by Amiee Smith
“Those terms work for me,” I say.
“I have not decided on my thesis. I’d like to wait to get pregnant until after I know the direction of my dissertation. I’m willing to be a bit flexible with timing if we’re getting married, but I want to complete it within the next two years.”
“What are you thinking?”
“At least a year from now. I can do most of the writing while I’m pregnant.”
“I love the way pregnant rolls off your tongue. I’ll agree to those terms. Do we have a deal? Or is there another counter?”
“Can I give you an answer after we finish date #5?”
“No, babe. We’re going to bed now and I don’t want the oxytocin to influence your decision-making.”
“Ahhh. No Grand Theft Auto tonight?” my woman asks like the world is going to end.
CHAPTER 15:
LILLY SHEPARD
Oh, GTA, how I love you.
I finish my game with a newfound clarity, adrenaline pulsing throughout my body. I’m ready to close a deal… and be kinky with my Michael.
He skipped playing to make some calls in his office. I didn’t mind. After our negotiation, I needed some time to process.
Back in the day, marriages were arranged. Is it any different than what he and I did tonight? Arranged our life together. Arranged our futures so they overlap. Arranged the merging of our DNA. More so, I want to be arranged with him, and he wants to be arranged with me.
He wants what he wants. And he wants me. Being wanted: magnificent. Wanting him as much as he wants me: unnerving. As if I may make a mistake. As if I may make an error in my calculation. As if I may make myself a target for heartache… again.
The San Francisco house is an amazing gift. A dream come true, really. But for a man as wealthy as Michael, giving me a twelve-million-dollar house is like giving someone twelve dollars from a thousand bucks. So, I’ll think of it as a dowry. Long ago, dowries were a sort of protection for a wife. Michael’s “gift” only serves to level the playing field between us.
Leaving the game room, I drop by my designated bathroom to remove my eye makeup and contact lenses.
Wearing my glasses, Jean Grey panties, and a red camisole, I stroll through Michael’s home. Located in the Trousdale area of Beverly Hills, it is nothing like the SF property, architecturally. Six thousand square feet, with four bedrooms and five bathrooms, the restored and modernized, gated, single-story home has a wide-open, indoor-outdoor vibe. It’s a home designed for a modern bachelor. A Persian prince. Michael’s room has only one bathroom (I’m to use the bathroom down the hall) and a closet as large as some SF apartments.
It’s the type of L.A. house I’d expect to see on one of those million-dollar real estate TV shows. Every room features huge floor-to-ceiling, folding glass doors that open to the pool, spa, and backyard overlooking L.A. Every room seems to flow to the next, the décor a mix of modern and old world. Michael’s Persian roots are evident throughout: dark wood, champagne upholstery, cream leather, and ornate furnishings with lots of gold accents.
I find him on the other side of the house sitting at a cherry wood desk with gold trim. He’s still on the phone, so I survey the space. Unlike his office in Pac Heights, this room seems more lived in.
An expert at making money, Michael has logged his 10,000 hours in here. The space pulsates with the energy of success. Shelving lines the walls, displaying USC and fraternity memorabilia, framed photos of him with celebrities (hello, Kanye), and awards for his charitable contributions.
“Good. Draft it. I’ll touch base in the morning,” Michael says in Farsi before ending the call.
“Are you all done?”
“Yes. Come here, Lilly.”
He’s using his late-night voice.
“I’m not having sex with you in here, Michael.”
“Yes, you would. If I asked you to.”
“No. Your desk is designed for making deals, not love. Let’s go to the bedroom,” I say, turning to leave.
“Lilly, wait. Do we have a deal?”
“We’ll discuss it in bed. This is where you work. From now on, all family business will be conducted in our bedroom.”
“So, it’s a deal?”
Michael flashes a grin so big it could illuminate the night sky.
I honor his enthusiasm, lifting my camisole over my head.
“In our bedroom. I’m operating on four hours of sleep. If you keep delaying, you’ll miss the perk of date #5. We can wait for another date. We’ve got 20 more to go.”
