by HoneyB
Before and after marrying Herschel, fucking Lexington kept Nikki happy. The more she became emotionally attached to Lexington, the less she visited Donna and the more she tolerated Herschel. The only thing she had to get under control was Herschel’s raging temper. His aggressiveness in the bedroom had grown increasingly dangerous. At first, she was cool with a little light physical interaction. But not anymore. Herschel’s hands had gotten too heavy. What if one time he went too far and choked her to death? Maybe that was his intent, so he could inherit her millions and her property and share it with his baby mama. Unbeknownst to Herschel, everything Nikki owned was willed to her girlfriend Venus. Sometimes friends were closer than family.
Men weren’t as smart as women. Until today, Herschel thought Nikki didn’t know anything about his so-called private lifestyle. To the contrary, she knew Ivory was a well-kept mistress who didn’t work. The truth was, Nikki was glad Ivory had given Herschel a son. Now Herschel could shut up and stop pressuring Nikki about having his baby.
Nikki knew about the house that Herschel had bought with her money for his mistress and their son, but she didn’t care. As long as he stuck to their agreement and lived off the interest of her money and his salary, Nikki didn’t care what Herschel spent money on.
When she had less money, she wanted to please her husband more. Now that she had more money, she wanted to please herself more. She couldn’t take any of the money to her grave, and the money she made allowed her to live a lifestyle most men would die trying to attain. Nikki didn’t really care about Herschel being bisexual, because she was too. Venus was more than just a friend.
Nikki’s business was blossoming, and yes, her husband did look great on her arm and they were the envy of many couples when they attended celebrity functions. Herschel tried hard to model himself after Brian and elevate his status by proclaiming they were a power couple too, but the media saw right through Herschel’s desperate attempts to stay in front of the cameras in hopes of making himself a star. The only real attention Herschel would get would be if he came out of the closet or if she divorced him. Then the media would grant him a few moments of fame before everyone, including the media, would forget he ever existed, until a conversation of down-low brothas and the sistahs who shouldn’t have married them came up.
Nikki removed her pants, stretched her body on the white cotton sheet, sipped her mojito, closed her eyes, and relaxed in the sunshine. Mentally channeling her energy throughout her body, she visualized Lexington’s strong hands pressing her breasts together. His tongue circled her areolas before suctioning her protruding nipples. She felt his mouth on her mouth, slowly trailing kisses to her clit—licking, then sucking, then gently kissing her pearl. Nikki closed her eyes tighter as his hard dickhead pressed against her shaft, making her pussy pulsate with his throbs. Sliding back her hood, exposing her clitoris, Lexington teased her clit. His lips surrounded her clit while his tongue flicked up and up and up again. Nikki squeezed her thighs, butt, and vagina, thrusting her shaft in his mouth as she came repeatedly.
Life for Nikki Henderson was good. Real good.
CHAPTER 5
Brian
Houston, Texas. Home of the most beautiful—inside and out—women in America. Business wasn’t always before pleasure. Last night, Brian struck gold with a tall, long-legged, Creole, slender, supersexy woman, with flowing chestnut-brown hair and dreamy hazel eyes. No doubt if he weren’t already married, he could’ve taken her home to meet his parents. She had the perfect fitting name that meant fair-skinned. Zahra almost made him break his rule of never sexing the same woman twice.
Zahra was so strikingly gorgeous men gawked at her. Women stared with envy, rolling their eyes at her. She was so beautiful he refused to take her directly to any hotel. Chest thrust forward, head stretched to the heavens, Brian dined her at the Grand Lux Café on Westheimer Road, treated her to the lingerie of her liking from Victoria’s Secret at the Galleria Mall, reimbursed her double what she’d paid for the suite at the JW, spent the night at the hotel with her, had breakfast at Empire Café, then reluctantly dropped her off at her home on Sherman Oaks Drive.
He was tempted to accept her invitation (“Come inside for a moment”) but reluctantly declined. “I’d better get going. The game starts at four.”
