Put A Ring On It

by Allison Hobbs

  “I do,” Drake answered.

  Harlow was addressed next. And in a voice that trembled with emotion, she said, “I do.”

  Concluding the ceremony, the minister asserted, “I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss your bride.”

  As Drake kissed Harlow, her teardrops dampened his face. “Why are you crying?”

  Smiling through her tears, she whispered, “Because I’m so happy.”

  In a booming voice, the minister proclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr. and Mrs. Drake Morgan.”

  The reception immediately followed. Drake took Harlow in his arms and glided her across the dance floor. They clung passionately to each as if they’d never let go.

  When the music ended, Alphonso approached. Bowing slightly, he extended his hand. “May I have this dance, Mrs. Morgan?”

  Harlow giggled and blushed at her new name, but she declined. “All my dances are for Drake. Tonight and forever,” she added. “Ask my girlfriend, Vangie, to dance.” She pointed to Vangie. “She’s been dying to meet you.”

  Alphonso gave Vangie an approving glance. Smiling slightly, he said, “I can do that. Your girlfriend’s real cute.”

  Harlow signaled Vangie with a thumbs-up.

  When Alphonso walked away, Drake put his arm around Harlow’s waist. Drawing her close, he whispered in her ear, “We have a flight to catch, Mrs. Morgan.”

  “I can’t believe we’re actually married. In a way, I regret that we planned a honeymoon in Paris.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Why do you say that?”

  Harlow shrugged. “I hate leaving. I want this perfect moment to last forever.”

  Leaving their guests behind, partying, Harlow and Drake stepped outside into the cool evening breeze. Stars glittered in the sky as though purposely sharing their sparkle in celebration of the couple’s union.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” Drake murmured.

  Harlow looked toward the sky and sighed blissfully. “It’s magical.”

  He grasped her hand, escorting her toward the limo that was parked at the far end of the block.

  Hand in hand, they strolled down Broad Street, taking in the sights of beautiful downtown Philadelphia at night. Seemingly out of nowhere, there was a rush of violent movement, jostling the newlyweds. The surprising collision threw Harlow off balance, but Drake’s quick reflexes kept her steady and on her feet.

  “You ain’t shit, just like your no-good mother,” croaked a horribly familiar voice.

  Harlow gawked in surprise when she recognized Ronica’s snarling, disfigured face.

  “You and you mother owe me for all I did for y’all. Jody’s the reason that my body got all burned up. But that bitch is dead, so you owe me double.”

  “Yo!” Drake held up a hand as if his hand alone could halt the offensive barrage. Brazenly, Ronica pushed his arms aside, and stepped in closer. In one hand, she held a tattered Bible, and in the other she brandished a rusted jackknife, fully extended.

  “Pay up, Harlow, before I start spreading your business. I know you don’t want that. Hmph! You think you’re all important now that you grown; well, I know what kind of gutter tramp you really are.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth and get that knife away from my wife!” Drake grabbed for the knife, but Ronica was quick, slicing the soft flesh of his palm. Blood spurted.

  Harlow gasped, unaware that Drake was now reaching for his gun.

  And before Harlow realized that she’d moved, she had rushed forward, forcibly pushing the knife-wielding attacker away from her husband.

  Ronica was shoved so hard, she stumbled off the curve and into Broad Street. Her Bible skidded into traffic, and Ronica fell flat on her behind. Possessing uncanny agility, she sprang quickly to her hobbled feet. No longer contemplating blackmail or extortion, her crazed thoughts were now focused on bloodshed. “Both of y’all bitches ’bout to die now.”

  Bringing herself to a full stand, Ronica took one menacing step forward. A split-second later, she was airborne.

  Harlow covered her mouth. Holding back a scream, she witnessed her ragged tormentor catapult, as if launched into the sky.

  The SEPTA bus driver pressed on the brakes, causing them to screech and wail. But it was too late; Ronica had already been hit. The driver ran off the bus. “She came out of nowhere!” he shouted out loud, and then gaped at the broken body that lay splattered on the asphalt.

