He reached for his water. After taking a drink, he let out a light sigh. “1479.”
My heart raced. “Who painted the ceiling, and when?”
“Michelangelo.” He took another drink. “He started in 1508 and finished in 1512.”
I couldn’t believe it. I stared at him like he was a three-headed hippopotamus. If he could fuck like a porn star and fight like a professional boxer, my quest would be over.
“Have you ever been in a fight?” I asked. “Not like, I don’t know, not like a playground pushing match, but an actual fight?”
“Bare handed street fight, or in a ring?” he asked.
It didn’t matter to me. Either would suffice. I shrugged. “Either.”
“I have.”
Upon hearing his response, I could feel my heartbeat in my pussy. I crossed my legs. “Which?” I squeaked.
“Both,” he replied. “My family developed a form of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. My father and uncles train MMA fighters.” He coughed out a light laugh. “I’ve been practicing martial arts in the ring since I was old enough to walk. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been in a few fist-fights while in bars with the motorcycle club I ride with.”
My mouth went dry. “Did you say…” I swallowed against my tightening throat. “Motorcycle club? You ride in a motorcycle club?”
“Yes. For now, at least. I’m considering walking away from it, though.”
Ding, Ding, Ding. We’ve got a winner.
My knees began to involuntarily wag back and forth. There was only one thing left to find out, but it wasn’t anything I could determine by simply asking a question. It required action. Action that would get us arrested if we were in a public place.
Immediately to my right, the waiter was clearing the flatware from a table. I raised my index finger and cleared my dry throat. “Can we get that check, please?”
16
Tito
When I went to the mall the first time, I was drowning. Grasping for anything that would allow me to break the water’s surface and draw a breath, I asked Reggie on a date. My hope was that her presence would allow me to forget my loss.
Now on the heels of our second date, I feared that Reggie was what I’d been hoping to find but feared didn’t exist.
A woman who was intellectual and intelligent, without allowing either attribute define her.
Throughout my life, I had searched for anyone who was able to garner my attention with their intelligence, hoping they’d follow with intellectual banter. To date, many had proven to be intelligent. A few were intellectual.
None were both.
I stood just inside Reggie’s door, feeling somewhat out of place. A normal man would undoubtedly already have his boots unlaced and be reaching for his belt. I, on the other hand, felt the need to determine just who Reggie was before I did anything. Knowing would allow me to decide which path I wanted to take.
I scanned the sparsely decorated living room and then looked at Reggie. “This might sound weird or out-of-place, but can we talk for a minute?”
An exhaustive sigh escaped her. Her shoulders slumped. “Not again...”
“Just for a few minutes,” I said apologetically.
“Fine.” She glanced around the empty living room, and then waved her hand toward the breakfast table at the edge of her kitchen. “We can talk in there.”
With some reluctance, I did as she asked. It wasn’t easy, nor was it natural. I ached to touch her, to kiss her, and to explore her, sexually. Before I did anything, I needed to know if I was allowing myself to attach my heart to what remained of our evening or set it aside for safekeeping.
I sat down at the small table and she took a seat across from me.
She let out a long, exhaustive sigh and looked up. Her face wore a look of frustration. “What do you we need to talk about?”
“We don’t need to talk about anything. I want your opinion about something.”
Her interest seemed piqued. “My opinion?”
“Yes.”
“About?”
I pushed myself away from the table. “The hippie movement of the 1960’s.”
Her brows raised in disbelief. “You want to talk about the 1960’s hippie movement?” she bellowed. “Are you serious right now?”
“If you must know.” I lifted my right boot and rested it on my left knee. “I know you’re intelligent. I want to determine if you’re intellectual.”
She huffed out a sigh. “And you want to do this now?”
“Where we go from here hinges on my findings.”
“You’re attracted to someone who is both intelligent and intellectual?”
“Correct.”
Wearing a smug look, she cleared her throat. “A generation of people whose parents were preoccupied with material objects decided those things didn’t matter—their manner of living life did. Women were sick and tired of being seen and not heard, blacks wanted to put an end to racial discrimination, and everyone began to question authority. Artists, authors, musicians, filmmakers—you name it—they all stood up and said…” She stood from her seat and pointed her index finger at me. “I’m going to do this my way, and I’m not going to allow you to censor me any longer. People listened to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones while looking at Roy Lichtenstein’s pop art, not knowing that it would influence comic books fifty years in the future. Andy Warhol got high and gave away art that no one understood but would later be worth tens of millions. Freedom of speech and freedom of assembly were exercised and met by opposition. People gave their lives for what they believed in, and the world’s eyes opened. The people demanded—and obtained—change.”
“Personally, I think it was a bunch of bullshit,” I said, straight-faced.
“Bullshit?” The veins on her neck pulsed in opposition to my remark. Her look hardened. “Are you a racist?”
“No.”
She gave me a side-eyed look. “A misogynist?”
“No.”
Her hands shot to her hips. “You’re just an idiot?”
“I like to think not.”
