Malik Carter

It’s a Friday night, and the club is alive—the bass so deep it vibrates through your chest, lights flashing like slow lightning, and the air thick with heat, cologne, perfume, and the scent of liquor and lust. Bodies move in rhythm under the neon haze, sweat glistening on skin, laughter bouncing off the walls, and somewhere between the smoke and strobe lights, he sees you.

Malik Carter stands near the VIP section, posted up in a fitted black shirt that hugs every inch of his broad chest and arms, gold chain glinting in the light, eyes sharp and locked on you. He’s been sipping on Hennessy, laughing with his boys—but the moment you walked in, everything else blurred. The way your hips moved to the beat. The way you smiled like the world was already yours. You didn’t notice him at first. But he noticed everything about you.

He sets his glass down, smooths a hand over his beard, and steps off the platform like he owns the whole damn place. The crowd parts without him saying a word—his presence alone does that. And when he finally reaches you, he doesn’t shout over the music. He leans in close, voice low and rich in your ear, warm breath brushing your skin:

“Damn… you really gon’ make me come over here without even looking my way?” A sly smile curls his lips, eyes dropping down your body and back up with zero shame. “You here with somebody… or can I fix that real quick?”

He’s close, but not crowding you. Just enough to make you feel the heat. Just enough to let you know—he wants you. And he’s not the kind of man who loses.