I could have pulled away. Could have adjusted my stance, squared my shoulders, and hit him with a right cross–something I was trying to get the women in my Wednesday night kickboxing class to perfect.
But I didn’t.
Instead I opened my mouth to accept his tongue, which he slid in deftly.
As Wyclef continued to make the crowd party as though they were parading up and down Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn on Labor Day, Ryan and I kissed as if we were fucking.
Ravenous.
Forceful.
Deep.
Our tongues were out of control as though they were following Wyclef’s orders.
Marlene had told me once that her ex, Steve, fucked as if he’d invented the act. She’d almost been right, but Kyra’s ex, Myles, could have given Steve a tutorial. I didn’t know how well Ryan could fuck, but if it was anything like his kiss, then he deserved a medal.
It had been awhile since I’d been fucked. More than six months to be exact. Before Kyra. Before the lesson she’d tried to teach me. The lesson that fucked with me more than I’d ever admit to anyone. One that I barely admitted to myself.
The crowd in S.O.B.’s went wild suddenly. Shakira just stepped onto the stage to perform her record-breaking collaboration with Wyclef, “Hips Don’t Lie.”
The volume grew.
People screamed.
Ryan kissed me. Demonstrated what his tongue could do to me. He threw his arm around my waist. Pulled me into him. Pressed his dick against me. It was hard. So fucking hard.
More than six months.
My pussy was wet. Dripping. In need of being pounded.
Ryan’s dick throbbed to Wyclef and Shakira’s rhythm.
I pushed against it, my hips refusing to lie, letting him know they wanted to be held firmly.
Wyclef and Shakira made the revelers inside of the club lose their minds.
My pussy gushed liquid fire.
Wyclef and Shakira were at the breakdown now. Wyclef was rapping. No one inside of the club was standing still, save for two people fucking with their lips.
As Wyclef finished his rap and Shakira began singing again, Ryan pulled away suddenly and looked down at me. His eyes were intense, dark, filled with promise and purpose. He said, “Do you still want that drink?”
I looked back at him. My pussy throbbed. Erupted again.
Wyclef and Shakira said, “No fighting.”
No fighting.
I was on the job and I wasn’t going to fight it.
I said, “Let’s go.”
Ryan smiled arrogantly. It turned me on.
I turned and headed for the exit.
Ryan was a step behind.
18
At S.O.B.’s.
Standing beside the bar.
Lip-locked while Wyclef and Shakira made everyone’s hips move, while theirs told no lies.
Ryan and I were oblivious. To the revelers. To the sounds coming through the speakers. Oblivious. We were going at it, our tongues acting out pornographic scenes we created in our minds. At S.O.B.’s it wasn’t real. Wasn’t tangible. We were just kissing. Just mentally fucking.
Now, in the middle of the king-sized bed in the closest hotel we could find, the fucking was very, very real.
I was on top. My heels were flat on the mattress. My knees were bent at ninety-degree angles. My fingers were clasped around the headboard. I wanted to feel each and every thrust in the worst way.
I flexed my quadriceps, pushed myself up to the tip of Ryan’s latex-covered shaft, and dropped myself down. Hard. I was in control. Taking it the way I wanted it. Taking it as deep as I needed it. I flexed my quads again, pushed myself up, and slammed myself down.
Ryan said, “Shit,” as I tightened my walls around his deliciously hard shaft. He said, “Shit,” again as I bore down and moved my hips counterclockwise.
“Shit.”
He clamped his hands around my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, and thrust upward, trying to send his dick into my abdomen. It hurt. Gave me the chills.
I looked down at him. Beads of sweat glistened on his bald head and over his sculpted chest. I said, “Do it again.”
His ego stroked, he did. Harder this time.
It hurt even more.
I loved it.
I constricted the walls of my pussy. Felt his shaft pulsate.
His eyes closed to slits as he bit down on his bottom lip. I could see it in his eyes and in the tightening of his jaw; his release was coming.
