Message from a Mistress

by Niobia Bryant

  Aria gave in to the seduction and brought her hands up to lightly twist and tease her aching nipples as she arched her back and welcomed the first cool feel of his tongue circling her ass before he licked the split of her pussy.

  “Kingston,” she cried out, her head twisting back and forth on the bed as he sucked her clit between his lips and kissed life into her soul like only he could.

  And this was the type of explosive and emotional connection they had all the time. Who could compete, compare, or conquer it? Who?

  She looked up as he shifted to kneel between her legs and tap her swollen and wet clit with the tip of his dick. Pat-pat-pat-pat-pat. “Yes,” Aria cried out, massaging her breasts as she used her muscles to open and close the plump lips of her pussy before him.

  “Damn, baby.” Kingston stared down at her pussy tricks as he sat back and began to massage the hard length of his dick with a tight grip. “Work that pussy. Shit.”

  Aria eased her hands down from her breasts to massage her thick thighs deeply before she slid one of her fingers deep inside her rigid pussy while she massaged her sensitive clit with her thumb.

  Kingston’s mouth fell open as he watched her. “Man, give me that good pussy,” he told her, rising up to carefully ease his dick between her lips, mindful of his wideness and length.

  Aria gasped at the hot feel of his dick against her walls. She cried out, not caring who heard her.

  Kingston lowered his body onto hers and wrapped his muscular arms around her to hold her close to him as he pressed kisses along her shoulders, collarbone, and neck. He slowly ground his hips against her and she wrapped her long legs around his waist, welcoming and reveling in the feel of his dick massaging her walls in wicked circles that caused her juices to wet him until they were drizzling down her ass onto the sheets.

  “I love you, Aria. No one but you. I swear,” he whispered into her ear. “No one.”

  “Kingston,” she moaned as he pulled his dick all the way out, massaged her throbbing clit with the tip, and then swooped back deep inside her in one fluid motion.

  “Tell me you love me,” he demanded.

  And regardless of anything, Aria couldn’t deny that she loved this man, her husband, with everything she had inside her. “I love you, Kingston. I love you so much,” she whispered up to him. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  Kingston leaned up to look down into her eyes. “I’ll never do anything to hurt you, Aria. Never,” he swore before he lowered his head to kiss her deeply. “We might make our baby tonight, huh?”

  Tears flooded her eyes. Her own guilt and secrets, the texts, the betrayal, the suspicions, the long-ass day, their angry confrontation, the explosive sex. All of it was too much for her to keep up her usual barrier against her emotions. It was all just too damn much.

  Long after he stroked his dick inside her for nearly an hour before forcefully filling her with his cum, Aria lay beside him and watched him sleep in the moonlit darkness of their bedroom. Questions plagued her until sleep was completely lost to her.

  Questions she needed answers to before she and Kingston could ever get back to their happiness.

  Easing from the bed, Aria searched and found her cell phone on the floor by the foot of the bed. She walked into the bathroom and closed the door securely behind her before she bathed the room with light. Quickly she typed away.

  KINGSTON SAYS NOT HIM. STILL

  NOT SURE. WHAT DID ERIC & JACK

  SON SAY???

  She hit Send and hoped her friends were up and able to answer her. She knew it was wrong to hope Jackson or Eric had confessed, but she had to know the truth. Her marriage was on the line.

  Bzzzzzz.

  Her cell phone vibrated in her hands and Aria jumped to attention where she sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi tub.

  It was Renee.

  JACKSON DENIES IT. CALL U

  TOMORROW.

  Two down, one to go. But it didn’t make her feel better that it was Eric. He was the most doting of husbands. But he and Jessa were friends before he even married Jaime. Maybe the friendship had turned into something more?

  Aria knew she was reaching and that she was wrong to almost wish pain on her friend so that she could be happy again.

  Bzzzzzz.

  Aria jumped to her feet and paced as she retrieved the text from Jaime. Her stomach was filled with nerves.

  ERIC SAYS IT WASN’T HIM.

  DOESN’T MATTER ANYMORE. I

  LEFT HIM. AT A HOTEL. NEVER FELT

  SO FREE. FUCK IT.

  Aria’s phone nearly slipped from her hands and she had to hustle to catch it before it dropped into the commode. Jaime left Eric. Jaime cursing. Jaime at a hotel. WTF? “What?” she gasped in shock as she dialed Jaime’s cell phone number.

  Brrrnnnggg…brrrnnnggg…brrrnnnggg.

  Aria hung up when the cell phone went to Jaime’s voice mail. Aria tried to call her twice more, but both times Jaime didn’t answer so Aria left her alone. She lowered the lid to the commode and slumped down onto it, ignoring the cool shock of the first feel of the porcelain pressed against her ass.

  All of her journalism training kicked in and the questions flooded her, overwhelming her.

  Which of the husbands had cheated with Jessa?

