Whos Loving You

by Mary B. Morrison

  I heard a tap on the door. I smiled. “He’s here,” I sang. I slipped on my red, furry high heels. I knew it was Trevor’s guest. Lord, let this one look good. My pussy is percolating. It’s too early in the morning to fuck an ugly trick. I took a deep breath, then opened the door. “Ah yes,” I said. A tall, handsome man stood in the hallway outside my door. Thank you, Jesus! I wanted to snatch his ass inside, throw him on the floor, and ride him righteous.

  “Excuse me, but I must have the wrong room,” he said, smiling at my breasts, then my lips.

  “Are you Grant? Trevor’s partner?”

  “Yes, I am. But, uh—”

  I flashed a sexy smile. “Come on in here. Trevor had to go out for a moment. He’ll be back,” I lied.

  “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m on my way to my office. Tell him to call me later. Our meeting isn’t until tomorrow.”

  Later my ass. Hell to the motherfuckin’ no. This man was unbelievably fine, and he wasn’t going nowhere. My eyes lingered on his too-big-to-hide dick, making my mouth water. I wasn’t fucking him for Trevor; I was going to ride that dick Red Velvet style for myself.

  Gently grabbing his arm, I politely ushered him inside. “Have a seat on the sofa. Make yourself comfortable. Here’s the remote,” I said, smiling at him as I handed him a magazine. Clipping on my Bluetooth, I pretended to call Trevor.

  “Trevor, Mr. Hill is here. He said he has to go to his office,” I said, leaning over the sofa, pretending to reach for the Black Enterprise magazine. Intentionally, I put my breasts in his face. “Trevor is on the phone with his broker,” I lied, sitting really close to Grant. “He said for me to make you comfortable until he gets here.”

  Tap. Tap.

  Grant looked toward the door. “Oh, good. He’s here.”

  Who was that? I hoped Trevor hadn’t reconsidered what I’d said earlier about him getting the deal first. I hurried to the door. My heels clicked against the bottom of my feet. I peeped through the peephole. Who was she? I cracked the door open about an inch. “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “Oh, sorry. I was looking for Trevor. Is he here?” the woman asked.

  She needed to get her room right. Poking my hand outside the door, I pointed next door, then locked my door.

  “Who was it?” Grant asked, looking over his shoulder. “I thought I heard her ask for Trevor.”

  “She was lost. Would you like a mimosa, a glass of orange juice, or champagne?”

  “No, thanks. Maybe I should wait downstairs,” he said as he headed for the door.

  Only if he could get past me first. Untying my halter, I removed it and placed his hands on my firm tits. “It’s okay. I work at Stilettos for Trevor, and from what I’m told, I’m going to be working for you, too.”

  Leading Grant back to the sofa, I sat sideways, facing him.

  “So Trevor sent you, huh?”

  Kneeling before his dick and unzipping his pants, I answered, “Sure did.” Grant wasn’t giving it to me, so I had to take his dick. Easing out the most beautiful dick I’d seen in my life, I gave him a mini dick massage, then placed my juicy lips over his bulging head.

  Grant’s thick, long, smooth dick throbbed in my mouth. “Stand up for a minute,” I said, squeezing his ass. I leaned my head back, then made him fuck me good in my mouth.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” he moaned as precum oozed down my throat.

  His was the sweetest vanilla-cream cum I’d ever tasted in my life. I wanted him to shoot a heavy load in my mouth for breakfast, but I had to feel him inside me before he released the big one.

  He unbuckled his pants. I pulled them down to his ankles, helping him undress while sucking his head and massaging his nuts. Everything about this man was to die for.

  Slowly, I eased his dick out of my mouth, holding him with my hand. “Don’t move,” I said, picking up my purse and pulling out a Magnum XL. Putting the condom on the tip of my tongue, I sucked the tip, kissed his dick, and rolled the latex down his shaft, all the way to his nuts.

  “Now, that’s quite impressive,” he said.

  I slid my pants over my ass, then said, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” I raised my right leg and rested it in his left hand, then lifted my left leg and rested it in his right hand.

