Mama Dearest

by E. Lynn Harris

  I am so hot, so aroused, that my whole body begins to tremor. I have never come this fast. Ever.

  His eyes sparkle as I open mine long enough to look into his face. “Yeah, baby, come for me like that.”

  His thumb is rubbing so fast, round and round, back and forth, over my slippery berry, and his finger, stroking in and out—

  “Ooh,” he says, “you need it bad, and I got it for you.”

  A tingly sensation explodes between my legs, sending shivers through every inch of me. I’m crying out, gasping, shocked at the speed and intensity of this pleasure in this beautiful place with this gorgeous man.

  Heaven. That word flashes in my head. Because I’m getting a little taste of heaven right at this moment. And I need him to keep looking at me like that, and keep making me feel like this, for a long time.

  “I’m here to make you feel good,” he whispers seductively. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” Ooh, I loved that he could switch from proper to slightly roughneck in the span of a whisper. That made me pulsate around his finger even harder as my clit danced under his expert touch.

  When my moans let him know I’ve reached the limit, he stands. The towel falls.

  And I gasp.

  Because he has one of the most beautiful dicks I’ve ever seen. It’s jutting out from a soft nest of black hair, curving slightly up. Can this man get more perfect?

  “All that for me?” I ask, looking at him with hunger in my eyes.

  “Is it enough, baby girl?”

  “It looks like more than enough,” I say, wondering why all men need dick approval and how long it had been since a man called me baby girl. My body is so ready for him, I know this is one night I will never forget.

  Lust burns in his eyes as he asks, “So what are you going to do with it?”

  I don’t say a word. Instead I grab it in my hand like a cob of corn I’m about to shuck. He moans as I feel it throb in my fist.

  “You ready for it?” he asks with a teasing tone.

  “I want it, now,” I almost order. I love the power I feel right now, with him looking at me like I’m the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world.

  But I don’t like the way worry tightens his face when he catches a glimpse of my scar.

  “What’s that?” Marcus asks as he gently touches my shoulder blade. I usually covered it up with makeup, but tonight I hadn’t. I just hope that my eyes didn’t give me away.

  “It’s a birthmark,” I said confidently, in a way that said I didn’t want to talk about it or let it interfere with the pleasure at hand.

  Marcus studied it for a few seconds. He sounded skeptical when he said, “That’s an unusual-looking birthmark.”

  I looked up at him with my most seductive look, to quiet the questions in his head. “Everything about me is different. Now let’s get back to business, sir.”

  He spun me back around, gently pushing me against the glass, pressing my breasts and the side of my face into it. The corner of my mouth can barely rise as I smile, thrilled with anticipation. But the glass against my cheek—and a sudden pang of fear—remind me just how fragile my situation is. I feel so high with the world at my feet, but if I push too hard, I could literally plunge into tragedy.

  Here I am dreaming that casual sex is going to open the door for me to stay in this man’s luxurious life, yet as I look out at Biscayne Bay, for all I know, I might just be his catch of the day.

  Behind me, the sound of him tearing open the condom wrapper underscores that thought. Was he just going to consume me and toss me out just like he’d flush that condom when we’re done? Me and it, gone forever from here?

  I feel so conflicted. My body is screaming for him. My mind is crying out for his lifestyle. Am I dreaming?

  He grabs my ass, runs his fingertips over the slippery swollen flesh between my legs, and—

  “Ooooh,” I moan, closing my eyes. I know no better feeling in the world than that first stroke of a big, hard dick sliding up into my hungry body. I squeeze around him.

  “Yeah, girl,” he groans. “I feel you.”

  He’s so gentle; his stroke is careful and caring. He pushes deep, a little deeper, and then so deep it feels like he’s tickling my stomach from the inside out.

  Our bodies are now connected. But are our minds? I need to make sure he wants those five dates with me and much more.

  He pauses, as if he, too, is stopping to savor just how good it feels. He takes a long, deep breath as I feel his dick pulsating and getting bigger.

