Her entire body felt alive.
Awakened.
Were there things she needed to teach him about exploring more of her body, dirty talk, and slight aggression? Yes, but at that moment, as her throbbing clit ached relentlessly she didn’t care. It was almost six years and even then, many years before where her pleasure had been forced and faked.
This was real and pure and good.
“Now, Lo, now,” she cried out, needing a release.
As she writhed in pleasure, she could hear the tear of the condom’s foil.
She was hungry for it. “You ready?” she asked, spreading her legs before him.
“Hell, yeah,” he said.
When his probing of her missed the mark, she reached down and gripped him to guide his hardness inside her. With one deep thrust he entered her. She winced at the feel of her core adjusting to the feel of him. His length. His thickness. His hardness. That wicked curve.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Loren wrapped his arms around her body and buried his face against her neck as he trembled. “If you feel like you’re gonna cum, then stop stroking until it goes away to last longer,” she said. “Okay?”
“Yeah.”
His body was rigid and stiff for long moments that nearly made her mad, until finally—finally—he began to glide inside her. His thrusts were deep and fast. Hard and unrelenting.
She didn’t tell him to slow down. She didn’t want him to.
She twisted her fingers in his hair and jerked his head up to kiss him deeply as his sweat began to slicken the movements of their bodies against each other. He moaned in pleasure as she sucked his tongue with the same vigor that he sexed her.
What he lacked in skill he made up for in pure youth and strength.
Lord.
She admired the flexion of his muscles. His shoulders, arms, back, and buttocks. He was pure steel. His strokes glided up and down her walls. Her pleasure for him wettened her, slickening his moves.
Shit.
It was frenetic and kinetic. His pace was dizzying. Her mind felt scattered. Her senses were in overload.
Unable to deny herself, she sucked at his earlobe and whispered obscenities to him.
He paused.
She released a shaky breath, actually glad for the reprieve. Her heart was pounding so loudly she felt he could hear it as well.
He raised up to look down at her. “You good?” he asked.
“Hell, yeah,” she said, her voice breathless.
She looked up at the fierceness on his face. The handsome lines of his face and the wildness of his hair. Desire and some level of crazy caused by passion gave his slanted eyes a bright light. He was beautiful.
He studied her face as well, and she wondered about his thoughts but didn’t have a moment to ask as he began to stroke inside her again.
“So, you’re not a virgin,” she said.
He smiled a little. “No, I’m not.”
“Next time I’ll teach you about making love. This is fucking,” she said, gripping his arms and being turned on by his muscles.
He paused midstroke. “Should I stop?” he asked, his eyes concerned that he was wrong.
Silly boy.
“Definitely not.”
And it was on again.
Desdemona wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and held on for the ride. Each furious piston-like stroke was like a jolt of pure electricity. And when he stiffened to keep back another rise of his climax, she shook her head where it was buried against his neck.
“Don’t stop,” she begged.
Loren roughly shoved his hands beneath her to grip her buttocks as he pumped away furiously until his hardness was like that of a bat before it throbbed with each of his releases inside her.
She had to fight not to sex him back and drain him of every drop.
Next time, she promised herself.
With a few final thrusts that were fractured, Loren’s body went slack atop hers.
She played with the curls of his hair as she released shallow breaths through pursed lips, waiting for her pulse and heartbeat to decelerate.
“What’s my score?” he asked, lifting up to look down at her.
“You and the filled condom are still in me, Lo,” she reminded him.
“Right,” he agreed.
“Hold the condom while you pull out,” she advised. Loren chuckled. “I know,” he said, doing just that.
She rose from the sofa and watched as he walked to the powder room in the hall. She made her way to her private bathroom and quickly washed up before she pulled on a lace robe. He was standing at the window in his boxers when she walked back into the living room. “No worries, kid, I give you a C overall,” she quipped, moving to the bar to pour two glasses of wine.
He turned. “What will it take to get an A?” he asked.
“Not used to scoring lower than best?” she asked, crossing the room to hand him a glass.
“Definitely not; that’s why I came for your help,” Loren said.
She sipped her drink and ran her free hand through her hair, which had come loose in the melee. “Equipment is an A. Kudos for that,” she said with a slight raise of her glass in a toast.
He shook his head as he chuckled. “And?” he asked before taking a sip.
“You rely on your size too much,” she said frankly. “Just pumping away, but if your penis doesn’t hit her spot she won’t cum. I didn’t. Not the big explosion that should have me on that couch still sticky from your sex and sleeping.”
He frowned.
“Pay attention to her. Get her hot and wet. Caress her body. Kiss her everywhere—and I do mean everywhere,” she stressed with a meaningful look.
“Nah, I don’t do that,” he said.
Desdemona eyed him. “Your loss,” she said, chiding him as she reached up to pat his cheek. “There’s nothing better than the taste and feel of a woman in your mouth. Stop denying yourself.”
He fell quiet.
“Don’t worry. I’ve only just begun to teach you,” she said, raising her glass to him. “Here’s to the making of a great lover.”
