by Risqué
When Dominique arrived home, she prayed like hell that Quinton was there and for once they would argue about where she’d been all night. Her heels clicked loudly as she walked into their bedroom, where he opened his eyes and stared at her. “This how we droppin’ it?” he asked her. Meeting her at the door.
“Droppin’ what?” She attempted to pass him and he blocked her path.
“Why are you smelling like hotel soap?” He squinted his nose.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She fought like hell not to smile. She turned her back to him and as she attempted to pass him again he wrapped his arm around her neck and slammed her violently into the wall. “What the fuck you call yourself doin’, Dominique, huh?”
She started to explain it to him in vivid detail, but the wave of fear that came over her wouldn’t allow her to say much more in between her tears than, “I was out thinking and—”
He gripped her neck. “I haven’t kicked your ass in a long time, but I will! Don’t fuckin’ play with me. You understand, you ain’t been here all night and all of a sudden you walk in here smelling of hotel soap.”
“Quinton—”
He gripped her chin roughly and spat, “Don’t take your ass nowhere else without asking me, you understand? Because the next time I’ma whup yo’ ass,” he mushed her in the forehead, “and I mean that.”
Her tears rolled over his fist.
“This is exactly why I don’t touch your fat ass, because you are always doing some stupid shit.” He released his grip on her chin. She could tell that this was about much more than her being out all night. He’d been pissed about whatever had happened to him last night and roughing her up was the easiest way to get it off his chest. “And don’t ask me for no fuckin’ money—”
“You know I need money for the boys this week, Quinton, and—”
“You should’ve thought about that on your way in here.” He turned away and she noticed that he still wore the same clothes he had on yesterday. Now she knew for sure this had nothing to do with where she’d been.
“Where are you going?” she called behind him as he walked out of the room.
“I’m going out to think.” She heard his car keys jingling in his hand and a few moments later the front door slammed.
New York
Lyfe sank deep into the cushions beneath him and pulled the soft blanket up to his chin. He couldn’t help but smile as the scent of sausages, eggs, pancakes, and fresh-brewed coffee floated under his nose, and that’s when it hit him: he wasn’t in his hotel suite. Lyfe opened his eyes one at a time, and scanned his surroundings, from the massive black bookcase, filled with children’s books and pictures of a little boy, to the black artwork that lined the cream-colored walls. There was no view of the New York City skyline, no wake-up call, and room service wasn’t knocking on the door.
Instead, it was a view of a school, and a few people chilling on the block. The phone was there but it wasn’t ringing; he was in a home, a real home, not a cold mansion on the cliffside of Holmby Hills, California. Not a five-star hotel suite, but a home where someone lived, loved, and had memories. And the food he smelled was home-cooked, something he hadn’t had since he was sixteen and his brother failed at the attempt.
Lyfe pushed the cover back and sat up on the couch. He looked at his shirt, which lay on the side of the chair, and decided against putting it on right away. He slid his bare feet down the short hallway toward the kitchen and on his way he spotted a little boy’s bedroom filled with toys and Spider-Man decorations everywhere: the walls, the bed, the curtains, the rug on the floor. He peeked in Arri’s bedroom: a highboy, queen-size bed with a white leather, seven-foot-tall headboard, and all white linens—from the bed skirt to the comforter to the half-dozen pillows that decorated it. There was a leopard chaise and drapes hung to the floor and a petite chandelier hung from the ceiling.
Once Lyfe reached the kitchen, he stood in the doorway and leaned against the frame. He looked Arri over; she was now dressed in a mid-thigh, purple tie-dye dress that wrapped around her breasts like a tube top, and her cleavage poured out as if she had on a corset.
“Good morning.” She smiled and handed Lyfe a cup of coffee with no sugar and a splash of cream.
“Good morning.” He nodded, looking her over and accepting the coffee. “Guess I don’t need to ask if you still respect me in the morning.” He sipped his coffee.
“Guess not.” Arri smiled as her eyes traced from the tattoo of a green-eyed panther on his left peck to the one that covered his right shoulder and stopped midway on his triceps.
