Because of You

by Rochelle Alers

  “What’s up with you, gangsta? I heard about you downing shots,” Ivan teased.

  Jordan laughed. He’d gotten used to people calling him gangsta or sheriff, viewing them as an affectionate sobriquet. “I wasn’t thinking straight that night.”

  Pushing his hands into the pockets of his slacks, Kyle rocked back on his heels. “That’s what happens when your woman looks like Aziza.”

  “I hear you, brother,” Ivan intoned. “I don’t know if I’d be able to handle dating a model. I really don’t like other men gawking at my woman.”

  Jordan swallowed a mouthful of the piquant virgin cocktail. “She’s not a model.”

  “What is she?” Ivan and Kyle chorused in unison.

  He held back laughter when he saw the expectant expressions on his friends’ faces. “She’s an attorney.”

  Groaning and shaking his head, Ivan closed his eyes. “Why do I have a house full of lawyers? What are of the odds of Nayo and I inviting six couples and five of the twelve being attorneys?”

  “That’s because we got it like that,” Kyle bragged, bumping fists with his junior law partner.

  Aziza followed Nayo Campbell through the kitchen where a caterer and his staff were braising, sautéing and chopping different ingredients for the evening’s dinner party, past a well-stocked pantry and laundry room and then down a flight of stairs to the street level. Framed movie prints covered the walls of a home theater with an authentic popcorn machine. Two women, both wearing diamond engagement rings, seated on leather love seats, were talking quietly to each other.

  “Please sit down, Aziza,” Nayo said, indicating a facing love seat. She sat on a matching club chair. “Let me introduce you to Tamara Wolcott and Ava Warrick. Ladies, this is Aziza Fleming, Jordan’s girlfriend. Ava is engaged to Kyle and Tamara to Duncan Gilmore, who you’ll meet later. Right now he’s upstairs looking at photographs.”

  Aziza smiled at the two attractive women. “Please call me Zee. It’s less of a tongue-twister than Aziza.”

  Nayo rested folded her hands in her lap. “I like your name. It’s African, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It means beautiful in Swahili. Is yours African, too?”

  Nayo nodded. “It’s our joy in Yoruba. I guess you’re wondering why we’re meeting.”

  Aziza stared at the three women. She assumed they were all around her age—early thirties. When she’d asked Jordan about his friends’ girlfriends, he’d said Ava was a social worker and Tamara a trauma center doctor. Jordan had also revealed that Kyle, Duncan and Ivan, who’d grown up together in public housing, had made a boyhood pact to own a Harlem brownstone. The three friends had realized their dream when they purchased an abandoned brownstone, renovated it and set up their businesses under the same roof. Ivan and Kyle owned property in Harlem, while Duncan had purchased a condo in Chelsea.

  “I did give it some thought.”

  Tamara leaned forward. A mane of heavy dark hair framed her tawny-brown face. Lush and voluptuous were adjectives most people used when describing Dr. Tamara Wolcott. A black stretch-knit top and matching slacks hugged her curves like second skin. Strappy stilettos added another four inches to her statuesque figure.

  “Let me explain why we’re upset,” she said to Aziza. “Our men usually get together once a week during the football season, and we don’t have a problem with that. It’s their time to bond and it is our time to get together to test our cooking skills. What has us so pissed off is that Kyle, Duncan and Ivan promised if they were able to secure Super Bowl tickets, they would take us with them. I want to know one thing, Zee. Has Jordan mentioned taking you to L.A.?”

  Aziza could feel waves of resentment coming off them. They were football widows who had expected their men to take them to football’s big dance—the Super Bowl. She could identify with them. If one looked up sports fanatic in the dictionary they would find Ezekiel, Omar and Sheridan Fleming. Her father and brothers took spectator to another level. They watched football, baseball, basketball, golf, hockey and soccer.

  “He didn’t say a mumbling word.”

  “I’d hoped he’d be different, but Jordan is just like the rest of them,” Ava complained, waving her hand. Recessed light reflected off the cushion-cut diamond on her finger with blue-white sparks.

  “What did you do during last year’s Super Bowl?” Aziza asked.

  Tamara, Ava and Nayo exchanged glances. “We didn’t know them last January.” It was Nayo who’d spoken.

