An Alpha's Desire

by Amarie Avant

  “Despite the fact that prior to you,” his deep voice lowers, compelling my mind and soul to want more, “I have never been denied, I love this mouth of yours and all the stuff that comes out of it.” The rough padding of his thumb caresses the side of my mouth, and my mouth goes wet.

  The deepest, darkest part of me which hasn't reacted in so long, comes to life, flooding with lust.

  “Daniel…” I can barely say the word for kissing his thumb. I brush his hand away, lick my bottom lip, and force myself to breathe before replying, “We need to keep it strictly business.”

  “Business first, play later? I'll consider it.” He gestures toward my car door, opens it up, and I get inside. “Despite the misunderstanding, Desire, we had a lovely night.”

  “Yes, we did.” I gulp, needing to get the feeling of him so near, us laughing candidly out of my mind. “Goodnight.”

  I start the car and back out. I'm doused in his intense, masculine scent. The coast is clear when pulling from the parking lot. I'm on my second song when I notice custom paint gleaming in the lamp posts. Pressing the radio button, I dial Daniel.

  “Are you still following me?” I arch an eyebrow.

  “Yes. My mama would beat my ass for allowing you to go home at night by yourself.”

  His mama. His black mama.

  I wrack my brain for the documentaries I've watched. I'm addicted to biopics and real stories. Daniel was raised in the north, though I know his family money is mixed in plantation money due to the nature of just who owned the plane crop business.

  “I can handle myself.” My retort is in vain. Daniel continues to follow me down the street.

  “Good. Independence is a virtue,” he responds. I say nothing, but decide not to hang up because this man is in the middle of playing a damn trick and I am no fool.

  When I pull into the driveway his car slides up next to mine.

  “I've made it.” My finger pauses over the end call button.

  “You have to unlock the door,” he says, getting out.

  I mash the button down with a frown. I open my car door and rise. “Humph. You could have sat in your car and watched.”

  He shrugs. “Don't want anyone to think I was a stalker.”

  I stifle my laughter, turn away to press the lock, and start for the passageway. “You are a stubborn man.”

  “Having been called that on many occasions, I might have to agree,” he replies, and I can feel his eyes on my ass.

  I unlock and open the front door. “Does this meet your standards of seeing me home safely?”

  “Should I check your closest? Underneath your bed?”

  “I doubt your mama would consider me a good woman to allow you in my—near my bed.”

  Daniel’s mouth curves up.

  He doesn't walk away. By now, I'm exasperated. “Good night, Wentworth.”

  Daniel

  “All right, good night, Ms. Taylor.” I back away, not so much of an ounce of defeat. But I have more respect for Desire by the second.

  “Our next business chat must occur at the office.” She doesn't wait for a response, just closes the door. My mouth pitches as I slide into the driver seat. The sports car purrs for me. All my cars are beautiful like that, but not tonight. It's been ages since I've cultivated a relationship or given a fuck enough to care. I no longer have my three gorgeous women; they understood how busy I am. And I'm not the type to jump from bed to bed.

  No sexual arrangements. No nothing for now. I can live with that.

  Desire is a queen, and I will pull all the stops because she deserves it.

  ##

  Titan Aerospace headquarters is based in Dallas, Texas, with my very own landing strip in the backyard. The building is three stories tall and expands almost a mile.

  “Our branding team tells us that you're in the middle of launching a commercial for the new fleet of jets coming out?”

  “Well thanks for ruining the surprise, Paul.” I rise from my seat. “As you all know, Titan Airways is for the elite. No free rides, and you can bet your ass whoever can afford the new limited edition jets or the limited tickets we sell for commercial Titan Airlines, are going to be all over this.”

  “But a commercial isn't necessary. Everyone who isn't rich enough to buy a private jet is already well versed on how luxurious we are and considers us first with just a plane ticket to Peru. All of our loyalists will upgrade to new jets.” Paul shrugs. End of statement.