“That movement gave minorities their much overdue rights,” she fumed. “The handicapped, gays, women—they were all given a voice, recognition, and rights.” She began pacing the floor. “The sexual revolution began, which, by the way, made casual sex an acceptable practice. Birth control became mainstream, and people—for the first time—admitted that fucking was a great recreational activity. One that no longer had to include marriage.” She paused and glared at me. “Bullshit? Censorship was challenged, and subsequently lifted from movies, television, and radio. Everything changed. You can go watch movies like Pulp Fiction and The Purge because those people stood up instead of standing down. Bullshit? Tell that to those who died at Kent State. Bullshit? Tell that to Martin Luther—”
“I was kidding,” I said, interrupting her midway through her tirade.
Still glaring, she huffed to catch her breath.
She was intelligent and intellectual. She was exactly what I needed, wanted, and had spent a lifetime hoping to find.
All that was left was to see if we were sexually compatible.
I stood.
She gave me a quick once-over. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“Well, originally I was thinking of bending you over that green couch, but you lit it on fire.” I nodded to the left. “How’s the bedroom sound?”
Her face contorted with confusion. “Just like that? You want to fuck?”
“I sure do.”
She kicked off her shoes and took a few long strides in that direction. I stood firm, admiring her ass as she untucked her shirt.
Mid-stride, she paused. She glanced over her shoulder. “Are we doing this, or not?”
I fought to hide my excitement.
We sure are.
17
Reggie
Just inside the threshold of the door, Tito unlaced his boots. Excited beyond comprehension, I was
a few steps ahead of him, at the foot of the bed. One of my shoes was in the kitchen. One was in the hallway. My shirt was on the floor at my side.
I reached to unclasp my bra.
He calmly set his boots aside and looked up. Under the scrutiny of his watchful eyes, my shaking hands fumbled with the clasp like a seventh-grade boy beneath the bleachers at a football game. Eventually, my fingertips won the battle and I dropped the black undergarment to the floor.
Upon seeing me bare-chested, his eyes widened.
I wasn’t ashamed of my boobs, but they weren’t a strength by any stretch of the imagination. I crossed my forearms over my chest. “What?”
“You look.” He swallowed heavily. “Fantastic.”
“I’d say the same.” I unbuttoned my jeans. “But you’re still dressed.”
Frozen in place, he smirked. “I waited until we got in the bedroom.”
I pushed my jeans to mid-thigh. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Manners?”
I paused. “Is there such a thing as sexual manners?”
“I think so.”
“Well,” I said with a laugh. “Don’t use them. Not tonight, anyway.”
He took off his jeans, folded them, and set them beside his boots. Pant-less and perplexed at what seemed to be OCD tendencies, I stood in my panties and watched him continue.
Now wearing nothing more than boxer shorts, socks, and tee shirt, he lifted his shirt over his head. While I stared in admiration of his athletic build, he bent down to fold the shirt. It was then that I noticed a large tattoo on his back.
The tattoo spanned from shoulder blade to shoulder blade and covered his entire lower back. The artwork was expertly done. A grim reaper with a bag of money in one hand and a pistol in the other was the centerpiece. Inscribed over the top of the bandito of death were the words Devil’s Disciples. Beneath the reaper, there were three Latin words.
Familia Ante Omnia.
Reading them sent a chill down my spine.
Translated to English, the three-word phrase was one of my father’s firmly established beliefs. He’d pounded it into my head since childhood.
Family over all.
I suspected Devil’s Disciples was the moniker of his MC. In studying the tattoo, I began to wonder if my father was correct about his car wash assumptions.
Lost in a sea of intrigue regarding the possibilities of who he really was, I didn’t even notice him finish getting undressed. The sound of him clearing his throat caused me to blink my eyes into focus. I glanced at his neatly stacked clothes and then at him.
“What?” I asked.
Naked, he took a step in my direction and nodded toward my hand. “What are you doing?”
I realized my jeans were still in my hand. I dropped then in a pile at my feet. I hooked my thumbs beneath the elastic band of my panties. “I’m not as neat as you.”
“Not that,” he said with a laugh. “You were just standing there glassy-eyed with your mouth open, staring.”
“I faded away for a second.” I tossed my panties at him. “Sorry.”
There wasn’t a mad dash for the bed, nor did he shove me against the wall and make me his sex slave until sunrise. As if we were a married couple that had returned from a night out, he draped his arm over my shoulder, and pulled me against him.
Chest to chest, we kissed.
The first time we kissed will always be the first kiss. The one I’d certainly never forget. But that kiss? The one at the foot of the bed? The one where my entire naked body was pressed against his entirely naked body?
Yeah.
It was the kiss that songs were written about. It was the kiss that inspired movies to be made. The kiss that was the predecessor to conceiving children. The kiss that undoubtedly gets the blood moving in a manner that can only lead to one thing.
He lifted me from my feet and carried me to the foot of the bed. Carefully, he lowered me onto to the blanket.
“Don’t move,” he said.
His brown eyes were still as gorgeous as the first time I saw them, but they were no longer intimidating. If anything, they were comforting. He may have been a martial arts expert and a street-fighting biker, but in the end, he wasn’t going to hurt me.
