felt her cheeks warm as she waved with both hands, her smile spreading wide. “Thank y’all so much! God bless you, Wilson County!” she called, her Southern drawl soft and true. She blew a kiss, then turned with a little skip, her boots clicking on the wooden stage as she headed for the wings, the roar of adoration echoing in her ears.

Backstage, Tom Buckley waited, a burly man in his fifties with a graying Stetson and a clipboard under one arm. His weathered face split into a grin as he clapped her on the shoulder. “Another knockout, kid. You had ‘em eatin’ outta your hand,” he said, his voice gravelly with pride.

Savannah giggled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, still buzzing from the performance. “Thanks, Tom. Felt real good up there tonight.” She fiddled with her cross pendant, catching her breath.

Tom nodded, then lowered his voice, his tone shifting to business. “Listen, Sav, I got somethin’ big to run by you. Just got a call from Obsidian Throne Records—yeah, that new rap outfit outta Atlanta. Their star, Devonte Jackson—calls himself D-Mack—wants to do a collab with you. A crossover track.”

Savannah’s brow furrowed, her hazel eyes clouding with confusion. “D-Mack? Ain’t he ... you know, one of them rappers with all the cussin’ and ... stuff?” She blushed, fumbling for words, her innocence laid bare.

Tom chuckled, waving a hand. “Sure, he’s rough around the edges—talks about street life, women, the whole deal. But that’s the point. This could modernize your image, boost sales. Get you outta the country bubble and into the mainstream. Think of it—spreading God’s love to a whole new crowd, folks who don’t listen to hymns on Sunday.”

She bit her lip, glancing down at her boots, then back up at Tom. “I don’t know ... What if it ain’t right for me?” Her fingers tightened around her pendant, uncertainty tugging at her.

“It’s just one song, darlin’,” Tom pressed, his tone coaxing. “A little grit never hurt nobody. You’re 21 now—time to stretch those wings. Obsidian Throne’s got deep pockets and a big reach. This could be your ticket to the next level. What do you say?”

Savannah hesitated, her heart fluttering with nerves and a strange spark of curiosity. The idea felt like a step into the unknown, a cliff’s edge she wasn’t sure she should peer over. But D-Mack’s name lingered in her mind, a whisper of something wild and forbidden. “I’ll ... I’ll pray on it,” she murmured, offering Tom a faint smile.

He nodded, satisfied for now. “Good enough. Sleep on it, kid. This could be big.” As he turned to check his clipboard, Savannah lingered, her gaze drifting toward the darkening sky, a restless hum stirring beneath her innocent surface.

Savannah lingered near the edge of the backstage area, her gaze lost in the deepening sky, a restless hum flickering beneath her innocent surface. Tom’s words about Obsidian Throne Records and D-Mack swirled in her mind, tugging at her sheltered heart. The roar of the crowd still echoed faintly, mingling with the distant hum of crickets, when a familiar voice broke through her reverie.

“Savannah! Hey, darlin’!”

She turned, her hazel eyes widening as Cody Miller strode toward her, his lanky frame cutting through the dim backstage light. At 22, he was all farm-boy charm—sun-bleached brown hair peeking from under a faded baseball cap, a plaid shirt tucked into worn jeans, and a grin that lit up his honest blue eyes. Savannah squealed in delight, surprise flooding her as she broke into a run, her cowboy boots thudding against the wooden floor.

“Cody!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck as he caught her in a tight hug, lifting her off the ground for a heartbeat. The scent of hay and his cologne wrapped around her, warm and familiar. She pulled back, breathless, her hands resting on his shoulders. “What’re you doin’ here? I thought you were fixin’ the tractor tonight!”

Cody chuckled, his hands settling on her waist, steady and gentle. “Wanted to surprise you, is all. Couldn’t miss my girl lightin’ up the fair like that.” His voice was soft, laced with pride, and Savannah felt her cheeks flush as she beamed up at him.

“Well, I’m sure glad you did,” she said, her Southern drawl thick with joy. She leaned in, and they kissed—passionate but chaste, lips pressing together with a hunger tempered by restraint, her cross pendant cool against her chest as her heart raced. She savored the sweetness of it, the way his hands stayed respectfully at her waist, a promise of more held back by their shared faith.