  “Oh, but that's where you are wrong, Paul.” I rub my hands together. “Our loyalists have the Mercedes Benz mentality and capability. Now hold onto that analogy while I switch gears for a second. My great grandfather wouldn't fucking touch the south with a short stick. His grandfather made money in the slave trade, but my grandfather moved up North and would have no such talk tied to the Rutledge dynasty when turning Titan from dusty ass crops, to airlines, and then the jet lines. But you bet your ass the first plane crop that was sold in the Deep South to wealthy ex-slave owners was sold by—”

  “Fredrick Rutledge.” Someone mentions my great grandfather’s name.

  “Precisely. Rutledge is in the habit of making money. Delta Airlines has a similar history, and you all are well-versed so I'm glad you could keep up.” My last statement is just for Paul. He's an asshole, and I don't mind throwing the shit back.

  Guess whose mouth is wide open. None other than Paul. “We are making money, Daniel. If our commercial flight prices increase anymore, people will run to Jet Blue and those other trendy, yet slightly more economical commercial airlines.”

  “I have no intention of increasing the commercial airline flights. Our aim is so that the rich are able to splurge on vacation, damn. Please understand that I use the rich term lightly. Also, I am no Scrooge. What I want to do is get into the pockets of the filthy, dirty rich. The affluent. Not those who are purchasing the limited edition private jets every time we launch.”

  “We have our loyalists,” Paul grumbles. “Why waste money on commercial?”

  “Our loyalists aren’t that fucking rich, Paul. I want God-like rich. Look, what sort of car does Warren Buffet drive? What's his everyday car? What's the everyday car of the uber motherfucking affluent?”

  Someone other than Paul comments a few seats down. “My neighbor up the street drives a Saab.”

  I scratch my left eyebrow and smile. Way up the street. “And he is old with white hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn near in his grave. He doesn't waste money on frivolous things. He has a jet from circa 1999 because it always passes pre-flight inspection each time he decides to leave his home. And that old geezer can purchase every other mansion on the block if he felt so inclined to.”

  Paul speaks. “And that's the mentality of the affluent. We—they,” he mumbles, knowing full well not to add himself into the top one-percent, “are penny pinchers. So how will we interest this person with a commercial? Statistics indicate that the market you'd like to tap into doesn't even watch commercials.”

  “We won't.” I laugh. “We will interest his daughter who utilizes his black card every day of her life. His pimple-faced, stuttering, no confidence having son who learned that Lambos make the pussy wet. Excuse me, Gertrude.”

  Her thin lips rise just slightly, no offense taken. I think she's the only person who is aware of what I'm getting at. Gertrude is a she-wolf, and we roam in packs.

  “So, the spoiled son and beautiful brat will see the commercial,” I continue. “Think of Christmastime and birthdays all wrapped up into one enticing bow. We will of course modify private jet prices this year. Let's say an increase of twenty percent because our fucking loyalists who can afford to upgrade to a new jet,” I take a deep breath, “will no longer be able to.” They'll save their money and purchase the next round of limited Titan Jets.

  Gertrude is the first to clap, followed by the ones who love Rutledge and the others who don't hold enough stock to deny me.

  Paul sits back in his chair.


  “We've been going about this thing like Lexus and Mercedes.” I point a finger into the air. “Keep up, Paul, I'm reining you in with the original analogy, remember? Upgrades imply the person must sell their jet for a new one. We want the fucks that can afford to have multiple birds in their backyard.”

  There are diamonds in all the board members’ eyes now as it fully sinks in, even the weasel Paul.

  I stand behind him, give his back a harder than necessary pat. “I'll make you rich yet.”

  He turns narrowed blue eyes at me. My gaze tears him. You don't have the balls or the bank, my friend. And this commercial will give me more time with Desire Taylor than some frivolous gala.

  I smile triumphantly.

  Desire

  Two Weeks Later

  Last night it was just me and Riley. And for the first time, I wasn't babysitting so Lauren could have some “me” time. Lauren is on her second week at the overnight shift for Ross Distribution Center. Though she hasn't offered me a single dollar, I was proud to see the refrigerator stocked with food.