I turn my back to him, pausing for a second so my tattoos are in full view before leaving the room.
He’s at my heels as I cross the threshold.
◆◆◆
Michael closes the door and clicks the lock. The beige and cream room is well-lit by warm recessed lighting.
“Afraid I’m going to run out on you?”
“No. Angeline will be here before we get up.”
“Angeline?”
“My L.A. equivalent to Molly. She’s been working for me for years and we have an agreement that if my door is locked, I’m not to be disturbed. We are not to be disturbed.”
I drop my red cami on the beige suede upholstered bench at the end of the bed. On the other side stands a matching headboard so massive it covers half the wall. If this furniture could talk it would tell me tales of Michael using his playlist and doing the horizontal cha-cha with many women in this room.
“Have there been a lot of ‘we’ moments in this room?” I ask.
“If you agree to our deal, then you and I will be the only ‘we’ going forward.”
My plan had been to be a seductive warrior princess tonight, bringing my man to his knees. But right now, I’m more vulnerable than ever before. I want to believe this connection between us is real, but I need more data to confirm my hypothesis.
“Why am I the one?”
“Why not you?” Michael responds, unbuttoning his dress shirt and letting it fall to the bench.
“Michael! That is not the right answer.”
“See. That’s why you’re the one. You will call me on my bullshit even when you’re topless and high beaming.”
Michael dips his head, running his tongue over the top of my tits. His thumb and index fingers clamp down on one of my nipples. Hard. Both pleasure and pain radiate throughout my chest, igniting a surge of dopamine and endorphins. These “feel-good” hormones make erotic pain so very euphoric. Addicting.
I gasp. My eyes flutter closed… for a second.
I return to my research.
“And?” I ask, digging deep to find my voice.
“I love your intellect. I watched all those videos with the sound on. Your mind is brilliant, babe. I love that you’d rather talk about genome editing than Gucci. Though you do look really good in Gucci.”
Michael gives my nipple a sharp twist (so fucking good) before releasing me so he can kiss and nip my neck, shoulders, and back. His teeth against my skin is mind numbing. Speaking has become difficult, but I can’t go silent. I need more facts.
“And?” I ask.
“You’re passionate about what you’re into. Not just the math and science stuff, but music, gaming, pop culture. I want you to be passionate about me.”
Michael’s mouth is working its way down my back. His teeth sink into each equation, his hands knead my breasts. My knees buckle, and my mind powers down; my throat dry with need.
“I’m passionate about you, Michael. And?”
“You keep me guessing. I never know if you’re going to cuddle or bite me. If you’re going to be mama bear or mad scientist. Get all mouthy or go mute. Intense and determined or patient and caring. You’re a puzzle and your unpredictability is invigorating.”
Abandoning my tits, one of Michael’s hands moves between my thighs. My pussy aches for his touch, but if he finds my spot— the spot only he seems to know— I’m done.
I still need more information.
“And?
” I ask, halting his hand.
Retreating, Michael leaves me panting. Wet. Trembling.
I watch him undress. This man is fine as fuck. Slim build. Toned muscles. Copper skin. Dark hair covering his chest. Even the collection of surgical scars decorating his abdomen are alluring. Sexy. And his penis makes me so grateful I have a vagina. I can’t force my eyes away from him.
“And that look. I don’t know if I want to get on my knees to worship your cunt, or spank you until you beg me to fuck you, or lie next you to watch you breathe. I’d do anything to express my appreciation for the admiration written all over your face. When you look at me, I feel powerful. Worthy. Loved.”
“Michael, we have a deal. Fuck me now. Come all over my back. Lights stay on. Then take a photo and send it to me. I want to always remember the night you became mine. After you’re done watching me breathe, you can spank me.”
I move to the side of the bed. Taking off my glasses, I drop them next to a large rose quartz crystal on the nightstand. A larger version of the stone Lynn always wears around her neck. I fight the scowl wanting to form across my forehead.