When they parted, Cody’s grin widened, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Got one more surprise for you,” he said, his voice dropping low. Before she could ask, he sank to one knee, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. Savannah’s breath caught, her hands flying to her mouth as he opened it, revealing a gorgeous diamond ring—simple but stunning, a single stone catching the faint stage lights like a captured star.

“Savannah Grace Harper,” he began, his voice steady despite the tremble in his fingers, “I’ve loved you since we were kids chasin’ fireflies. Will you marry me?”

She stood frozen for a split second, stunned, her hazel eyes shimmering with tears. Then a squeal burst from her lips, pure and giddy, as she nodded furiously. “Yes! Oh, Cody, yes!” She flung herself into his arms again as he rose, laughing as he slipped the ring onto her finger. It sparkled against her sun-kissed skin, a perfect fit, and she held it up, marveling at it before wrapping him in another hug, her blonde hair spilling over his shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” she murmured, pulling back to admire the ring again, her smile so wide it ached. “Daddy’s gonna wanna marry us in his church, you know that, right?” she added offhandedly, her tone light, picturing Reverend Paul Harper beaming from the pulpit.

Cody grinned, brushing a thumb over her knuckles. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Savannah leaned into him, her head resting against his chest, the diamond glinting beside her cross pendant. For a moment, the world felt perfect—her faith, her love, her future all aligned. But in the back of her mind, Tom’s words about D-Mack lingered, a faint shadow she couldn’t quite shake.

She tilted her head up, her hazel eyes catching his. “Cody,” she began, her voice soft, hesitant, “somethin’ came up tonight. Tom got a call from some big rap label—Obsidian Throne Records. Their guy, Devonte Jackson—he goes by D-Mack—wants me to do a song with him. A crossover thing.”

Cody’s brow furrowed, his hands tightening slightly on her waist as he pulled back to look at her. “D-Mack? That thug from Atlanta? Savannah, I’ve heard his stuff—cussin’, braggin’ ‘bout women and drugs. That ain’t you, darlin’. You sure about this?”

She nodded, biting her lip, his concern sinking into her. “I know, I thought the same. He’s ... rough, from what I hear. But Tom says it could modernize me, boost sales. Get my music to folks who don’t know country or God’s love. I just ... I gotta think about my career, you know?”

Cody’s blue eyes darkened with worry, but he softened, brushing a strand of honey-blonde hair from her face. “I get it, Sav. You’re goin’ places, and I’m proud of you. Just ... be careful, alright? That world’s a long way from here, and I don’t trust them city types pushin’ you into somethin’ you ain’t ready for. Promise me you’ll keep your head on straight.”

“I will,” she assured him, her voice firm as she met his gaze. She reached up, touching his cheek, her fingers grazing the stubble there. “I’ll never lose sight of my values, Cody. You know me—my faith, my heart, that’s who I am.” Her cross pendant glinted as she spoke, a silent vow.

He smiled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I trust you, darlin’. Always will.” He pulled her close again, and she melted into his embrace, her arms wrapping around his neck as their lips met once more. The kiss was warm, passionate yet chaste, a promise sealed with the taste of trust and love.

She pressed herself against him, savoring the safety of his hold, then pulled back just enough to whisper, “You’ve made me the happiest girl in the world tonight.”

Cody chuckled, his breath warm against her forehead. “That’s all I ever want, Sav.”

She smiled up at him, her hazel eyes shining, the ring and pendant resting side by side against her chest. For now, the shadow of D-Mack and Obsidian Throne Records faded, drowned out by the glow of her engagement and Cody’s steady presence. But deep down, a tiny spark of curiosity lingered, one she didn’t yet recognize.

The Tennessee countryside had faded into a blur of green and gold as Tom Buckley’s Cadillac hummed along I-24, the late morning sun glinting off its polished black hood. Savannah sat in the passenger seat, her blue jeans snug against her thighs, her pale blue button-down shirt slightly rumpled from the long drive. Her cross pendant rested cool against her chest, the new diamond engagement ring on her finger catching the light as she twisted it nervously. She’d made up her mind—after praying on it, talking to Cody, and wrestling with her curiosity, she’d agreed to the collaboration with D-Mack. Now, Atlanta loomed ahead, a city she’d never seen, and with it, a world she barely understood.