  We watched Fast Five or it might have been one of the other many spinoffs of the Fast and Furious franchise because my head dipped every other scene, with thoughts of sleep. Lacy and I scored a few good ideas for Mr. Rutledge’s event, and sitting on the couch with Riley was the first time I had taken a break in an entire day.

  This afternoon, I met my father on the golf course. The country club he belongs to reminds me of a plantation, with red brick and white shutters. The mansion gives me the creeps. But there are an adequate number of prestigious black members offering money hand over fist.

  I search the green, before stopping a servant positioning a silver tray on his shoulder.

  “Have you seen Dr. Taylor?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Dr. Taylor is warming up.” He gracefully waves his hand toward the west of the vast lawns. I follow the pathway to where some of the members go to practice while waiting for the rest of their friends. About thirty yards out, I spot my dad. He’s donning khaki shorts, a navy-blue polo, and the blue-and-tan checkered cap. I smile while catching up to him.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “Give your old dad some sugar,” he says, turning his dark brown cheek. I make a loud smack sound while kissing him. This has always been our thing. When I was little, I thought people were blowing bubbles while kissing. Granted my kisses are a lot cleaner these days. The sound effect always makes him laugh.

  I lean against the white pillar as he positions another golf ball on the tee. “So, any new love interests that I should interrogate?” He feigns nonchalance.

  “Actually, I have a new boyfriend. Unless you’re unwilling to count Riley?”

  He shakes his head. “Lauren is still pulling the ‘woe is me’ line? How will I go about securing my gorgeous daughter a future when you've got a ready-made family at home?”

  I chuckle at his joke. “You're very brilliant, Dad. I believe in you.”

  “Humph.” He glances at his Rolex, then places himself in position to putt the ball. The golf ball goes flying. “Hell, if your mom would let me retire, I would give the pros a run for their money.”

  “Sure. Sprained back and all, I’m confident that you would.” I pick up the next golf ball and station it.

  We get a game going, rotating back and forth, seeing who can putt the hardest. For a while, I'm almost as free as I was the night Daniel and I went to dinner. Almost.

  After a while, Dad seems to have read his watch in sixty-second intervals. I speak up, “Now my mama didn't raise no fool, Dad. What's the reason you keep checking your watch for?”

  “Uh-uhh, I just got this one for my birthday.” He reaches down with a grunt, placing the ball on the marker. Damn it, he’s not meeting my gaze.

  “Daddy…” I stress.

  “When you start making enough money to purchase yourself fine gifts like this, you’ll get the sudden inclination and just ogle at them.”

  I glance at him sideways, eyebrow arched.

  He scoffs. “Terry Bradshaw. He will be here shortly.”

  “Damn it, Daddy!”

  “Oh now, don't ‘Daddy’ me. You've been so flaky regarding my associate, the guy might get a bad impression of the good Taylor name.” Dad smacks the ball further than we’ve both been able to. The damn thing shoots off into an oblivion of pristine green rolling lawn. He almost seems fazed by the distance. “Terry is dropping by so I can sign some investment documents. You'll stand there looking all pretty, and I can finally introduce him to my daughter.”

  “No.” Introductions in Dad’s case are never just the repetition of names and shaking of hands. He has expectations. I rub a hand over my hair. “I have a hair appointment in thirty minutes.”

  “With Niecy? She does your mom’s hair out of her house,” Dad says in distaste. “If so, Niecy can wait.”

  “Yes, Niecy. She does everyone's hair out of her house.” I roll my neck since he had to put on airs. “She has a very fine establishment and has hair on rotation. Probably makes as much as...”

  Dad begins to move away from me, Cheshire grin on his face, chin held high. Fuck. His arrogance is hyped up when associates are around.

  I spin around in my heels and damn, he is fine. Licking my lips is the only self-defense mechanism I know for drooling. The man is a deep, dark brown. Black slacks and a black button up complement his muscles in such a way that he can only come from money. Low cropped hair and a square jaw, thick pussy licking lips. Daniel. Shit, how did his lips make me think of Daniel? His are a rich shade of chocolate whereas Daniel’s are not.

  “Ahem, this is my daughter.” Now my father’s lips are moving.

