by Amarie Avant
“I sure did, asshole. Anything to get the fuck away from you. I also didn’t think you’d kill the guy!” My bones are shaking, but I place a hand on my hip. “Where’s my proof?”
He grabs the DirecTV remote from the dresser. “There’s a television in here somewhere, eh?”
I grumble, taking the remote from him. I press a button, and the flat screen descends from the ceiling and in front of a canvas photo of Paris I completed at paint night.
“Turn to the news.”
“Okay,” I growl.
The television is on FOX News. The newscaster mentions, “In a gruesome turn of events, the body of a male has just been found along the bank of the L.A. River below. The police have yet to release the man’s name…” There’s an aerial view and the reporter in a helicopter mentions how tattered his body appears before switching back to the set. There’s a drumming in my ears, and I realize it’s blood coursing through my veins.
“There are no leads.” The words ring in my ear, as I press the OFF button.
My knees weaken, and before I know it, Vassili’s warm hands are wrapped around my bare waist. “You’re a murderer. Don’t touch me,” I almost screech. The remote in my hand bounces off his hard chest as I throw it at him with such force.
“You asked for this, Zariah,” he says, shaking my shoulders. There's an underlying hurt in his voice. I’ve seen pain before whenever my mom disappointed my father or couldn't meet his expectations. When Ronisha learned that rubbing around two Barbie dolls don't compare to the real deal and how sex can leave you void since it doesn’t equate to love. Add the young girls at my school into the equation who are suicidal because they have too many assets and capital.
I stop tugging away from him. Against my better judgment, his hard body more than comforts me. His thick, hard frame becomes my haven, cushioning me from the overwhelming feeling that I’m drowning. Moments pass as my breathing returns to normal. I killed a man. I’m as much at fault as Vassili is. I caused this! I gulp, working the muscles in my throat, preparing myself to speak. Yet Vassili’s lips meet mine instead. It’s a kiss that softens my heart and clouds my brain.
“You belong to me now, Zariah,” he tells me, lips seeking mine. Our tongues twirl before he says, “I’d kill anyone who caused a tear to drop down your cheek.” He rubs a thumb over my skin collecting the tears that have fallen. “Tell me the name of any motherfucker who has ever crossed you from birth, and I will tear them apart.”
His calloused voice is astonishingly a comfort to me .Before I can tell him that I don’t need any more justice, Vassili kisses me again. “I won’t hurt you, Zariah. I won’t go anywhere along your sexy body or do anything that you aren’t in agreement with tonight. You got that?”
I nod, kissing his bottom lip.
Maybe thirty minutes has passed. An hour, possibly two even. The tears have salted against my skin, yet I’m no longer sad. I’m content with Vassili. He said he wanted to show me how beautiful I am. Something has transferred between Vassili and me. He’s murdered for me, and although I was acting on pure rage when making the request, the two of us are connected in ways I couldn’t fathom.
He had me unclasp my bra and slip out of my panties. In nothing save for my soft brown skin, I'm seated on the floor. The silver-trimmed floor-length mirror is across from me. We are reflected back, light and darkness.
Vassili is seated behind me, his jeans brushing against my hips. His legs around me as my toes press against the cool silver lacquered frame. Legs wide open. The image before us is all delicate, my lady parts and the softness of the inside of my thighs. The look in Vassili’s eyes tell me that my sex makes for a gorgeous focal point.
“Look how beautiful you are, Zariah,” he says. “You were afraid to touch it in the shower. Can I touch this pretty pussy, eh?”
My nod is hesitant, not because I don’t want him to. Damn, I want him to. I’m just stuck on how he looks at me through the mirror. This big, scary man’s dark gaze is searing, obsessed, and entranced by me. I want everything to go slow, I want to cherish tonight.
Heat sweeps across my cheeks and neck as I glance at my honey walls reflecting from the mirror before me.
Vassili picks up his bottle of vodka that he’d brought into my room from the balcony and takes it to his head. Then he licks his middle finger before reaching around. His golden hand is much lighter against my skin as he gropes a breast.