Tom gripped the wheel with one hand, his graying Stetson tipped back, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine. “Glad you said yes, Sav. This collab’s gonna shake things up—put you on a whole new map. D-Mack’s a force, no denyin’ that. You ready to meet him?”

Savannah nodded, her honey-blonde hair shifting as she glanced out the window. “I think so. Still feels a little wild, mixin’ country with ... whatever he does. But if it gets my music out there, I reckon it’s worth a try.” Her Southern drawl carried a mix of excitement and unease.

Tom grinned, tapping the Cadillac’s touchscreen stereo. “Good attitude, kid. Let’s get you in the mood—give his latest a listen. This is ‘Trap King,’ fresh off Obsidian Throne’s press.” As the screen flared to life, Savannah’s eyes caught the label’s logo splashed across it—a stylized black crown hovering over a cracked white rose. The image struck her as odd, almost menacing, the rose’s broken petals stark against the dark backdrop. She frowned, a shiver prickling her spine, but before she could dwell on it, the beat dropped.

The track exploded through the speakers—heavy bass thumping like a heartbeat, a snare snapping sharp and relentless. Then D-Mack’s voice kicked in, deep and commanding, dripping with swagger:

Yeah, Trap King, crown on my dome,
Black steel dick, I’m rulin’ this zone,
Bitches bow down, they worship the throne,
White hoes scream when I give ‘em the bone.

Pussy so tight, but I stretch it wide,
Superior cock, that’s my fuckin’ pride,
They crawl to me, beggin’ for a ride,
I own these sluts, no place to hide.

Savannah’s breath hitched, her fair cheeks flushing hot as the raw sexuality slammed into her. The lyrics were filthy—misogyny dripping from every word, women reduced to objects for his pleasure, his boasts of black male dominance loud and unashamed. She’d never heard anything like it, not in her chaste life where sex was a sacred vow saved for marriage.

And yet strange heat bloomed low in her belly, unfamiliar and electric, settling between her thighs. Her pussy clenched, a slick pulse of arousal catching her off guard, and she bit her lip hard, her teeth sinking into the soft flesh as shame tangled with intrigue. The second verse rolled in, D-Mack’s voice growing darker, more insistent:

White girls melt when they taste the king,
Big black dick, it’s the ultimate thing,
They leave their men, chase this savage swing,
I fuck ‘em raw, hear the pussy sing.

No weak-ass boys can match my reign,
I break these bitches, they love the pain,
Supremacy’s mine, it’s in my vein,
Trap King rules, I claim the game.

Her nipples tightened against her shirt, a faint ache she couldn’t ignore, and the dampness between her legs grew, her jeans suddenly too tight. She shifted in her seat, mortified by her body’s betrayal, her hazel eyes darting to the window as if the trees could shield her. This wasn’t her—pure, faithful Savannah, Cody’s girl—but the primal edge of the song, the way it glorified black male power over women like her, sank into her like a forbidden whisper.

Tom glanced over, his brow creasing as he reached for the stereo. “Alright, maybe that’s enough. Don’t wanna scare you off before we even get there.”

“No!” Savannah blurted, her voice sharp, her hand darting out to stop him. She softened, forcing a shaky smile. “I mean ... I wanna hear it all. Gotta know what I’m steppin’ into, right?” Her excuse felt thin, but the truth burned hotter—she couldn’t tear herself away, not yet.

Tom shrugged, settling back. “Suit yourself, kid.” The track surged into its third verse, D-Mack’s tone fiercer, unrelenting:

Last call, hoes, kneel to the crown,
Black king’s meat puts ‘em all face-down,
White bitches break when I pin ‘em tight,
My dick’s the god they pray to at night.

They crave the dark, can’t get enough,
I pound ‘em raw, that’s my royal stuff,
Supremacy’s carved in every thrust,
Trap King reigns, turn ‘em all to dust.