  That makes me gasp and press my palms to the glass. If it feels this good being still, I’m about to lose my mind when he—

  Thrusts. With his hands gripping my waist, he pulls his hips back, then thrusts again. In, out. In, out. Faster, harder, making magic friction with this perfect fit.

  If I thought his hands were sending lightning bolts through my body, his dick is doing the same, with a thousand times more intensity. It’s like I can feel little waves of electricity dance up through every cell in my body. Goose bumps ripple across my skin. I cry out with the most intense pleasure I’ve ever felt.

  For a second, I think about all the times I’ve gotten off with my vibrator. That does the job, but this is the real thing. A real dick, pounding relentlessly with the fierce force of a man, taking me to a place I could never describe because nobody has invented the words to explain how good this feels.

  And another explosion is sparking between my legs. My whole body trembles; my pussy pulsates around his huge, rock-hard dick. I pull my cheek off the window for fear that his hammering might shatter the glass—and this fantasy experience. At the same time, I grip the glass so hard that my fingernails make scratching noises.

  “I feel you, baby,” he groans with delight. “Come for me again. Come for me!”

  “Oh I am,” I moan.

  “Yeah, tell me how much you love it,” S. Marcus whispers.

  I arch my back, which lets him thrust even deeper. He responds with faster, harder strokes.

  “Oh, yeah,” I cry. “Yeah …”

  “Come on, girl. Make it come for me!” he demands. I think this man doesn’t know who he is messing with. I still have the flexibility of a sixteen-year-old gymnast and the sexual skills of a porn star.

  I back my ass into him hard, grinding in a circular motion. I look back. He’s staring down at my gyrating hips and ass with absolute ecstasy in his eyes. So I go fast, then slow, over and over, until a glazed look in his eyes lets me know I’ve hypnotized him into submission to give me everything I want.

  “Damn, baby girl, you’ll make me come too quick like that,” he groans, pounding even deeper.

  And that sends me into another orgasmic explosion all over that long love stick of his.

  His voice is raw and deep with passion as he shouts, “Oh baby girl, I’m comin’ with you.”

  I feel his dick pulsate inside me as his body shudders behind me. At the same time, I shiver with pleasure and glimpse back at his face—lovestruck, luststruck, sprung—whatever you want to call it.

  I’m calling it This man is hooked on some Yancey. And he’ll want more. And more. For as long as I want.

  Realizing that my work is done, my legs go weak, and I slide down the length of the window to the floor.

  A FEW HOURS LATER, I wake up in soft, apple-green Egyptian cotton sheets, sunlight slicing thinly through long vertical bedroom blinds. S. Marcus is standing bare-chested at the foot of the bed, holding a silver tray with a single rose, bacon, eggs, sliced fruit and a glass of cranberry juice on it.

  “After last night, I thought you might be hungry, so I got some breakfast for you.”

  I ran my hands through my hair, trying to compose myself. “You cooked for me?”

  “Well, not really,” he said, setting the tray across my lap and giving me a gentle kiss on my forehead. “My chef, Danni, made this. And then I gave her the day off. I hope you don’t have plans. I want to spend the day with you.”

  I
smile wider than I want and say, “I wish I could, but I leave today.” I don’t know what makes me happier, the breakfast or the fact that my dream boy has his own personal chef.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Tallahassee, then North Carolina. Raleigh-Durham, to be exact.”

  “For what?”

  “I told you I’m an actress. I’m in a show and we open there tomorrow. I wish I could stay in Miami. I really do.”

  “Then I will come to Raleigh-Durham in a couple of days to see you.”

  “That would be nice,” I said.

  “How long is this tour thing?”

  “Right now I don’t know. The producers are talking about adding some cities, but quite honestly I’d just as soon go back to my home in New York.”

  S. Marcus sits down beside me and takes my hand tenderly. “Does it pay you a lot of money?”

  “I do okay,” I say with a sip of juice.