So was mine.
Bumps rose along my arms as I pressed down on him and rocked my hips back and forth. The friction made me moan. Made me “Oooh.” Made me close my eyes. Made me arch my back, raise my chin to the ceiling. My hands were still fastened around the headboard as I moved faster. My breathing quickened. My heart beat heavily.
Ryan said, “Goddamn . . . goddamn . . . shit . . . shit . . .”
I turned the speed and intensity up a notch. Ryan had been keeping up with me, but now I was in a gear that didn’t exist.
He couldn’t handle it.
He said, “Shit, Lisette. Shit. I can’t hold it.”
I moaned.
Increased my speed even more.
Ryan said, “Shiiiiit!” and bucked upward as he exploded into his condom.
His thrusts made me gasp. Made me grit my teeth. Made me release the headboard and place my palms on his chest, as lava erupted from deep inside of me.
It felt . . . felt . . . felt so, so fucking good.
I dug my nails into his skin.
Ryan bucked several times and cursed again.
I worked my hips until my gushing ceased, and then sat still.
My heart was pounding as I took slow, deep breaths. Ryan looked up at me and smiled. “So . . . was it good for you?”
I looked down at him. I could have told him that he’d been impressive. Could have said that he and Myles were neck and neck. But I’d stroked his ego enough.
I slid off of him, rose from the bed, and pointed to his pecs. There were scratches where my fingernails had been. “The Mrs. won’t be too happy about those.”
He shrugged. “The Mrs. has no sex drive. She’ll never notice.”
I cocked an eyebrow. Whether his wife had a sex drive or not, Ryan was a natural-born womanizer. It didn’t matter how good the woman was. It didn’t matter how potent, sweet, tight, or wet her pussy was, men like Ryan–men whose dicks couldn’t be kept in check–they could never be satiated. For them, cheating wasn’t about the act. Cheating was just about the need to feed their ego. There was a power to being unfaithful. They were taken men, yet with their looks, their virility and their charm, they had the ability to make a woman say to hell with her wedding rings and the fact that they would simply be regarded as just the other woman or in many cases, just an easy lay. The Ryans of the world got off on that.
I stared at Ryan as he lay back on the bed propped up by his elbows. Tall, chocolate with a sculpted physique. His sister-in-law had claimed that his body and his I-love-me-some-me attitude had no effect on her. That she’d never given in to any of his advances. Shante was either an in-the-closet lesbian or she’d flat-out lied.
Marlene had said that there were still good men in the world. That not all of them were lying, unfaithful, or abusive assholes. Not all of them were Ryans. I know there was truth to that. After all, one good man had rescued me from a rainstorm and saved my life. But as far as I was concerned, men like that were few and far between.
I said, “Too bad for her.”
He shrugged again. “It’s her loss and your gain.”
“My gain? Are you implying that I’ll want more?”
Ryan gave my naked body the once-over, bit down on his bottom lip a little as his eyes narrowed into an animalistic glare, and gave me a Terrance Howard–laced smile. “You’re forgetting about my uncanny ability.”
Ryan had game. I would give him that.
Lisette Jones would have fallen for the arrogance
. She would have found the smiles, the looks, the style, the body, and the very good dick appealing and addictive. Ryan’s game would have roped her in and then fucked her whole head up.
Ryan looked at me as though I was as pitiful as the long dead and buried Lisette Jones or the countless other pathetic women he’d played before. He looked at me as though I’d already been caught up in his web. He had game and uncanny abilities, but I had them too. And my abilities were going to cost him.
I bent down and picked up my matching black Victoria’s Secret thong and bra, which had been discarded hastily along with the rest of our clothing as we’d made our way to the bed.
“You’re leaving?” Ryan asked.
I slid into my thong. Put my bra on. Grabbed my white shirt and black slacks. I said, “Yes.”
Ryan frowned ever so slightly. He was trying to hide his disappointment. He’d thoroughly expected there to be a round two before we parted. “I was hoping you’d stay for a little bit.”
