by Imani King
When the song ends, I look around for Sandra and see she's at the table by herself.
I smile apologetically.
“Thanks for the dance, gorgeous,” he grins. His voice is low and sweet.
“Thanks for the drink,” I shoot back.
“Pleasure's mine.”
I disentangle myself from him feeling a little lightheaded, and return to the table.
“That was pretty hot,” Sandra says as I sit down. “I'm impressed!”
“What can I say, he's perfect.” I realize I’m a bit out of breath, and it’s not because of the exercise. What a man.
“He’s perfect for one night,” she corrects me. “Hold out for a lawyer when you want to get married. Athletes are no good.” She says adamantly.
“Too true,” I concede. “In fact my first case has to do with some famous athlete, I heard. So I'll get an earful every day of just why a person shouldn't get wrapped up with one of them.” I glance at him back at the bar. “Still, where is a lawyer going to get a body like that?”
“Forget the body, look at his face!” She smiles. “Just the right amount of dangerous.”
“God, I know,” I say, leaning forward. “The tattoos alone!”
“So sexy,” she nods. “Just don't fall in love.”
“No worries there,” I say confidently, but the way it feels when he's close to me is something that I don't want to let go right away either.
Two more drinks appear at our table. “From the gentleman at the bar.” The waitress says matter-of-factly.
“I think he's trying to get us drunk,” I laugh. “Little does he know I'd go home with him right now.”
“You're so bad,” smiles Sandra. “I love it!” We clink glasses and take long sips.
Loverboy and I are in the alley. His incredible body is pressed up against mine, pushing me against the wall. He's got my arms above my head, and we're kissing ferociously. His lips and tongue are addictive and I can't get enough. He tastes like whiskey and cosmopolitans, which probably shouldn't taste this good, but I can’t get enough. His hand slithers up from my waist to catch my breast, and he circles the hard nub of my nipple with his thumb, making me moan and squirm.
I can feel his hard cock pressing against my hip, and I push against it, loving the feeling of his desire. There’s nothing but pure lust between us. He lets my hands go, and I take the chance to run them down his body. When I get to the ridge of muscle that makes a v at his hips, and points down to his succulent cock, I have to pull him closer. My hands press him into me, and he moans a little.
“Shh,” I say. “I don't want anyone to hear us!”
“Why not, who cares about them,” he grins before taking my face in his hand and silencing me again with a kiss. God, he is more intoxicating than the five cosmopolitans I had tonight. “But if you're that worried, we can go to my place,” he murmurs. His place is probably a ratty old college-type room with posters on the walls, I bet. But what the hell—it’s my last night of freedom, and I want to live it up. Anonymous sex with a beautiful man: Odell's finally finding her freedom. At long last.
“Ok,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
“Excellent.” He kisses me again and leads me out to the street, where we jump in a cab. He gives his address to the driver before he pulls me onto his lap. Our mouths meld together, as the bulge of his cock presses into me. His strong hips lift me gently up and down as he squeezes my breast with his hand. I might come right here in this cab if I'm not careful.
“Hey,” he says into my neck. “I don't even know your name.”
“Let's keep it that way,” I say.
“I like the way you think, sexy,” he says, and I cover his mouth with mine. I don't want to talk; I just want to kiss. He feels so different from most of the other guys I've been with—huge and built like a Mack truck—except beautiful.
When we get to his place, I'm a bit surprised to find out that it's not seedy and cheap like I pictured at all. It's quite beautiful. Not ostentatious, but clean and modern. There is nothing inexpensive about it at all. Loverboy has money. Serious money. Maybe he's successful, or a trust fund kid. Doesn't matter I decide, it’s none of my business. I’m only here for one thing.