  His strong arms then hugged my waist. Locking my ankles behind his back, I rolled my sweet pussy Red Velvet style up and all the way down his dick, making sure he felt my ass squeeze his nuts on the way up and my pussy tighten around his dick all the way down. He held me tight about my waist until he lowered himself to the sofa and sat me on top of him.

  “What the hell. I’m in it now,” he said. “Ride this dick, baby.”

  “Uh,” I moaned. “Uh, uh, uh, uh, uhhh. Hell, yes.” Exhaling, I started singing to him. “Cum for me, Daddy.”

  I was grinding my big, sweet behind so hard, my booty damn near disappeared inside his ass. My middle finger circled my clit. His face tightened, his eyes closed, and his mouth opened. “Oh yeah, Daddy,” I cried and went for it. Passionately, I pressed my mouth against his and kissed him Red Velvet style, inserting my tongue in his mouth, softly sucking his tongue, then easing my tongue back into his mouth. I kissed him the same way he came inside of me—nice and slow.

  “Aw, fuck. Who are you again?” he asked, holding my wet ass in the palms of his hands.

  Seductively, I winked, then whispered in his ear, “I’m Red Velvet, but you can call me Honey.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Honey

  Gazing out the kitchen patio window, I decided that today seemed like yesterday. But it wasn’t. I realized another day had gone by and there were a few differences. Today I removed a bag of diced potatoes from the freezer, selected a package of chicken apple sausages, and placed a loaf of wheat bread next to the toaster. A dozen brown eggs—a standard breakfast item—were in a large, clear bowl next to the salt and pepper.

  I wondered what ingredients of life created the greatest love of all. I felt unjustifiably abandoned and ostracized by Grant. This shit wasn’t right. One day my life seemed perfect; I’d finally met a decent man that I actually enjoyed spending time with. Wasn’t it out of love that the Creator took a rib from a man and gave it to a woman? Well, right about now I could rip through Grant’s abs, snatch out one of his ribs, and beat him over the head with it.

  Relentless, I texted him again: Hi, baby. I miss you.

  I tried analyzing the anger that had suddenly brought me to tears again this morning. I jabbed my index fingers into my temples to suppress the painful throbbing that was exacerbating my frustrations. “I’m ready,” I whispered, placing the chicken apple sausages in the skillet before spreading the potatoes on a cookie sheet and placing them in the oven. “I’m ready to settle down.”

  Could Grant invest so much time into our relationship, then say, “I love you,” and not mean it? “Nah, I don’t think so. He still loves me. He just needs a little more time to come to that realization,” I said aloud. Closing my eyes, I sniffed the long-stemmed white roses centered on my island. The scent reminded me of Grant’s favorite Sean John cologne, Unforgivable.

  I placed the cooked sausages in a Pyrex dish, then covered them with the glass lid.

  Was true love solidified by sex, material possessions, or unconditional acceptance by the beholder? Did love beget happiness? When and how did I fall in love? Out of love? How could love or the lack thereof fester into a hate so volatile the burning sensation could emotionally cremate human beings with suicidal or homicidal thoughts? And how could a deranged person be resuscitated within seconds by one compassionate kiss on the lips? I longed for Grant to kiss my neck, right behind my ear, hold me in his strong arms, and slide his big, thick chocolate dick deep inside my wet, creamy pussy.

  I turned off the oven, leaving the potatoes inside.

  Struggling to maintain my sanity, I picked up a champagne bottle, pressed the opening against my mouth, leaned my head back, then took a huge gulp. I filled a flute
to the rim with champagne, sipped, picked up my phone, then somberly made my way to my bedroom. My girls could scramble, fry, poach, or boil their own eggs this morning. I needed time alone to let go of the pain that was killing me slowly with the nonstop dialogue racing in my head.

  “Breakfast is ready,” I shouted from the foyer and up the stairs before quietly closing my bedroom door. Turning on the flat-screen television mounted on the wall across from my bed, I reclined on the white suede chaise beside the sliding glass door leading to my patio, forcing back my tears.

  “Dammit, Lace! Not again today,” I scolded myself.

