by Love Belvin
“How did you do on that algebra quiz?” I tested out my theory.
She’d just sucked in water, and I waited for her to swallow it. “B plus.”
“That the best you could do?”
She shook her head, drinking more. “Didn’t have time to study much when I got back from Jersey. Had to go right into training for my fight.”
She picked up her jacket and towel to leave, effectively ending our time together. So, I followed suit. I decided she was in a mood and I’d leave her there. It was weird to me. When I won games, I was on an impenetrable high until the next game. But that was me. Not all athletes were built the same.
We tottered toward the entrance of the track park, her body displaying the fatigue mine endured. “I guess I’ll see you later when you come get this massage.” I couldn’t shake my mirth.
I had practice in twenty minutes then a massage to help loosen up for my game tomorrow against Southern University Jaguars.
“No.” That one syllable, one word answer was evidentiary of what I’d sensed about her mood.
It fucking nipped at me. My mind was subconsciously reeling from that bite of rejection to even my playfulness, but not enough for me to let off of her. We slowed just outside of the gate, prepared to go our separate ways.
“You know, one of these days you’re gonna tell me what your hang-up with getting massages is.” I came to a full stop, gazing her way. “I’m believe that’s a requirement in boxing.” In fact, I was sure it was.
Tori never stopped, and actually continued in the opposite direction, walking backwards. “That would require me telling you what I’ve got against people touching me, period. I don’t like being touched.”
And with that, she turned and took off. Scoffing off the sting in that, I headed for the football field. Tori had class, and I had practice.
“Spence…” I felt a nudge on my back that was out of deep tissue sequence. “Spence.”
I glanced up from the padded donut face cradle, eyes brushing against the big ass clock on the wall unintentionally and registered it was just after two o’clock. My head felt groggy from falling asleep on the table. It wasn’t the first time, but today, Coach Green kicked our asses in practice.
My tight, blinking eyes lifted to the trainer, Devon, and he tossed his head toward the door. When my regard followed, Tori’s frame, curled into the doorframe came into view, filling more than three quarters of its height. I rubbed my eyes and was able to see she’d changed into slim-fitted jeans, a long-sleeved Panthers t-shirt, and combat boots. My defogging brain slowly registering I’d last seen her damn near eight hours ago. I’d been showered, but hadn’t dressed yet past my boxers.
“Everything okay?” I hated the gruff in my voice.
It made me feel disoriented and vulnerable. I had class in an hour, an exam no less. But Tori… She carried a diametrically different energy than this morning. There was a smile in her eyes and one begging to lift on her tight, glossed lips. Her head was against the door with comfort, and I couldn’t see her hands that were behind her curvy frame.
Her eyes swiped against Devon, who’d been waiting.
He cleared his throat. “I’m actually done and need to make a call to my daughter’s school before the teacher’s lunch is over. When I’m finished, I’ll come back to stretch you.”
I nodded, lifting to rest my elbows on the table. Tori shifted closer inside the room as Devon moved to leave, closing the door behind. She bit her lip, dipping to grab the rolling stoop. After squatting on it, she pushed off her feet to scoot toward me. She was close. Smiling.
My face tightened. “What’s up?” I questioned her giddiness.
“I got my paper grade.”
“Paper?”
“Will you wake up?” She giggled. Tori was so close, I could smell her hair products and the bubble gum she chewed. “My paper on George Lester Jackson, stupid!”
My eyes closed in realization. “Oh!” When they opened, she was handing me the stapled stack of papers. Feeling too relaxed, I sat up to face her, my legs hanging from the table. When I thought she’d back away to give me the space I assumed—at least—she required, I was met with an eager Tori. Her eyes were big, expectant. “Let me see.” I snatched the papers from her hand, for some reason, wanting the nasty vibes from her I was used to.
It was large and legible in the top right-hand corner. 92 A-. I thumbed through the papers, paying cursory glances to the red ink underlines and notes left by Professor Brown. Most of them were of Tori’s lack of usage of punctuation. She missed quite a few comma opportunities and even included one or two unnecessary exclamation points. Her passion for parts of the piece had slipped. This was an informative piece, Tori should have been neutral.
