by S. Ann Cole
Me: Love is foolish.
Kiera: So… M is rock-hard *again*, & irritated bcaz am texting u instead of blowing him. TTYL.
Noah doesn’t return “in a few.” He returns almost two hours later.
Having slept for the majority of the day, I’m wide awake, watching Impractical Jokers. Noah shadows the bedroom door, looking the complete opposite of how he looked this afternoon: Content.
“Hey,” he murmurs, hauling his V-neck sweater over his head as he approaches the bed.
Pointing the remote at the television, I hit mute. “‘Will wrap this up and be at your service in a few,’ he tells me.”
His sweater hits the floor. “I did wrap it up and was on my way to you. But Mom intercepted me…”
Sitting up against the headboard now, I guess, “She told you, didn’t she?”
“After insisting I have a drink with her. Got me buzzed so she could try to manipulate me,” he says through a chuckle, hands working at his belt buckle. “She wants me to convince you to take it.”
“And…and what do you think?” I ask, distracted…by his hands and the sound his belt buckle undoing.
Ziiiip, goes his zipper. Thud, goes his pants as they hit the ground. “I think you should do whatever you want.” He’s at the side of the bed now, his bulge aligned with my face. “Take it, don’t take it. Either way, I’ve got you covered.”
Eyes transfixed on the hard-on straining against his tiny white boxers, I’m only half-listening, half-invested in this conversation.
Soon, my face is being elevated as he fixes an index finger under my chin and forces me to meet his stare. God, he’s so damn hot. Ripped abs just inches from my lips. His chest—my all-time favorite part of him—taut, hard, mesmerizing. Green flickering flames for eyes. So. In. Love. With. Him.
“The decision is up to you, babe. You can refuse the money and let me take care of you without arguments or choose to have your own funds, so you don’t have to think twice about telling me to kiss your ass whenever I demand head, anal, or threesomes and you don’t feel like it.”
Unintentionally, instinctively, my tongue glides across my bottom lip. “I’ll never not feel like giving you head, I’m always up for a threesome, and I’ve always been curious about anal. So, epic fail on your part if this is your ridiculously lame attempt to convince me to take the cash.”
He studies me for four or five heartbeats, before his eyes coat over with a challenge, an eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. Hands moving to the waistband of his boxers, he shoves them down his hips.
One hand grips his length and begins to stroke, while the other shoots out and grabs a fistful of my hair, forcing my head toward his stroking fist. “Polish my hardwood, Slutty Housemaid.”
I swallow, needing a bib because I’m damn near drooling at the sight of his blunt, blood-engorged head, dying to have it in my mouth. Yet, when I raise my eyes to his, what comes out is, “Kiss. My. Ass.” Then I smile something taunting. “Look at that, I’m broker than MC Hammer, and I just told you to kiss my ass without thinking twice.” Pushing up to my knees, I jab a finger at his chest. “You can’t douchebag me into making the decision you want me to make, douchebag.”
In the next second, I’m crushed to him and his tongue is in my mouth. Whiskey and something sweet is marinated in his tongue, and I lap it all up, sucking every last bit of taste off his tongue. Before long, I’m falling back on the bed as he rips his mouth from mine and shoves me backward, his weight on me in the next second.
He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head. “Why do you constantly challenge every good thing that comes your way?”
“Because not everything that glitters is gold,” I feed him. “Not every nicely wrapped package should be opened.”
“No, not every package,” he agrees. “Just the ones from a trusted sender with your name on it.”
My legs aren’t pinned, so I wrap them around his waist. “Why are you for me taking the money?”
“Because I love you and I want you to have a worry-free life. You’ve already had three years of hell. I want you happy, I want you smiling, I want you independent, I want you to have the world. If I believed you’d take whatever I offer you, it wouldn’t matter to me whether you take the fund or not, but I know you’ll fight me at every turn whenever I offer you stuff. You’ll insist on working to pay your school fees and buying your own things. All that will lead to is frequent arguments between us, and that’s not what I want for us. I don’t want our relationship to be about us constantly fighting about money.” I feel his erection twitch against my belly. “So for the sake of us, please, Lotty, just take the damn money.”