  If all three came home, was the answer none at all? But why would Jessa lie? Or had the culprit not had the balls to follow through on their plan to be together? Would the affair continue? Would Jessa resurface now that her plans had fallen apart?

  There was one thing Aria knew for sure without question.

  This all was far from over.

  JESSA’S OUTRO

  I hardly slept last night. As I lay in my bed alone, watching the sun rising in the sky, I guessed the final laugh was on me. My lover. The man I gave up so much for never showed last night. He never even called. And when I called him, his cell phone was turned off.

  Did it hurt to be rejected? Lied to? Mistreated?

  I sighed as I turned over in bed, able to roll wherever I chose without interruption. I swore that last night, for the first time, I would have him in my bed—our bed for the first night of many nights.

  I guess the last laugh is on me.

  For all the tough talk. For all the bravado of being a mistress who couldn’t care less. I’m not heartless. These women were my friends. We shared many moments together. We made many memories.

  I knew what my lover and I did was as wrong as two left shoes, but how could I make them understand?

  After my husband’s death, the loneliness and the grief caused an ache in me that no one could understand. Nothing soothing could touch it. I felt like a huge part of me died on the inside. Life as I knew it was over.

  And every day something in me—the old me—faded. The smiles that had come to my face in the past were real, but soon I was just projecting the Jessa Bell that they wanted to see.

  After that first night I became consumed with him and he became the light in my life of darkness and gloom. He said and did all the right things. He made me believe we were destined to be together, regardless of what or whom. He convinced me that he was willing to walk away from it all to be with me.

  I gambled on his love and lost.

  Did I regret sending the message, taunting my friends, who were now most definitely foes? I didn’t know. It was spiteful and childish. And the Fates had a way of making a person regret the things that they’d done. Maybe my little message was the reason I was lying in this cold bed, in my four-hundred-dollar La Perla…alone. I looked around the room at the candles melted down to the wick and the scattered flower petals already drying out to a crisp. Remnants of a night gone wrong.

  But it was more than just a night of disappointment. I’d had plenty of those in the last year. This might just be the end of our affair.

  I had some decisions to make if it was.

  Flinging back the covers, I climbed from the bed and flipped my hair over my shoulder and out of my face. I walked up to the mirror o
n the dresser and studied my body. He claimed he couldn’t get enough of this body. Only time would tell.

  Brrrnnnggg.

  I cut my eyes over to my black and silver BlackBerry on the nightstand. I smoothed the pale sage lace of the low-cut bikinis over my wide hips as I walked over to scoop it up.

  It was him.

  I licked my lips as I sent it to voice mail.

  I wasn’t worried because I knew he would call back.

  Brrrnnnggg.

  This time I answered. Even as my heart pounded I played it ever so cool and turned to lean back against the dresser. “Did you have a good night, because I didn’t,” I said, hating that even in the midst of my bitter disappointment, I wanted him and craved for him to rush here into my arms and tell me that he was here to stay for good.

  “Why did you send that text?” he asked.

  “Why did you lie about being with me?” I countered.

  “That was a childish stunt you pulled sending that text, Jessa.”

  “Come spank me,” I taunted low in my husky voice.

  “This is not a joke, Jessa,” he snapped darkly.

  “And neither is my life and my feelings.”

  The line went quiet and I said nothing, leaving a gap wide open for him to slide in an explanation, an apology, a damn let-down. Something.

  “I love you, Jessa, and I don’t want to lose you…but now is not a good time for us to go public.”

  A let-down it is, I thought, shaking my head at the very shame of it all.

  “That damn text of yours put me in a bind. It could cost me—us—big. You shouldn’t have sent it.”

  My eyes shifted to the beside table where an eight-by-ten framed photo of us sat. We were at a black-tie dinner with the entire group but had snuck away to snap photos with our cell phones. As he continued his tirade, I kept my eyes locked on that photo as I walked around my lonesome bed toward it.

  “So what are you saying, lover?” I asked in a soft voice as I tilted my head to the side and picked the picture up.

  He sighed heavily into the phone. “I think we should take a little break from each other. Your little stunt really didn’t give me much choice.”

  So it was over. That hurt. “Really?” I ask.

  I plopped down onto the bed and shoved my cell phone between my ear and shoulder as I took the picture from the frame. I tore away his image, looking down into his lying face.

  “Yes, Jessa. I’m sorry.”

  “So everything you’ve told me this last year has been a lie. You have used me up and now you want to throw me away?” I asked, as rage rose in me steady and fast.

  “You gave me no choice.”

  I reached for a lighter I used for my many candles and lit the corner of the photo. The sight of the fire building and then slowly evaporating his face fascinated me to no end. “You’re a liar, because you weren’t even supposed to go back there. You were supposed to come straight to me. And you didn’t. You had no intention of leaving her,” I said in a quiet voice.

  “No, you’re wrong. I went home to tell her face-to-face. It’s the least she deserved.”