  With his necktie serving as a bandage on his wounded hand, Drake guided Harlow forward. “Come on, baby, keep walking. Don’t even look over there.” His expression was hard and intense. His voice sounded cold, and unnatural.

  “B-but, I—”

  “What are you worrying about her for? That bitch got hers,” he said in a voice that was chilling. “Now get in the limo; we’re going to Paris.”

  The glint in Drake’s eyes was terrifying; he had a look that Harlow had never seen before. “Drake, I don’t…” Harlow couldn’t stop trembling.

  Drake touched her face with his good hand, and spoke in a gentle tone. “It’s over, Harlow. She won’t be coming at you anymore. I love you, Harlow, and I’ll never let anyone hurt you,” he said as if explaining something that she didn’t understand. “Get in the limo, baby.”

  Harlow got in. Drake slid in beside her.

  “We’re going to the airport,” Drake told the driver.

  Harlow searched Drake’s face, looking for a hint of the ruthless person she’d seen only seconds before. But the look was gone and she was gazing into her husband’s warm, beautiful eyes. Resting her head on his shoulder, she softly asked, “Don’t you think a doctor should take a look at your hand?”

  “Nah, that ain’t nothing. Couple of Band-Aids, and I’ll be all right.”

  Drake cracked a sudden smile and kissed the top of Harlow’s head. “I’m good, baby. Tonight is the beginning of the rest of our lives.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Allison Hobbs burst on the literary scene with the release of her highly successful, debut novel, Pandora’s Box in 2003. Riveting! Graphic! Edgy! Those are just a few words that describe the responses to Allison Hobbs’ writing style. Allison Hobbs is known for her sexy scenarios and memorable characters. She takes erotica to another level but always interjects humor throughout.

  A prolific writer, Allison is the author of fifteen novels and novellas, including Stealing Candy and Lipstick Hustla.

  Allison has been nominated three times for The Annual African American Literary Awards show for Best Erotic Author.

  Visit Allison online: www.allisonhobbs.com, www.facebook.com/allisonhobbs, www.twitter.com/allisonhobbs

  Praise for Allison Hobbs

  “The only woman on the planet freakier than me!”

  —ZANE, New York Times bestselling author and co-executive producer of Cinemax’s Zane’s Sex Chronicles

  “Allison Hobbs delivers a witty, insightful, and sexy treat that grabs your attention from the very first page and keeps it.”

  —MARY MONROE, Bestselling Author of God Don’t Like Ugly

  BE SURE TO CHECK OUT ALLISON HOBBS’ NEXT

  RED HOT RELEASE

  SCANDALICIOUS

  BY ALLISON HOBBS

  COMING SOON FROM STREBOR BOOKS

  CHAPTER 1

  He cupped her ass cheeks, tugging her closer, until his dick was embedded to the hilt. Gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut tightly, he forced back the load that swelled his shaft.

  She squirmed beneath him, urging him. Her moans were almost too much to bear. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” His voice was a low growl. After all these years, his wife’s beauty still astonished him. Drove him mad. He pulled back a little, and then deepened his stroke. Going hard. Disregarding self control.

  Getting a grip, he shook his head. He wasn’t ready to disconnect. He wanted to be with her—like this—for as long as he could.

  Desperately, his lips found hers. He put some tongue into the kiss, taking his mind off
the juicy pussy that enveloped his dick. He stopped his stroke and lay motionless. Further movement would cause a premature eruption.

  His mouth moved downward. He buried his face in her breasts, brushing his cheeks against the softness of her satiny skin. Licking, tasting. Lips hungrily surrounding the aching tips.

  Overcome by her womanly softness, his dick throbbed, straining for release. She felt so good—so wet and creamy. It took every ounce of his willpower to maintain his self control.

  He wanted to stay inside her forever, but with a soft groan, he withdrew himself. Palms pressed against the mattress, he slithered downward until he was kissing her thighs. Forcing her to spread her legs in helpless invitation.

  His tongue slashed between her thick folds, and thrust toward the tiny entrance to her sex. Inside her walls, he daringly explored the moist and softly padded confines. Her pussy clenched and spasmed around his gliding tongue.