“Keep looking at that pretty pussy, Zariah.” His tone slow, his gaze sliding from mine in the mirror to my wide-open sex. “Beautiful. I don’t deserve you, but you’ve given me the gift of touching it. Nobody else will love this pussy. Look, it wets for me, begging for my cock.”
His hand skims down my flat abdomen. He has an abrasive calloused palm print, yet it’s pleasantly soothing as it goes. His index finger plays with my coils.
My breath hitches.
“It’s fucking begging me.” His vodka peppered breath is pleasing against my cheek. “No matter what type of bad motherfucker we both think—know–that I am, your body calls me.”
“You’re stabbing me in the back,” I joke, voice just barely found. I can’t tell him that he does deserve me because I’m not a judge. Perhaps the words squeaked out, but the victory of getting them to pass the threshold of my lips causes a grin to plaster across my cheeks.
“Yeah, my cock is jealous,” he glances down between us. “This motherfucker has never been harder.”
Finally, his index and ring fingers spread my lips. There's a sweet succulent coating against the inside of them from just his touch.
My heart drums in my ears. So far, I’m still innocent and I’m quietly begging him to take me. Licking my lips, I watch the mirror’s reflection of him as his middle finger rolls inside my juices. It skims across my valley, and then he tastes the gloss from his finger.
His jaw cocks just so. His thick eyebrows furrowed in thought while my lungs are depleted of oxygen, waiting for him to say something. “Mmmm…” His voice is as primitive as a lion’s growl. “I would say sweet, but fuck sweet. It’s water, Zariah. Your pussy tastes like water.”
“Vassili!” I seethe. My eyes dart toward my bedroom door. It’s locked, it was locked before we came to the floor, but damn I’m antsy.
“What?” Vassili’s thick Russian accent is as sexy as it is rugged. “Water is my favorite drink.”
“You are crazy,” I grumble.
“Patience.” His other hand clamps ever so softly around my neck, fingers skimming my jaw. He tilts my neck. My eyes tear away from the reflection of my pussy, my gorgeous pussy—his words not mine.
Our tongues twine as he reaches around my shoulder, deepening the kiss. Then his middle finger slams into my core. Delightful pain causes my ass to arch, cock spearing into my back. Again and again his finger pumps into me as his tongue screws my mouth.
“Now two,” he says.
Two what? There's no way I can speak. Two what?
“Look, Zariah,” he nudged his square jaw to the mirror again. He pulls his middle finger out, rubbing his index around the liquid lust of it. Then those two fingers press their way inside, feeling some tight resistance.
“Shhh…” Vassili soothes. “You’re tight as fuck, Zariah.”
Oh, I was whimpering. Again my cheeks flame.
“Don't be embarrassed.” He nips at my earlobe, the pain masking that of my core as my body widens for his knuckles. I'm in a trance. I can't take my eyes off his white fingers, how they work their way in. Breaking me, freeing me just a little more so I can take the fighter.
“Imagine my cock,” he instructs. “Grind down, baby. Get your pussy ready for me.”
“Mmmm…” I lick my lips, gaze locked onto the mirror. His two fingers submerge into me. My hips grind as told. With his hard body enveloped around my frame, I twirl downward. I imagine his cock, my hands grip onto his forearms. They're made of steel. His cock is made of steel. All of him is. I love this and I will welcome the fighter stret
ching me out, filling me with his strength.
“That's right. Get yourself off. Make my pussy wetter.”
“Oh, oh… Vassili,” I can’t stop looking at me, him looking at me. The way his eyes consume me, tells me how beautiful I am. Does that sound crazy? No, I’m aware that I am pretty. I’ve always had confidence in that department. My mom is gorgeous, and she raised me that beauty is on the inside, so I’m double beautiful. But, Vassili’s gaze measures just how beautiful I am. Infinitely beautiful. Damn, how damn gorgeous we are together, light and dark in the reflection of the mirror. I ride the waves of my own orgasm.
“Damn it, if you don't have the prettiest fuck face.” He finally offers a grin for the first time tonight. It's to die for.
