Bi-Sensual
Nikki-Michelle
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Elliot
Elliot
Elliot
Mona
Elliot
Mona
Elliot
Elliot
Mona
Elliot
Elliot
Mona
Elliot
Mona
Mona
Elliot
Mona
Mona
Elliot
Mona
Mona
Mona
Mona
Elliot
Elliot
Elliot
Mona
Elliot
Elliot
Mona
Mona
Elliot
Mona
Mona
Elliot
Elliot
Elliot
Mona - Epilogue
A Little Jibber-Jabbering - from the Author
Urban Books, LLC
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Farmingdale, NY 11735
Bi-Sensual Copyright © 2017 Nikki-Michelle
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-6228-6874-2
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
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Just when you think you have it all figured
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Acknowledgments
To my agent, Brenda Hampton, I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me on this journey.
Elliot
“Will you chill out!” I snapped.
“Leave then,” she said as she hopped up from the bed and stormed across the hotel room.
She’d stopped paying me any attention. She was angry. A storm was brewing inside of her like she was the eye of a deadly hurricane. Seconds before, she’d been writhing underneath me, body creaming, thighs quaking, calling on God as her orgasms overtook her.
“Just put your fucking clothes on and go, El. Just fucking go,” she barked as she tossed my shirt at me.
“Mona, chill. Stop throwing shit at me.”
She stopped abruptly, snapped her head around, and scowled. “Stop telling me to fucking chill, El. Don’t do that. Validate it. Acknowledge my anger,” she said, then walked over to the desk where her laptop sat.
I watched as her perfectly rounded, heart-shaped ass did a little jiggle and bounce with each aggravated step. She was livid. Angry that I had to leave and couldn’t stay, as promised. Her long, thin braids swished and swayed against her tailbone as she moved. I loved the way she looked with long braids. That was one of the reasons she kept them in her hair. One of the reasons I paid to get her hair done.
I looked at the room-service tray that sat against the wall, with empty plates. Steak sauce and lobster shells were the only thing left to show what we’d eaten. An expensive wine bottle sat empty on the table next to the bed. Golden condom wrappers—two—had been thrown on the floor, one near the foot of the bed and another by the window. The white down comforter and the sheets were rumpled. The sweet smell of our sex permeated the air.
“I am acknowledging your anger. I just want you to relax—”
“And don’t you dare tell me to relax, either. I flew all the way to Atlanta, caught a last- minute, fucking expensive-ass flight just so you could go back on your word?”
I stood and sighed. My dick was semi-flaccid as an overly filled condom dangled from the tip. I struggled to get the thing off. After a few seconds, it lost the battle, and I walked to the bathroom to flush it.
I could hear her mumbling, “Have me fly to Atlanta all the way from New York just so you could fuck me and then leave.”
She was from New York by way of Mississippi. Sometimes her Southern accent jumped out at me. I washed my hands, grabbed a hand towel to dry them, and then walked back into the bedroom. Maxwell crooned softly from her wireless speaker that sat on the nightstand by the bed. The music was on low as he asked about getting into a little something, something.
She always had to have Maxwell playing. She loved anything pre-haircut Maxwell. Anything post haircut she turned her nose up at it. She stood in front of the big mirror on the wall, fighting to get all her braids into a ponytail.
Samona always had to have the best. So the presidential suite at the InterContinental Buckhead was her choice. The gray blackout shades were pulled closed. The white down comforter was halfway on the floor, and a few of the pillows had been knocked off the bed. There was a built-in bookcase filled with books, which she was never interested in reading.
The grayish brown walls gave the room a masculine feel and also made it appear more corporate than comfortable. There was an abstract painting over the bed with different colors, like cream, black, brown, and gold. The light gray love seat in the room hadn’t been sat on yet, as evidenced by the fact that the decorative pillows hadn’t been disturbed.
“I asked you to fly to Atlanta so I could see you, spend time with you,” I said.
She whipped around to look at me, her long braids falling again. “You told me you could stay the night. You call us having sex for the past three hours spending time? As soon as you walked through the door—”
“You were on me. Don’t get that part twisted,” I said.
“Because I missed you, dumb ass.”
“And we didn’t have sex for three hours. I held you. We talked.”
“And you made sure to fuck me in between each of those holding and talking sessions.”
Samona looked as if she wanted to cry. Just minutes before, she’d made the same face when she had an orgasm. Samona’s cum face could be as beautiful as a sunrise or as painful as dealing with death. That was probably why she called her orgasms la petite mort.
I sighed. She was naked. I was naked. I could think of a million things we could be doing instead of arguing. Standing five feet nine, she was taller than the average woman. That meant she also carried her 225 pounds better than the average woman. Her chocolate 36-D breasts sat perky and full against her chest. Nipples sat big, an invitation to suck them.