Her breath quickened, the heat in her pussy flaring sharper, a needy throb she didn’t know how to name. She pressed her thighs together, her fingers digging into the leather seat, caught between repulsion and a shameful thrill. The lyrics painted a world she’d never imagined—crude, violent, seductive—and her body responded against her will, a secret part of her stirring awake.

The final verse hit like a hammer, D-Mack’s voice a triumphant snarl:

Endgame’s mine, I own the play,
Sluts on their knees by the break of day,
White pussy weeps for this savage rod,
Black power fucks like a vengeful god.

No weak seed dares to compete,
I claim these cunts from head to feet,
Trap King’s law, the world’s my street,
Bow to the throne, my rule’s complete.

As the track faded out, Savannah sat frozen, her lip still caught between her teeth, her chest rising and falling too fast. The logo of Obsidian Throne lingered on the screen, the cracked white rose staring back at her like an omen. Her pussy ached, wet and insistent, a sensation so foreign it terrified her.

She swallowed hard, her mind reeling—disgusted by the misogyny, the objectification, yet secretly hooked by the raw power in D-Mack’s words, the promise of something her chaste life had never touched. The Cadillac rolled on, Atlanta drawing closer, and she wondered, fleetingly, what she’d just stepped into.

The Cadillac rolled to a stop outside a sleek, modern building in Atlanta’s bustling heart, its glass facade glinting under the midday sun. Savannah stepped out, her cowboy boots clicking on the pavement, her blue jeans hugging her thighs and her pale blue button-down shirt tucked neatly at the waist. Her cross pendant rested against her chest, the diamond ring on her finger a quiet reminder of Cody as she smoothed her honey-blonde hair, nerves fluttering in her stomach. Tom led the way, his Stetson casting a shadow as he pushed open the studio’s heavy doors, and Savannah followed, her hazel eyes wide with anticipation.

Inside, the space hit her like a wave—marble floors gleamed under recessed lighting, stretching out in a pristine white expanse, while gold fixtures adorned the walls, from ornate sconces to a massive chandelier dripping with crystals. The air thrummed with a faint bassline, and the scent of expensive cologne mingled with something sharper, maybe weed. Savannah’s breath caught, the opulence overwhelming her small-town senses, a far cry from the dusty stages and church halls she knew.

Then she saw him—Devonte “D-Mack” Jackson—striding toward her from the far end of the room, all muscle and swagger, a walking storm of confidence. At 32, he towered over her 5’4” frame, his broad shoulders and chiseled arms straining against a black tank top, his dark skin etched with tattoos of skulls and guns. Gold chains draped his neck, glinting with every step, and a diamond stud flashed in one ear.

His crew flanked him—hard-eyed men in baggy clothes, smirking as they sized her up—while a handful of women, his “queens,” lounged nearby. Some were white, others Asian or Latina, their hair teased out in slutty manes, all scantily clad in crop tops, thongs, and heels, their curves on brazen display. Savannah’s cheeks burned at the sight, her innocence recoiling even as her eyes lingered, caught by the rawness of it all.

D-Mack stopped in front of her, his lips curling into a charming grin, his brown eyes sharp and knowing. “Well, damn, if it ain’t the country angel herself,” he said, his voice a deep, velvet drawl laced with street edge. He reached out, taking her small hand in his large, calloused one, and Savannah trembled at the contact—his grip firm, radiating power and influence that seemed to hum through her skin. She felt tiny, fragile next to him, her pulse jumping as he held her gaze.

“I’m Savannah,” she managed, her Southern twang soft and unsteady, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson.”

He laughed, a low rumble, still holding her hand. “D-Mack, baby. No ‘mister’ ‘round here. And you—” He tilted his head, eyeing her up and down, lingering on her jeans, her shirt, the cross at her throat. “You the real deal, huh? Church girl straight outta the sticks.” His tone teased, playful but edged with something darker, testing her.

She laughed it off, pulling her hand back gently, her fingers brushing her pendant for comfort. “Guess you could say that. I sing what I know—faith and home.”