He pushes me down on the couch. “I'm going to give you the best head you've ever had in your life,” he boasts with a saucy grin. I watch him undo my jeans and slide them off, revealing my lacy thong I wore just in case the night went as I had hoped. He groans, feeling the flimsy fabric between strong fingers and trails his tongue around the edges where lace meets skin. It's making me wild, seeing him between my legs, teasing me mercilessly. He pierces me with his impossibly blue eyes, before pulling my panties to the side and licking my whole slit from bottom to top, making me gasp. His rough tongue laps at my lips before he takes my clit ever so gently in his mouth and sucking at it softly. I'm squirming, squealing.
As he swirls his tongue around my clit, suddenly I feel him push in with his finger, and before long he coaxes a loud moan from me as the energy coils inside of me, ready to break into a thousand stars. Then it happens, I come, but he won't release me. He keeps the feeling going and I thrash around on the bed until I've come three times in short succession.
“Now you're ready for me,” he growls, and I can only whimper in response. I've never simultaneously felt so worn out, and still so ready for more. He climbs on top of me, his massive cock in one hand.
“You want this?” he asks.
“God, yes,” I breathe. I wanted it as soon as I laid eyes on him.
“You sure?” He teases me with the head of his cock, and our eyes meet again. There's something more in those eyes, a depth that I don't expect from a one-night thing. Not that I'm some kind of expert. It's been a long time since I've even been in a man's bed, but when I imagine having an affair, I don't expect to see a real soul inside.
He quickly sheathes himself then thrusts inside me, slowly at first, and then pushes all the way in, and I clutch him. It feels so good, so hard and unrelenting. I wrap my legs around him, and our hips meet and collide. He withdraws to the last inch and thrusts all the way in again. I'd almost forgotten how good sex could be. Every thrust makes me feel more and more whole, more and more myself, and more deserving of pleasure.
I cry out, wildly and freely. I don't have to pretend. I can be exactly who I am around him because I don't want anything more from him than this—his hot cock and strong arms around me. He moans along with me, and with every move of his expert hips we move closer and closer until we both come together; he sends jets of his hot seed inside me, and my body quivers and convulses around him.
When we finish, he lays down beside me, pushes a strand of hair off of my face, and kisses me tenderly. Then his eyes close, and with his arms wrapped around me, he falls asleep, his breathing changing.
I remain awake in the throes of afterglow from the most satisfying experience I've ever had, before snuggling closer to him and falling asleep as well.
When the first light hits my eyes, searing straight into my brain, I can't figure out where I am at first. All I know is that my tongue is so fuzzy it feels like squirrels nested inside my mouth and my head is pounding. Then I realize there's a big, tatted, meaty arm around me. I turn my head and see him. The face of the man I banged last night. It's all coming back to me: the dancing, the drinks, the alley. The cab ride. Oh God, the sex. It was incredible.
I turn and look at his face again. The dark hair, the stubble a little longer than yesterday night, the fringe of eyelashes, the strong jaw. He's definitely beautiful, and also definitely trouble. I need to get out of here.
Carefully extricating myself from under his arm, so as not to awaken him, I slide out of the bed. Luckily it’s one of those mattresses that feels like a soft pillow wherever you lay, and I don't bounce him awake. I try a door, and it's a huge walk-in closet. Oh yeah, forgot he's rich. The next door leads into a sumptuous marble bathroom, all black stone and mirrors—in which I can see my shame al
l too clearly.
It's that moment that I realize I’m supposed to be at work for my first day. My phone must be in my pocket or purse, and I have no idea what time it is. Oh Lord, Odell, what have you done? You're always such a good girl! I splash soap and water over my face to rid myself of the raccoon eyes that are the remains of last night's makeup and dry on the plushest, softest towel I've ever felt. The way my head feels I want to curl up in this towel and try to die, but I can't. Gotta get home stat. I hope it's early enough I can just rush out and grab a taxi. It's time to get out of here. Slipping out the door as quietly as I can, I see that Loverboy is still sleeping. Perfect. I slide my jeans on, grab my purse and tiptoe as soundlessly as I can out of the nicest apartment I've ever been in. So strange when he's so rough and ready. Who is this guy?