Zariah
Seven years later
That night will forever play through my mind. Maybe I was in a trance, but Vassili had consent to roam over my entire body and do me any which way he wanted. I'll never forget how beautiful he made me feel as he looked at me, touched me, and kissed me. I’ll never forget having his arms wrapped around me as we sat on the veranda outside of my bedroom, drinking Resnov vodka, eating chocolates he brought me, and talking about everything under the stars. Vassili didn’t do much smiling, but I learned to look through his-hard demeanor. After the foreplay he gave me in front of the mirror, there was no denying that beneath the ruggedness, he was good. Can a man make you feel like the only person in the world and not have a soul?
Or was it all a game? It couldn’t have possibly been a game if every word I spoke about my future plans and dreams, he clung to… well, until we were both tipsy and I cuddled into his arms and fell asleep only to wake feeling the sun beaming against our warm skin.
For the first three years of college, Vassili became what you'd call a millennial pen pal. I'd text him. He would sext back. Either Vassili had the most magnificent, gorgeous cock ever or he’d Googled the world’s sexiest dick and texted a picture of that. I even joked about that. Sometimes, Vassili would be my first laugh in an entire twenty-four hour period. He was my slice of “normal” in a hectic college world or rather we connected over our shared secret. A deadly one.
While working on my under grad, I became inundated with my core focus, cultivating sorority connections. Though our times on the phone or texting were my world, I slowly gave up on the man I could see no future in. For every bit of encouragement he provided via a text message, somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew one thing was true.
Vassili was a Resnov.
So after three years, our calls and texts were no more. I then graduated on the accelerated track due to hustling and a wealth of college courses at Presley Prep. While Vassili was all the more invincible in the cage.
For graduate school, I attended a law school up north in my home state of California to separate myself from my family drama. And here I am now, twenty-five years old, with an aspiring future.
“Congratulations, Zariah,” my two old prep friends say as they crowd around me at Lulu’s; a chic restaurant in Hollywood where we once tipped the servers a Benjamin just to allow us to purchase Cosmos and martinis when we were too damn young.
There's a cake in the center of the table. It's in the shape of a stiletto, in my favorite color, silver. “Oh, shit, the baker added the red bottom heel, righteous!” Taryn giggles. She’s a wealthy mix, of Asian, and a little bit of black way down in her roots. With tight eyes and a slick, long ponytail, Taryn embodies badass.
Glancing at the brown stick wedged from the top of the shoe, I consider, “And is this a cigarette or a …”
“Gavel.” They laugh in unison.
“The lawyer cakes were nowhere as pretty,” Rhonda adds. She’s a super curvy platinum blonde with porcelain skin that pales against a sheer red dress. Her baby blues glance me up and down. I'm no longer the token black chick in an über rich society. I've traded in name brand. Oh hell, tonight I actually am in Dior, but try the fact that it's the same outfit I wore to some coke head’s yacht party in high school.
Taryn shrugs. “So we decided to go with what we know. The stiletto and … dang, the baker said the gavel might look weird.”
Grinning all the way, I hold up my dry martini. “Well, I love it!”
###
Later on, Taryn takes the tab. It's out of my budget anyway, and we head to the exit.
“You aren't headed home, are you?” Taryn says. “When you said you were coming home to attend law school three years ago, we thought you'd be around the corner, not through the woods and over the bridge.”
“I said upstate. Actually, I moved in with my dad this morning. So…” I sigh, trying not to look down at my ensemble. “I'm home now.”
“With your father? Yuck!” Rhonda's nose crinkles. “You can stay with me.
I smile. Ronisha had offered her one bedroom apartment when I said I’d move in with my dad. She was working a shift at Shakey’s Pizza this evening. We have plans to get together tomorrow afternoon. “It’s only temporary. I should have my own place by the beginning of the month.”
“Well, okay, but no going home; the night is young. We're going to watch a boy fight! My money is on Karo. Zariah, you'd be wise to bet on him and pay off all those student loans or at the very least, move the heck out of Dodge.”
“Karo?” I mumble, heart beating wildly as Rhonda sifts through her iPhone apps for the Lyft.