  My head rested against the back of the chaise. I closed my eyes. I was no longer that teenage girl with blossoming breasts that my mother envied or the innocent virgin adolescent that my father disowned. I was a thirty-year-old woman who’d only had one person tell me, “I love you.” I was a woman who couldn’t bring her only sister back from her grave or win back the heart of the only man she’d ever loved.

  Sitting up, I texted Grant again. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Please speak to me. I need you.

  Tossing my iPhone onto the floor, I curled my fingers into fists, then knelt beside my chaise, crying profusely into the cushion. “Out of the billions of people in the world, why can’t I find one somebody to love me? My God, is that too much to ask for? Is it? Huh? You’ve given me pain, misery, disappointment, abusive husbands, dysfunctional parents, and you can’t give me one, not one, somebody who truly loves me? Why?”

  Sniffling, I stood in front of the freestanding mirror, staring at my tattered reflection through my sad green eyes. My purple lace boxer panties barely covered my ass. My hair was gathered into an uncombed ponytail. My breasts sat high and firm. My nipples hardened. Goose bumps invaded my pale skin. Despite the way I appeared at the moment, I knew I was gorgeous. Maybe this time my good looks had gotten me into a situation that my heart couldn’t get me out of.

  “Stop taking Grant’s rejection personally,” I said aloud, trying to convince myself. “I am good enough for him. Our breakup isn’t about me.”

  I had never had a positive role model in my life, and my inability to trust men had carved permanent scars into my psyche, leaving me fucked up…in the head. I’d done the unspeakable. A voice whispered in my ear, “Hush, you’re a good woman.”

  Clinging to the hope that we’d get back together, I wanted Grant to love me, yet somehow a part of me felt unworthy of his love. Of any man’s love. If Grant could see me from the inside out, he’d know my truth. I was afraid to become completely vulnerable. What if I told him the whole truth and he turned me in to the police?

  Swallowing the tears that had spilled into my half-filled flute of champagne, I decided I was much better off when I wasn’t in love. My feelings for men were strongly guarded, and the self-centered men I’d encountered were purely sex objects. When I met Grant, I was focused on the grand opening of my counseling agency, eager and ready to provide resources to help as many women as I could get out of abusive situations. If I didn’t pull it together before I walked through the doors of Sweeter Than Honey, I’d be my first and last client.

  My finger circling the rim of my flute, I said aloud, “I’ve got to stop pitying myself.” But I couldn’t let go of the pain. I didn’t know how to let go of the hurt inside of me.

  Unexpectedly, this breathtakingly handsome man had stepped out of my blind spot and into my spotlight, and instinctively, I’d known he was different from the rest. Within a few hours of having met Grant, I’d learned he was intelligent, wealthy, and an excellent kisser and lover. More important, he had a gentle soul that connected to my pulse.

  Once upon a time, he’d cared about me. Wasn’t that love? I hadn’t thrown caution to the wind. I’d thrown my heart in his hands when he’d said, “I want you to meet my mother.”

  Fuck Grant Hill. His ego wasn’t more fragile than mine. How could he ignore my voice mails and text messages? Did two wrongs make him right? Wrong or right, my heart ached. A flat line of disappointment stretched the corners of my mouth toward my ears.

  Three decades of living on this planet called Earth and I had nothing and no one that I cherished, not even myself. The glass for me wasn’t always half full. In fact, for most of my life, my glass had been dry until I suppressed my emotions and took charge of fulfilling my material needs. Having money to the tune of fifty million dollars didn’t make me happy, but it sure as hell enhanced my lifestyle.

  CHAPTER 7

  Grant

  Damn. I can’t believe I let Red Velvet ride my dick like that yesterday. That shit was fucking cosmic. That woman’s pussy was certifiably a lethal weapon. Aw, man, it’s a good thing I have a healthy heart, or she could’ve fucked me into an early grave. And the way she swallowed my dick… I had to stop thinking about her.

  Sitting in my car, parked outside my parents’ house, scrolling through the extensive list of text messages Honey had sent, I squeezed my hard-on, trying to make my erection subside. Since my breakup with Honey, I’d kept every single one of her messages. My voice mail was always a few messages away from full. I’d saved Honey’s messages so I could hear, “Hey, baby. I miss you,” anytime I wanted.