  “This is good pussy, baby. So sweet,” he uttered, as his finger toggled her clit, creating friction that made her moan in unbearable pleasure. He knew her body well. Could feel the pulse of a budding orgasm.

  She writhed violently. Soft moans escalated to shouts of pleasure. Her chest rose and fell. Her body bucked wildly. She cursed. She prayed. And then her womb spasmed in grateful release.

  It was his turn now. Sweat soaked her skin as he repositioned her languid body, pulling her to unsteady knees. He wanted to mount her…fuck her doggy style. One hand flat against her back, the other holding a dick that was heavy as a boulder. He steered his swollen length into her, gently at first.

  Good pussy, he thought as he thrust with a pounding force. Driving himself deeply until he spurted his seed and collapsed. Drenched with perspiration, his chest molded to the curve of her back.

  Good pussy motivated men to achieve their dreams. Good pussy was the reward for working your way through school and obtaining a college degree; it was the prize for earning a good living and enduring the challenges and pressures that come with a successful career. Good pussy was constantly on his mind. But keeping this pussy happy was becoming an impossible task.

  Chevonne shifted. “You’re smothering me, honey. Get up,” she said with a grunt.

  Lincoln opened his eyes. He was back in his bedroom, ejected from paradise. He closed his eyes again, unwilling to return to the reality of his life.

  A career in peril. A dying marriage. An unhappy wife.

  CHAPTER 2

  An hour before dawn, Solay was out of bed, dressed, and ready to take on the new day. Situated beneath her modest apartment was her cupcake bakery, called Scandalicious. Only six months old, Solay’s store-front business had taken off like a rocket. Known for their eye-catching appearance and scandalously delicious flavor, Solay’s cupcakes were all the rage.

  Keeping costs down, she offered limited selections with racy names like, Double Chocolate Decadence (chocolate cake and frosting), Sinful Seduction (rich red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting), and Passionate Kiss (moist vanilla bean cake topped with hot pink butter cream).

  Solay also offered gourmet cupcakes as special orders.

  She walked swiftly past floor lamps with fringed shades, chaise longues, and bistro-style chairs and tables. The provocative product names and the seductive ambiance of her shop added to the allure of Scandalicious.

  Feeling a twinge of dissatisfaction, Solay stopped suddenly and looked around the small dining area. Her place was absolutely beautiful, but she needed more space. The wrought-iron tables and chairs were crammed together, not nearly enough seating to accommodate her growing clientele.

  An unfamiliar sweet and spicy scent wafted from the kitchen. Holding a clipboard, Solay strolled behind the empty display case and pushed open the door to the kitchen with her hip. Her baking assistant, Mariama, was hunched over a butcher block table, chopping ginger root—of all things! Her work station was cluttered with oranges, lemon peelings, ginger root, a vast assortment of spices, and expensive-looking cellophane bags filled with gourmet caramel.

  Solay scanned the odd assemblage of ingredients, and scowled at her baking assistant. “What’s going on? What’re you baking, Mari?” Solay tried to keep an even tone, but the quaver in her voice indicated that she was livid.

  “I’ve been working on some new flavor profiles,” Mariama said, her voice low and confident as she carefully sliced oranges. “We discussed adding a new addition to the menu, so I came up with an orange ginger cupcake, with a couple of twists.” Mariama gave Solay a conspiratorial wink, and then jumped up and pulled a tray of cupcakes from the oven.

  Solay felt anger settling around her, infuriated by the gall of Mariama.

  Oblivious, Mariama chattered happily about her concoction. “I’ll use our signature butter cream frosting, but it’s gonna be kick-ass when I mix in some tangy orange and lemon zest, and then top it with a caramel drizzle. There’s gonna be a caramelized orange slice, adding extra flair and drama. I’m gonna call my creation, the Screamin’ Orgasm.” Mariama giggled. “The family-friendly version will simply be called, The Screamin’ O.”

  Solay’s jaw became unhinged. Breathe, Solay. Count to ten before you go off on this heifer.

  “I thought it would be real cool if we featured each of my creations on the chalkboard as Mari’s Delectable Special.” Mariama beamed with pride.

