In Time to Love

by Gloria Martin

  Something about the way he speaks to me with force sends a surge of anger through me—but it’s the type of anger that I want in me—the type that’s getting me hot right now. I take the black elastic in my hands and twist while yanking them to his knees. In the power of my thrust, his stiff shaft bounces and nearly hits my lips before I’m ready.

  Denver laughs, pinching my nipple tighter. “I feel something coursing in you,” he says. “Almost smacked in the mouth? I could tell you liked it. That, sweetheart, is Newton’s Third Law.” There is no more subtly in his hands anymore. Both are on my head, pulling me toward him and him into me.

  “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” he moans. The first taste I get of him is fresh. I’ve never tasted one so clean—I can’t help but hold my mouth open to take in the air while I suck in the flavor. “And this is the reaction of me needing you since the first time I saw you, Tara.”

  I want to tell him I feel the same, but with my mouth full I just moan in agreement. Suddenly he pulls my head back and a trail of saliva strings from my bottom lip to his dick. “Not too much now, my love,” he says, squeezing my cheeks again. “It was just a taste. You wouldn’t want to be rude and have your fill before I’ve had a taste, would you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Use your words, Tara,” he says, squeezing tighter. In so many ways I’m turned on by the way he controls me, but another part of me is leery to give him full power.

  “No,” I say through my cheeks.

  “Now, is my dessert ready? I hope it has been baking long enough.” The hand on my nipple presses against my chest, his palm guiding me to the mattress. He keeps his place at the foot of the bed, bending to his knees. Once he’s on the floor he takes his time with my body, starting with my shoes.

  “I asked you if my dessert was ready, chef.” With my left shoe off he gives my foot a pinch.

  “Yes,” I say, the tickle running up my leg. “Yes, your dessert is ready.”

  “And what are we having for dessert tonight, chef?” My other shoe comes off, then simultaneously both socks. I can’t remember how long it’s been since a man has touched my feet.

  “We’re having…” I am in no state to role-play right now. “…Chocolate?”

  He smiles. “Of course we are.” His hands are under my navel and once the latch of my pants is open he has them off in one tug. “Just chocolate? Or anything more specific?”

  I don’t know how much longer I can play this game. I’m about to wrap my thighs around his head and drag him into my flower. With my legs bare he rubs his hands up and down them. “Tiramisu?” I suggest.

  The hair from his beard scrapes my inner thigh, just next to my crevice. He breathes in deep. “That sounds delicious, Tara.”

  “I’ll be your Taramisu,” I joke, knowing it’s the worst possible time for one—but as his lips widen with his smile, they also stretch against the surface of my labia. Pun accepted. What I don’t expect is the quick plunge of his tongue onto my clit. Good thing he can’t see me because in the rush of his hot mouth against me I go cross-eyed for a millisecond. My hands shoot to his hair and I grab as much as I can. It’s so soft between my fingers; I could comb it with them all day.

  I need to see this billionaire God with my own eyes, so I lever up using my shoulders and find him staring up at my body, right at me. As sexy as I find him, his stare is intimidating—I didn’t expect to make eye contact, and now that I have I can’t get away.

  I take the blankets tightly between my scrunched fingers. It’s all I have to hold onto while Denver’s tongue makes its final lap around my clit and enters me. He’s not playing—his hands are having a field day with my ass cheeks, using them to get his tongue deeper and deeper inside. His blue eyes remain fixed—he’s determined to make me come. It’s the pride in him. He won’t make love to me until I orgasm first.

  And I’m ready to give it to him. All I need is a little longer. That’s right, Billionaire Blue Eyes, get a good taste. I can’t believe what is happening to me right now. This is the one threshold I didn’t want to cross, but Denver’s hand reaches up to my right breast, and now with his left thumb joining his tongue inside my pussy, takes my bosom and engulfs the nipple within his index finger and thumb.