  Aziza mentally did the math. A year ago none of the women knew their fiancés, or husband, which meant they hadn’t had, or wouldn’t have, long engagements. “Have any of you been to a Super Bowl?” They shook their heads. “Well, I have, and if given the choice, I’d rather watch and celebrate in the comfort of my own home. That way I don’t have to deal with unruly, intoxicated fans and the frustration of spending hours in an airport waiting for a flight home.”

  Tamara grimaced. “So it’s not as glamorous as it looks?”

  “It’s fun if you’re really a fan. I only watch it when my brother is playing.”

  “Her brother just happens to be Al Fleming,” Nayo stated proudly.

  “No!”

  “You’re joking!”

  Ava and Tamara had spoken at the same time.

  Aziza smiled. “He’s my baby brother.”

  Nayo moaned under her breath. “A baby brother I’d love to photograph. I’ve taken a few photos of athletes, but I don’t have enough for a showing. Can you help a sister out and ask him for me?”

  “I’ll ask him.” Aziza would ask her brother, but what she couldn’t promise Nayo was that he would agree. Alexander Fleming had managed to keep a low profile despite his A-list status.

  “Some of my girlfriends and I usually take turns hosting a Super Bowl gathering each year,” she continued. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  Ava angled her head. “Where do you live?”

  “Bronxville.”

  Ava smiled. “That’s not far. I’m willing to drive if y’all want to come with me,” she said to Nayo and Tamara.

  Nayo stood up. “Sounds good to me. I better get upstairs before everyone will think I’m a neglectful hostess.”

  Aziza and the others followed their hostess into the living room. More couples had arrived, and the bartender was doing a brisk business pouring and mixing drinks.

  A shiver raced over the nape of her neck when the scent of familiar cologne wafted in her nostrils. “How was your strategy meeting?” Jordan asked softly.

  “It was wonderful.”

  “Should I be concerned?”

  “Nope.”

  “Should Ivan, Duncan or Kyle be concerned?”

  Aziza smiled. “They have to ask their women.”

  “Are you saying you’re my woman, Aziza Fleming?”

  She turned to face Jordan, her smile still in place. “I’ll let you know.”

  “When, baby?” Jordan caught his breath when he saw the open invitation in the eyes of the woman who’d ensnared him in a sensual web from which he didn’t want and couldn’t escape.

  “When we dance together on the beach in the moonlight.”

  Jordan resisted the urge to kiss her with a room filled with people. “I can’t wait.”

  He couldn’t wait to take her to Puerto Rico, but that was more than six weeks away. One thing he didn’t have to wait for was making love to Aziza. He’d broken his own rule about not sleeping with a woman until they’d dated at least a month. But there was something about Aziza that would make him break if not circumvent the law.

  She’d become that precious to him.

  Chapter 14

  A smile softened Aziza’s mouth when Jordan reached for her hand under the tablecloth. At the conclusion of the cocktail hour everyone was escorted into the formal dining room. Couples were seated together with the host and hostess at either end of the table.

  Ivan had exchanged his sweater and slacks for a tailored dark gray suit, white shirt and au
bergine silk tie. All eyes were trained on him as he stared across the table at his wife.

  “Nayo and I would like to welcome you into our home and kick off what will probably become a very active social year with weddings and new births. The two empty chairs are for a couple who’d planned to attend, but at the last minute were forced to cancel. For those of you who are familiar with Signature Cakes, I would like to inform you that pastry chef Faith Whitfield-McMillan and her husband, Ethan, are now the proud parents of a healthy baby boy.” Applause followed his announcement.

  Nayo’s dark eyes sparkled like onyx. “When Ivan and I decided to host this gathering we decided to compromise. I invite my friends and he invite his, and before everyone leaves we all will be friends. This is a little unorthodox, but I’d like to go around the table and have everyone introduce themselves.” Her smile widened. “I’ll break the ice. I’m Nayo Goddard-Campbell, a freelance photographer and as soon as Ivan and I get the necessary permits to install an elevator, I plan to open a gallery on the top floor.” She turned to her right. “Geoff.”