  A violation of this magnitude warranted an extended period of gasping in shock and gaping in disbelief. But time was ticking, and Solay didn’t have that luxury. Momentarily stunned into silence, she pointed at the clock on the wall.

  “I lost track of time, but when you see how popular my gourmet cupcakes will be, you’ll understand that it was well worth the time invested.”

  “Business opens in a few hours,” Solay exploded.

  Sulking, Mariama grudgingly rose from the butcher block table. “I’ll start mixing up the red velvet batter while the Screaming O’s are cooling off.”

  “That display case is empty! It should be at least half-filled with trays of red velvet, chocolate, and vanilla cupcakes. What would possess you to waste precious time, experimenting with new flavor profiles?”

  Mariama pinched her lips together and gave Solay a piercing look of irritation. “I’m not experimenting. I’m a trained pastry chef and—”

  “You’re a pasty school dropout,” Solay reminded her. “You have a lot of gall referring to yourself as a pastry chef. Furthermore, I run this business…not you! How dare you take the liberty of ordering a bunch of expensive items without my permission?”

  “Well, we talked about improving the menu,” Mariama said weakly.

  “We discussed enhancing the menu. My menu does not require improvement,” Solay clarified as she set down the clipboard and huffily tied on a full-length apron, and began grabbing eggs, cream, and butter from the fridge.

  Mariama touched the tops of her freshly baked cupcakes, and began scooping them out of the twelve compartments. “Wanna taste one?”

  Solay frowned. “No, I don’t. At seven-thirty, customers are going to come stampeding through the door. You’re wasting time, Mari. No, start hustling. I wanna see tons of velvet coming out of the oven.”

  Mariama looked st her fragrant creations and gave a loud sigh. “What do you want me to do—trash the Screaming O’s?”

  “I don’t care what you do with that ginger crap. Eat them for lunch, give them to homeless…I don’t care what you do with them.” Solay looked at her clipboard. “I came downstairs to tell you that I have a huge special order. One hundred cupcakes for a bridal shower. I planned on personally working on the order for most of the morning. But now that I have to pitch in and help you, I don’t know how I’m going to get it all done.”

  Solay was piping frosting onto a batch of chocolate cupcakes when the old-fashioned bell ding-donged above the front door.

  “Morning, ladies,” Vidal called with a musical lilt to his voice. Vidal worked the cash register, took phone orders, ran errands, and did a little bit
of everything, except bake.

  “Vidal! I need you in the kitchen,” Solay yelled.

  Fashion savvy, Vidal was looking particularly dapper in a cotton twill driving cap atop neck-length hair that was highlighted and coiffed by a stylist. Dark gray tailored trousers fit his lean body to a tee. His cherry gingham checked shirt was coordinated with a dark cardigan sweater and a bold gray plaid scarf was knotted around his neck.

  He owned more shoes than both Solay and Mariama. He possessed oodles of accessories to complete his look: belts, ties, cuff links, hats, scarves, pocket squares, sunglasses, brooches, and earrings. You name the trinket, and Vidal not only owned it, he wore it well. It was a mystery to Solay how the man maintained such a stylish wardrobe with the meager paycheck he earned from the bakery.

  Peering through tinted shades, and clenching his chin as he appraised the women’s aprons that were dusted with flour and splashed with frosting and other unidentifiable stains, Vidal quipped, “Y’all look like hell. What’s been going on back here—a cupcake war?”

  “There’s no time for humor,” Solay chastised. “We have a situation, and I need you mixing batter—”

  “Nuh-uh,” he protested, shaking his bouncy hair. He waved a manicured finger, “I don’t know anything about stirring up batter, chile.” He scowled excessively, as if he’d been asked to kill, pluck, and cut up a chicken. “I can’t work back here with my Dolce & Gabbana pants on,” he said, folding his arms.

  “This is a crisis, and I’m not going to argue with you, Vidal,” Solay informed with a penetrating stare.

  Vidal folded his arms. “You should have warned me. Had I known that you expected me to get all dusty, I would have thrown on something raggedy—something cheap and Old Navy-ish.”