3
Gryphon
I lay as still as I can as she slips through the apartment. The difficult part is not letting my hangover get the best of me. She'd definitely know I was awake if I threw up all over the side of the bed. Luckily I’m not that far gone. As soon as I hear the latch click on the door, I roll over and stare at the ceiling. Whew, what a night. What a woman.
Another notch in the bedpost, I tell myself. Just one of many. But something does feel different about this girl. Even if we decided to stay anonymous, didn't even know each others' names, there's something about her that really intrigues me. It makes me want to see her again. Aside from her gorgeous lips and curves for days. Maybe it's how classy she seems despite her obvious wild side. It’s like she was just stepping out and living out all her fantasies, but in real life, she’s a haughty, high-class chick. A girl that would never go for someone like me.
She must have been able to see that I was trash through and through. That's why she wouldn't tell me her name—she knows that I'm just good for a fuck and that's it. I get up, drag my ass to the bathroom, turn on the shower and step into its bracing spray. Good for a fuck, I think again, as my cock quickly hardens to rock in my hand. She was definitely good for a fuck. And more than that. I remember her soft, sweet, dripping pussy and how it felt to move inside her, caressing her with my cock as she wrapped herself around me. Definitely good for a fuck. That is one thing for damn sure.
The soap lubes my hand as I stroke, my other hand propping me up against the wall. Her lips, her eyes. The way she looked at me when I entered her. She is way more than beautiful. She's radiant, sophisticated, smart and sexy. Damn sexy. I picture her smooth brown body on top of me, shimmying down onto my stiff cock and calling my name.
But she doesn't know your name, says a nasty voice in my head.
Still hot, I decide. Still very fucking hot.
But you will never have a woman like that, the little voice interrupts me again. You're trailer trash, no matter how much money you have in your pocket. No matter how much your mortgage is.
Damn that voice. I grimace, and take myself to completion, now imagining her on her stomach and claiming her fine, tight ass as mine. Pearlescent cum shoots out of my cock, more than usual. I’m impressed with myself, and impressed with her. She’s woken me up.
I give my hair a quick wash, and shave my growing beard in the no-fog mirror built into the shower wall. Gotta look extra impressive for my appointment with the lawyer today.
It's not going to be easy to seem contrite in this situation, but that's only because I'm just so very fucking angry. I don't know how I'm going to convince anyone that I never laid a hand on Sabrina with the background I’m saddled with, but the fact is I didn't. I would never. I get all my aggressions out on the field, where I'm supposed to. I don't hit women.
I catch myself in the full-length mirror as I dry off. Tattoos, ripped muscles, massive, powerful body. It's pretty tough for people to see me and realize that I'm not the intimidating hulk I might appear to be. They judge a book by its cover. And it's always been that way. Ever since I was a little boy.
“Gryphon James!” I start out of a sound sleep. “Come to the front of the class!”
Oh, shit. I’m caught. I pull my too big, lanky body from the small desk and walk up to the front of the room, careful not to hit my sore muscles and to keep my head up. My foster dad was wailing on me last night, and he may have done some real damage this time—going by the stiffness and pain, at least.
“Hurry up, young man,” growls Miss Emory. You’d think a woman in a flowered shirt and a cardigan couldn’t sound this threatening, but Miss Emory makes it an art.
“Yes ma'am,” I answer. I'm terrified, but I force myself not to show it—gotta keep a strong front. I quicken my pace a bit. Darryl in the second row sticks out his foot, trying to trip me but I kick him instead, earning myself another demerit. Christ, two more, and I get detention for a week. Which means another beating from “Dad”.
She hands me the chalk. “Now do you want to show us how to do this problem?” Endless numbers and symbols cover the green board. I'm not at all sure which one she means. I rub the back of my neck with my hand. “Yes ma'am,” I answer again in hopes that the answer will become clear if I stare at it long enough.