I lowered the paper to peer down at her. “Yo, you know the purpose of a comma—”
My abs lurched and upper body jerked back at the feel of her hand on my dick. Shocked as fuck, my wide eyes shot down at Tori. Her face was vacant, lips pressed together, rubbing against her teeth as she fondled me. My cock immediately registered shit my brain couldn’t fathom so quickly. Her hands were manipulative, conversant as they worked inside the obtuse opening in the front of my boxers. My dick twitched at the skin on skin contact.
The tent in my boxer made me uncomfortable with Tori in the same purview. There was no room inside the cotton for my dick and her hand. But she found a way to grip the base of me and stroke with intense pressure. Gripping with weight from not being able to move or breathe, I was confused by the sight before me. Tori fucking McNabb used her other hand to pull at the elastic of my waist and tug it back to allow my cock to plop out.
Fuck…
I didn’t recognize the most intimate part of myself. The veiny swelling of my shaft, the smoothness of my engorged head—none of it was familiar in her presence. Tori managed her hand from the opening and transferred the manipulated touch to beneath the bulb of me. She used her index finger and thumb to create a ring of pleasure, twisting around me, unfurling a delicious rhythm. I was no longer shocked by the audacity of her touch. This was the magic of a skill set there was no fucking way Tori fucking McNabb could possess. She didn’t even like being touched, per her claim.
Her head lifted, eyes capturing my tight gaze, and I was able to identify a transitory presence of the girl I knew. She disappeared just as quickly, and then Tori’s blank expression returned. There was a surreal presence in the small room. The chemistry I’d cultivated with this girl had been absent, and all that was present from her was her shell. Intrigued as fuck, I gave in to the heavy energy filling the room.
My jaw dropped as her glossed lips parted and she leaned in with her head, protracting her tongue to run it up the underside of my throbbing dick. Between her handmade ring beneath my swollen head and the pressure from the tip of her tongue, my neck gave out and my head rolled backward. Muscles in my thighs contracted in sync with her movements as she did it over and over again.
When Tori let go of me, my eyes burst open and head inclined in just enough time to see her head near me and mouth slip over the head of my cock. Her tongue twirled around, and it pained me not to touch her. I didn’t do this. It had been years since I’d let a woman blow my damn mind without orchestrating it. Having one explore me with exceptional skill hadn’t happened since I was a kid, encountering one of the most recognizable names in Black porn. But even NormaJean let me touch, gave me permission to express my pleasure.
I’d gripped heads with a fast passion to the end game, kissed pussies I didn’t care to see the next day, but this was different. This was Tori fucking McNabb and I dare not lay a goddamn finger on her. Without warning, I knew there’d be ramifications. It was an unnamed awareness of her handicap I couldn’t understand. Why had it captivated me in these short months? The handicap I wanted to exasperate and feed, but not reveal. It was that unnamed handicap that made me want to infuriate and soothe this girl.
And right now, her busy tongue and mouth and hands jerki
ng my dick, like the perverted innocence she possessed, made me want to see her this determined for my pleasure while tears fell from her eyes and snot tracked down her face. I wanted Tori to see herself in the mirror, emptied of everything within but my heavy cock pounding her pussy that sobbed as hard as her face.
I tried squeezing my eyes closed to the imagery. They were too potent and vastly fucking inappropriate. It didn’t matter that Tori fucking McNabb had both of her hands slipping over the undulating, throbbing veins while sucking on my warming head. I couldn’t do it. In all good processes of my brain, I could not connect the Tori I knew with the one blowing my mind as she handled my cock like a fucking maven.
But in due time, we had to reconcile everything. When my fucking belly flipped, feet curled, and goddamn balls heaved, I had to accept the action of my cum spurting in her busy mouth. And even then, she tipped her hand of skills by adjusting the pressure and jerking pace as I did. Enduring the beautiful, noisy chaos in my mind, I prepared for Tori to release her mouth from me. She had to know I’d started busting by now.
