Title: Lagos Heat: Part 2 – Morning After Madness

The sun in Lagos doesn’t knock. It bursts in—loud, bright, and unapologetic.

Muna stirred under the sheets, skin sticky from sex and sleep. Her lashes fluttered open to find Dami sprawled beside her, still asleep, arm draped across her waist like he was claiming territory. The soft hum of a generator buzzed outside constant, like the city’s heartbeat.

She stretched slowly, careful not to wake him, but her phone had other plans.

20 missed calls. 12 messages. All from her ex.
“Muna, abeg. I saw your story. Where you dey? Pick up. Please.”

She had posted a ten-second video the night before her feet up in a high-rise, toes painted, wine glass in hand, captioned:
“Soft life. No stress. Just vibes.”

It wasn’t meant to be bait, but somehow it caught fish.

Dami stirred. “You good?”

“Yeah. Just people that should’ve moved on,” she said, tossing her phone aside. “You?”

He reached out, fingers tracing lazy circles on her thigh. “I’m wondering how soon I can make you scream again.”

Muna laughed. “No breakfast first?”

“I’m the breakfast,” he said, sliding down the bed with that same devilish grin.

She gasped when his mouth found her again, this time slower, more focused. His tongue danced like he was memorizing her, and her back arched involuntarily. The man had no mercy. He took his time, hands holding her thighs apart like scripture, reading her body like Psalms.

When she came again silent scream, toes curled, chest rising she felt baptized. This wasn’t sex. It was deliverance.

But Lagos never gives you peace for long.

Just as they collapsed into laughter and lazy kisses, the buzzer rang.

Dami froze. “You expecting someone?”

She shook her head. “You?”

“Nope.”

He grabbed a towel, walked to the door, checked the cam.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Who?”

“My babe.”

Muna sat up like lightning.

“Your what?”

“I thought she traveled. She wasn’t supposed to be back till Sunday!”

“You have a babe, Dami?”

“It’s complicated.”

She was already out of bed, grabbing her clothes, cursing in three languages.

He turned, helpless. “She’s at the door, Muna. You can’t just walk out. She’ll see you.”

“I’m not hiding like a side chick,” she hissed.

“Well, technically”

She threw a pillow at him. “You’re mad!”

His phone rang.
“Baby, open. I’m outside.”

He looked at Muna. She was half-dressed, hair wild, lipstick smudged gorgeous and pissed.

“There’s a back exit,” he whispered. “Kitchen leads to the service stairs. I’ll stall her.”

Muna hesitated. She could throw a scene, expose him. But Lagos didn’t always reward the bold. Sometimes, it was better to leave gracefully and sting later.

She slipped out barefoot, heels in hand, heart pounding.

In the kitchen, she found the exit and slipped into the narrow staircase, muttering, “Omo Lagos men will kill me.”

Outside, the sun hit her like karma.

Her phone buzzed again this time a message from her ex:
“I’m outside your place. Let’s talk. I brought suya.”

She stared at the screen.

This city was mad. But she was madder.

She smirked and replied:
“Come upstairs. I’m hungry.”

Title: Lagos Heat

The night air in Lekki was heavy thick with diesel fumes, pepper soup, and possibility. Lagos never really slept, it just changed rhythm. By 11:42 p.m., the city had switched from the fast-paced chaos of honking danfos to the slower, sultrier rhythm of bodies moving under colored lights and private intentions.

Muna sat in the backseat of the Uber, thighs crossed, her dress riding up just enough to make the driver glance into the rearview. She didn’t care. The satin clung to her curves, hugging the fullness of her hips like a second skin. Her makeup was still fresh despite the humidity, but her eyes were what really spoke calm, low-lidded, intentional. She wasn’t out for gist or cocktails. She was out for the kind of night that could only end with tangled sheets and no apologies.

“Where you dey go again?” her friend had asked earlier.

“His place,” Muna replied with a smirk, spraying herself with perfume like armor. “Ikoyi guy. Tall. Igbo. Dirty in the good way.”

Now, as the Uber slowed to a stop in front of a high-rise apartment with lights still on at the top floor, her phone buzzed.