“Please, Malik. It’s two o’clock, you’re not that far away from the arena, and I promise it’ll only take a minute. I have to show you something,” she insisted, sitting in the passenger seat, with the door opened.
Her feet were flat on the asphalt, but her ass was still in his car. Obviously, she wasn’t giving up. He couldn’t push her out of the car. That would be rude. The time they’d wasted going back and forth, he could’ve seen whatever it was she desperately wanted to show him.
Brian removed the key from the ignition, locked the car, then followed her to her front door. Crossing the threshold, he stood in the foyer. His eyes roamed in amazement. Everything in her spacious living room and foyer was white. The wallpaper, the sofa fabric, chairs, decorative pillows, the picture frames, candles, lamps, ceiling, hardwood flooring. He’d never seen a house so bright.
“Come see my bedroom,” she said, holding his hand.
What the fuck! Everything in her bedroom was black. The carpet, drapes, ceiling, comforter, chaise lounge, armoire, nightstands, and dresser. Standing beside her, surrounded by the sunshine beaming through the skylight over her bed, Brian asked, “Are you OCD?”
“Don’t be silly. We just spent the night together. I sucked your dick, licked your asshole, and I let you fuck me in the ass. If I were OCD, you’d know it. I just like sleeping in the dark and awakening to natural sunlight, not an alarm blaring in my ear. I’m an angel. I have one more room to show you; then you can leave.”
Her self-proclaiming she was an angel was debatable and not clearly defined. Did she mean “angel” as in “sweet” or “angel” as in an “escapee from Heaven”? Either way, Brian was getting the fuck outta her eerie house.
“I’m good,” Brian said, moonwalking to keep his eyes on her. Thank God he didn’t have any hair for her to snatch off his head or pubic area. His mother warned him as a child that Creole women knew voodoo, but he’d never met one and he prayed Zahra wasn’t going to cast any spells on him. She’d drawn him in enough last night.
“It’ll only take a minute,” she insisted.
“I’ve already been here a minute. Thanks for your Southern hospitality,” he said, swiftly heading toward the front door. He’d seen more than enough of her “mistress of the dark and light” museum.
“Brian Malik Flaw,” she said, with a tone only his wife had used when she was pissed at him.
Oh, fuck! Brian stopped three feet short of the threshold, looked at her, then asked, “What did you call me?”
“I know exactly who you are, silly. Our meeting was no accident. I was paid by this person to follow you to Starbucks for some joke show,” she said. “I thought you knew. I didn’t expect you to take me out. I’ve been your biggest fan since you played ball in high school in New Orleans. You’re the agent that’s recruiting Marcus Monty. You’re married. You live in South Beach. You have two kids. You played professional basketball overseas, then here. You used to coach the team you played for. Now you’re an agent. I love you. Can I have your autograph?”
Okay, this bitch is crazy, he thought, swallowing the lump in his throat. Zahra was the first light-skinned chick he’d fucked who knew all about him. His father hadn’t warned him about her kind that would follow him his entire career. Zahra was stiffening his spine with a crisp winter chill in the middle of summer. Brian hurried out of the house, got in his car, locked the door, backed the hell up out of her driveway, and left.
“Shit! What the fuck is that?” Brian said, glancing over to the side. A black flat envelope appeared in the passenger seat. Obviously, she’d left it there. But what the fuck was in it? Should he open it or toss it out of the window? Brian decided to do neither. He kept driving
until he arrived at the arena.
Picking up the envelope, Brian nervously exhaled. “Best I find out what ole girl is up to.” He peeled away the tab. He eased his hand inside, then removed a few sheets of paper printed from Wikipedia.com. One sheet documented his early life, the other his playing career, coaching career, and personal life. Last, there was a 4 x 6 photo on 8 ½ by 11 paper of him shaking hands with Marcus. Did Marcus know Zahra?
Placing the papers back inside the envelope, Brian rubbed his head, then ground his back teeth as he entered the arena. He was glad Zahra didn’t have his phone number. Backtracking, he tried to recall any peculiar behavior. They’d met at Starbucks, walked over to Grand Lux, walked to the mall, crossed the street, went to Walgreens for Magnums, crossed the street to the hotel, spent the night, and woke up. She’d reentered the room as he opened the bathroom door. “That’s it,” he said, sliding the papers from the envelope. Brian’s lips tightened as he read the date and time on each page. She’d printed the papers that morning. But how did she know his real name?