“I’ma go and grab my gym bag out the truck,” Lyfe said, calling for Arri’s attention.
“Oh, okay.” She blinked, returning her eyes to his face.
A few minutes later Lyfe returned and Arri motioned for him to sit at the table.
“So tell me,”—he smiled as she sat a full plate of sausages, eggs, and strawberry-topped pancakes on his plate—“who has a thing for Spider-Man?” he asked her as he began to eat.
“My man.”
Lyfe practically spit out his food, “What?”
“My man, he’s a collector,” Arri said as she walked over to Lyfe with a fork in her hand. Boldly, she sat on Lyfe’s dick, his morning hard-on felt like a massage against her ass. She stuck her fork into his plate and began to eat a piece of his sausage.
“Are you serious?” Lyfe asked.
“Umm-hmm.” She nodded. “Now taste this.” Arri placed a strawberry to his lips.
Lyfe took a bite. “So, what is he, pretending to be a kid?” he said sarcastically.
Arri smiled. “Pretty much.” She wiped his lips with a napkin and fed him more of the strawberry.
“So how old is he?”
“You are nosy.” She laughed. “But since you’re dying to know, he’s five.”
“Five?”
“Yes, and his name is Zion.”
“You have a son?” Lyfe asked.
“No, my nephew. My sister had a baby, she couldn’t take care of him, so I’m raising him. Long story.”
“Oh, wow, okay,” Lyfe said as her luscious ass more than filled his lap. Lyfe placed his hands on her waist and ran them from her waist to her thighs. He lined kisses along the back of her neck and shoulder blades.
“I understand,” he cupped her breasts and squeezed her nipples, “one of my sisters had the same type of shit going on.” He slowly undid the tuck that held her dress together. “Found her with a needle in her arm. She died the same way my mother did. My brother has her kids.”
“Really?” Arri said, surprised, as she locked her fingers between Lyfe’s and together they ran their hands along the sides of her breasts and around to her nipples.
“Listen,” Lyfe said, lifting Arri onto the table and knocking everything on it, including his unfinished food, to the tiles below, “I don’t wanna talk about that shit no more.” The dishes crashed and broke into a zillion pieces on the floor. “I’ll replace ’em.” He sat Arri on the edge of the table with her legs spread, facing him. He reached his hands beneath her dress, pulled her G-string off, and tossed it to the floor.
“Lyfe,” she moaned as her pussy played double Dutch between her thighs. “Let’s go in my bedroom.”
“Nah,” he said, as he slowly licked her clitoris ring, and then made his way over her jelly mountain. “We ’spose to eat at the table.”
Instantly Lyfe knew she was worth the chance he was taking. She was the taste of heaven and her butterscotch was thick as he sucked the Jell-O–like firmness of her clit. “Damn, this pussy.” He sucked her fat lips, doing all he could to fit them both into his mouth; and then sucking one lip at a time, while journeying two of his fingers into the land of never-ending wetness.
He opened her vulva and blew inside. “Such a pretty pussy,” Lyfe moaned as he discovered what flavor pussy whipped came in.
Punanny like this was of another world, reincarnated from another time, a metaphoric
high.
Shit. He smacked her on the ass and it jingled against his face.
“Lyfe … ummmm … baby.” Arri placed her hands along the sides of his cheeks. Her hands moved with the movement of his mouth. “Damn.”
He knew she was about to cum by the way she gripped the back of his neck, so he curled his tongue inside of her heated sex like a straw and sucked every ounce of liquid she had.
Lyfe stood up and unbuckled his pants revealing his beautiful prize. He kissed Arri on the lips, as her mouth dropped open. She grabbed his dick and stroked it.
Never in her life had she seen a dick this size. This was the dick that most women waited on a special dildo delivery to get, but she had it right here, and it was real, attached to a fine-ass man, who stood at the edge of her kitchen table holding her by her waist and preparing her pussy for the taste.
