The Sweetest Thing

by Deborah Fletcher Mello

  “I was thinking that if you are as much like him as people keep saying then he had to have been a wonderful man. I wish I’d gotten to know him when I had the chance.”

  He nodded. “Pop loved you. More importantly I think he would have really liked you. But I don’t want you to be sad. I miss him, too, but Pop never did sad. He always said life was way too short to linger too long in heartache or despair. Sadness has its own place and sometimes you needed to leave it high and dry and move on.”

  Harper smiled. “I get that. I think I was just having a moment.”

  He nodded. “I can think of a few things we could do to put your mind on other things.”

  He slipped his hand beneath her sheet and caressed the calf of her leg. Harper smiled, the heat from his fingertips wafting through her body. She threw a quick look out the window, then turned her gaze back to his. She changed the subject.

  “Did you call Troy and check in?”

  “I did. The bakery is fine. He’s good. Miss Alice is doing well and even Rachel seems to be in a good mood.”

  “That’s good. I miss them all. Even Rachel, surprisingly!”

  He chuckled. “I do too. I figured we’d stay one, maybe two more days and then we’ll head back.”

  Harper took a deep breath. “I have a confession I need to make,” she said, a wry grin pulling at her lips. She met his curious stare.

  “I get the feeling I’m not going to like this,” Quentin said.

  Harper laughed as Quentin gestured for her to continue.

  “It’s not that bad,” she exclaimed. “But I don’t want there to be any secrets between us.”

  “Okay, go on,” he said as he continued to caress her leg.

  “Remember when I first got here and you fell asleep in the living room without your clothes on?”

  “I had on clothes.”

  She shook her head. “You really didn’t.”

  “What’s your confession?”

  “I did take photos! Just three, maybe four, okay five.”

  Quentin shook his head. “And just what did you do with those pictures?”

  She giggled. “I posted them on a dating site to see if I could find you a match.”

  “How’d I do?”

  “Crash and burn. I couldn’t get any takers.”

  “Did you get my good side?”

  She shrugged. “You were butt up, face down. There was no good side.”

  Quentin laughed, his head waving from side to side. “You’re forgiven. I have a confession to make as well?”

  Her eyes widened. “Okay.”

  “I took pictures of you, too.”

  “You did not!”

  “I did, really!”

  She rolled her eyes and Quentin laughed.

  “Seriously though,” he said as he took a deep breath. “I got into a fistfight with Dwayne.”

  “No!” She sat forward in her seat, her expression stunned. “When?”

  “That morning I arrived in Baton Rouge I went to see him first and I slugged him. I slugged him good.”

  “That’s how you bruised your cheek.”

  He nodded his head. “It is.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “He put his hands on you. I couldn’t let that slide.”

  Harper’s head waved from side to side. “I hate that you two haven’t been able to fix your friendship. I really do.”

  “Actually, I think we’re closer to making amends than we have ever been.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, we wrestled for a bit. Both of us got a few good licks in and then we talked.”

  “Talking is good.”

  “Dwayne and Rachel were in a relationship when she and I started dating. She cheated on him first, not me.”

  Harper’s eyes widened, her mouth opened wide in surprise. “And you didn’t know?”

  “Neither one of them ever said a thing. We were all friends and when I think about it now I don’t know how I missed it.”

  She shook her head. “I told him that there was no way she was in love with you. If she had truly loved you he would never have been able to come between the two of you.”

  “You were the one who said she was in love with me.”

  “I said that if a woman thinks she’s in love then for her it’s love. That’s what I said.”

  Quentin smiled, meeting her gaze evenly. They held it, both dropping into the warmth of it.

  “So, really,” he finally asked. “What did you do with those pictures?”

  Harper laughed. “I deleted them.”

  He nodded. “You sure about that?”

  Harper laughed.

  Rising from his seat, Quentin eased himself between her legs, pushing her back against the glass window. Harper glanced over her shoulder to the street below.

  “Someone watching?” Quentin asked as he licked her neck, tracing the line of her earlobe, her profile, and her lips.