But instead of becoming clearer, the numbers start to blur due to the tears that are welling in my eyes. The tapping of her foot punctuates my thoughts.
“Well, Gryphon?” Her ‘teacher voice’ is in full effect, with all its nuances of disapproval. “You don't know how to do it, do you?” I hide a sniffle under a cough. “Perhaps you shouldn't be such a good for nothing, always sleeping in class!” Her voice is strangely triumphant and whiny.
I take aim at her. “Perhaps if you were a better teacher, I wouldn't,” I shoot back, and drop the chalk in front of her. Shit. I've done it now. I'm going to get whooped again tonight. After a moment of stunned silence, the class erupts in jeers and laughter as I strut back to my desk. Darryl's foot stays where it is under his chair, though he makes sure to give me a grim look.
I do an exaggerated bow at my desk, putting my hands in front of my stomach.
Miss Emory is none too happy with me. She scribbles furiously at her desk before holding a piece of paper out to me.
“Take this to the principal's office,” she spits. “Gryphon James, if you don’t remember any other single thing from my class, just remember this: you'll never amount to anything.”
“Why don't you tell me something I don't know,” I ask her, as I rip the paper from her hand. The kids hoot and holler.
As I leave the room, she says to the other children, “Now let this be a lesson to you kids. Do not think you should be like Gryphon James. You may think he's cool, but no matter what he does, he's always going to be a low-class good-for-nothing.”
Alone in the hall, I fight back the tears and then I punch the next locker I see, leaving a small fist-sized dent in it. I don't know how to win in this world.
And win is exactly what I have to do with this Sabrina situation. That bitch is trying to steal everything I’ve worked for, everything I've managed to achieve through all the years of working my ass off on the field. Years of perfecting my craft, practicing any and every chance I could, mainly so I didn’t have to go home and face my foster family. I'd rather drop and give my coach a million “twenties” rather than see my drunken foster dad's angry eyes grow an even paler red before he'd start to hit me.
My agent told me I had to get the best lawyer I could. He said I needed to get in front of this thing and make sure the world knew I wasn't guilty. Problem is, I feel guilty even though I didn't do any of the shit she says I did. Even though she's trying to take all my money, and my hard-won reputation as the best ballplayer around, I still feel like trash. First round draft pick and all that goes with it will go to shit if I get charged with domestic violence. Her word against mine. She probably has pictures, who knows, but I am not the one at fault. So why do I feel that way?
She almost makes me want to hit her, accusing me of that kind of thing, though I never would in a million years. That's the problem with these goddamn gold-digging bitches. They g
et their claws into you and then try to rip everything you worked for away.
That girl from last night wouldn't do something like that, but then again you can never know. She’s too classy, and she’s right. It’s best to keep things anonymous—that way nobody gets hurt. One and done, everybody gets what they want. Besides, it doesn’t seem she is hurting for money. She had some pretty bomb-ass accessories.
I spit out my toothpaste, wipe my face, and go to put on my best suit: a custom-made Italian suit that makes me look killer, along with a Brooks Brothers shirt and tie to slip over my tatted torso and biceps. I’ve always loved Brooks Brothers because it reminds me of my alma mater, Brooks U. Though I would never have been able to afford even one of their shirts back in the day. Nah, I barely had anything back then. Just true friends. I miss them.
“Gryphon James, you'll never amount to anything,” I say to myself, mimicking Miss Emory’s attitude. “Just the starting QB on the winningest football team in the league.” But it all feels hollow.
Why? Sabrina.
4
Odell
“So what happened with Loverboy?” I hear as I put the phone to my ear. Of course, it's Sandra. She wants to get the gossip on last night's conquest, and she wants it now.
“Wouldn't you like to know,” I demur, smiling despite myself. She usually gets the full scoop, but I’m not sure how much I want to tell her about this one. The sex was fantastic, but in some ways strangely sweeter and sexier than I would have imagined coming from a man like him. Makes me feel a little—private about it.