“Why… do you have this by your bed?” I ask, trying to hold back my assumptions.
“Romance, babe. A psychic once told my mom I would meet my wife by way of a rose quartz crystal,” Michael says with a sincere smile.
His words quiet the last of my doubt that Michael’s feelings for me are real. While I don’t believe in the metaphysical, I admire his devotion… to romance.
I slip out of my panties and remove the mountain of shiny champagne-colored throw pillows from the bed. Michael walks to the other side, resting his phone on the nightstand before tossing pillows to the floor.
“Lilly, I’m concerned the oxytocin is clouding your judgement.”
“My judgement is fine. But I can’t understand why a man has all these damn pillows.”
He laughs. “Romance, babe. You’re totally wet for me right now.”
I chuckle. “Yes. I am.”
The arousal between my thighs has nothing to do with playlists or pillows or pink stones. It’s all Michael.
Finding the edge of the satin comforter and pulling it back, we both climb into bed. Our long legs tangling. Our lips and tongues connecting. Our arms circling.
With Michael nestled between my thighs, I lift my knees and extend my legs toward the ceiling. His shaft enters me. All the way in. Buried deep. Stretching my sex. We rock this way. The smell of his spicy cologne caresses my nose, and his moans send me soaring. Missionary has never been so good in the history of mankind. Sacral bonding at its best.
“Michael, you are in every part of me.”
“I feel the same way.”
Each thrust, more insistent. Michael lifts onto his arms, so I can see him moving in and out of me. My cunt hugs his cock. I moan, deep and desperate. My two middle fingers circle my clit, and I set out on my glorious journey to the end of the world.
“No. Let me,” Michael says, withdrawing his cock.
He licks my fingers, moving my hand aside. His tongue engages my pussy in a lapping and sucking embrace. Watching his mouth twirl around my sex from this angle is the most delicious experience of my life. Oh my. This is my new life. This is my Michael.
Closing my eyes, I give over to it all. My voice goes on silent. My mind officially off duty. My body merely a collection of atoms uniting him to me. My fingers intertwined in Michael’s thick soft hair and I tug and thrust my way to release. As soon as my orgasm subsides, he moves.
“I love when you go mute. On your knees, babe.”
Michael does most of the work, rolling me over so he can assume his favorite position… behind me. My core is still contracting as he slides inside. His hand strokes my clit. It’s like his dick doubled in size, taking up more space than ever before. He’s everywhere. Really. Fucking. Everywhere.
Michael. My benevolent, loving, totally sensual Michael, works my clit exactly in the way I love as he pounds me from behind. Strong. Passionate. Never-ending.
“Lilly. Lilly. Lilly.”
I love his lusty chant right before he explodes. Bent over in front of him, I feel more powerful and confident than when I’m on stage reciting a well-rehearsed speech or submitting a flawless article to a scientific journal or conducting an experiment that could change lives. Here with Michael, I come alive.
Unrestricted by rules, method or process, I bounce and shake my hips. Willing him to bust all over me. Reaching back, I grab his wrist. The soft hair of his arm grazes my palm and my second orgasm rocks me forward. Retracting his hand from between my legs, he holds my hips steady. My thighs and core shudder, but Michael keeps me upright. He’s got me.
He pumps in and out, harder and harder. Groaning and calling my name. Over and over. His deep voice encompasses me, and I curl into the sounds of his pleasure.
Then his dick is gone. His semen, warm and gooey against my back.
“Don’t move.”
Still panting, my body aches so good. The clicks of Michael taking several pics with his phone echoes in the room. I arch my back, enjoying the moment a little more than I want to admit.
“Michael! We only need one photo.”
“Babe, this is my masterpiece.”
An exhausted chuckle drops from my mouth.
“It was my idea, lover man.”
“And we executed it together. See, we’re good partners for each other.”
“I can’t see anything but the bed sheet right now.”
“You love it this way.”
Yes, I do love it this way.