She didn’t…
Fucking.
KaToria.
McNabb.
Swallowed.
Every.
Fucking.
Drop.
Of.
Me.
Feeling warm sensations all over from post-orgasmic waves, I tried catching my damn breath, struggling to do it quietly. When I was able to open my eyes again, Tori’s nostrils flashed wide as she tried catching hers, too. Swollen lips and pooled eyes, the scary ass posing Tori I knew had reappeared. Did she regret it this soon? Did she not expect for me to lose my goddamn mind like this when she sucked me like she did?
The fear of her coyness returning propelled my anger. I grabbed her savagely by the jaw and shifted until our noses were mere inches apart.
“Wha—why did you do that?”
Tori’s forehead strained, her breathing grew choppy. Then her nose lifted as though she’d cry any second. “To say thank you,” she whispered.
I growled, fucking angry beyond comprehension. “For what?”
She heaved hard, struggling to control her lungs. “For the fight…the paper…” Her eyes finally closed. “For everything.”
My chest fucking opened to painful degrees, exposed to her torture, her gratitude, and the sneaky and unnamed facet of her manipulation. The apology for clowning her, the restitutions of my time, money—creativity of her fake date—the balmy break in grieving from her unexpected presence at the funeral. All of it. My mouth dropped along with every muscle in my face as realization hit. I’d been finessed…by a goddamned tomboy.
I didn’t know if I should feel betrayed or delighted and throw her over this table and fuck the shit out of her Machiavellian ass. Before I could decide, Tori was stuffing my deflated dick beneath the elastic of my waist and pushing off the stool to leap to the corner, where she picked up my charging Blackberry.
“Yeah, ma,” she uttered. “When?”
Just as I was about ask her what the fuck was she doing, a blast of air blew over me.
“I forgot my watch.” Devon reached across the foot of the bed. “You ready?” he asked standing straight as he strapped it on.
My head swung to Tori, who squatted on the floor, carrying on a fake conversation with her mother while facing the wall. My mind spun, confusion in every corner of it.
“Okay. I gotta go,” she urged. “I’m on Ashton’s phone and his trainer needs him.”
My eyes squeezed closed and face collapsed as I figured out her smooth cover. Tori stood, grabbed her paper, and glided toward the door. “Thanks for this, Spence.” Spence? She uttered the name like she was a teammate. “I’ll let you know about our meeting in the library next week. May have to cancel.” And she was out.
That was it. The door closed, leaving me alone with a clueless ass Devon, and a reeling mind.
Just like her writing paper, Tori didn’t express commas to pause and leave room for proper perception. There were no context cues…no hints of her attraction to me or experience with sex. Hell, I’d started to believe she had no sexuality. But she could sure shut shit down…in the ring, a fucking fantasy.
That those were her periods. Where she ended things.
-Now-
“I don’t know about these.” I point to the boxing trunks on the iPad screen. “I’m good with the color scheme, but purple in this material is too risky. Let’s go back to the magenta ones again,” I explain to my assistant, who’s showing me submissions from a seamstress, pitching her designs for my next fight. “Maybe I’m not feeling the material. It’s too shiny.”
“Isn’t this her second submission?” Elle asks just as she catches the attention of a passing waiter outside of our private room. “We have, at least, a dozen more designers who are waiting to present their work.”
She’s snappy. This upcoming fight is special to me, so I’m doing something I’ve never done with so many things, including encouraging up and coming fashion designers to submit for my boxing ensemble for the fight. Elle hates that this is just another thing on my plate pre-training. Me being anxious as fuck since she stopped by my place last night to go over my training travel lends itself to her snippiness, too.
“My favorite is The Sewing Heir. Her joints are fire!” Lidia, my assistant, is too excited to share.
“I know.” I sigh, placing my chin on my standing hand over the table. “But she was the first to send her designs in, and I don’t want to miss anyone because we’re blown away by the very first submission.”
The waiter approaches the table with quick speed, taking long lunges. “How can I help you, ma’am?”