  The man's hand is extended in my direction. How long has he waited for me to acknowledge his presence? I extend my hand. Besides the delight of warmth, there’s no tingle. “Hello, I’m… D—”

  “Desire. It’s a beautiful name. Dr. Taylor, you were holding out on me. Desire, you are truly gorgeous.” He presses the back of my hand to his lips. Under any other circumstance, I would be mortified. My dad has never seen me bring home a man, so this is more affection than I’m comfortable showing. But there's a finesse about Terry, and his lips feel divine against my skin.

  “Thank you, Terry.” I smile. “I hope you two enjoy yourself. Dad, I'm on my way out.”

  “My daughter is an in-demand businesswoman. She will be home for dinner on Sunday. Terry, I mentioned my wife’s oxtails.”

  “Is that an invite?” Terry asks, gaze transfixed on mine while mine stay on my father.

  “Long as you bring me one of those cigars.”

  I shake my head at my father. With another beam, I say, “Well, guys, I will see you all on Sunday.”

  ###

  What I'd told my father was no joke. Niecy runs a tight ship when it comes to her money. As distracted as I am while driving, I press the radio button and command it to dial Mom.

  “Hey, Mom, are you on your way to Niecy’s?”

  “Sheesh, you sound rushed. I had to cancel. There's a company in the living room fitting my custom drapes for the summer. It gets entirely too hot.”

  I smirk. My mom believes the windows are the soul of the house, as is the kitchen and dining room. She doesn't splurge much but when she does, my dad is seconds from shedding tears. “Aw, Mom, I wanted you to stall.” I make a right turn just as the light changes to red. “You know how Niecy is.”

  “Heck yeah. I love a deal as much as the next but…”

  I force my mom to get her hair done once per month with me, though I never miss two weeks. We are one in the same, except I love it when Niecy washes my hair. My mom couldn't care. “Dang, I would have scheduled to go with Aunt Azal—” I stop myself before saying my dad’s sister’s full name.

  My mother hates Azalea’s guts. “Um… I would have…” My Audi slides into a parallel spot which hasn't had a chance to get cold yet.

  “You can say that trick’s name. The Madame is more fitting than person
alizing it though. And that's just a morsel of advice.”

  I push the gear into park. Mom and I always have good conversations but I hate cutting her off like this. “I'm here.”

  “Well, you better run like you stole something, baby,” she says.

  I chuckle and we say goodbye, then I'm sprinting across the apartment complex. Her home isn't in the nicest areas, but once I knock on the door, I enter a sanctuary. There are Yankee candles lit all around, and she has two hair stations in her kitchen. One seat is already taken. This allows her to go back and forth from washing to blow drying and all.

  The seat is claimed by none other than an old friend of ours, Angelique.

  “Hey, mamacita,” she says loudly from beneath a dome-shaped dryer. I duck down to hug her while Niecy grabs a towel.

  After a wash, I receive a hair conditioning treatment under the dryer while Niecy finishes Angelique. Then it’s all old-time chat about high school.

  “Look here, honey, you need to give Lauren this one chat about stepping up to the plate,” Niecy says. As a therapist, Angelique has already given the speech about me enabling our friend from day one. Come to think of it, she’d said something along those lines after Riley arrived and Lauren wanted to hit the next, greatest house party.

  “Not today, ladies. We are not getting into Lauren today.” I wave a hand. The next step will be them asking about her ‘exit strategy’ from my home, when Lauren and I haven’t even had the time to sit and chat about her ability to move in the first place. I change the subject. “Niecy where the heck is my glass of wine? I’m entitled to one glass of cheap ass wine.”

  Angelique busts up. “Girl, yes! Where is our buzz now, light headache later?”

  Niecy points the hot iron at me. “You heifas get the cheap shit because you’re my oldest best friends and still paying me the rates your trifling asses did when we were in high school.”

  “Dang,” I say as Angelique laughs her way toward the kitchen.

  “Shit, Desire, you stepped up from box relaxers and Angelique that’s some premium hair sewed in your head!” she shouts toward the kitchen.