  “And what do I deserve? Heartache, lies, deceit? Huh? Huh? A mortgage and rent?” I stood to drop the burning photo in the wastepaper basket. “Scorn and retribution?”

  “Don’t, Jessa.”

  I just laughed and it was filled with my bitterness and my pain. “I wouldn’t do this if I was you, lover,” I warned.

  I was like Pandora’s box, filled with secrets and costly repercussions. If he lied to me and left me high and dry with both my mortgage and the costly lease on this new home of “ours,” I would definitely be the woman scorned and play my role accordingly. Believe that.

  “Jessa, we need to talk face-to-face—”

  “Looking for one last shot of ass for the road?” I asked, as I walked to my closet and pulled out an outfit that could only be Sunday best. “I’ll call you when I get time.”

  I flipped the phone closed and flung it over my shoulder to land on my bed. Time to put a lying Negro on time-out, I thought as the BlackBerry rang incessantly. I ignored it as I walked into my bathroom and closed the door behind me.

  I emerged nearly one hour later, body scrubbed and now oiled and smelling of my most exotic perfume. My make-up put on like I was a true professional at it. My hair pressed to perfection.

  The scent of the burnt photo still hung in the air and I inhaled deeply of it as I dressed in my lingerie and the black lace suit I’d selected from my wardrobe.

  Behind the wheel of my Jaguar, I thought of how my life was my own and I’d made the mistake of making decisions based on a man—and someone’s man at that. Well, I was a mistress no more.

  It was time to get several things straight.

  I pulled my car to a stop and lowered the driver’s side window.

  “Mrs. Bell, I thought you moved,” Lucky said, his portly red face more flushed than normal.

  “I thought so too,” I said, flashing him my best smile.

  “Your friends were surprised you moved,” he said.

  Humph. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll be…even more surprised to see me.”

  “Have a good one.” Lucky stepped back into the booth to open the wrought iron gates of Richmond Hills.

  “Lucky, I plan to have a great one,” I told him as I pulled away from him and entered Richmond Hills.

  Guess who’s back.

  Dear Readers,

  Message from a Mistress left you with just a few cliff-hangers, huh? As a writer, I know that cliff-hangers can be hit or miss with readers, but I really had no choice because the stories of Aria, Renee, and Jaime were just beginning. Secrets still to be discovered. Questions still to be answered. Drama continuing to unfold.

  Needless to say, y’all know there is a part two, currently entitled Mistress No More. And those questions that are running through your clever heads will be answered: Will Eric and Jaime reunite? Will Aria ever reveal to Kingston that she can’t have children? And how will Renee deal with her husband fathering a child with another woman? And there is much more that these three housewives are going to experience.

  But you’ll have to wait to see. I promise it will be worth it.

  Best,

  N.

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  If you enjoyed Message from a Mistress, don’t miss

  ALL ABOUT EVA

  by Deidre Berry

  Coming in April 2010 from Dafina Books

  Turn the page for an excerpt from All About Eva…

  WHO WANTS TO DATE A MILLIONAIRE?

  It all started like most things do in this town: at a party.

  To be more precise, it was one of those mixers that Gotham magazine is always throwing every other week to celebrate the fabulous and accomplished.

  That particular soiree was in honor of the city’s fifty most eligible bachelors. Kyle, who does double-duty as my gay husband, and is my oldest and dearest friend, invited me to the event, which I, quite frankly, could not have cared less about attending.

  “Come on, Eva, it’ll be fun!” Kyle had said. “And I need you there as my wing-woman, because you know more than likely that half of those so-called ‘eligible bachelors’ are on the dow
n low.”

  “Believe it or not, some of us have to actually work for a living,” I said.

  At the time, I was beauty editor at Flirt, a glossy women’s magazine, and was on a tight deadline to edit several articles from in-house writers and make sure they were ready in time for the next issue. “Besides, why are you on the prowl for a man? What happened to Jonathan?”

  “Chile, I had to cut that loose, ’cause ain’t nothing worse than closeted trade!” Kyle said. “And what about you? You look like you could definitely use some pickle in your own life.”

  He knew me well.

  It had been a while since anyone had floated my boat, because I had just gotten a huge promotion at work and was so focused on showing and proving that I rarely had the extra time or energy to give to mixing and mingling.

  But, persistent bugger that he is, Kyle wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.

  That evening after work, Kyle and I arrived at the Grand, in Midtown, where, along with the fifty-dollar price of admission, we received catalogs that had alphabetical listings of each of the fifty eligible bachelors, including their headshots and business profiles.

  “Eva, girl, we both are gonna find a man up in here, up in here!” Kyle said.

  I surveyed the scene, which was typical of what could be expected at that sort of thing: Each of the fifty bachelors was respectively holding court with a flock of shameless and desperate women, who were all vying to be the chosen one.

  I was not impressed. I can’t stand those types of parties where there’s nothing but a bunch of egomaniacs taking full advantage of the fact that the ratio of single men per one hundred single women is one to eighty in New York City.