My reassurance was sprinkled throughout his deep golden orbs. With my feet dangling over the edge of the bed, I gazed into his eyes and grinned at my newfound observation. “I won’t.”
Standing at the foot of the bed, he had a complete and uncluttered view of my naked body. He looked me over, slowly. It wasn’t a critical observation. It seemed more to be a matter of processing my curves in an admiring fashion.
One inch at a time, he scanned my entire body. By the time he satisfied himself, he wore an undeniable grin of guilty pleasure.
I liked it that he didn’t have to tell me how he felt. I simply knew.
He knelt at the foot of the bed and lowered his chest between my thighs. “Like I said—”
I closed my eyes.
“Don’t move,” I whispered.
He kissed his way up my inner thighs, alternating from one to the other. With a fistful of blanket clutched in each hand, I allowed him to continue without interruption.
The tip of his tongue flicked against my clit. A jolt of liquid lightning shot through my veins. He continued, repeatedly torturing me with his tongue until I was on the cusp of reaching climax.
As I hung on the edge of the climactic cliff, he inserted a finger. Then another. I welcomed them by arching my back and giving him free reign to explore me as he wished.
After working me into a frenzy, he paused. With admiration in his eyes, he studied my face. Soaring in the clouds above, it took me a moment to return to the reality of the room. When I did, he kissed me.
I kissed him in return. As we shared the passionate moment together, I didn’t know—or care—how much time was passing, or that we weren’t engaged in sex.
Eventually, our lips parted. I drew a shaking breath and gazed into his eyes for reassurance.
He smiled and kissed me on the tip of my nose. “I’ll be right back.”
After gracefully donning a condom, he returned to the bed. Our bodies intertwined, and once again, we kissed. As our tongues danced to a song that only we could hear, he guided himself between my legs. Then, ever so carefully, he pushed himself beyond my wet folds.
As much as I hate to admit it, sex had always been awkward. Jockeying for position, trying to find the perfect place to be, all the while hoping that whatever it is that I wanted wasn’t uncomfortable or contrary to my partner’s wishes. During the act of engagement, the selfish battle began, with each person seeking their own climactic bliss, giving little thought to the other party’s needs or desires.
In the end, if an orgasm was reached, the mission—albeit ugly and without much direction—was a success.
Sex with Tito redefined the act.
Fluid, and without pause, our bodies merged. In perfect timing, we worked our hips against one another’s. There was no pain. Only pleasure. No wishes, only desires being met. Joined in that sexual union, we continued, kissing and exploring each other’s bodies with our hands the entire while.
A sexual satisfaction totally new to me grew with each stroke. At the moment I feared I may explode, he kissed me deeply. Then, with the precision of a pendulum’s swing, he continued his journey, each stroke as predictable as the past.
I closed my eyes and kissed him in return. After an indiscernible amount of time, my level of euphoria peaked. Breathless and wondering if I’d live through the orgasm that was sure to take my life, I broke our embrace.
I gazed into his eyes. Once again, they reassured me that all was as it was supposed to be.
While our eyes were locked, I was overcome with a surge of euphoria. From my toes to my fingertips, it surged through me like a tidal wave. If it was a warning of what was to come, I was in trouble.
I needed him to kiss me.
My lips parted ever so slightly. Pa
ralyzed by the liquid ecstasy pulsing through my veins, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. Apparently, I didn’t need to. He lowered his chest to mine and granted my silent wish.
Lost in the embrace of that passionate kiss, my sexual word exploded into a million little pieces, taking me by complete surprise in the process.
Fearing that my life was forever changed, and that I was at the mercy of the man who loomed over me, I gazed into his eyes once again.
In them was all the proof I needed.
My life was as it was supposed to be.
18
Tito
Reggie peered into the oven. “Do you like sweet things?” she shouted. “Not stupid sweet, but kind of sweet?”
She was wearing sweatpants that were grossly oversized and a white ribbed tank top that fit her like a glove. Her hair was twisted into a bun. She looked adorable.
“I’m right here,” I said. “Yes, I do. To both.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Cool. I made some banana bread. No nuts. I would have. I’m out.”
“Sounds good.”
She nodded toward my bare legs. “You look cute in your little shorts.”
I’d retrieved a pair of shorts and a tee from the saddlebag on my motorcycle. The shorts were nothing more than a cut-off pair of sweats, and the tee was from a poker run many years in the past.
I smiled. “Thanks.”
“We can have the banana bread after breakfast,” she said. “I Are you okay with scrambled eggs?”
“Absolutely.”
She opened the fridge. “I’m a breakfast person. Always have been. You’ll have to settle for ham, I’m out of bacon. Not sure what you like for toast, but your options are whole wheat, or whole wheat.”
“I prefer whole wheat.”
She set the ham and eggs on the countertop and glanced over her shoulder. “Perfect.”
I wasn’t sure what protocol was for the post-sex breakfast. In many respects, I felt like Reggie and I were in a relationship, but I fully realized we weren’t. At that moment in time, we were nothing more than two people who had a hell of a lot in common and had shared a night of sex with one another.
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