I chew my lip as if it’s a Bubbalicious gum, thinking that everything he just said is right. I can’t see myself mooching off him or Gloriel. I’d want to earn my own, and this would most definitely mean arguments because Noah would want to give me whatever I need. And I’d never take it. School wouldn’t be cheap, that’s for sure, so I’d more than likely be working two jobs to pay for that. Again, something Noah wouldn’t tolerate. He would want to take care of my schooling, and I wouldn’t accept it.
I can’t help it. It’s just who I am.
“For the sake of us?” I whisper.
His relief, as he realizes he’s made a breakthrough with me, is almost palpable. “For the sake of us.”
“Can we try anal tonight?”
His head jerks, suffering a whiplash from the sudden careen of conversation, but he recovers almost instantly. “You don’t want my tongue anymore?”
“Of course,” I reply with a teasing grin. “In my anus.”
His lips begin to curve, but he quickly sinks his teeth down to stop it. Head dipping, he kisses my chin, my neck, down my cleavage, my stomach tightening and releasing with impatient need.
This man makes me feel all kinds of ineffable, unfathomable, indefinable things and feelings and strange emotions. He makes me want to stretch my arms out wide and free-fall into his soul. Drown in his love. Die in his heart. He’s what I wasn’t looking for. What I thought I didn’t need. Until I woke up one day and found myself buried deep in love with him. And I pray, sweet gracious Father, I pray it stays this way forever.
He unpins my hands, but only long enough for him to bodily flip me over onto my stomach, grip my hips and pull me onto my knees, butt pointed in the air. I let out a moan. When he’s this rough, it only serves to get me even wetter.
My panties are then torn off, and I brace for and embrace the hard slap on my ass, the stinging sensation lingering long after. He loves to do that because he loves my ass, so I’ve learned to expect an ass-slap the moment I’m in a position such as this.
Two fingers plunge inside me, and this is smoothly ensued by his slick, warm tongue in my anus. Sweet sugar tamarind, I’m on cloud nine, cloud ten, cloud eleven. I’m singing raunchy, perverted hymns and baptizing nine-inch penises. Sex heaven.
THIRTY
Sixteen Months Later…
THE DOORBELL RINGS.
“I’ll get it,” I yell, abandoning my assigned task of setting the table. Not as if Gloriel would’ve left the kitchen to go answer it anyway.
It’s Sunday. Gloriel’s day. Kitchen throw-down day. A drizzling, humid, August day.
My stiletto heels echo off the marble tiles as I make it to the front door. On the other side stands Qwesie and Cassy—a pretty brunette he’s been spending a lot of time with of late—a bottle of champagne in one hand, his other thrown around her shoulder.
“Howdie do, my wifey boo?” he greets, and Cassy rolls her eyes, quite used to his antics.
Completely ignoring him, I greet his date. “Hey, Cassy. You look stunning. But you know you can do better than this idiot, right?”
Making a mock pitiful face, she shrugs. “Don’t I know it? But dammit, those dimples get me every time.”
Waggling his eyebrows, Qwesie grins, and out pops the dimples.
I sigh because Cassy’s excuse is legit. Those dimpl
es are lethal.
Waving them in, I hug them both, and then they beeline for the kitchen. As frequent invitees of Gloriel’s kitchen throw-down at my apartment, they know the drill. Find Gloriel in the kitchen and pitch in with setting up.
Yes, you read right: my apartment.
Upon receiving my fund, the first thing I did was go house-shopping. As you can imagine, this didn’t go over well with Noah.
He wanted me to continue living with him, and I wanted my own place. We argued for weeks about it, and he remained unsupportive and spitefully unhelpful during the house-shopping process. Until I had to drop him and his negative attitude and take Qwesie on the ride instead.
It wasn’t until I found an apartment I loved and placed an offer on it that he finally got it through his thick skull that this was happening whether or not he wanted it to.
