Smooth Operator

by Risqué

  Arri playfully sucked her teeth. “He was not hittin’ her off.”

  “Oh,” Lyfe said taken aback, “he can hit off the green chicks from Saturn but he can’t hit off the black one from Earth? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “It’s a conspiracy, baby.” Arri pushed her ass deeper into his shaft.

  “Funny.”

  “And anyway, what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Her last name was Jenkins.”

  Arri laughed so hard that water filled her mouth. “That is such bullshit.”

  Lyfe squeezed her tight and locked her in place by folding his fingers between hers.

  Arri kissed the muscle closest to her lips. “I’m glad you’re here.” She traced the bulging vein that made a winding road down Lyfe’s bicep.

  “I’m glad to be here.” He stroked her hair. “And given the fucked-up day that I had—”

  “You wanna talk about that?”

  “Nah, I don’t wanna deal with that right now. Especially since I’ve tried all night to get peace and to silence my thoughts, and no matter how hard I tried, nothing worked, until I got here. After you stopped giving me the gas face, that is, like I was about to rob you and shit.”

  Arri smirked. “Hell, this is Brooklyn.” She pulled Lyfe’s arms even tighter around her, snuggled the deepest that she could into his chest. He stroked her hair and placed his left leg along the side of hers and they laid in silence until they drifted to sleep and the early morning sun lay a fan of golden rays over them.

  California

  The night lights of downtown Los Angeles sparkled overhead as Payton held a martini glass to her lips and lounged on her cliffside terrace. She wondered how it would feel to be by herself … forever. Would it be quiet and filled with deep, moving, and inspiring thoughts? Or would she yearn for more, desire love, and be bitten with the fear of dying alone?

  She ran the tip of her index finger around the rim of her glass and wrestled against the pain taking up space in her throat. She fought like hell to hold back the tears sneaking out the corners of her eyes, so she quickly wiped them, careful not to smear her mascara. She swallowed what remained and internally lectured herself that crying was for the weak; she had too much to lose to be reduced to a bumbling fool. She hadn’t made it this far by being emotionally exposed; she’d conquered it by ruling with an iron fist and taking no shorts.

  Why the tears anyway? Certainly, I love Lyfe, but not enough to break. Not enough to put aside all I’ve built, all I’ve ever been. Payton’s mother told her that love was for a feeble and easily influenced bitch, but that a smart bitch knew marriage was for advancement and privileges, status, and recognition. But Payton didn’t listen, instead this time she married for love, good dick, and companionship.

  Which was the real reason she didn’t think twice about making Lyfe vice president. It certainly never occurred to her that he’d actually act like he deserved such a career path—working seven days a week, twelve-hour shifts, and warping before her eyes into the crème de la crème of businessmen. Why didn’t he understand that that was not what she’d groomed him for. Hell, she could run her own fuckin’ company. She’d only given him the position for the sake of looking up to par to the outside world, but within their bubble he was to be a doting husband, who was there to love her when she came home from a hard day at work, there to listen to her, understand her, and adore her—not to challenge the shots she called. He was supposed to be her man, at her beck and call, the one who loved her, flaws and all, and his opinion was supposed to remain buried underneath his admiration of her.

  But it wasn’t.

  Lyfe was his own man, with his own hopes and dreams, and he wouldn’t allow the job she’d given him to be for show. He had the audacity to want to work and the nerve to learn how to handle the investment banking machine better than anyone she knew. And once he got his confidence up, all of a sudden his thoughts became twisted and he started talking too fuckin’ much, expecting her to cook for him and ruin her body by bearing his goddamn babies.

  She didn’t sign up for that shit.

  Where was the appreciation? The sense of obligation? The gratitude?

  Why was she sitting here, right now, as if she were desperate, clutching her cell phone in her palm, waiting, wondering, and burning up on the inside because he had yet to return any of her calls?

  This was bullshit.