D-Mack’s grin widened, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin. “Faith, huh? That’s cute.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough for her to catch it over the ambient beat. “White girls like you always curious ‘bout what we packin’ down here, though. Ain’t that right?” He winked, the words slick and suggestive, planting a seed that sank into her mind like a stone into still water.

Savannah’s laugh faltered, a flush creeping up her neck as she stepped back, her hazel eyes darting away. “You’re funny,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice, but his confidence stuck with her, a lingering heat she couldn’t shake. His presence filled the room—muscle, gold, swagger—and the way his queens watched her, smirking like they knew something she didn’t, only deepened the unease curling in her chest.

Tom clapped D-Mack on the shoulder, breaking the moment with a gruff, “Let’s get to work, huh?” but as they moved toward the recording booth, Savannah felt D-Mack’s eyes on her, his tease echoing in her head, stirring a flicker of something she didn’t dare name.

As they passed a marble wall, Savannah’s gaze snagged on a familiar sight—the Obsidian Throne logo etched large and bold, a stylized black crown looming over a cracked white rose. The broken petals struck her again, stark and unsettling, and curiosity tugged at her. “What’s that mean?” she asked, her Southern drawl soft as she pointed at it. “The crown and the rose?”

D-Mack chuckled, a low rumble, his brown eyes glinting with something she couldn’t read. “Means we rule what’s pure, church girl. Take it how you want.” His tone was playful but edged, a riddle she didn’t grasp. She frowned, confusion creasing her brow, but before she could press further, they’d reached the studio door, and he ushered her inside.

The recording space buzzed with energy, and there stood a massive black man she didn’t know—lean and cold-eyed, his dark suit crisp against the chaos of the room. He paced near a mixing board, phone pressed to his ear, his voice clipped. “Yeah, we’re workin’ on white girl outreach—prime target. She’s here now, so—” He cut off mid-sentence, his gaze snapping up as he noticed Savannah and D-Mack. He hung up abruptly, pocketing the phone, his expression unreadable as he turned to face them.

D-Mack clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Savannah, this is Malik Stone—my manager, keeps the wheels turnin’. Malik, meet our country star.”

Malik’s eyes raked over her—her jeans, her shirt, the cross and ring—sizing her up like she was a puzzle to solve. He nodded, his voice flat but polite. “Welcome to Obsidian Throne, Miss Harper. Good to have you.” Then he stepped back, glancing at D-Mack. “Got business to handle. Catch you later.” He strode out, leaving a chill in his wake.

Savannah watched him go, her brow furrowing again. “He alright?” she asked, her voice small.

D-Mack laughed, waving it off. “Malik’s always like that—too wound up, stressin’ ‘bout ‘the mission’ and shit. Man needs to enjoy some white pussy sometime, loosen up.” His crude grin made her flush, her fingers brushing her pendant as she forced an awkward smile, unsure how to respond.

He turned, gesturing to the studio—a high-tech marvel that stole her breath. Gleaming consoles lined the walls, screens flickered with soundwaves, and gadgets she couldn’t name hummed with quiet power. It dwarfed anything she’d seen in Nashville, a world of innovation beyond her grasp. Even Tom whistled low, his Stetson tilting as he took it in. “How the hell you afford this on an indie rap label budget?” he asked, half-joking, half-serious.

D-Mack’s grin widened, his gold chains catching the light. “Obsidian Throne don’t play small, man. We got backers who believe in the vision.” His words hung there, vague and heavy, and Savannah felt that shiver again, the logo’s cracked rose flashing in her mind. She didn’t know what he meant, but the weight of it settled over her, a shadow she couldn’t quite see

The studio’s high-tech glow had swallowed Savannah whole by the time she stepped into the recording booth, a cramped glass box tucked in the corner of Obsidian Throne’s Atlanta lair. The marble floors and gold fixtures faded behind her as she slipped on a pair of oversized headphones, her honey-blonde hair brushing her shoulders. Across from her stood D-Mack, his muscular frame crowding the small space, his gold chains dangling as he leaned into the shared microphone. The booth felt too tight, his masculine presence overwhelming—his broad shoulders, his towering height, his muscular bulk, the raw power radiating off him like heat from a furnace. Savannah shifted, conscious of how close he was, her skin prickling as his arm brushed hers.