In reluctance, he accepted this fact and started showing support of my decision, using his influence to get me the apartment unbelievably lower than the asking price, and then offered to furnish it as an apology gift.
My first inclination, naturally, was to decline. But after being on the outs with each other for almost two months, I let him have that much.
For the sake of us.
Hiring an interior designer, he had the entire apartment furnished. All three bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms of it. High-end everything—come on, I should’ve expected that.
Those almost two months of fighting over my moving out later proved to be pointless and waste of our time together because it was as if nothing had changed. Noah’s always at my place. He never goes home after work. Nope, he comes here, eats here, sleeps here. And when he does leave in the mornings to his own apartment to dress for work, he leaves his stuff behind.
As are result, his things kept piling up, and before I knew it, half my closet’s dedicated to him, my guest bedroom taken over with his work files and devices, thus transformed, unofficially, into his office.
If you ever find him voluntarily at his apartment, it’s because we’ve had a crazy fight or something and swear we’re through with each other. However, these never last more than three days. A week tops. So, basically, we still live together. Just in a different apartment in a different location.
The doorbell goes off again, five minutes later.
This time it’s Muscles standing on the other side, with a Latino woman on his arm who’s the definition of curvy. Thick and juicy and gorgeous.
Suffice it to say, things didn’t turn out as he had hoped with Kiera. He wanted exclusivity, and Kiera doesn’t do exclusivity. She does wild, fun, and brief. Muscles, uncompromisingly serious about what he wanted from her, had given her an ultimatum: exclusivity or nothing at all. Kiera, as I would’ve expected, chose nothing at all.
The weird thing is, after their split, Muscles is the one who’s been serial dating, while Kiera, shockingly, hasn’t been with a soul since him. Like she’s going through a dry spell or something. And she’s nothing if not evasive whenever I prod about her sexually inactive state.
This Latino on Muscles’ arm has been around the longest so far, almost two months. But for the life of me, I can never remember her name. I know it’s something weird and unusual though.
“Hey, Lots,” Muscles greets as he moves in to hug me. Then gestures to the Latino. “By the way you’re squinting at her, I can tell you’ve forgotten her name again.”
Busted, and slightly ashamed of myself, I shrug.
Thankfully, the Latino doesn’t take umbrage and reminds me, “It’s Decoda.”
“Yes!” I half-shout, snapping my fingers. “Decoda. Decoda Muunda!”
I wave them in, and we exchange small talk before they’re off to the kitchen to assist.
A quick three minutes after that, the doorbell sounds once more. Kiera this time. Our greeting is different; squeal and hugs and what’s crackalacking. Considering she’s been traveling with her mother for the past three weeks.
Uh-huh, that’s what she’s been focusing on of late. Fashion. Mrs. Noel, her Mom, had tried for so long to get her to show an interest in the legacy she’s an heir to. But out of resentment for her parents, out of rebellion for their neglect, she refused to partake in it and chose to live wild and carefree.
Now, she’s showing more interest and involvement in the company than I’ve ever seen her show in anything. Now, she’s the acting overseer. The future of Red Pearls Fashion Designs.
“Milan was awesome,” she bubbles on, “I bought so much stuff for you. Can’t wait for them to be deliv—”
Her eyes catch something over my shoulder and she stops talking at once. Curious to see what’s stolen her attention, I glance over my shoulder and immediately understand.
Muscles and his Latino—whose name I’ve already forgotten.
Seems her earring was entangled in her mass of curly, jet-black hair, and they’re both laughing as he tries to de-tangle the earring.
“He’s still with her?”
At the sharp bite of her tone, my head swivels back to her. “Evidently.”
“But it’s been like, what, two months?” she seethes. “He never keeps them this long.”
“Well,” I say with a sigh and a shrug, “I guess this one’s a keeper.”