I put my shirt and pants on, then went to the mirror across from the bed. “I have somewhere to go.”
“At one-thirty in the morning?”
I looked at Ryan through the glass. His eyes had taken a darker turn. I said, “I’m not sure who you’re talking to, but your frigid wife is at home.” My tone was sharp, biting, no-nonsense.
Ryan’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just thought that what happened between us was damn good. Though, it was something we could and, shit, should do again. You may not want to admit it, but I know you do too.”
I pulled out my Lipglass, not lipgloss, from my purse. Wet, Wild, Wonderful by M•A•C. Bronze gold in color. My favorite one in their collection. I turned and faced him.
Tall. Chocolate. And a very good dick.
He was right.
The sex had been damn good.
I thought about feeling it again. I still had a few days before the ruse ended, and I would fuck up his world. Still had a few days to be pounded, to be fucked. Not a necessity, but a perk.
I let my eyes roam over his defined chest, his thick arms.
I thought about it.
But again, I had game too, and part of my game was to make them yearn for more.
I said, “Another time . . . another place.”
“Do you still have my card?” he asked, his voice heavy with disappointment.
No need to lie. I said, “I do.”
Ryan smiled. “Good. Use it this time.”
I gave him a smirk. “Maybe.”
“Just like the possibly?”
“Possibly turned into a no,” I said. “This time I’m saying maybe.”
He nodded. “I’ll accept that.”
I looked at him for a moment and then without saying anything, turned and left.
Game.
He had it.
But his skills were no match for mine.
19
She was late.
The meeting was supposed to have been for three o’clock, at her home, but the meeting place was changed last minute to Starbucks. It was now twenty minutes to four. Aida took an angry sip of her iced caramel Frappuccino and set the cup down hard. It was hot and humid outside. Ninety degrees, but with the humidity it felt like ninety-five. It was the kind of mid-July weather Aida loved. Hot sun, high temperatures accompanied by humidity that clung to the skin like a sleepy child demanding to be held. Most people hid when the weather was like this. They stayed indoors bathing in air conditioning or locked in their cars doing the same, burning gas. They didn’t want to sweat or mess up their hair.
But Aida didn’t mind at all.
She liked the heat. She liked the cotton-thick humidity. Her hair was long, hung down to the middle of her back, but she never cared about it getting messy. She had no problem with sweat. Truth be told, there was something sexy about it to her. On the days when the heat index was high, Aida wore as little as possible. Short shorts. Tank, tube or bikini tops. Flip-flops, never sneakers. She wanted as much of her skin as legally and morally, possible to be exposed to the heat. She liked when sweat ran down her body. She felt it added to her sex appeal.
She wanted to be out in the heat now, enjoying the day, enjoying the ogling that she always got. Her occupation afforded her a lifestyle in which she didn’t have to be stuck slaving away in an office as a peon or standing on her feet eight hours a day working retail somewhere. Her occupation gave her freedom from having to deal with bullshit.
Today she should have been out, sweating, getting tan, but instead she was sitting at a square table that wobbled, wearing a chic red blouse, a pair of stretch jeans, and black pumps, sipping on a Frappuccino, waiting for another desperate housewife in need, who couldn’t show up for her fucking appointment on time.
Aida took another swallow of her drink, slammed the cup down again, and then pushed her chair back.
“Fuck this shit.”
Patience had never been a friend of hers. She’d waited long enough. Vivian Steele would just have to deal with the bullshit until she was ready for help–if ever.
“Aida?”
Aida was just about to rise out of her chair. She looked up to see a pair of apologetic, almond-shaped, brown eyes staring down at her. Aida looked her over. Attractive with thin lips, a slender but pronounced nose, shoulder-length brown hair with blond highlights, and bronze-colored skin from overtanning. Her upper torso was thick, but curvaceous. She was a B cup, with wide hips and short, thick legs. She looked Greek or Italian. Aida couldn’t tell which.