She put her hands on her rounded hips. Her smaller waist called extra attention to her ample ass. I was sure the only reason Ashley Graham got the cover of Sports Illustrated was because they hadn’t met Samona de la Cruz. Her blackness was bold and in your face. Her brown eyes carried a fire that could stop the devil in his tracks.
She had never met her real father but wore his surname, de la Cruz, like it was her badge of honor. All she knew was that he was Afro-Cuban and had abandoned her mother before the words “I’m pregnant” could even leave her mouth.
“Your hand was on my dick. Your tongue down my throat. You were sucking and kissing on my neck,” I reminded her.
“Why can’t you stay?”
She knew the answer to that, but she was trying to make me say it.
“You know why. I have to get back home.”
“Why did you ask me to fly
down here, then?”
“I needed to see you.”
“You needed to fuck me.”
“I needed to see you, Mona.”
“Then why not fly up to New York?”
“You know my money is tight right now, or else I would have. Don’t act like I wouldn’t.”
She stared me down for a long time. If looks could kill, I’d have died already. She huffed, snatched up my jeans, and tossed them at me. I stepped to the left and watched them fall back to the floor.
I snapped, “Mona, don’t throw nothing else at me.”
She ignored me and kept talking. “I flew all the way to Atlanta to be screwed like a whore and left in the hotel room I paid for.”
I ran a hand over the waves in my head. My dick was still semi-hard. I wanted some more of her, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I hadn’t seen her in months. Not since her new book had hit the shelves. Samona was a New York Times best-selling author. She and I met after her book, Pleasured-Bi-You, had been released. She was one of the first authors I’d read who wrote about bisexual black men in a positive light. After I reached out to her to tell her how much I loved the book, we kept the conversation going via Facebook.
An attraction was there that blossomed, and so we decided to meet outside of the net a year later. I flew to New York to meet her. She was doing a book signing at a Barnes & Noble in Brooklyn. The place was packed. Standing room only. I waited until it was over to show my face. She was even more beautiful in person.
To make a long story short, one thing led to another. Now we were here, two years later.
Mona looked at me, frowned like she was about to use her words to butcher me and then leave me on the floor, in my own blood. Then that frown softened. She swallowed, glanced out the window, and then looked over at me.
“Don’t leave,” she said, her voice so soft, it was like the gentle caress of a spring night’s breeze. “I haven’t seen you in three months, with the book tour and all the deadlines. I miss you a lot. You said you would stay. Said you had some time.”
We hadn’t seen each other in about three months, like she’d said. Between my job as a ninth grade algebra teacher and her being on tour for her latest book, time had been scarce. However, summer had rolled around, and her tour was over for now, and school was to be over in another week. The plan had been for me to spend some time with her, but, unfortunately, I had other obligations tonight.
“I can’t stay tonight,” I said. “But—”
“But, but, but. Always a but with you when it comes to me, El. Always.”
She strutted from the room and headed toward the foyer. I could hear the soft thuds of her feet on the hardwood floor. I grabbed my red boxer briefs and jeans. Put those on before I followed behind her.
The color of the walls in the living room matched those of the bedroom. Two built-in bookshelves trimmed in white sat on either side of the fireplace. A brown-leather wingback chair sat facing the big floor-to-ceiling window, with a leather ottoman to match. In front of the ottoman was a silver-colored chair. A gray-and-black area rug covered most of the floor. Two sienna-colored love seats with high backs sat catty-corner, and two lounge-style brown-and-silver chairs were in the center of the room. Behind these chairs was a round dining table with four chairs that had been designed to appear as if they were hugging the table. A china cabinet held dishes that looked like they were more for decoration than for eating. Decorative lamps sat on the end tables around the room. The white coffered ceiling made the room appear grander than it was.
“How long am I going to be that secret you’re keeping?” she asked.
Thing was, she wasn’t really a secret. Her back was turned to me. The window had gray blackout panels which had been pulled back. She was standing stark naked in front of the window. The sky had darkened. A slight drizzle was coming down. Samona was a plus-sized woman who didn’t give a damn if she made anyone uncomfortable about her being so free and open. Even though some gave her flak for having figure-eight curves—they told her she still met a certain standard of beauty—her hips didn’t lie. Neither did her thighs. She was a full-figured woman.
“I can’t be the other woman,” she said. She tilted her head to the side and then shook it as she chuckled. I could only guess what thoughts were running through her head. “You told me you would stay the night. I’ve been patient. I’m always patient. So fucking patient, El. I call when you want me to call. I FaceTime. I Skype. I get on Google Hangouts. No matter what you want from me, when you want it from me, I do it. And all I ask for is one fucking night to have you to myself, and you can’t even give me that?” She tsk-tsked and shook her head again.