“Gate man go open. Just enter elevator. Top floor. I’m waiting.”
Dami.

She didn’t reply.

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding and the scent of cologne hit her before she even stepped into the apartment. The hallway was dim, the kind of lighting designed for seduction. Dami stood shirtless by the open door broad chest, dark skin gleaming like obsidian under the overhead bulb. His grey joggers hung low on his hips, and the outline of him underneath made her pulse skip.

“Finally,” he said, eyes raking over her like hunger. “You took your time.”

“I wanted you to crave it,” she said, stepping in, her voice like velvet soaked in palm wine.

He didn’t waste time. His hand slid around her waist, pulling her in like he paid bride price just to do this. Their lips met fast Lagos fast like they were fighting traffic together. She tasted sweat, Hennessy, and something unmistakably male.

He backed her against the wall, the cold concrete sending goosebumps through her spine. She let out a small laugh, breathy and teasing, as his mouth traced her jaw, down her neck, where he bit softly, like meat he didn’t want to finish yet.

“You smell like bad decisions,” he whispered.

“You look like one,” she whispered back, fingers already dipping into the waistband of his joggers.

The room was heat AC on, yet bodies too warm to notice. He picked her up like she weighed nothing, her dress bunching around her waist, exposing black lace panties that had no plans to survive the night. They kissed like it was war and love at the same time. Fast. Slow. Rough. Soft.

His bed was low and wide, sheets dark and tangled from previous sins. He threw her on it and she bounced slightly, laughing until his mouth silenced her again.

The next few minutes blurred. Moans mixed with Burna Boy playing low from his speaker. Her fingers scratched his back. His teeth grazed her thigh. She begged in whispers. He answered in groans. Her legs wrapped around his back like they were scared to let him go. And when he finally pushed into her, it was like thunder rolling through Third Mainland Bridge deep, loud, and impossible to ignore.

“Say my name,” he grunted, moving inside her like he owned every inch.

“Mmm… Dami… Dami…”

Lagos watched through the window, lights flickering like they were clapping.

When it was over, she lay back, breathless, a sheen of sweat on her chest, legs still trembling. He lay beside her, one hand tracing her arm.

“So what now?” she asked, voice hoarse and satisfied.

“You tell your friend I’m not just dirty,” he said, kissing her shoulder, “I’m unforgettable.”

She smiled, pulling the sheet over them. Outside, the city kept moving. But inside that room, Lagos stood still for just a moment as two bodies soaked in the afterglow of a night that tasted like sin and felt like home.

Want a part 2? Maybe a twist or something unexpected?

The night air in Lekki was thick with heat and secrets. Neon lights flickered off car windows, and the slow hum of Afrobeats spilled from lounges and passing Ubers. Tonia had just stepped out of the elevator on the 12th floor of the high-rise apartment building. Her heels clicked softly on the marble hallway as she reached his door. 1:12 a.m.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

He opened the door in nothing but grey sweatpants. No shirt. No words. His eyes dropped from her face to her bare thighs under that dangerously short black dress. Lagos was loud, but this silence between them was louder.

“I told myself I wouldn’t come,” she whispered.

“You say that every time.”

She stepped in. The city skyline glittered behind floor-to-ceiling windows. A bottle of Hennessy sat open by the couch. As she turned to face him, he was already walking toward her slow, confident, hungry.

Tonia’s breath caught when his hand slid up her thigh. She should’ve stopped him. She didn’t. Instead, she grabbed his jaw and kissed him hard, tasting him, needing him. His hands were already under her dress, fingers exploring, claiming. She moaned into his mouth, pushing him back until they crashed onto the couch.

Lagos pulsed around them, but in that room, the only rhythm was the sound of skin on skin, gasps, whispers, wet kisses, and deep moans.

He lifted her onto his lap, her legs spread on either side. “You know I missed this mouth,” he said, sliding two fingers between her thighs. She arched her back, letting out a soft cry as her head fell back. “You’re soaked.”

“You’re talking too much,” she smirked, pulling at his sweatpants.

When he slid into her, slow and deep, she clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He set a pace that was relentless, passionate, desperate like both of them had been starving. Her moans filled the room. His name on her lips was a prayer and a curse.