  “Denver, goddamnit, that’s what I needed,” I yell, smacking the bed fast like a bongo drum. He’s not stopping even though the orgasm has begun—thank you, Denver D. Phillips. I feel the flood starting in my head, and when it’s this good I stop giving a fuck. I let my legs writhe as he pins me to the bed, his head latched onto my center. I know I sound foolish screaming like this, but with his tongue this deep he knows what he’s doing.

  As he rises up from the floor I’m still coming, unable to move, with nothing other than his pinky on my clit trying to release the last of the secretions. Denver grabs my wrist. “Stop that, Tara,” he says. “There’s more.” He slides up to me, torso to torso, both of his legs between mine. I hate waiting, so I try to wrap my legs around his solid backside and pump him into me.

  Failed attempt. He is really taking his time with me— “No, no, no, Tara. You need a moment before you take this inside you, because once it begins you’re going to be different.”

  With his hand around his cock, he rubs it up and down against my clit. Up…down…UP…down…

  “Denver, just do it, give it to me, please,” I beg, popping my butt in humping motions to try to get it in the basket. So close, so wet, just slide inside, Denver.

  While the ups and downs continue, he kisses my neck and lifts my right leg into the air from under my knee. He’s opening me wide, preparing to glide into me.

  Tara, you’re about to be fucked by a billionaire, I think. I can’t help it that I need to take mental note of the occasion. It’s not every day that I sleep with a billionaire, or a white guy, or my boss, or a billionaire white guy who is my boss. For all I know, this could be a once in a lifetime opportunity.

  Wanting Denver for three days straight has not prepared me for the burst of heat that tears through me—the heat that is his dick, pounding. He couldn’t wait, I knew he needed it. There’s no slow beginning with him—he’s scanning every inch of my body. I want this to be his first time with a black woman, just like it’s my first time with a white man. His eyes look like he’s opening a gift he’s always wanted and never got. It only makes me more wet. I let him take my ankles and open me wide. I throw my hands against the smooth bedpost behind me to give me something to increase this unbelievable pleasure.

  He was right—that first orgasm was nothing. How could his tongue give me the pleasure that most men give me with their entire rod? Dominic is pretty hung and even he’s never hit it like this.

  “Denver, I’m trying to come, you’d better not bust it yet,” I yell, one hand on the best post, the other clawing into his back. It’s a reaction to say this because I’m used to finishing myself off.

  From scanning my body and running his lips all over it, he averts his attention to my eyes. “What did you say, Tara?” Oh no, did I say something wrong? “Did you just say ‘I’d better not bust yet’?”

  The pounding doesn’t stop, but he slides me down the bed so that his feet are on the floor and my ass is hanging off the bed. I don’t know what to say, I’m not about to open my mouth and ruin the orgasm, so I just bite down on my lip and pivot, hoping he gets the hint.

  “I’ll bust whenever I want, wherever I want,” he says. Now his left hand is under the small of my back, the other loosely around my neck. “Do you understand, Tara?”

  “I understand, Denver!” I cry out, on the brink of explosion.

  “So when I bust, you’ll be ready to receive it wherever I desire,” he says, the bed squeaking loudly from his strength. “Do you understand, Miss Rogers?”

  His thirst for power is borderline on my nerves—but then I look at the perfect curvature of his shoulder and neck muscles and decide that I would swallow every drop right now.

  “I under
stand, baby,” I say, responding to his endearing term from earlier. Fuck it—take me how you want, Denver. Is this how every billionaire makes love?

  He knows that I’m about to pour out onto him, and he rubs my clit wildly. I know my face matches how I feel—like one big, sopping, hot mess—but the ecstasy is pure bliss. His face shows it too, only his eyebrows cut deep in a V-shape while he stares back at me.

  “I’m coming, Denver,” I whimper. Do not cry, Tara! I can’t help it—it’s too good. As the orgasm consumes me, Denver continues to thrust into my body. There is something conflicting buried within those eyes, but I know he loves what he’s doing to me.