  “How long have you been acting?”

  Not willing to give up my age until I find out how old S. Marcus is, I say, “Not long. I’m looking for a big break.”

  “Have you ever thought about doing a reality show?” S. Marcus asks.

  “Yeah, I have. Why do you ask?” Could this man be more perfect?

  “I think a show about the life of a not-so-well-known actress might be interesting. They could follow you on the road with cameras. I have some investors trying to break into television and this might be the way in. They invested in some young singer a couple of years ago, but when she made it big, her daddy and stepmom cut them out.”

  “How do you know I’m not famous? I had a hit record a few years ago,” I said proudly.

  “So did that chick Sparkle. But now the only gig she’s got is testifying in the R. Kelly trial.” He paused, cupping my chin in his large hand. “I think we could make this happen.”

  “Really?” I said, thinking that if this man is as good in business as he is in bed, I might be on the verge of that comeback. But before I can say another word, he leans in and starts kissing me all over again.

  Maybe my luck is changing.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Ava Parker Middlebrooks stood before her daughter Yancey’s Upper East Side town-house door, holding the gold key in her hand. She said a little prayer before attempting to slip the key into the lock. She hoped it would fit, hoped her daughter had not changed the locks in the seven years that Ava had been away.

  Ava was given a fifteen-year sentence for attempted murder, but had been released yesterday morning on the condition that she stay in New York during the first two years of her probation. Ava practically had to beg Yancey to write a letter stating that her mother could stay with her. The clothes she had been dragged to prison in had been given back to her—a violet St. John’s pantsuit. She was sure only the shoes, a pair of open-toed pumps, would now fit, she’d gained so much weight. The pantsuit sat on the prison’s discharge counter, crudely folded, waiting for her to pick it up. Not that she wanted it, considering how terribly out of style it was now. Who said a St. John’s purchase would never get old? She was also given back her two-tone Philippe Patek watch, a gold ring, a necklace and the small amount of cash she had on her, which totaled over four hundred dollars. This was a long way from the days of villas and yachts in Europe, where Ava had spent many of her adult years.

  Standing in the drab gray release room, after counting all the money she had in the world, Ava realized that she didn’t have enough to fly back to New York City. At least not first class, and there was no way in hell she was flying anything but.

  “Is it all there, Ava?” asked a burly older corrections officer with broad shoulders and salt-and-pepper, close-cropped hair. He had been working there all seven years that Ava had been incarcerated, but this was the first time she had given him a second look. He was actually quite handsome. He appeared to be five years or so younger than Ava, so he was really the right age. But she figured even if he received a bonus or overtime, he only made fifty grand tops. For Ava to even consider him, he’d have to add at least two more zeros to the end of that figure. Besides, wealthy men would be lining up once they heard that Ava was free and single again. She still saw herself as a traffic-stopping beauty with big doe-brown eyes and long, thick lashes. The country girl called Miss Brickhouse by boys in her hometown when she strolled down the street in Jackson, Tennessee. The girl who had become a woman and lived her life large with few regrets and fewer attachments. Ava had dined with Moroccan royalty, partied with rich Frenchmen, married a count and been pursued by wealthy men all over the world. But her fall from grace was a long, hard fall because of how high she had climbed so fast.

  “Yes,” Ava smiled, batting her eyes at the muscular man. “Everything is here.”

  After five hours of freedom, Ava found herself in seemingly the most disgusting place on earth—a small-town Greyhound bus station, wearing her outdated, too-tight fashions at that.

  She had landed there after countless failed attempts at reaching her daughter to have her wire money for clothes, a first-class plane ticket, and some extra cash to get her nails, hair and eyebrows done. Ava couldn’t even think about stepping on a plane looking the way she did. What if she were seated next to an eligible, aging man on her flight to New York City? A man with, let’s say, millions in the bank. A generous man with a failing heart, who knew he had only a limited time left on this earth, but wanted to marry a beautiful, incredibly fabulous, middle-aged woman and leave her his fortune.