His thoughts of Zahra faded to screaming fans that gradually quieted under the dimming lights. Silence proceeded as “O say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light” resonated from the basketball court to the ceiling of the arena. “O’er the land of the free” echoed simultaneously with piercing screams from anxious fans that vibrated in his ears.
Free? Not really, Brian thought, watching Marcus bounce on his toes. Waving his fist high above his head, Marcus Monty was ready for the game that Brian hoped would make Marcus the number-one draft pick and him the top sports agent in the country.
“Oh, shit!” Brian said, turning to acknowledge the tap on his shoulder. He relaxed when he heard, “What’s up, man? I didn’t mean to startle you. You all right?”
Exhaling, Brian said to his number-one competitor and longtime friend, Brandon, “Well, I’ll be damned. Man, where’ve you been?”
“Trying to stay two steps ahead of you, man. That’s why I’m here. ’Cause I knew your ass would be here trying to sign Marcus. How’s Michelle?” he asked.
“She’s good. The kids are good. And how’s your wife and kids?” Brian asked.
“Divorced, man. Said she couldn’t take me being gone all the time. Claimed she was a married woman living the life of a single mom and checked this shit out. Can you believe she called me a single husband? What the fuck is that, some new feminist terminology? Anyway, she’s with some other man now and I hope he makes her happy, since I apparently screwed up the best years of her life,” Brandon said, biting his bottom lip.
Brian watched his friend’s lip quiver, moving Brandon to tears that he refused to let fall. Damn, that was fucked-up! Watching a grown man cry over a woman. That shit would never happen to him.
“The problem was, she didn’t have a life of her own, man. That’s not your fault. You had to do what you had to do to support your family. These women start out wanting a rich man, with lots of money. Then when you marry them, they want you to stay home. How the fuck you supposed to make paper sitting on your ass all the time? I’m glad Michelle travels too. Would your wife, I mean ex-wife, rather you be at home all the time and struggling financially, or on the road providing a grand lifestyle for her and the kids?”
“She’s fucking gone, man. She left me. I think that answers your questions,” Brandon said angrily.
“Whoa, I didn’t divorce you. You still my nigga. Let me buy you a drink after the game,” Brian offered, since he didn’t have a fuck buddy to cuddle up with for the night. Tripping off the mysterious Zahra, Brian had his own issues. Zahra never said who paid her. Shit, he could use a drink just as much as—if not more than—Brandon.
“Sure thing. Spencer’s steak house inside the Hilton Americas?” Brandon said, sounding better already. “I have a taste for one of their double pork chops.”
“One better. Skyline Bar and Grill on the top floor,” Brian said.
Michelle texted Brian. BJ is crying for you. I know you’re busy but can you call your mother’s and talk to him for a minute?
Brian texted back, Of course, baby. I love you.
“Excuse me, man, I gotta make a call right quick,” Brian said, exiting into the lobby. Not wanting to upset Brandon further, Brian omitted mentioning his wife or his son.
Damn, that was fucked-up. Brandon’s wife seriously told him that shit. After all Brandon had done to give her a luxury home, top-of-the-line foreign automobiles, live-in nannies—whatever Brandon’s wife wanted, he bought her—and she still left him. That was seriously fucked-up. Would she rather have a man sitting up under her ass all day, or a husband out working his ass off for her and the kids? Enough about Brandon, Brian had better figure out if that Zahra chick was lying, telling the truth, or if she had intentions on stalking him. What difference did she make? Whatever she wanted from him, she could forget it.
Brian dialed his mother’s number to speak with his son.
His mother answered the phone immediately, then said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with BJ. He won’t stop crying.”