  As the last of me spills out, he ejects himself and pulls me to the foot of the bed by my neck. His dick is in my face while he strokes it. Is he about to shoot it all over my face? Into my mouth? I’ve never done this before.

  “Tara, oh God, you’re so good,” he moans, holding my head in place by one lock of my hair. Denver then takes a sideways step with each foot, bringing his rod lower, down to my breasts. I see—he’s going to cover them in his milky cum.

  “All over these titties, Denver,” I beg, lifting them higher from underneath so that they’re also suppler for his ejaculate.

  The hot liquid shoots out from his cock and becomes a paper-white pool against my dark brown skin. There is so much—has he been building it up, saving it? The warmth of his cum against me is mesmerizing. I would get off on taking a small taste, but Denver is very particular and I don’t know enough about what turns him off yet—and sex with him is something I am going to need for a long, long time.

  *****

  The next morning, I wake up to an empty bed. No sign of Denver—not even a note. Am I mistaken or last night did he propose a salary of one hundred million dollars before giving me the ride of my life? Even though there is a high probability of this being a dream—the throbbing in my core is proof that what happened was real. Denver D. Phillips made love to me and potentially turned me into a millionaire overnight.

  On the way out of the room I take one look back and soak in the rose hue, the smell of our sweat still wafting in the air with the faint hint of my apricot lotion, and notes of bergamot with mandarin from his Christian Clive No. 1. I’ve never had the luxury of being with a man who has such expensive taste, so I try to take in this memory for all its worth.

  On the way back to the car, I feel even more deflowered than when I lost my virginity. I don’t know how many times in life you wake up after the first time hooking up with a billionaire. That’s right, Tara, say it:

  “Billionaire,” I whisper aloud so that only I can hear. When I reach the car, everything feels different. My car feels brand new even though it’s a dented blue 2007 Outlander. The interior feels like something from someone else’s life—not the sticky and ripped surfaces that I’m used to feeling every day. On the drive back from Malibu, the Pacific Ocean on my right looks different even though I’ve spent countless hours staring at it—all because of what happened last night with Denver D. Phillips.

  I plug my phone in because it’s been dead all night, and once it buzzes back on I find about a dozen texts from Dominic. Right now I choose to ignore them because on this gorgeous drive I’m not going to let his drama ruin such a good thing. I can deal with him another time. I haven’t even spoken to him since getting fired from Harvest Bar. Why does my conscience always insist on doing what’s right? I need to grab some of my things from his apartment anyway, so I decide to head for Century City.

  Before walking up to his place, I find a parking spot and think over the scenario I’m about to walk into. There is a chance that he won’t even be there, which would be amazing. However, in case he is home, I need to prepare for the worst. The texts go from bad to worse, until by the bottom most of the bubbles are full of curse words.

  Walking uphill on Beverly-Glenn always kills my feet, but at least once I’m a block away from Dominic’s I see his car in the outer port. This is it, Tara, I think. Go hard or get out of the kitchen.

  At his door I let myself in without the bother of knocking. No reason to be formal. “Tara,” he says, surprised. I guess I could have warned him that I was walking up. “I’ve been texting you and trying to get ahold of you. Is everything okay?”

  “Texting me and trying to get ahold of me?” I ask, holding up my phone to display the giant green bubbles calling me every name under the sun. “Do you think this shit is okay, Dominic?”

  “Tara, I put you on my Friend Finder. I could see that you were in Malibu all night.”

  I really need to spend more time learning about everything these phones do. At least I didn’t try to lie up front and now I can use his outburst of jealousy to my advantage.

  “Dominic, you know I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” I say, putting the phone away because the sight of his words infuriates me. “We’re not together, though. We never officially said we were a thing, so excuse me but I can be wherever I want, whenever I want.”

  Did I subconsciously steal that ‘whenever, wherever’ bit from Denver last night before he finished on my chest? I can’t get his smooth, demanding voice out of my head.