Loren raised his glass to touch hers.
* * *
“See how he works his hips? In circles. Clockwise. Then counterclockwise. Not just back and forth.”
Desdemona picked up the remote from the bed to pause the video on the television as she looked over her bare shoulder at Loren sitting on the bed leaned back against the pillows and her headboard, naked and beautiful with his member lying across his thigh, impressive even at rest.
He nodded and looked over at her.
She was as naked as he as she sat on her haunches with her heels pressing into her buttocks.
Desdemona looked back to the TV and continued the video. The lovers shifted their bodies so that he sat on the couch and she straddled his hips, reaching behind herself to hold his erection straight up as she slid down onto it. She bit down onto the tip of her finger as she watched them deeply kissing and whispering to each other as the woman rode him slowly as he thrust his hips upward off the couch.
She fell silent and enjoyed the show, feeling her fleshy bud throb against the plump lips of her womanhood.
“That’s the thing about a good flick,” she said in wonder. “You can tell when they’re really feeling each other because they don’t give a damn about that camera placement. This is one of my favorite flicks.”
“Mine too now,” he said.
She glanced back at him, but her breath caught at him now fully aroused with his erection casting an impressive shadow against the sheets beside him.
“Well, now,” she sighed, tossing the remote aside and crawling on her knees up the length of the bed to reach him.
He sheathed himself with protection before she reached him and straddled his lap to take as much of his hardness as she could inside of her. He gripped her buttocks and deeply sucked a taut brown nipple as he pressed his face against the softness of her
breasts. Her fingers gripped the headboard and she flung her head back until the ends of her hair teased the top curve of her buttocks.
Soon their cries of release and passion blended in the air with those from the video.
* * *
“Lo. Lo. Lo!” Desdemona gasped as he stroked inside from behind as she was bent over the coffee table with her breasts and hard nipples pressed against the chilly glass.
He stopped, his fingers gripping her fleshy buttocks before he slapped each cheek lightly. “More?” he asked, his voice thick with pleasure.
He really is a quick learner. Not perfect. But better. Shit.
She nodded eagerly, raising her face from the glass to look over at the lit fire as he pounded away again. “Slow it down, Lo,” she advised. “And reach around me to play with my clit while you do.”
He quickly obeyed.
She released a whimper and balled her hands into fists atop the glass.
Slow and with a devastating pace, Loren worked his hips to glide in and out of her. He bent his body over hers and licked at her shoulder and upper back.
A little too wet, but I’ll tell him that later.
She arched her back, raising her buttocks and her core for him.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
“Put your thumb in,” she gasped, wanting him to.
“Huh?” he asked, stopping his glide.
He’s not ready, and that’s low-level freaky.
“Nothing,” she said, working her hips to pull downward on his hardness.
He moaned deeply.
Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.
She almost didn’t hear her phone, and she almost wished she hadn’t.
Damn.
“I gotta get that, Lo,” she said.
“Fuck that phone,” he said, stroking away.
She almost agreed, but there was too much at risk not to answer.
Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.
She pushed back against him with her buttocks to get room and then rose, feeling his hardness slide out of her.
“Ms. Smith,” he moaned in disappointment.
She padded over to her phones on the charging station in the kitchen. She unplugged her business phone and walked toward her bedroom as she answered. “Yes.”
“Mademoiselle, he slapped me. I don’t know if he is high or crazy or what, but he hit me. He fucking hit me.”
“Chelsea,” she said, forgetting to use her moniker of Choc—short for chocolate.
Get it together, Desdemona.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and paced. “Choc, are you hurt? Where are you? Where is he?” she asked, her words rushed and almost colliding with one another.
The line disconnected. She called her prepaid phone back three times. No answer. She gripped the phone tightly and growled in frustration, feeling some of those metaphorical balls she kept in the air crash.
She headed back into the living space. She paused in the entryway at the enticing sight of Loren sitting on the sofa with the darkness broken up by the warm glow of the lit fire. She wanted nothing more than to rejoin him and claim the heated spot where they left off.
He looked over his shoulder at her. His surprise was clear. “Is everything okay?” he asked, rising to his full height.
No.
“I got an emergency with my business. Can we pick this up another time?” she asked, her thoughts on Choc’s safety.
He immediately started getting dressed.
When he pulled on his coat and came over to her at the front door, she gave him a smile she hoped was filled with her regret.
“Is there anything I can do?” Loren asked.
She looked to him, surprised that this man nearly ten years her junior made her feel so damn safe at that moment. “I got it,” she said.
“Let me know you got back in okay?” he asked. Desdemona nodded. She looked up just before he gave her one last look and pulled his skull cap down over his wild hair before he opened the door.
“Lo,” she called to him.
He turned in the open doorway. She walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, holding him close as she rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
With a playful smack of her bare bottom, he stepped over the threshold and left, closing the door as he did.