Arri could tell by the size that it would hurt going inside, but it was fine, she liked to play with pleasure and pain. Lyfe rubbed his dick in her wetness, and then he slowly entered her, both of them gasping, and pausing, and losing their train of thought as he ventured through her tightness and landed at her G-spot, where she began to scream, as he lifted her legs to his chest. “Damn, this shit is tight,” he said as he cupped her breasts and bit into her skin.
This was crazy and they both liked—scratch that, they both loved being at the kitchen table, food splattered everywhere, and both of them calling out the other’s name. This was sweetly insane, especially when Lyfe pulled Arri into the chair with him, where he curled her nipples into his mouth, and she rode his dick, as if she were a locomotive.
A few minutes into them making moaning music, Lyfe lifted Arri by the waist and held her for a brief moment aloft; he looked at the creamy evidence she’d left on his dick and said, “Look at that shit.” He slid her back down on his lap and a few seconds later she turned around, placed her hands on the floor and threw her hips in a spinning dance move.
“Fuck!” Lyfe screamed, squeezing her ass cheeks. He slid his dick out, tossed her salad, and then he stood up and entered her again. He thrusted into her harder than he ever had or ever imagined that he could and her ass smacked his shaft, forcing the friction between them to scream out, until their levies broke and their rivers overflowed, hers sliding down her thighs and his all over her ass.
“Damn,” he said as she turned around to face him and his dick immediately became hard again. “Now,” he said, as she wrapped her legs around his waist, “we can go in your bedroom.”
After making love all over the apartment until noon, they had one last stop: the shower. Lyfe watched the water cascade over Arri’s hair, down her neck, and over her shoulders as she slid her kisses down the center of his chest, over his navel, and to his member. She slid all ten inches of him into her mouth with such precision and ease that Lyfe thought for sure he’d found her calling. Her mouth was like hot honey and her tongue talents superseded any others that he’d once called the best. The best was right here, a Brooklyn mami, with a New York state of mind, between his knees, blowing the strength out of him, and leaving him with no choice but to lean forward and place his hands through the shower’s waterfall, and assume the Miranda rights position.
“This dick is sooo fuckin’ big,” she said as she licked, and then consumed his entire shaft in her mouth.
Lyfe looked down and watched Arri’s mouth fuck his dick, as his blood rushed through his veins and cum trickled from the tip like an IV drip. “I’m ’bout to cum, shit,” Lyfe moaned.
Arri grabbed his dick and just as it started to spray, she said, “Spin the silk right here, Daddy. Right here.” She directed the tip of his dick to leave creamy strings around her nipples and between her cleavage.
“Look at that shit.” Lyfe smiled and looked down as the shower ran over Arri’s shoulders and washed his candy away.
Afterward, he lifted Arri by the waist, hoisted her in the corner of the shower and for the next hour they became a choir speaking some songs in tongues and others with the refrain, “Fuck me harder.”
It took Lyfe two sunsets to remember just how much of a bitch reality was, especially when he wanted to bask in the illusion that nothing else existed except Arri and the bubble they were in, where they talked, laughed, made love, cooked, went bowling, made love, went to the movies, made love, went out to dinner, and made love. But then the Monday morning sun showed up, and Lyfe’s cell phone continued to ring at a frenzied rate.
Lyfe stared at Payton’s number on his caller ID, but he didn’t answer; instead he clasped the phone in his palm and sent her to voice mail once again. He hated that no matter how hard he tried to fight against it, his mind had reset and he was back to being Lyfe Carrington, vice president of Anderson Global—the married vice president—who instead of going back and confronting his wife about what she’d done, went on an excursion and fucked his way through the aggravation, with his secretary, no less.
Now he was confused, because he didn’t know what to call what he felt for Arri, but whatever it was he knew the shit was dangerous because it was too sweet and too deep to go away. Arri made him feel at home.
But coming home to her was not his life and she wasn’t his wife. His wife was in California, blowing his cell phone up and filling his voice mail with ridiculous-ass messages.