  “So that’s how you feel, Tara?” he asks, standing up in a jolt. I sense his anger from his jerky movement. He’s trying to refrain from yelling. I’ve never seen him like this before, especially about me. He’s been with other women and I didn’t say anything, so why is this such a big deal?

  “Yes, that’s how I feel.” It’s surprising how much easier honesty is with one hundred million dollars behind you. I’m just now realizing that so much of me has been attached to, dependent on Dominic. With this money I finally feel free.

  “So I got you a job, gave you somewhere to stay while you got set up, made love to you a hundred times, and this is what you leave it at?”

  The tears building in his eyes are what burn the first hole through me. “I don’t know what to say,” is all I can say.

  We stare at each other silently.

  “Dominic, I can’t tell you thank you enough,” I say, eyes to the floor, unable to take in this grown man crying because I’m leaving him. “I don’t know what happened but, yeah, it got out of hand. For me, anyway. You know I love you, but not like that.”

  With his bottom lip trembling, he nods, averting his gaze once I finally look up. “Right, no, I feel you,” he says, turning to the window. I step forward, my impulses telling me to go to him, hug him, maybe even kiss him one last time. “Just get what you need and go, Tara. I know that’s why you’re here.”

  There are no more words I can to say to him, so I exhale and grab my phone charger, ThermoPoint thermometer (amazing for getting salmon right), and the clothes that are still littered around the room. I stuff my night shirts and panties into my bag, but when I get to the uniform I had lost the morning I got fired—under the recliner cushion—I decide to leave the jacket and pants because I don’t need them anymore.

  “I hope he takes care of you,” Dominic says, his back still turned.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. I haven’t mentioned anything about anybody, especially Denver.

  “You think I can’t put two and two together?” He turns around, eyes dry at last. “You and Mr. Money, right? Shit, I’d probably stay at his place in Malibu for whatever he’s paying you, too, if he was into it.” His assertion that I slept with Denver really bothers me, making it easier to turn and walk out the door. Even though he covered it up with a bad joke about homosexuality, he still implied that I had sex with a rich person for money.

  “Get over yourself, Dominic,” I say, standing in the doorway. “Nothing ever would have happened between us. We were both spinning our wheels. Don’t turn this into something bigger than it is.”

  “Get out, Tara.” His words are all monotone. With one last glance he turns and exits into the other room. So that’s it, then? Goodbye, Dominic.

  *****

  Pulling in through the mansion gates, I see that Denve
r has already had a parking spot reserved for me with a silver name placard and everything. “Tara Rogers – Professional Chef and Culinary Expert.” I like the sound of that. Too bad my beat up old car doesn’t fit in with the shiny, deluxe new models surrounding it. Maybe Denver gives his employees cars as bonuses, I think, imagining that anything is possible in this new fairy tale.

  The size of the mansion is growing on me. Now that I’ve entered it a few times it doesn’t seem so scary anymore. The morning is brisk and its air fills my nose—freshly mowed lawn, flowers, and a warm, salty California breeze.

  I start thinking of what breakfast I will prepare for Denver and the staff. With that freezer stocked full of hundreds of different foods, the possibilities are endless. Walking through the door, I decide the first thing that I need to do is create an Allergy List, so I look for Jill so I can ask her where I can find a whiteboard. The plan is to have every person on the staff write down his or her allergies so that I never have to live through another experience like the morning I met Denver.

  Of course Jill is in the library, flipping through old books on the green sofa instead of doing her job. If I decide to move in will this become my life? Maybe I shouldn’t judge her; this could be me if I decide to take Denver’s offer.

  “Morning!” I say, trying to start off chipper.

  “Morning,” Jill retorts, her eyes fixed on the book.

  “I was looking for some type of whiteboard or chalkboard I could put up in the kitchen,” I say, taking a seat next to her. This is a first. “Do you know where I could find something like that?”

  Before responding, she finishes the sentence she’s reading before darting her eyes over to me. “Hmmm,” she takes her time with her cherry-red lips pressed tight, eyes squinting at me. “You may find something like that at a common department store, I would imagine.”