They were midway through “Holy Hustle,” a rap-country crossover about a conservative white Christian girl venturing into the big city and meeting a black city boy—a romance of clashing worlds where he’d teach her to loosen up, and she’d show him the value of upright living. The beat pulsed through her headphones, a blend of twangy guitar and trap drums, catchy despite its strangeness. D-Mack nodded to the rhythm, his brown eyes locked on the mic, and then he launched into his verse, his deep voice rolling out in his usual style—crude, misogynistic, objectifying:

City lights flash, she steps in my zone,
Little white chick, pure as a stone,
I’m the black beast, king on my throne,
Teach her to shake it, ride this bone.

She’s prayin’ to God, I’m claimin’ her ass,
Bend her over quick, make that pussy blast,
Good girl gone wild, she’s learnin’ fast,
My dick’s the lesson, she’s built to last.

Savannah stood frozen beside him, keeping the beat with a slight sway, her hazel eyes wide as the lyrics hit her. Repulsion curled in her gut—the way he turned her into a conquest, a slut for his pleasure, clashed hard with her faith, her purity. But she couldn’t deny it—the beat hooked her, infectious and slick, and D-Mack’s talent shone through, his flow tight and commanding. Her lips parted, her breath shallow as she listened, torn between disgust and a grudging respect for his skill.

The track looped to her turn, and she leaned in, her country twang softening the mic as she sang her short verse, sweet and earnest:

I came from the fields, where the good Lord reigns,
Family and faith runnin’ deep in my veins,
You show me your world, all fast and free,
But I’ll teach you love that’s steady as a tree.

Hold to what’s right, keep your heart sincere,
Loyalty’s the gold we both can share,
City boy, take my hand, let’s stand tall,
Together we’ll rise, never to fall.

Her voice rang clear, a gentle counterpoint to his grit, and she stepped back, satisfied, her cross pendant cool against her flushed skin. The producer cut the track, the booth falling silent, and D-Mack pulled off his headphones, frowning as he glanced at the man behind the glass—a wiry black guy with dreads and a gold tooth.

“Nah, that ain’t it,” D-Mack said, his tone sharp. “Her part’s too stiff—don’t fit the vibe. We gotta rewrite it, make it pop.”

Savannah blinked, her heart sinking. “Wait, what? I thought it was good—those are my values, who I am.” Her voice trembled, her Southern drawl thinning as she clutched her pendant.

D-Mack turned to her, his bulk looming as he fixed her with a hard stare. “I know what I’m doin’, church girl. You don’t question me—this my world. Trust me, I’ll make it right.” His words carried weight, a command wrapped in confidence, his masculine presence filling the booth like a storm.

She opened her mouth to protest, but the force of him—his size, his authority—hit her like a wave. Her pussy grew warm, a sudden, shameful heat pooling between her legs, and her nipples stiffened against her shirt, a tingling ache she couldn’t ignore. Awed by his power, she felt small, meek, her resolve crumbling under his gaze. She nodded slowly, her hazel eyes dropping to the floor, her cheeks burning. “Okay,” she murmured, barely audible, her body betraying her as the thrill of his presence overwhelmed her.

Half an hour had slipped by in the high-tech glow of Obsidian Throne’s Atlanta studio, and Savannah found herself back in the cramped recording booth, the air thick with tension and the hum of expensive gear. D-Mack stood beside her, his muscular frame dominating the space, his gold chains swaying as he nodded to the beat of “Holy Hustle” pulsing through their shared mic. The booth still felt too small, his raw power pressing against her senses, and she couldn’t escape the heat of him.

The producer cued the track, and D-Mack launched into his verse, his deep voice flowing smooth and flawless, every word a polished blade:

City lights flash, she steps in my zone,
Little white chick, pure as a stone,
I’m the black beast, king on my throne,
Teach her to shake it, ride this bone.

She’s prayin’ to God, I’m claimin’ her ass,
Bend her over quick, make that pussy blast,
Good girl gone wild, she’s learnin’ fast,
My dick’s the lesson, she’s built to last.