There was no question that Lyfe had to leave here. There was no more forgetting about tomorrow. He could no longer be on the wings of a new pussy high; instead he needed to get back to dealing with how fucked-up things really were.
Arri kept her eyes closed and pretended to be asleep as her mind tossed and turned about how this weekend had been too good to remain true. This was the very shit she didn’t want to happen. She wished Lyfe had never come over, or bigger than that, she wished that he had never come to New York. How was she going to go back to seeing him at work? What was she going to do with all of the laughs, memories, hopes, and wishes they shared? She wished she had slammed the door in his face instead of wasting days in the belly of an emotional setup, where now—at this very moment—her chest became full and she listened to Lyfe’s footsteps ease out of the room to the front door, where the automatic locks clicked in place behind him.
California
The only light in her master suite streamed in from the night sky and shadowed off the cordless phone’s number pad. Payton’s four-inch python pumps kissed the blond carpet as she paced from the balcony to the bedroom door, back and forth. Her thoughts burned through her mind and lingered in her chest as she cradled the phone in one hand and gripped a double shot of Grey Goose vodka in the other.
It had been an entire weekend and she had yet to hear from this motherfucker, not a text, a voice mail message, a phone call … nothing. Absolutely nothing. She’d gone from being slightly on edge to full-fledged ballistic, leaving message after message, until she was in an unkempt tizzy.
Payton stumbled just a bit, one too many vodka shots disrupting her balance. She dialed Lyfe’s number once again and a few seconds later she was directed by his voice mail to leave a message.
She thought about hanging up, but then a voice in her head told her to try this one last time, and to be nice and soft, perhaps it would get his attention and he would call her back. Payton swallowed an ounce of her drunken pride, “Lyfe,” she said into his voice mail, “this is Payton, we need to talk.”
She waited five minutes and after getting no response she tried again … and again … and then she screamed into his voice mail, “I will not be ignored!” She hung up and quickly called back, “We just really need to talk.”
She waited an hour and no response. She picked up the phone and this time instead of it ringing she was sent immediately to his voice mail, and just as a ball of flames filled her mouth and she was bent to spit fire out, the robotic voice of his message system said, “You cannot leave a message because this user’s voice mail box is full.”
“What the fuck!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, tossing her phone ac
ross the room. This had taken her completely out of her zone and she needed to find a way to bring this motherfucker to his knees. After all, she was in charge, and she didn’t sweat, or carry around unneeded stress, and the fact that she was standing here going through changes when she was the puppeteer was unacceptable. She handled the strings and Anderson Global was her fuckin’ company.
Payton looked at the clock; it was eight a.m. in New York. She sniffed and wiped her face. “Okay, motherfucker,” she said, and walked over and picked up her phone off the floor, “you wanna play hardball.” She reared her shoulders back and dialed a number. “Well let’s get ready to rumble.”
New York
“Good morning,” Lyfe nodded as he stepped onto the elevator and stood behind two armed security guards, with the words Big Brother’s Watching Inc. painted in neon yellow letters on the back of their navy blue uniform shirts. Lyfe sipped his coffee, careful not to splash it on the lapel of his Jack Spade trench coat, as thoughts of Arri and what he would say to her this morning pushed to the forefront of his mind.
He wished a thousand times that shit between them could be different. Maybe if he didn’t have so much rocking his brain with Payton acting insane, or if he weren’t confused about what he was going to do and where his marriage was headed—perhaps if those things didn’t take precedence he could fuck Arri and keep it in perspective. But he couldn’t.
“Fuck it.” Lyfe shook his thoughts away. His morning was already off to a late start and he didn’t need to continue beating himself up over some bullshit he couldn’t control. “Excuse me,” he said to the security guards, as he attempted to pass them.
Instead of responding they exited the elevator as well, walking the same beaten path as Lyfe, and once they arrived at Anderson Global’s glass doors, they pushed them open and Lyfe’s eyes scanned over them. “Excuse me,” Lyfe said, walking in front of the guards, “may I help you?” He stopped them in the foyer.