  After standing around next to pay phones for hours, waiting for Yancey to call her back, Ava finally accepted the fact that she would have to use the bus ticket provided by the state to get back to New York.

  Why hadn’t Yancey returned her calls? Ava wondered. The two had called a truce over their mother-daughter battles while Ava was in jail. Yancey had accepted her collect calls during the seven years Ava was away and had even visited her mother at least twice a year. Maybe Yancey didn’t know that Ava was being released early.

  With ticket in hand and the bus in sight, Ava made one final attempt to get in touch with Yancey. When she couldn’t, Ava lowered her head and sadly boarded the bus as if its destination was not New York, but back to the prison she was released from.

  The ride was a horrible nine-hour affair, filled with the noise of a screaming infant, a quarreling couple and a group of immigrants arguing in a language that Ava didn’t understand.

  Ava huddled in a window seat, staring out at the darkened, star-filled sky as the countless miles sped past her. This was the lowest she had ever felt. Lower than when she was convicted and sent to jail. At least there she was considered a diva among her fellow inmates, passing out makeup tips and sharing stories of life among the rich and famous. At that moment on that speeding dark bus, with the portable bathroom only three seats down from her, smelling so bad it made her stomach do somersaults, Ava vowed she would never sink this low again.

  When Ava reached the Port Authority on 42nd Street in New York, she quickly hailed a cab and was taken to more familiar, appropriate surroundings—Yancey’s fancy East Side town house.

  And that is where Ava stands now, staring down at the key in her hand. She exhales, points the key in the direction of the lock and then pushes it into the tiny slit. The tumblers flip and Ava looks toward the sky and smiles as she pushes open the door.

  “Yancey, sweetheart,” Ava calls into the vast space that was Yancey’s town house. “Your darling mother is home. Free at last.” There is no response.

  Closing the door behind her, Ava steps down the three stairs that lead into the sunken living room. She turns in a circle looking around at the apartment she helped her daughter purchase. Yancey had done nothing with the place in seven years. Ava thought the child would’ve at least updated the furniture, had the place repainted, something.

  “Yancey, darling,” Ava calls again, walking toward the kitchen. Still not receiving a response, she opens the refrigerator door, p
ulls out a quart of skim milk and twists off the top. She brings the plastic container to her nose and, as expected, it is spoiled. Ava doesn’t notice any fresh flowers in the house, which Yancey always loves to keep. This makes her suspect that her daughter hasn’t been home for some time.

  Ava examines the stamped date on the plastic bottle and notices that the milk expired almost two months ago.

  Suddenly, the phone rings, startling Ava. She walks quickly across the thick Persian living room rug to answer it.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello,” a somewhat high-pitched, girlish voice says. “Is this Ms. Yancey Braxton?”

  Ava thought for a moment, figuring that maybe this call could give her information as to where her daughter is. “Yes. This is Ms. Braxton. How may I help you?”

  “This is Sharon Dale, Mrs. Weeks your real estate agent’s assistant.”

  “Oh, yes, hello, Sharon.”

  “I have a very wealthy couple from Russia who are extremely interested in your apartment. They saw it online and Mrs. Weeks thinks they’re ready to make an offer. I have even more good news. If they like it, and I know they will, it will be a cash sale.”

  “Really?” Ava said, wondering why Yancey would want to sell this prime property. Yancey had purchased this exclusive 2,700-square-foot town house with Ava’s help. At least that’s what she led Yancey to believe, but the money actually came from a life insurance policy her own mother had left Yancey. Essie Dean had left everything to Yancey to spite Ava, whom she never forgave for getting pregnant in high school and leaving Jackson, Tennessee, soon after to pursue a career on Broadway. But Yancey never knew this and Ava had her attorney do a quick deed shortly after the purchase converting the property to herself. Now was as good a time as any to stake her claim.

  “They want to come by this afternoon and see it. Can we bring them by?”