  She muttered softly. “Don’t care. Let ’em look,” she stammered.

  Harper wrapped her arms around Quentin’s back as he pressed a kiss against her nose, that spot just beneath her chin, moving across each clavicle. His fingers glided over her chest down to each breast and nipple. Where his fingers teased, his mouth followed, his tongue doing its own two-step across her skin.

  Quentin pushed and pulled at the sheet to expose those spots he was determined to reach. Harper suddenly found herself naked in that window, her backside bared for anyone to see. She tossed another glance over her shoulder, not at all concerned with who might be watching. Looking back at Quentin she gasped as he pressed his tongue into her belly button lapping hungrily. She closed her eyes, rapture consuming the nerves.

  Quentin pressed two fingers over her sweet spot, lifting them to his mouth to savor. She shifted her legs slightly wider, the invitation blatant. Pushing her thighs wide apart he dropped down onto his knees, his head driving between her legs as his mouth met her fountain, his tongue lapping and spinning between the delicate folds.

  His mouth was hot and when his tongue grazed her clit, the love button throbbing, Harper saw stars, his touch spinning her into ecstasy. Her hands clutched the window frame as she pressed her ass hard against the cool glass. Quentin lifted his head, his eyes rising to her face and the ecstatic expression that shimmered from her eyes. He looked out to the street and smiled, then returned to the decadent treat between her legs.

  “You are so wet,” he whispered.

  Harper gasped. “You’ve got me so hot!” she said as she began to move her hips hoping to entice his tongue for more.

  He nibbled her inner thighs, first one side and then the other, then moved back to her crotch, the tip of his tongue slowly licking her from the bulging nub to the slit of her juncture. He lapped at the juices, letting them dribble over his lips and chin and her body seemed to flood his mouth with each pass of his tongue. The intimate kiss had her writhing, barely able to contain her excitement.

  With his fingers Quentin opened her even more, exposing her throbbing clit. She murmured something he couldn’t decipher as he began to lick it slowly, sending bolts of electricity from her toes to the top of her head. She grabbed the back of his head and held him hard, grinding herself against his face and she moaned his name over and over again.

  Harper’s legs were spread wide, her feet raised in the air and she wrapped her legs around his shoulders. Quentin lifted both of his hands to her chest, kneading both breasts beneath his palms. He pinched her nipples and she jumped, shifting even harder against his mouth.

  Harper could feel herself getting wetter and wetter as his teeth grazed over the tip of her clitoris. The sensations were overwhelming and she found it harder to breathe, moaning with every exhalation. “Oh, Quentin,” she cried out, her head writhing from side to side.

  And then he slid two fingers into her, claiming her, his gesture possessive. Harper gasped loudly as he hesitated, as if to emphasize his intentions, and then he began to stro
ke her from the inside, still licking and biting at her sweet spot. Pleasure intensified as Harper twisted her fingers in his curls and then Quentin pushed four fingers deep inside of her. She pulled back but there was nowhere to go. She bit down against her bottom lip, the pressure rising as he hit that sweet, sweet spot deep in her core.

  She surrendered to the rhythmic stroking, the swirling intensity building. Her eyes closed, Harper felt her body thrust forward into a vast expanse of nothingness. She exploded, Quentin still pushing and pulling, and the brilliance of it sucked the breath from her. She exploded and Quentin’s mouth was there lapping and sucking at the nectar, the abundance of it falling past his lips and dripping onto his chest.

  Utterly exhausted, Harper couldn’t catch her breath. She panted heavily as Quentin continued to tease her with his tongue, licking her clean. Her muscles were jelly, even her bones feeling like they’d melted. She didn’t have an iota of energy, as though she’d just run a marathon and gotten hit by a bus.