  Where was this motherfucker, huh? And why was he so hard-pressed not to come the fuck home? He hated New York. Hated it. So why all of a sudden was he swingin’ his balls and digging in her back that he was going to stay? And moreover, when did he decide that he was bold enough to ignore her phone calls?

  “I don’t believe this bullshit!” she bolted out, unable to keep it bottled in for a moment longer.

  “What?” Dominique blinked. “Believe what bullshit? What are you talking about?” She placed her martini on the terra-cotta floor and looked at Payton, who sat across from her in the chaise lounge. “Have you been listening to a word that I’ve said?”

  Payton focused in on Dominique; for the few moments that Payton was in deep thought, she’d forgotten that Dominique was there.

  Payton batted her eyes and dipped the olive on the end of her stirrer into her drink. “What are you talking about, Dominique?” She ate the olive. “Of course I’m listening to you.”

  “Then tell me,” Dominique practically pleaded, “what I should do?”

  “About what?” Payton frowned, her tone making it quite evident that Dominique was working her nerves.

  “About Quinton,” Dominique quipped.

  “What about him?”

  “Okay, you’re pissing me off. Here I am confiding in you and you’re not even listening to me.”

  “Look,” Payton leaned forward, “what do you want me to tell you? That it’ll be okay? That love conquers all? Some Cinderella, princess and the frog bullshit?”

  “I want the truth.”

  Payton quipped, “You know better than anyone that Quinton isn’t shit. How many years have we been holding this conversation, huh? Do something else besides feel sorry for yourself.”

  “And what?” Dominique said, pissed, the scent of Payton’s perfume burning her nose. “Be like you? It’s not exactly any secret that your husband isn’t feeling your ass either, my dear.”

  “It isn’t my husband that you need to be concerned with. And furthermore, if it’s no secret that my husband isn’t,” she made air quotes, “feeling me, then why are you sitting in my fuckin’ face asking me for advice?”

  Dominique hesitated, the truth of the matter was she had no explanation as to why she was here.

  “How in the hell you ended up with a husband like Quinton,” Payton continued, “I will never know. But I do know this, you better get your ass on board with every other bitch who’s married into fame and fortune and accept Quinton’s money in exchange for his short attention span and tolerance for your ass. Stop concentrating on the disdain and distaste in his eyes and go shopping, go hang out, have your ass a one-night stand, for crying out loud! Shit.”

  “Unlike you, I took my set of marriage vows seriously.”

  “Dominique,” Payton said sweetly, “honey, maybe you should’ve been more like me, then you’d have it together. Otherwise you should’ve married Joe Blow the city bus driver if you wanted to demand fidelity. But when you marry seven figures and higher, there is some shit you just have to deal with, and your man possibly fuckin’ somebody else is one of them. Don’t be concerned with who he’s doin’, be concerned when he’s mistreating you, ignoring your calls … or his ass falls in love with somebody else. Then all bets are off. Get a life of your own, outside of those damn Chihuahuas and those twins. Geezuz. You’ve had his sons, now move on to the next staying-rich trick: stash you some cash and relax. Let Quinton think it’s all good, and then when you have enough money on the side, you can flex your tolerance level.” She flicked her hand. “But until then,” she l
aid back in the lounge, took her shades from her hair, and slid them on, “shut … the … fuck … up.”

  Dominique sat in shock. “I wish like hell you had stayed gone.”

  “I thought you were leaving.”

  “I am,” Dominique threw over her shoulder as she stormed to her candy-apple-red Mercedes minivan, parked in the driveway.

  Payton finished off her martini as she watched Dominique disappear into the distance.

  A few minutes later, her cell phone rang. It was her mother. She stared at the caller ID and just as she decided to ignore the call, “Finally, she left,” floated from behind Payton. “You need to tell Dominique that she has to call before she comes here,” Quinton said, filling the doorway. “How long has she been gone?”

  “She left a few minutes before you,” Payton said without flinching.

  “What did she want?” He paused. “Wait a minute, what do you mean, a few minutes before me?”

  “Because you’re leaving,” Payton said, staring off into the distance. “Get your shit. New York was a bust and I’ve had enough.”