“He is everything in and out of the ring if you know what I mean.” Rhonda grins, eyes so tight, they almost seem to close as she considers.
I squirm in my seat. Vassili had a throng of women after him when we used to chat. One time, I believe it was my sophomore year. I’d called to tell him how I’d aced my first political debate, when a female answered his phone. Jealousy burned over my skin as the bitch hung up the instant she heard my voice. Not a second later, Vassili called back. He’d made her apologize.
“In and out of the ring, humph?” Taryn smirks. “Or so Rhonda’s been told.”
As they snigger, leaning against each other’s shoulder, my pace falters and it’s not due to the delicious cocktails we all overindulged in. I glance down at myself, freely for the first time. My dress skims mid-thigh, but it's more preppy than sexy. Black leather kitten booties and minimal jewelry by way of silver hoops finishes off my look.
I lucked out this evening when finding my old leather bomber jacket that never goes out of style, but still I read girl next door. Not the vixen that came and cussed Vassili to high heavens. Nor the sexy chick who had time to salt her texts with raunchy wit. Seven entire years have passed and he didn’t even fuck me when he had the chance! Did I bore him that night? Since he said he saw me almost get myself off in the shower, was he just humoring me?
“Zariah, hello! You in?” Rhonda asks.
“You’re coming with us, Zar, regardless.” Taryn backtracks, places an arm around me, and says, “The Lyft app says we’re riding in a Prius. If there’s a sunroof you’re sticking your head out of it. Hell, spread it wide! Show everyone your damn coochie for all I care. Tonight we live it up.”
###
The focal point of the bright lights is the stage. I grip my folded leather jacket to my lower abdominals during each hit. The crowd is wild, cheering on a featherweight match between a Latino and Italian guy. This is so much more raw and edgy than straight boxing. It’s faster. There’s much more blood. But what am I saying, the only highlight I recall over the span of my life is with regard to a boxing match that ended in the fillet of a heavyweight’s earlobe.
The stage is painted in blood as the Latino pens the Italian to the ground alternating between punches and forearm hits. With each smack, I hold myself closely.
When it’s all over, I’ve damn near squirmed out of my seat. The Latin looks tenderized enough for a screaming hot grill. And he won! His left eye is sealed shut, and he's too tired to jump atop the cage and shout with victory like the previous under cards. He kneels, stretches his arms, and the crowd is wild.
&nb
sp; “Ladies, it's about that time. I’m gonna head out.” I start to arise. Though much time passed, I felt a connection to Vassili like I’ve never felt with any other. Regardless of his intentions or decision not to screw me years ago, I cannot watch him fight—win or lose.
“We haven't even seen the main event,” Rhonda huffs as the Latin, commends his defeated opponent in a brief interview on the stage.
“Oh no ya don’t.” Taryn laces her arm through mine and yanks me back into place. The announcer begins to hype up the place once more.
“Look, look, it’s The Damager!” Taryn shouts over the rap music. “He’s fighting for Karo’s belt.”
On the large screen before us, The Damager’s statistics scroll. Middleweight. 178 pounds of pure muscle. He has 11 TKO’s, 3 Submissions and 1 loss. My eyebrow arches. What is the meaning of submission?
Soon as my mind begins to concentrate, my entire body unravels as Russian rap blares through the speakers. My eyes track Vassili from across the room as he steps out. If I thought his body was cut and ripped before, he is out-of-this-world stacked with muscles now. His arms exceed the circumference of my thighs. He's wearing a tight black shirt that reads KARO sport, with a brand that I've seen some of the audience in. Black shorts. Vassili rips the shirt down the middle of his chest, and I gasp for air. His hands are raised, head high, and the sound of people puffing him up almost matches the bravado of the rap music pounding through the speakers.
He steps into the cage, and the roaring gets louder. The churning in my stomach due to the fear of blood has subsided. In its wake is a pure lust. A desire to see him conquer, fearlessly.
I sit at the edge of my seat in the front row. He’s less than twenty yards away, and I can smell him. The musk and strength that I desired to taste on him while at Vadim’s, and the rapture of how deliciously clean and good he smelled at my home that night.