“Put him on the phone, Ma,” Brian said, eyeing a woman at the margarita stand. Her titties were huge, waist small, complexion fair, and hair was long, just the way he liked. He imagined pouring that margarita all over her pussy hairs, teasing her nipples with the lime, then licking the tequila off her clit until she screamed his name, “Oh, Malik!”
“Daddy, I miss you. Come get me,” BJ cried into the phone.
“I miss you too, son, but Daddy is too far away from home to come and get you right now,” Brian said loud enough for the woman to hear. Slowly she stuck out her tongue, swiped a dash of salt into her mouth, then sipped her drink. She knew what she was doing. “Daddy is going to call you back right after my meeting tonight. Stop crying. Tell Grandma to let you stay up until I call you back.”
“Okay, Daddy,” BJ said, sniffling. Brian felt the faint smile in his son’s voice when he said, “I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you too, son. Daddy has got to go watch the game. I’ll call you later,” Brian said, ending their call.
BJ was Brian’s biggest manipulator. He’d learned that if he talked his grandmother into calling his mother, Michelle would text Brian, and Brian would let him stay up late.
Brian wasn’t hungry, but the beautiful woman occupying his eyes and his mind made his dick and his tongue thirsty for some juicy pussy. What the fuck was wrong with him? Nothing. Being sexually attracted to attractive light-skinned women was as natural as breathing.
“Let me get that for you,” he said, curling her long red acrylic fingernails around her twenty-dollar bill. Her hand felt like satin. “Let me have a, um . . .” A hot dog was out of the question. He didn’t want a pretzel. All he really wanted was the woman in front of him, sitting naked on his face. “A Sprite,” he said.
“Are you here with someone?” she asked.
“No, but I do have to watch the game closely. Can I buy you a drink later tonight? After the game perhaps? Can I get your number?”
Tucking her hair behind her ear, she casually asked, “What’s your name?”
How rude of him. Glancing over his shoulder to make certain no one he knew was within ear range, he was so excited about fucking her later he hadn’t thought to tell her. “My name is Brother Malik.”
Frowning, she asked, “Are you Muslim?”
“I’ll answer that later,” he lied. What difference did it make if he were Muslim, married, or single? She should’ve asked if he was a serial killer or a con artist. That would’ve made sense. He wanted to fuck her. She obviously wanted to fuck him or she would’ve left by now. “I’ve got to get back inside.”
“Save my number in your phone. Seven seven three,” she said, pausing for him to program all of her digits. “Call me right after the game.”
“Chicago, huh?” Brian thought, pressing the corresponding numbers. Area codes didn’t mean much nowadays. Memorizing each digit, he backspaced, deleting the number
s he’d pressed on his phone. If he couldn’t remember a woman’s number, he wasn’t interested enough in her. Of all the numbers he knew, he didn’t know Zahra’s number, but he did know where she lived.
Memorizing numbers kept his telephone history clear of all potential allegations from females plotting to entrap him in a scandal. He didn’t have to hide his phone from his wife. There was nothing incriminating for her to find. Before he returned home from his road trips, Brian placed his clothes in the laundry bag at the hotel for overnight dry cleaning to make sure he didn’t return to Michelle with any parts of him smelling like another woman.
Brian loved traveling. As much as he loved his wife and kids, he couldn’t imagine being home with them seven days a week, fifty-two weeks out of the year. How did couples that ate together, slept together, and worked together too, not tire of seeing one another? That would drive Brian fucking nuts. What did they talk about? Were their daily conversations monotonous, like tuning in to reruns of Good Times or Girlfriends? Brian often grew impatient holding the phone, waiting for Michelle to say something. His preferred communication was face to pussy. Not texting and definitely not talking on the cell phone. Before and after marrying Michelle, he made certain he had obligations other than being home under her all the time.
Brian made it back to his seat in time to see Marcus Monty tip off his last college conference championship game. Becoming a sports agent allowed Brian to remain anonymous most of the time. Most groupies were excited about the current players, not the former players or the agents. He doubted that the woman he’d just met in the lobby had any idea who he was, and he’d plan to keep it that way. A few what looked like teenage girls waved at him. Brian waved back, then quickly looked away. Entertaining young girls was never a consideration.