  “Payton—”

  “Don’t say good-bye.” She waved him off. “Just let me hear your car leaving the garage.” She closed her eyes, and lay back. “I’ll call you when I’m in the mood.”

  California

  Dominique sat with her heart racing in her chest and the seat’s leather cushion sticking to her ass. She’d been sitting at Cocktails, a rooftop bar and lounge in downtown Los Angeles, for over an hour; nursing the heartache that sat between her breasts with shots of tequila chased with glasses of pinot grigio. The same ache that had convinced her that maybe Payton had a point.

  So she went home, changed into a pair of hourglass fitting spandex pants, a cleavage-clinging corset, and spiked heels, and came here, hoping to clear her mind.

  But nothing worked and the longer Dominique sat the more she thought about calling her driver to take her home; after all, her mind told her that this was pointless.

  Dominique’s eyes roamed the club and she spotted a tall and strapping brother, the color of midnight, with distinguished African tribal features, and a coal black goatee. He took a seat across from her at the bar and gave Dominique a soft wink. Though she tried to fight it she couldn’t help but return his gesture with a smile. Dominique could tell that he was waiting for another clue that it would be okay for him to approach her, but she didn’t give him one; instead, she diverted her eyes and looked away.

  She placed her clutch beneath her arm and stood to leave.

  “You would actually leave before I was able to buy you a drink?” Dominique turned toward the voice and it was the same man she’d noticed earlier, the only difference between now and then was that he was even prettier standing this close.

  Dominique blushed and he continued, “At least one drink and then you leave.” He looked her over and his eyes clearly told her that he thought she was beautiful.

  His deep voice made her nipples hard. “Sure.” She smiled. “Why not?” She sat back down. “I’ll have a glass of pinot grigio.”

  Dominique watched him walk to the bar and wondered what it would be like to fuck someone besides Quinton and disregard her marriage. Would it feel sweet and nice, or wicked and high? Would she regret doing it? Would she enjoy the one-night stand hittin’ her G-spot … or would she run out of the room, too consumed by guilt and confusion.

  “Mind if I sit here?” he said as he placed her glass of wine and a frosty bottle of Heineken on the table, and pointed to the empty chair.

  “Not at all.” She smiled.

  “What’s your name, beautiful?”

  She blushed. “Dominique.”

  “Sexy name,” he said smoothly as they locked gazes, his voice deeper than any base drum. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy screaming that later.”

  “Later?” Dominique looked taken aback.

  “Oh my mistake,” he said, “I guess I assumed that we would be together later.”

  The motherfucker was bold … sexy as hell … but bold as shit. “And your name is?” Dominique’s nipples felt like rocks.

  “Mandingo.” He laughed and she imagined that he was telling the truth. “Nah,” he continued, “it’s Terrance.”

  Dominique looked him over, her eyes stopping at the imprint of the wedding band on his left index finger. She wondered if she should ask the obvious but then she quickly decided that she needed this moment to throw caution to the wind, to not be so goddamn careful, to for once not give a fuck … or to give a fuck to a man who wasn’t her husband. She could feel her panties become moist as she tried desperately to keep a steady tone. His heated breath caused her pussy to pump twice, as he brushed his soft hand over hers. “Where’s he at?” he pointed to her wedding band.

  Dominique hesitated. “Who?”

  “Your husband.”

  “Oh … umm, home … well, he’s working.”

  “And you came here alone?”

  “You ask an awful lot of questions.” She chuckled nervously.

  “How else am I going to find out what I want to know?”

  She blushed. “You have an East Coast accent. Where are you from?”

  “New York, but I’m at a business convention.” He stroked her hair behind her ear.

  “Really?” Dominique said, intrigued. “What kind of business?” she asked, catching sneak peeks of his chest hair through his slightly open Polo shirt.

  “Investigative. What do you do?”

  Dominique hesitated. “I used to sell real estate,” she said excitedly.

  “You should get back into it.”

