Scented Lust

by Jacqueline Turner Banks

  He studied her like he expected more. Finally he spoke, again looking down at his feet. “I’m sorry. I guess I just assumed that I didn’t have to pretend with you since you know it exists. I won’t let that happen again.”

  “You can stop it?”

  “Yes, I do it all the time.”

  She thought about it and realized they had to be talking about different things. “I mean, will you stop reading my thoughts?”

  “I can’t do that if they involve me. I’m sorry, but I will stop commenting on what I hear.”

  His tone was so apologetic it made her feel petty for bringing it up. “Artest, I grew up in situations where I had no privacy from the strangers that were paid to board me. All I had were my thoughts, and there was one place where the lady of the house kept asking me what was I thinking. I always lied to her because my thoughts were none of her business. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, your thoughts are important to you. Again, I apologize.”

  She felt even worse. She decided to leave it alone. “I’m going to change into the dress now.”

  “Okay,” he said, but he didn’t leave.

  “Will you wait in the hall?”

  He smiled. “I’ve seen every inch of your luscious, beautiful body. Is that really necessary?”

  “It is,” Jordan answered, but thanks for calling my body beautiful, she said to herself. But then she wondered if luscious meant fat. She saw him struggling at not saying “you’re welcome,” or whatever crossed his mind. He smiled at her again, and she realized he was still “hearing” her. She felt like such a jerk for putting such restrictions on him when all it meant was he trusted her.

  “I feel like I shouldn’t let you out of my presence, but I’ll close my eyes while you change if it’s important to you.”

  Jordan stood up and unzipped her jeans. “I guess you’re right. You’ve already seen all there is to see.” She sat back down on the bed and pulled off the jeans. At least my panties and bra are a matching set. It was the nicest set she’d had before she bought the new set he’d already seen.

  When she got down to her bra and panties, he stopped trying to appear disinterested. The look of appreciation on his face made her want to strip all the way and test his friend’s bed. She knew he’d heard when she saw him cross his legs in an attempt to prevent her from seeing the level of his interest. “Can you help me with this?” she asked as she stood and handed him the robe. “I don’t want to mess up my hair.”

  He held the garment in front of his body when he stood, yet she could still see what he was trying to hide. She stepped as close as possible before turning her back to him and giving his erection the full butt rub. She was teasing him, but considering what he’d put her through, she believed he deserved it.

  As she put her hands up in the air and let him arrange the robe over each arm, she made sure she pushed her ample behind into him as much as possible. The robe was a bit too large, and it dropped over her hips with room to spare, but instead of feeling sloppy, it felt luxurious. The feeling was enhanced by the extremely soft silk material.

  He tried to hide it, but she saw him catch his breath in a slight gasp when she turned and faced him. “You look like home,” he said.

  Before she could think of some witty repartee, he embraced her. “Why are you trying to torture me?” he asked as he kissed her neck. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once.

  “I’m not that kind of girl.”

  “You’re not any kind of girl, my dear—you are a woman.” He kissed her like they had all the time in the world. She felt his tongue seek out hers and then relax as it coaxed hers into a sensual dance that made her toes curl.

  “We’d better get downstairs,” she said when they came up for air. A part of her was hoping he would offer an alternative suggestion.

  He paused when he heard her thought, but their new arrangement didn’t allow him to respond.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She was not the most traditionally beautiful woman he’d ever dated and, in spite of her intelligence, possibly not the smartest, but he was beginning to see her as the most perfect. Artest found her, the complete package, intoxicating. He wondered if it was even correct to say “dated,” because he had yet to pick her up at her apartment and take her somewhere, except against her will.

  The thing that most intrigued him about her was that her emotions seemed to be the opposite of most twenty-first-century humans’. Even if she didn’t show it outside, things that would have upset most women tickled her, and yet things that he would have considered unimportant greatly annoyed her. And most importantly, things that should have scared her did scare her, but she found them more interesting than upsetting—thus making her flexible while terrified and spurring her to action. That was what he meant when he told Tyler she had the heart of a warrior.

  “What warrior, you?” Tyler asked, trying to be funny.

  He hadn’t expected Artest to answer, but he did. “She’s well on her way. As you know, it doesn’t take me long to figure out a person. I like what I see.”

  “That’s just that little Dogon in your pants talking,” he said.

  Artest almost quipped not so little, check around, but Tyler had always been aware of his attraction to Jahia, and he didn’t want him to think he was implying anything. Jahia had turned him down before they were married and he her after. That was a long time ago, when the couple was having problems. Since then, she’d thanked Artest more than once for not taking advantage of a bad time.