  Outside, the rain was abundant, falling to the ground in a cascading shower. The streets were empty, no one there who might have witnessed the erotic indulgence taking place in the hotel’s window. No one saw when Quentin eased himself back up Harper’s body, coming to a standstill between her legs. There were no witnesses to her welcoming him inside, his raging erection hard and eager. No one was surprised or appalled by his dancing between her thighs as he’d stroked her, grinding his body into hers until his own orgasm erupted and triggered another in her. And when they’d caught their breath, energized by each other’s presence, no one saw when they did it all over again.

  22

  It had been the mid-1990s and when Dwayne’s mother, Evelyn Porter, walked into the room, Quentin remembered it like it was yesterday. They were rocking “La Macarena” in the clubs he was too young to get into. Tracy Chapman had a hit with the sexy single “Give Me One Reason.” Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, and Celine Dion dominated the music charts and there wasn’t a girl around who hadn’t seen the movie Waiting to Exhale at least two times.

  He and Dwayne had celebrated their thirteenth birthdays with a trip to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, courtesy of the Porter family and Quentin had seen Mrs. Porter’s bare breasts. The first pair of bare breasts in his sexual history and they had been attached to the body of his best friend’s mother. Quentin grinned as Mrs. Porter reached up to give him a hug, pressing those oversize mammary glands against his chest.

  She was still one of the sexiest senior citizens he knew, meticulously styled in black slacks, a white sweater set, her signature pearls, and a pair of royal-blue high heels. Everything was designer and expensive. Her flattering bob was snow white, a stark contrast to her dark licorice complexion. She was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever known.

  “Quentin!” she chimed, her deep alto voice oozing like dark molasses against his ears. “What a pleasure, dear!”

  “Mrs. Porter, how are you?” he answered, pulling back to stare into the woman’s deep gray eyes.

  “I’m old, darling, but I’m still breathing so I can’t complain.”

  She gestured toward Dwayne, her small hands fanning him to her. “Baby boy, come kiss your mother! How are you, my darling?”

  Dwayne wrapped his mother in a deep bear hug, lifting her from the ground. She giggled, her small hands patting him against the back as he kissed her cheek and held her tight to him for a quick moment. “I’m good, Mom,” he said as he set her back on her high heels.

  She tapped his chest, her smile wide. “You boys come sit,” she said as she led them to the home’s veranda. “Miss Lynn will bring us some lemonade to drink.”

  “We’re good, Mom. Don’t go to any trouble,” Dwayne said.

  The older woman flipped her hand in his direction. “It’s no trouble, son.” She reached for her requisite pack of Tiparillo cigars and lit one, inhaling deeply before blowing smoke back in the open air. “So to what do I owe the honor?” she asked, looking from one to the other.

  Quentin rested his gaze on Dwayne’s face. He and Harper had been back in Memphis a few weeks when Dwayne had called, asking for a favor. Meeting for dinner, Dwayne had expressed a need to face some childhood demons. Since Quentin had been his only support system back then—Quentin and Pop—Dwayne had asked him to tag along. Quentin had been reluctant at first but Harper had convinced him to go, reminding him that everyone needed a little hand-holding now and then.

  Just days earlier they’d gone to see Dwayne’s father. That was the first time Quentin had learned about the family’s divorce, Mr. Porter ranting about the offenses committed against him. Mrs. Porter had been pushed to a point of no return, completely fed up, and all she had wanted was out. It wasn’t hard to decipher that she had made out well in the divorce, her ex-husband losing more than he would have liked. Mr. Porter considered the divorce a personal affront, refusing to accept that his own bad behavior had precipitated the separation and the divorce. He blamed everyone and everything for the demise of their marital union, even laying much of that culpability at his only son’s feet.

  That meeting had been difficult, for Dwayne and Quentin both, and after, when they’d headed to the club for a drink, Quentin had been visibly shaken while Dwayne had been completely detached from it all. Quentin was hoping things would go better with Dwayne’s mother. He nodded and Dwayne gave him an easy smile.

  “I needed to talk with you, Mom. Clear the air about some things,” Dwayne started.

  Mrs. Porter dropped a hand against her son’s knees. “You look so serious, darling! What’s wrong?”

  “Do you remember Rachel? Rachel Harris?”