“Shit,” she swore, using her iPad to send for her car before rushing to her walk-in closet to pull on a fitted sweater dress and thigh-high riding boots, topping it with a short leather trench and a fitted cap to battle the bitter January cold.
Rushing, she opened her safe and grabbed wads of cash and made sure her baton was in her tote before she finally left the apartment.
Cha-ching. Cha-ching—
It was Choc’s consort with the hand problem. Number eighteen. She answered, squaring her shoulders as she continued down the hall to the elevator. “Complete violation of the rules,” she said as soon as she answered the call.
“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”
She paused before stepping onto the lift. His voice was odd. Slurring a bit.
Vic Lamonte was an Atlanta-based Grammy-winning record executive and producer favored by the top names in R & B and hip-hop. He was in New York working on a secret project with a diva pop star who hadn’t released a new project in more than five years and was looking to make a comeback. He called Mademoiselle for a little relaxation time to get a break from the studio.
She’d known him for years.
“Are you drunk, V. L.?” she asked.
“Nah,” he said.
She didn’t believe him. Alcohol or pills—didn’t matter. Both were prohibited. “Where’s Choc?’ she asked.
“Fuck her. Send me somebody else. Let me see. I want a, uhm, light skin dip with a big ass, Mademoiselle,” he said.
She frowned. “You are not pulled up to the drive-thru window of McDonald’s ordering food, V. L.,” she snapped, stepping off the elevator. “Don’t handle me like that. Besides, you’re off the list. You’re not new to this.”
“What? You better send somebody to get this nut,” he roared.
Desdemona frowned in distaste. “Call me tomorrow when you’re sober,” she said, feeling worn out from just dealing with him in his altered state.
This was not the fun-loving man with whom she was familiar.
“I’m not the one for you to play that way, Ma-dem-oiselle,” he said disparagingly.
“Be clear with your intent and your words,” Desdemona warned as she stepped out of the building and walked to the curb where her car awaited, already running and warm as she gave the valet a smile of gratitude.
“I’ll fuck up your whole operation,” he threatened.
She pulled to a stop at the red light and put her phone on speaker. “Let me be clear. I’m the best at what I do because I am the keeper of secrets, including yours. I will carry what I know and whom all I know about to my grave. But allegiance is paid for with the same loyalty. See, to protect those who deserve it I will absolutely handle a traitor. Even threatening me makes you that. Do you understand me? I will absolutely destroy you if you ever threaten me or mine again. I will give you that first hiccup as a show of my grace.”
The line remained quiet.
The traffic light turned green, but she remained where she sat.
“Man, I’m tripping,” he said suddenly with a little laugh. “Let me sleep off this drunk.”
“It’s been good knowing you, V. L. and if there is anything I can do for you, outside of adding you back to my list, you let me know,” she said before ending the call with a press of her thumb to the screen.
A car horn blared behind her. She accelerated forward, steering with one hand and dialing Choc’s phone with the other. Still no answer.
Choc lived in Harlem, and Desdemona pulled up her address and fed it to her GPS before she headed in that direction, eventually hopping on the FDR Drive. With traffic, it took close to forty minutes to get there. She pa
rked two blocks down from Choc’s house, wishing she had used a car service to prevent anyone—even Choc—from getting her license tag number—a direct link back to her.
Another ball dropping.
The tree-lined street was clearly gentrified with white residents strolling up the block at a leisurely pace, with no signs of mom-and-pop corner stores to be seen for miles. Whether rent or a mortgage, it was all a sign that the cost of this neighborhood was high. Choc was pre-med at NYU—another costly expense and the reason for her work as a courtesan. How could she afford this as well?
Perhaps she’s not alone.
Desdemona texted her this time. “I’m outside your house. Wanted to make sure you’re okay. U home?” she said aloud as she typed.
She looked up the street at the brownstone. A shadow broke up the light in the second-floor window. She was glad for the dark pitch of her tint and that none of her courtesans knew what she drove; she usually made sure of that.
Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.
CHOC: Coming downstairs.
Desdemona waited until the shadow disappeared from the window before she climbed from the car and locked it. She walked up the middle of the street where the snow had been cleared, creating a path. She was just approaching the brick porch with beautiful scrolled wrought-iron railings when Choc opened the ornately carved wooden door.
Everything sung “Money, money, money, money” like the O’Jays.
She took in the tall and elegant dark-skinned woman with the looks and grace of Lupita Nyong’o as she clutched her cashmere wool coat closer to her body and came down the stairs before Desdemona could come up.
“Are you okay?” she asked, studying her face.
The left side of her face was puffy, and her eyes were red-rimmed from tears.
“I’m done, Mademoiselle,” Choc said. “I didn’t sign up to be hit upon.”
“I am so sorry. I try my very best, I promise you, to ensure that every consort is above this kind of behavior—”
“I don’t blame you. I’ve . . . serviced him before and he wasn’t like that the last time,” she said. “But all I could think of was something going really wrong with him—or another one—and then what would I tell my fiancé?”
Madam, May I Page 15