  She chuckled. “Yeah sure, in between chasing my cheating-ass husband and four-year-old twins, I don’t have time—” Dominique stopped midsentence. Already she’d been running her mouth too goddamn much. She looked into his eyes and for whatever reason she felt like her reveal hadn’t turned him off. “So, there you have it,” she said, pissed more with herself than with his inquisitiveness.

  “Will this be your first affair?”

  “What?” Dominique said, clearly caught off guard.

  “Tonight, when I take you back to my hotel room with me, will it be your first affair. I swear, I would love to be your first.”

  Dominique took a moment and then she said quietly, “Yes.”

  “Well,” he grabbed her hand, “you’re overdue.”

  This was crazy; it was bad enough that she’d told too much of her business but now she was sitting here with a fine-ass stranger who’d just given her an open invitation to fuck. Her eyes roamed his body. She knew that she wanted him … she just didn’t know if she needed to accept his invite. Being heartbroken didn’t equal ho … or did it, at least for one night?

  “Dominique,” he took her hand, “throw caution on its ass.” He kissed her palm; the tip of his tongue pressed against her skin. She wondered if he would lay it against her clit the same way if he were licking it.

  Her pussy trembled. “I think I better get going.” She stood to leave. “Thanks for the evening.” She tucked her clutch beneath her arm. She walked a short distance away and turned around. “Aren’t you supposed to be leading the way?”

  Terrance smiled and he nodded his head. “After you, madam.”

  It was a one-night stand, no question about it. Dominique was fine with accepting their time together for what it was, because for right now her yearning to be touched outweighed regret. From the time they entered the doorway of his hotel suite, they were kissing, undressing, and tossing their clothes all over the room.

  Dominique didn’t want to give herself time to think, because too many thoughts would force her to question what she was really doing here and why she wasn’t at home mothering her children and trying her hand at getting things back on track with her husband. Yet if she thought about that, really thought about that, then she would be pulling her hard nipple from between Terrance’s lips, getting her things, and leaving. But that’s not what she wanted to do. She wanted to f
uck Terrance, bang the hell out of him, ride his dick, suck it, and cum all over it. And she wanted to pretend that Quinton was watching Terrance sink his thick and fat inches into her mouth, as Dominique slid to her knees.

  Dominique imagined that if Quinton could see her licking the sticky head of Terrance’s smoke-black dick and sucking each and every crevice of the fat mushroom tip, he would flip.

  Terrance swerved his shaft against her mouth, as she moved her tongue like a hissing snake trying to catch its prey. Dominique loved the way he smacked her in the lips with his dick, forcing her to beg for more. “Come on, baby, let me suck it.” She gripped it tightly between her cheeks. The heaviness of his member weighed sweetly on her tongue as his pelvis contracted and he laced her mouth with salty drippings.

  Dominique looked into his eyes and swallowed, wildly licking the residue from her lips. Terrance lifted her onto the bed, parted her legs and went directly to sucking her clit. He nibbled just a bit; enough to make her pussy drip.

  Dominique panted and within a few minutes her nut was butter between his lips. She raked her nails down the center of Terrance’s back as she watched the way his black skin curled over her honey-glazed voluptuous body. The feeling he gave her was lovely and the thought of Quinton finding out where she was, forcing his way into this room, and witnessing what she was doing, made her cum more and harder than she ever had before in her life.

  Terrance whipped Dominique around in the wheelbarrow position and fucked her from the back. Dominique loved the way his hips whipped her ass, as she screamed and called his name, “Terraaaaaaance!”

  “What?” he held her ankles together. “You needed this dick. Pussy all tight and shit. What? That ma’fucker ain’t hittin’ it? Well, don’t worry, I’ma knock it down for him.” He pounded into her ass.

  Dominique heard what he’d said but the fact that she was cumming all over again made her mind spin and “Shhh …” was all she could manage to have fall from her lips, as blood rushed to her head.

  He thrusted her with a hard hip, and Dominique could feel her pelvis tightening, as he pulled her onto her back and they fucked until the sun came up.