  “But regardless of who’s doing the thinking these days, you are my brother, and I wish you the best.”

  “I assure you, I’m thinking with the head on my shoulders, but I thank you for your concern.”

  But that wasn’t the head in charge when she asked him to help her dress. He thought she shouldn’t have been particularly worried about her hair. It was relaxed and hanging to her shoulders in a slight bob. He figured it would take all of few minutes to brush it back into order if dressing warranted it. He knew she was teasing him, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He was a willing fly in her web.

  As much as he enjoyed spending time with his countrymen and women, he was already looking forward more to returning to the bedroom when the evening was over.

  He waited until she took a few moments to go into the bathroom attached to the bedroom their host had provided before he returned to his home. Artest could move twice as fast a human, but the skill was something the Hunters never showed. Many believed that their speed was more frightening than their ability to transport or jump, although Artest had never been able to figure out why, and he was not sure that he believed it.

  When hanging out together, his brethren liked to talk about certain abilities evolving over time, and Artest had been known to say similar things too, but he didn’t truly believe that was how it happened.

  Artest believed the visitors came to the Dogon long ago because the Dogon were there where they landed. Dogons believed it was because they were the only ones intelligent enough to communicate with the visitors.

  He couldn’t imagine that his small country, and his small country alone, was the only group on earth with the basic skills necessary to make superior beings feel welcome. Any species that could travel light years away from their home were going to be treated like gods wherever they landed. It might have taken some advanced thinking to realize that they would need a combination of the Dogon and the Visitors to fight the Sangsue, but maybe they were mating anyway—who really knows? The fact that the Sangsue would never have come to Earth if they hadn’t been in pursuit of the Visitors wasn’t lost on him either.

  Considering how doubtful he was about so much of their early history, Artest really did believe that the Visitors were godly—not gods, but evolved beings who had learned some of God’s most valuable lessons. Artest had had conversations with humans who believed long lives and control over space and time was possible for them too, but it wouldn�
��t happen until the currently closed off ninety percent of the human brain was open for use.

  All of this was running through his mind as he watched Jordan strip. He had to think about how much or how little he wanted to tell her after the meeting. Tyler had already told him they were going to group wash her in the morning. He was actually looking forward to being completely honest with her before he made love to her for the last time before the wash.

  When she returned to the bedroom, she took one look at him, grunted, and then threw a pillow at him.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked. “What kind of violent mad woman are you?”

  “Where did those clothes come from?”

  “You don’t like my clothes?”

  She started looking around, and he sensed she was searching for something else to throw.

  He rushed her and held her hands. “Jordan, let’s talk. Use-your-words, Jordan.”

  She stopped struggling. “Use your words, Jordan?” she asked.

  He nodded, afraid of even his own words when it came to her.

  “Now you’re talking to me like I’m a five-year-old?”

  “That’s how you’re acting. Why would my clothes upset you? If you don’t like what I’m wearing, I’ll change.”

  “That’s not the problem. Where did those clothes come from?”

  He looked down at his shoes. “I bought the shoes in Italy.” She stopped him before he moved up his body with a brief fashion critique.

  “When?” she asked.

  “Months ago, why?”

  “I thought you were going to say while I was in the bathroom.”

  “You thought I went to Italy while you were in the bathroom?”

  She looked at him for what seemed like a minute or two before she answered with a tear running down her cheek, closely followed by several more. This too reminded him of his sister, another woman who cried when she was angry and fought back when she was hurt. “Why is that any stranger than the fact that you went anywhere and back the short time I was gone? This is too much for me, Artest. Maybe another kind of woman could cope, but I can’t take it. I hate surprises. Surprises have never been good for me or to me!”

  He loosened the grip on her hands and took her in his arms. “I’m beginning to understand. I really do know what it’s like to want stability. There was a time when I craved it too. I couldn’t have it and work too, so I had to get over it, but I swear I understand.”

  She stopped struggling. “Tell me when you’re going to do something, even if it seems like a minor thing to you—tell me, okay? Artest, if you can’t do that, don’t contact me after the wash.”

  He took her face in my hands. “Are you serious? It means that much to you?”

  “It really does. I don’t like surprises.”

  “I promise, I’ll tell you when I’m going to do something. . .”

  “Even if it seems like nothing,” she added.

  “Even if it seems like nothing.”

  “Now tell me what you did while I was gone.”

  “I went to my house to change clothes. I can’t transport from here to Italy.”

  “That still doesn’t seem like enough time to get there and back.”

  “And I can move faster than humans.”