“Prosecco for me,” Elle orders then looks my way. “A thumb of Mauve?” I shake my head. My nerves are too bad for robust brandy. “Two thumbs of Mauve for her. Pronto,” she demands.
Before I can speak, he takes off in double the speed he came in on.
“I’m going to ask this designer about the material and will upload more submissions for you,” Lidia shares before she stands from the table, checking her wrist for the time.
I nod my head, dismissing her. It feels like a pack of elephants are dancing on my belly; I’m so goddamn nervous. I lick my lips, and while shifting in my chair, my attention subconsciously moves toward Elle.
When she begins chewing on the inside of her mouth, tooting her orange matte lips and flaring her nostrils, I admit, “I think I should sit this one out.”
“You can’t,” she returns even faster. Then Elle leans into the table. “Why the fuck are you so nervous about this? You’ve done dozens of interviews since being signed to Love in Action, possibly more before then. This is the Porsche of all print opportunities here, and you’ve got a case of the fucking jitters I can’t deal with.”
Porsche…
My eyes close at the memory of that brand of vehicle. It was the start of my deception at Blakewood State University.
Then my eyes pop open. “Elle.”
Her brows meet. “What?”
“Didn’t you say you were working on that mouth of yours?”
“I did.” She nods. “Just like you said you’d do this interview with Sports Illustrated.”
My face twists in agitation similar to the tumbling in my belly. “Don’t be an insensitive ass, Elle.”
“I’m trying not to be, but the little history you shared with this guy was thirteen years ago. You’re fucking Tori McNabb now. Who gives a shit if he’s the slightest bit displeased with a decision you made to partner with a major brand or one to turn down a fight with a particular fighter who wanted an opportunity at you? You’ve made an impactful career without a degree from the Blakewood State.” She gestures “pompous” with her hands and neck. “You’re a success story, which is why your paths are crossing all these years later.” She drops her chin and shakes her head. “He’s here to put it in print—holy shit.” Her eyes go beyond my head. “Is that him?”
Unable to
feel my stomach in the span of one point three seconds, I turn to gaze over my shoulder. Ashton’s promenading toward us with his head low. And even without the benefit of seeing his face, I detect hair on his face as he yanks on his left ear. Warmth blooms in my belly from the familiarity of that one trait of his after all these years. From my vantage point, I can tell he’s thinned out considerably. I turn to face the table again in search of the Mauve that has not been delivered to the table yet. Then I begin a countdown in my head.
10…9…8…7…6…5…4…
“KaToria.” As unlikely as it is for his voice to have changed, it sounds velvetier and too versed with my full first name.
Hesitantly, I lift my gaze to meet him and find his teeth beautifully ivory hued, and full lips shaped with sensual tokens of yester-year.
“Ashton?”
He’s dressed casually in jeans, a simple white t-shirt, cognac suede jacket, and crisp black leather Bred 9s. Yup. Impossible, but Ashton does seem…taller, athletically slimmer, and definitely more mature in the face—hell…his overall appearance screams grown ass man. His hair, still cut low but a thick, dark, sheen of carpet-like waves at the top of his head. That detail had not changed about him. My hands pushing through the silky breadth of his scalp is still one of my most sensuous acts today.
“Mouth.” Elle chirps so crisp yet quickly, I almost miss the heads up.
I snap my mouth shut and swallow hard.
Ashton chuckles darkly as his head tilts to the side. “Were you expecting someone else?” His voice is as compact and controlled as I remembered it—actually, I’d forgotten all about until seconds ago. The same baritone that wrapped around my brain and squeezed years ago, slithered down my spine, pumping juices between my legs. The most dangerous part of that magical masculine voice is that it didn’t bypass my young heart. “This is our appointed meeting time and place, isn’t it?”
“Of course, it is,” Elle responds as she stands and crosses over me to reach Ashton. She extends her hand. “Elle Hunter.”
“Nice to finally make your acquaintance, Elle.” He accepts, swallowing her pale hand in his mocha grip. “Your reputation more than precedes you and Mr. Hunter. You’ve been building a rapid, all-encompassing empire. Much respect to you.”