  His mother bristled ever so slightly. She stubbed her cigar into an ashtray, the lines in her face tightening. “Phil and Brenda’s daughter. I do remember her. Both of you were in school with her. One of you had a crush on her if I recall although heaven knows what either of you saw in that girl. She did not come from good stock. Her father was a delightful man, but that mother of hers! Her mother was nothing but trash. Cheap trash that would not stay out of your father’s pants!”

  Dwayne cut an eye toward Quentin, who lifted his brow ever so slightly. Mrs. Porter was clearly irritated, the memory of the Harris family, Mrs. Harris in particular, reawakening a host of hurt feelings.

  “What about her?” Mrs. Porter questioned.

  Dwayne reached for his mother’s hand. He pressed his lips to the back of her fingers as he took a deep breath. “I married Rachel, Mom. We eloped to Vegas a few weeks ago and she and I are having a baby. I was hoping that I could bring her to visit with you. I want you to get to know her.”

  Mrs. Porter waved off the housekeeper, who’d come in with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of lemonade. She was staring at Dwayne, her harsh look cutting. “Well, I guess I remember now which one of you had that crush.”

  “Rachel’s not her mother, Mom. She’s nothing like her mother.”

  Mrs. Porter nodded. “Perhaps, but you are very much your father’s son,” she said, an edge to her tone. “So where does that leave your new wife and your baby?”

  Quentin could see a glimmer of hurt flash through his friend’s eyes. “I am trying to be a better man, Mom. I don’t want to make the mistakes Dad made. I don’t want to be like him.”

  The matriarch moved onto her feet, striding to the porch rail to look out over the landscape. Silence flooded the space between them, both men knowing that there was nothing else Dwayne could say until his mother was ready for him to speak.

  She suddenly turned her attention back to Quentin. “Quentin, how is that beautiful father of yours?”

  “He died a few months ago, Mrs. Porter. He had lung cancer.”

  Sadness suddenly flooded her face, her eyes reflecting her sorrow as she pressed a hand to her chest. “I am so sorry to hear that!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know.”

  Quentin smiled ever so slightly. “Thank you.”

  “Everett Donovan was a wise, wise man. He ha
d a beautiful spirit and he loved you and your brother very much,” she said as she suddenly fought back tears, saline pressing hard against her lashes. She took a deep breath and then a second before she spoke again. “Quentin, did Dwayne tell you that I’ve been sober for almost twelve years now?”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am, he didn’t. But congratulations.”

  “It was very hard for Dwayne to grow up with an alcoholic mother and an abusive father. Neither one of us served him well. I’m grateful that he was able to find sanctuary in your home, with you and your brother. Your father saved his life, and mine, a few times but I’m sure you didn’t know that, did you?”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t.”

  “You wouldn’t have. Your father was a gem like that. Never shared other people’s business unless he absolutely had to.” Her head bobbed ever so slightly, her face looking as if she were trying to recall something specific. She turned her attention back to Dwayne.

  “I was pregnant with you the first time your father hit me. It surprised me and I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t understand how the man I loved and married could put his hands on me like that. Of course, he was very apologetic afterward. Bought me my first strand of pearls. He always bought me something after he beat me.”

  She nodded slowly, fingering the jewels around her neck, and Quentin got the sense that she was counting the number of somethings she’d received over the years.

  She continued. “Appearances were everything and I always played the perfect wife. No matter how much I hurt or what bones were broken I always played the perfect wife and mother. I never failed you or your father in public but once we closed these doors I was very much a disappointment.”

  A tear rolled down Dwayne’s cheek. He shook his head.

  His mother smiled. “I drank to make my hurt go away and you deserved better,” she repeated, emphasizing the word “deserved.” “I’m sorry for that and I’m sorry that I allowed you to believe that the man your father was, was the kind of man I wanted you to be. I was very wrong for that.”

  Mrs. Porter moved to her son’s side and wrapped her arms around him. She hugged him, kissing the top of his head, and then she sat down beside him.