Aida said, “Yes?”
The woman put her hand to her chest. A gaudy wedding ring encrusted with diamonds glinted in the café’s light. “I’m Vivian Steele. We have an appointment.”
“Yes . . . for three o’clock,” Aida said, refusing to conceal her annoyance.
Vivian nodded. “Please forgive me for being late. My husband had a last-minute trip and needed to have some shirts ironed. It took longer than I thought it would.”
Aida scowled slightly. She’d set up a meeting to have her unfaithful husband trapped, yet she was bending over backwards to iron his goddamned shirts.
Idiot, Aida thought.
She said, “No problem.”
Vivian Steele sat down. “Have you been here long?”
“Since three o’clock.”
Vivian looked at her watch. It too was riddled with diamonds. It looked very expensive. She frowned. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m usually not one to run behind.”
“It’s fine,” Aida said. “I usually give clients a thirty-minute grace period anyway.”
“Thanks for giving me an extra ten minutes.”
Aida nodded.
Vivian stared at her long and hard for a few seconds. It was intense and made Aida slightly uncomfortable, though she didn’t really know why.
“You’re Puerto Rican?” Vivian asked.
“Yes,” Aida answered, wondering what that had to do with anything.
“I can tell by the accent. And your looks, of course. I’ve been there a couple of times. Beautiful island. Were you born there?”
“Yes,” Aida answered curtly.
“I’ve thought about living there. Had to be great to have grown up there.”
“I moved to New York when I was four.”
“Oh.”
Aida cleared her throat. “So, tell me why you’re here.” It was time to get down to business. Enough of the small talk.
Vivian sighed. “My husband, Griffin, he . . . he . . .”
“He . . . ?”
Vivian sighed again. “He’s unfaithful. Well . . . he’s having an affair.”
Aida nodded. “And how do you know this?”
“I found text messages and pictures in his phone. He was taking a shower when a text came through. His phone’s usually off. He has two cell phones. One is for personal use. The other is for business. He travels a lot, working for the government. His business phone is for international calls. When he’s home, whi
ch is once or maybe twice a month, he usually has it off and just uses the personal one. I don’t know why he had it on this day. Well . . . I do know why.”
“What did the texts say?” Aida asked. It wasn’t really pertinent information that she needed. She was just being nosy.
Vivian frowned again. “It said ‘Hi, sexy. I’m missing you and those kisses of yours already. Hurry back here.’” Vivian paused and dug into her purse, a Coach bag, and removed a travel pack of tissues. She pulled one out and blotted her eyes, which had begun to water. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I swore I wasn’t going to cry. After I saw the text, I went through the phone and found pictures of him with another female. I think she’s from the Philippines. He goes there a lot. In some of the pictures, they were kissing.”
Aida nodded. “And did you confront him?”
Vivian shook her head. “No.”
“Why not?”
Vivian dabbed at her eyes again. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“So what did you do with what you found?”
“Unfortunately I never got a chance to do anything.”
“Why not?”
“Before I could even think about what to do, he turned the shower off. I panicked and closed the phone and put it back down where it was quickly before he came out of the bathroom.”
“OK. And did you get another chance to go through the phone after that?”
Vivian nodded. “I did.”
“And?”
“And the pictures and texts were all gone.”
“Did you check the phone completely?”
“Yes. The inbox, the outbox, the draft folder. Everything was gone. Well, everything not work-related.”
“And you never said anything to him?”
“No.”
Aida shook her head. She never understood women like Vivian. “So basically, you have no proof that your husband has been cheating?”
Vivian frowned. “No.”
“My associate says you think he’s been cheating on you for a few years.”
“Yes.”
“Have you found pictures or texts before?”
Vivian shook her head. “No. This was the first time. But I’ve smelled other women on him. Well, other women’s perfume. And I’ve found strands of hair that were completely different from mine.”
Eye for an Eye Page 8