  A slender young man with shaggy blond curls and cool gray eyes smiled at Nayo. “Geoffrey Magnus. I own an art gallery in the Village. I’m proud to say that some of the photos in this magnificent home once hung in my gallery.”

  The woman beside Geoffrey rested a hand on his shoulder. Her blunt-cut dirty-blond hair was swept off her face with a velvet headband. She wore the quintessential little black dress with a single strand of pearls and matching studs. “I’m Bethany Lawry. I just joined my dad’s law firm as a junior partner.”

  All eyes shifted to Jordan. “Jordan Wainwright, junior partner at Chatham and Wainwright.”

  “Aziza Fleming. I’m an attorney with a private practice in Bronxville, New York.”

  “What’s up with the lawyers?” Ivan quipped.

  An incredibly handsome man with sable coloring and salt-and-pepper hair cleared his throat. “Micah Sanborn, former NYPD. I’m currently an A.D.A. with the Kings County D.A.’s office.” Everyone laughed.

  A woman with short curly hair and shimmering catlike eyes smiled at Micah. “I can assure you I’m not a lawyer. Tessa Whitfield-Sanborn, wedding planner for Signature Bridals.” A smattering of applause followed her announcement. Tessa’s wait list had gone from twelve to eighteen months after she’d coordinated the wedding of an A-list actress.

  “Duncan Gilmore, accountant, financial analyst and in another two years I’ll add tax attorney to the list.” His olive coloring, cropped curly hair, chiseled features and beautifully modulated voice garnered the rapt gaze of every woman in the room. “All my friends call me DG.”

  Tamara rolled her eyes at him. “You say that as if you’re a playa from the Himalaya.” She pantomimed putting her hand over her eyes the way the mime did when he executed the routine.

  Kyle laughed loudly. “It was Jordan not DG who was a playa when he first came to work with us,” Kyle teased. “He couldn’t get a lick of work done because the ladies from Ivan and DG’s offices found every excuse to come to the second floor—and it wasn’t because they wanted legal advice.”

  Aziza gave Jordan a sidelong glance. “Were you a playa, baby?” she asked innocently. The entire table erupted in laughter, some pounding the table so hard glasses and silver rattled.

  Jordan glared at Kyle. “TMI, brother.”

  “No it’s not, brother,” Kyle drawled. “Your woman has a right to know that the Harlem honeys like JW.”

  Aziza looped her arm through Jordan’s. “If that’s the case, then I definitely have to hold on tight.”

  “That’s right, girl,” Nayo crooned. “Hold on to your man.”

  There was chorus of amens from the women in attendance before introductions continued.

  “Tamara Wolcott. And no, I’m not an attorney but an E.R. doctor.”

  Kyle waited until the snickers subsided. “Kyle Chatham, senior partner at Chatham and Wainwright, Attorneys-at-Law,” he announced smugly. He and Jordan executed a thumbs-up simultaneously.

  “Ava Warrick, social worker. I don’t know why y’all hatin’ but I happen to like my lawyer.” She winked at Kyle. He angled his head and brushed a kiss over her mouth.

  “Hear, hear,” Geoffrey intoned, raising his water goblet, and was rewarded with an adoring look from Bethany.

  Eyes were trained on the remaining couple. The man with dark blond hair and intense dark blue eyes was jaw-dropping gorgeous. “Rafael Madison, U.S. Deputy Marshal assigned to the White Plains Federal Courthouse.”

  “I’m Simone Whitfield-Madison, owner of Wildflowers and Other Treasures and floral decorator for Signature Bridals.” The resemblance between Simone and her sister was obvious. Both had curly hair, but Simone’s was streaked with reddish highlights and her eyes were a sparkling hazel.

  Ivan winked at Simone. “That concludes the introductions, so if anyone needs to purchase artwork, hire an attorney, doctor, social worker, financial analyst, wedding planner or floral designer, you’ll know who to contact. Sorry, Rafe, but you’re the odd man out. Let’s hope none of us will need the services of the U.S. Marshal Service.”

  Tiny lines fanned out around the hunky lawman’s remarkable eyes when he flashed a wide grin. “Once I put in my twenty years with the service I plan to go to law school. So that will make it even—six attorneys and six others.” He managed to duck when his wife threw a balled-up cocktail napkin at him. This elicited another round of laughter.