“Look at me, Mona,” I said.
She kept shaking her head. She had her arms wrapped around her, as if she was cold.
“Mona,” I called out again.
She wouldn’t turn around. But she could see me. I could see her looking at me through the reflection in the window.
“I fly in when you say so. I have to wait my turn, and yeah, I knew that when I signed up, but that doesn’t mean you get to skimp on your end of the bargain. You told me it wouldn’t be like this, but lately . . .” She stopped, then sighed. Switched her weight from one leg to the other. “Lately . . . it’s like . . . it’s almost like you don’t even try anymore. Like you don’t care about me.”
“Mona.”
“You fuck me like you love me or want me to hate your ass.”
“Samona, stop and look at me.”
“Like, how do you fuck me that well and then leave like this?”
“I wish you would find another word to use besides fuck.”
“I like the word fuck. So I say ‘fuck’ a lot. Now you want to take fuck away from me too?”
“Will you chill with that?”
There was silence between us. She still wouldn’t turn to face me. Only stared at me through the reflection in the glass.
“Sometimes I hate you. You know that?”
It was my turn not to say anything. I was getting a bit annoyed. But she seemed to need to get some things off her chest, so I let her. However, I believed her. I hated her sometimes too. Hated her when she was with other men. Hated the way any man stared at her for too long. Hated when they looked at her in a way that told me what they were thinking. Hated her when she smiled at another man. I hated when we fought. Hated her when she was mad at me.
“You want to know why I hate you sometimes?” she asked.
I took a deep breath. “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me, anyway.”
She blinked rapidly, then turned to look at me. That frown was back on her face again. She was angry. The storm brewing behind her, outside, had nothing on the storm raging behind her intense eyes.
“I hate your ass because I love you so much. You’ve made me happy to be the other person. You’ve gone and made me crave anything you give me, El. I hate you for that. I hate you so much. How did you manage to take a woman as strong as me and break me down to this?” she said, arms wide.
Her breasts bounced and swayed when she opened her arms. There was a small triangle patch covering her womanhood. I ran my tongue over my teeth and was reminded of her taste on my tongue.
“Why would you do this to me and then treat me this way? Two years, El. Two years I’ve played side bitch to a—” She stopped herself. She looked as if she was going to be sick, and then I saw the water in her eyes.
There was a reason I hadn’t moved toward her. I knew the woman in the room with me. One wrong move and she would unleash hell. One wrong move could trigger her. A traumatic childhood that included abusive stepfathers sometimes made her flinch and become defensive if I moved my hand too fast in her direction. Samona de la Cruz had to be handled with care.
She moved closer to me. Laid her head on my chest. I gazed down at her, then wrapped my arms around her waist. She still smelled like us, like our sex. Her sweet, earthy, and citrusy natural scent mixed with my spicy sandalwood scen
t. Her bare breasts against my bare chest felt good to me. There was nothing like the comfort of a woman. Nothing like a woman’s touch, her smell. The way her hair felt between my fingers. The soft, effeminate way she moaned when my manhood first slipped inside of her tight wetness. Samona gave me something I couldn’t get at home.
I held her close to me and said, “I’m sorry I can’t stay tonight.”
She made some kind of strange sound. Her back stiffened, and then she pulled away. “After all I just said, after pouring my heart out to you like that, all you can say to me is ‘Sorry I can’t stay’?”
“I said I can’t stay the night. We can still spend a couple more hours together.”
“A couple more hours,” she repeated, like she didn’t hear me the first time.
“Can we just spend the rest of the time we have together? Especially since I have something to talk to you about.”
“Fine. Talk.”
Samona walked back to the bedroom. I followed her. My eyes were attached to her backside the whole way. Couldn’t help myself. That natural sway of her hips hypnotized me.
“Please stop, okay?” I said. “I’m sorry. I am. You know I would stay if I could.”
“I wish you would just go. I have some writing to do. So go do whatever you have to do.” She kept walking as she talked, like she really wasn’t interested in what I had to say.
“So this is what you’re doing?” I asked. “What are we? Five now?”
“Don’t try to play me, El. Please. Not now. Screw your reverse psychology crap. I’m not one of your wayward teens.”
“Mona, stop walking. Turn around and talk to me.”
“No. Will you go on and leave?”
“Turn around and talk to me,” I said, my voice taking a stern tone, which told her I was losing my patience.
She stopped walking, turned around. For a few seconds, she still refused even to make eye contact with me. I walked over to her, cupped her chin, and tilted her head up.
“Again, I’m sorry, and you know I will make it up to you. But don’t do me like this. Don’t make it seem as if I’m playing you. As if I don’t give a damn about you or your feelings. You know that isn’t the case.”
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