I suspected, ever since their split, that Kiera harbors strong feelings for Muscles; her bitter sarcasm whenever he’s around with one of his women, her annoyance whenever he’s around at all, her “subtle” inquiries about him whenever she’s away… That said, she’s never, before now, made an outright display of jealousy.
Not a chance in hell she’ll admit it if I ask, but I think she regrets letting him go. I think her dry spell, and her new found interest in her future company, has everything to do with him. I think…she wants him back.
Again, the doorbell rings, and I give her a consoling arm-squeeze before answering the door.
Sarah—who’s now sporting a six-month baby bump—and my brother, Graham. All the way from San Francisco. I let out a squeal.
My brother wraps me up in one of his off-the-ground, spin-me-around bear hugs, expressing how much he misses me. Because of the distance, they obviously can’t make it to every Sunday dinner, but sometimes, like now, they just surprise me. And, boy, am I happy to see them this month.
Our relationship has strengthened ever since they found out the truth about my time with Andrew—Drew James. I spent nearly three months in and out of court with the guy, so, of course, they found out. No judgment, they supported me every step of the way and helped me through it all.
As for Drew James, much as he hated his riches, apparently he wasn’t above using it to his advantage because all he got, after “surreptitiously” paying off the right people, was seven months of jail time and two years’ probation. Unfair, I know. But that’s life for you. Money talks.
Don’t ask me how he found out where I’m living, but while he was doing time, I received a letter from him every month. Most of them repetitions of how sorry he is for treating me the way he did, and how much of a fool he’d been, blah blah blah. Some of them telling me what inside was like, how much the food sucked, and how he hoped I was happy.
The letters stopped after her he got out. For a few weeks. Before they were replaced with voicemails. Every month.
Because he knows I never answer unknown numbers, he would block his number and ring me, and then leave messages on my voicemail. Giving me unwanted updates on himself. How he’s getting help, seeing a therapist, and learning to accept the things he can’t change, and the things that weren’t his fault to begin with. June’s voicemail told me that he went to visit his mother, something he hadn’t done since he was eighteen, told her he forgave her, and that they’re currently trying to rebuild a relationship. While last month’s voicemail said he met someone, that she reminds him a lot of me, that he promises not to make the same mistakes he made with me, and that he hopes I get a chance to meet her one day.
Not likely.
Highly unlikely
.
Highly.
Yes, Noah knows about the letters because he was always present, in my place and in my business, whenever I received them, and his reaction to each one was…well…not understanding. Therefore, I haven’t told him about the voicemails yet. Probably never will. Good thing is, Drew James is keeping his distance.
All the dinner guests have arrived, and the apartment is buzzing with movement, laughter, and chatter.
Gloriel Sundays began taking place at my apartment about a month after I moved in. Noah and Gloriel’s homes might be fancier with heftier price tags, but mine had more space. “Tons of space” was number one the list when I was house shopping. While Noah and Gloriel had bigger bedrooms and smaller everything else, I chose to have smaller bedrooms and bigger everything else. Thus, my dining room, living room, and gourmet kitchen are the size of both of theirs combined. Consequentially, every sort of get-together happens at my place. Even Noah’s boring business dinners.
Before long, the table is laden with food and everyone has claimed a seat. Everyone, except Noah.
As I’m about to take a seat beside Kiera, Gloriel shoots me a narrowed look that says, “Go get him. Now.”
I might be understanding and totally fine with Noah wanting to skip dinner this particular Sunday, but she isn’t. Her look at the moment is castigating me, warning me to go for him, otherwise no one will be eating a morsel of this food.
Heaving out a reluctant breath, I change course of action, leaving the dining room and heading upstairs to our—my bedroom.
Noah’s been avoiding us all day. I glimpsed him only once, and that’s when he was doing his ritual Sunday yoga out on the balcony.
What’s the story behind his sulking? Well…Gloriel sat us down a few nights ago and told us she was seeing someone. A someone twelve years her junior. Made the argument that just as she came around to accepting our relationship, she hopes we can accept hers, too. Remember the grocery delivery guy? Yep, that’s her lover.