  Nayo signaled for a member of the waitstaff to begin serving, and over the next two hours her guests dined on expertly prepared prime rib, herb-crusted Cornish hens and broiled flounder stuffed with lobster and crab.

  The wines flowed, the conversations were lively as the seven couples exchanged pleasantries and anecdotes that kept everyone laughing. The conversation shifted to Kyle and Ava’s upcoming wedding in the Caribbean and the process of coming up with baby names after Tessa and Micah announced they were expecting a daughter in mid-April.

  It was minutes after midnight when Ivan and Nayo’s guests began to take their leave; those who didn’t have cars had contracted with car services to take them home. Aziza barely had time to settle back and relax in the warmth of the car when the ride ended. The temperature had dropped to single digits, and when Jordan helped her out of the car, she ran to the building, startling the doorman when he rushed over to open the door for her.

  Within seconds of closing and locking the door, Jordan swept Aziza off her feet and carried her up the staircase to his bedroom. The sound of clothing being tossed aside, the escalating moans and groans that accompanied their undressing each other echoed with the rising passion threatening to explode.

  Somewhere begin madness and sanity, Jordan remembered he had to protect Aziza from an unplanned pregnancy. He snatched open the drawer to the bedside table and grabbed a handful of condoms. Light from a full moon silvered the bed and bedroom through half-open drapes.

  Aziza felt a burning in the back of her throat where she’d choked off the screams building there. There was something so feral and unbridled about making love without the pretense of foreplay that it excited and frightened her at the same time. Moisture flowed from her like an unchecked faucet when she stared at Jordan sheathing his tumescence in latex. The condom was so thin she was able to feel the heat of his sex when he penetrated her. She extended her arms and opened her legs as Jordan loomed over her. He lowered his body until her breasts were crushed to his hard chest.

  “Love me, Jordan,” she whispered in his ear.

  Jordan wanted to do more than love Aziza. He wanted to brand himself on her body, heart and mind. His mouth covered hers in a soft kiss that belied the fire raging in his groin. “I love your mouth,” he whispered. His mouth moved lower as he fastened his teeth to the tender flesh at the base of her throat. “I love your sweet neck.”

  Continuing his downward journey, he placed kisses all over her firm breasts, catching the hardened nipples between his teeth. “I love yo
ur beautiful breasts.” She gasped when he increased the pressure, worrying the hardened flesh between the ridges of his teeth. He’d bitten her, but it wasn’t hard enough to hurt her or break the skin.

  He slipped down the bed, his tongue marking a trail over her belly. Inhaling, Jordan blew out his breath over the mound covered with moist tangled curls. Then, without warning, he grasped her legs, anchoring them over his shoulders.

  Aziza screamed once and then swallowed the sobs of rising ecstasy when she felt Jordan’s tongue searching between her legs to find the opening that brought her so much sexual pleasure. She wanted to tell him to stop but it felt so good, too good. Heat, then cold swept over her, her skin beading with gooseflesh.

  “Please.” She heard a voice, but didn’t recognize it as her own.

  Jordan heard the entreaty. He rested a hand on Aziza’s belly and felt her muscles contracting under his touch. He wanted to make love to her with his mouth until she climaxed, yet feared if he continued he would come without being inside her.

  Pulling his mouth away, he moved up her trembling body and kissed her deeply, his tongue plunging in her mouth over and over and simulating his making love to her. “Touch me,” he whispered hoarsely.

  Reaching between his legs, Aziza held his hardened flesh, feeling the heat and the blood rushing to his erection. Spreading her legs, she lifted her hips and eased him inside her inch by every delicious inch, sighing when he was fully sheathed up to the root of his penis.

  Slowly, deliberately, they moved together, she arching to meet his strong thrusting. Things they never would’ve said out of bed they communicated wordlessly with their bodies. Just when she felt the soft tremors that indicated the onset of an orgasm, Jordan slowed and stopped without pulling out. And when he started moving inside her again, the pulsing increased. He continued stopping and starting up again until she felt as if she were going crazy.

  Her fingernails made half-moon imprints on his back with her increasing frustration. She felt as if she was standing on a precipice, unable to move because she feared falling.