  Damn! Out of all the respectable, beautiful black women in the world, why did I have to fall for her? Couldn’t she see how much I cared about her? I seriously wanted to press the CALL BACK button to talk to her. “Damn, that Red Velvet pussy was sweet and exactly what I needed to take the edge off. Trevor was the man for that one,” I said aloud.

  If Honey would’ve whispered in my ear, “Grant, I used to be a whore,” I could’ve eased out of her bed, gotten dressed, and never seen her again, instead of holding her in my arms and falling in love with her. I hated to admit it, but I’d been more than pussy whipped. I had put my business on hold for two straight weeks to help Honey find both a place to live and a great location for her business. I’d introduced her to my personal banker so she could open her accounts. I didn’t lay up with women after sex, sharing my goals, my dreams, and my fantasies, the way we’d done. Honey had had plenty of time to tell me the truth. Whatever her truth was.

  I’d known immediately that Red Velvet had been paid to fuck me. That was obvious, and I’d treat her as a paid client if I ever decided to call her up. Good thing she’d left last night. Said she had to get back to her son. I respected a woman who kept it real up front.

  Looking at my parents’ large pale blue Victorian with royal blue trim, I couldn’t believe my father refused to sell that house and move out of D.C. There were lots of nicer and newer developments in Virginia and Maryland. I shook my head, thinking I’d actually invited a hooker to meet my mother. I laughed. Man was I a fool for that one. “Next time…Nah, forget Honey. There won’t be a next time for her,” I said aloud.

  Looking up from my phone, I smiled hard. My dad was standing in the front door, waving. “Son, come on in here. Breakfast is almost ready,” he called.

  “In a minute,” I called back, wondering if my mother had ever cheated on my father.

  The heart of a man wasn’t hidden; it was ripped out of his chest, then buried six feet deep, the minute his heart was broken by a woman for the first time. For me, that woman wasn’t Honey, but Honey reminded me of Valerie Jamison. Experiencing such excruciating pain was something I’d never forget. No matter how hard subsequent women strived to eradicate the pain or kindle the pleasure, only one woman had been sweet enough to penetrate that barrier.

  Other women I’d met thought that they knew every damn thing and that the ex-lovers they complained about were all idiots incapable of making good decisions. What women didn’t understand about black men was that we suffered in silence with major discontentment with ourselves for countless reasons, including a lack of financial stability; but being illiterate, unemployed, racially profiled, incarcerated, taken for child support, wanted for alimony, and verbally castrated by white men and black women; feeling inadequate; and being unable to support o
ur families. The number one reason was that, like most black women, the majority of black men were fatherless. Men were tired of living up to the unrealistic expectations of women, who were never satisfied. The black man wasn’t trying to get over; he was trying to get by. I knew Honey was pissed off at me, but did she once stop to consider how I felt? I doubted it.

  Opening the front door, Dad waved again, this time frantically.

  “Okay, old man,” I called, getting out of my car. “Calm down.”

  I had been living on my own for ten years, and my parents were always happy to see me. My dad was the greatest father. He did his best to ensure I never became a statistic. I couldn’t lie; I was fortunate to have him in my life. I vividly recalled my dad being present at every stage of my life, beginning with him videotaping me being born.

  “You’re looking mighty sharp in that button-down shirt, son. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to outdress me,” he said, running his hands down his sleeves. Then he fingered his cuff links and smiled. “I bet you don’t have a set like these. Your mother gave them to me this morning. An early thirtieth-anniversary present.”

  Damn. That’s right. How could I forget? Honey had my mind so preoccupied. I’d order something extra special for my parents later today. Dancing my way into the living room, I stopped in front of Mom, hugged her, and said, “Good job.” Then I glanced at my cell phone before silencing the ringer. “Where’s Benito?”

  Dad shook his head. “We had to put him out this morning. I’m sure he’ll show back up, complaining he’s got no place to go. Son, is that woman still calling you?”

  I couldn’t lie to my father. I nodded.

  “Did you ask her to stop?” my dad asked.