  “Artest, that’s one of those things you’ll need to tell me before we casually talk about them.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “Do you have any other superpowers?”

  Superpowers? Is that what they look like to her? It’s not like I can fly. But then again, how important is flying when you can transport? “No, there’s nothing else,” he finally said, but then he wondered if he should have told her about the stopping time thing.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When they returned downstairs, the room that had been empty when they’d materialized in it earlier had billowy white fabric hanging from a ring in the center of the ceiling. The effect created a false ceiling that was inches shorter than the real one, making it necessary to bend to keep from touching the fabric. Jordan thought it was a pretty effect that made her feel as if she were floating inside a cloud. But she couldn’t imagine the purpose of it.

  If the fabric pieces had been falling from the ring, it might have had a Maypole effect, but the pieces were draped out to where the walls met the ceiling. All it seemed to be doing was lowering the ceiling with fabric. Strange. She also noticed that there were mats piled up in one corner and a low table with glasses full of an amber liquid.

  “This room represents the Togu Na we have in each village. The name translates as ‘House of Words,' and it’s a sort of combination meeting place and social center. The low ceiling makes it impossible for anybody to stand up and begin fighting during a lively discussion,” Artest said.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  There was quite a bit of noise that seemed to be coming from the living room/ dining room area. Jordan learned why when they entered and she saw that at least twenty-five people had arrived during their absence. They were all shapes, sizes, and races, but there were two things most of them had in common with Artest, Jahia and Tyler. Most of them were taller than normal, ranging from the shortest woman, who was about five-six, to a man who was at least six-seven, and they were all attractive.

  At a glance, she didn’t think any of them would have had a hard time at a singles bar, but their beauty was race appropriate—nothing that would stand out as unusual or breathtaking. The tall blond man had blue eyes, but the one who appeared Hispanic had dark, smoky brown eyes, and the other Mediterranean type had Artest’s skin color, but green eyes and blond-streaked hair. She thought the group of them looked like a Hollywood cattle call for pretty people or a United Colors of Benetton ad. Jordan remembered what Artest said about their ability to blend in with their environment. These people would stand out anywhere, she thought.

  All conversation stopped when they entered the rooms. She’d never been so sure she was being discussed.

  “Here they are now,” Jahia announced when the conversations hadn’t started back after two or three beats.

  “Apparently our arrival was well heralded,” Artest said with a voice louder than he normally used.

  The comment had his desired effect—he shamed the ones who could be shamed. Jordan saw a few apologetic looks. Several women and a man laughed openly; she figured they were the types who couldn’t be insulted. The bulk of them just looked around the room expectantly, wondering what would happen next.

  She looked around for the women who had had or wanted to have a relationship with Artest. She assumed these people were his regular homies. There was no doubt in her mind that a man with such an obvious, healthy sexual appetite and the looks to support it would have sampled the goods close to home.

  It wasn’t that she was the jealous type; it was more that she enjoyed observing the games people play when it comes to the sexes.

  She saw three women in three different locations looking at Artest in a manner she would describe as lustful, but it was a fourth woman, standing near Tyler, who caught her interest. She was the one giving Jordan the critical once-over, as only a former lover would.

  She was tall for an Asian woman, at least five seven or eight. The most noticeable thing about her after her height was her hair. It was parted in the middle and hung straight down past her shoulders, just short of her perky-to-the-extreme, braless full breasts. She was wearing a skintight body shirt, an abundant knee-length skirt and skin tight black leggings. Her legs were long and shapely. Jordan wasn’t crazy about super-straight hair, but there was no denying her total look was striking.

  She wondered about the woman’s assessment of her. After her once-over, the Asian woman just smiled and then took a drink from the straw in her glass. Jordan noticed that she was the only person in the room drinking from a straw, but she didn’t know what, if anything, that meant.

  Artest was rushed by people he apparently hadn’t seen in a while. He introduced Jordan to each one, but
the names blurred, as did the faces. The first one she took special notice of was an African whom Artest introduced as Sam. Most of them were Africans, according to Artest—he said all Dogons were Africans because Mali is in Africa. He kept repeating that the skin was just dressing, necessary for their various environments, but Sam looked like Jordan’s image of a black African. He was with a woman named Roberta.

  “They’re married,” Artest explained when they walked away. “She’s the Hunter, and he’s a Demon.”

  “Pretty bad, huh?” Jordan asked.

  “No, he seems to be a nice enough guy.”

  “Fast driver?” she asked.

  Artest laughed. “How would I know that, and why would you ask?”

  “A demon what?” Jordan asked sarcastically “A demon baker?”