I’m head over feet for our “we.”
CHAPTER 16:
MICHAEL AHMED
“That’s it, Michael. Breathe into it. Let your mind relax.”
Rosie, my personal trainer, stands beside me. I’m in the backyard, posed on my blue yoga mat. I’m wearing black warm-ups and a white USC T-shirt. The bright sunshine bathes my skin.
Is it bad that I’m in the middle of one-leg downward facing dog and meditating on the red marks I left on my girlfriend’s ass?
Lilly started it.
This morning, in bed, she went from cuddly and docile to biting the shit out of my thigh before making me fast-finish in her mouth like a pubescent teenager. Of course, I had to spank her before a round of two-one-two.
I loved every minute of it. She loved every minute of it.
“Keep your knee straight and press your foot into the floor. Fully extend. Excellent! Now return to center. Good work today, Michael!” Rosie cheers.
Lilly love-hates her.
Hates her because “she’s so damn peppy at eight o’clock in the morning.” (Some days, I even struggle with her incessant optimism.)
Loves her because Rosie developed a fitness routine to help Crohn's and colitis patients achieve and maintain remission.
Lilly questioned Rosie when she arrived. My woman was trying to quantify and calculate Rosie’s fitness methodology. My hippie trainer responded with something about the Universe and a psychic download, causing Lilly to roll her eyes and return to the bedroom to read five hundred pages of scientific and medical journals. She calls this her “light-reading day.”
After walking Rosie to the door, I stop by the bathroom before seeking out my phone in the bedroom. I find my woman at the eat-in table in the kitchen with a plate of crepes piled with fruit and drizzled with chocolate.
She’s wearing her glasses, red shorts, and a Michael Jackson Thriller T-shirt with the arms cut out. Her curls are wrapped in a black scarf. When she moves, I get a glance of side-boob with a fresh hickey… or maybe it’s a bite mark?
“Señor Michael! Lilly is wonderful. She eats the crepes! I never get to prepare the crepes. Would you like your usual?” Chef Ronaldo asks from the stove.
“Yes. That’ll be fine.”
I pour water and coffee and slide in next to Lilly on the bench side of the table.
“How was your workout?” she asks, not glancing u
p from her tablet.
“It was good. Rosie said I was a bit tight and distracted at first. I wonder why?”
“Michael, you decided I was the one,” she whispers.
“Yes, babe. You are definitely the one,” I state, scrolling my email inbox.
For a moment, we sit in silence— her reading, me fielding emails. Doing what “we” do. Together.
Chef places a plate of steak, eggs, and avocado in front of me.
“Before you leave for your meeting, I need to know the address here so I can text it to Dana. I also need to know which Natural Foods is in walking distance.”
“Lilly, Chef is going to fill the refrigerator with food for the weekend.”
“I want to get a bottle of wine and cupcakes to take to the sleepover.”
“Rolando, can you prepare a dozen regular cupcakes and a half-dozen vegan cupcakes for Lilly to take to a party tonight?”
“Yes, Señor Michael. I can do a chocolate cake with chocolate ganache frosting, carrot cake with cream cheese frosting and a vegan pineapple coconut cake. Will that suffice?”
“Yes, Chef. Thank you,” Lilly says.
“Check the wine cabinet. Choose anything you want,” I say, cutting into my steak.
“Michael, I still want to know how to get around in case I need something. I was checking the map on my phone and it appears the nearest store is almost three miles away. The GPS must be inaccurately calculating my coordinates. Also, there are no bus lines listed. Google should really be more accurate with their maps. L.A. is a major city.”
Lilly takes a bite of crepe.
“Babe, is this your first trip to L.A.?”
“Yes. Please don’t tell me all these hills interfere with the GPS. There are lots of hills in the City and I never have trouble with directions.”
“No, Lilly. The GPS is accurate. L.A. is a lot more spread out than San Francisco and public transportation is less prevalent. Especially in this neighborhood. I will order you a car.”
