by Xavier Neal
“Do they…bump and grind?”
My R.Kelly reference gets a glare.
“Do they know shit about a sweet lady?”
French does her best to maintain her stoic expression.
“Do they wanna freek’n you? Do they tell their women they are forever my lady?” Her mouth twitches to snap when I add, “Tell me this. Can they stand the rain?”
Her eruption of giggles is hidden behind her glass of champagne. She playfully bumps into me when I quietly join her in laughing.
That shit was pretty clever if you ask me. You know most of those songs, right?
“First of all, Can You Stand the Rain was technically released in the 80s.”
“88. I was fucking rounding for the sake of argument.”
“And second of all, why R&B?” She questions as the crowd claps for the current performer. “I don’t think you’ve ever told me.”
I shrug. “Back in the day, rap and hip-hop reminded me of the shit I was going through…R&B reminded me of the shit I wanted to go through.”
She lifts her eyebrows in confusion.
“Beat up. Shot at. Broke. That bullshit. Being angry…so fucking angry and helpless. But on the flip side, R&B was enjoying shit. Finding a woman to hold you down…” Her eyes soften, which is when I pull us out of the seriousness once more, “and of course about the best fucking sex you’re gonna have for the rest of your life.”
Her laughter sparks more of mine seconds before Arik jogs onto the stage.
Without looking into the crowd, he commands into the microphone, “Let’s give Al one more round of applause.” After he adjusts himself and the piano to his liking, he looks up, eyes settling on where we’re sitting almost immediately.
Not front and center, but back and center. Still in his direct eye line.
I drape my arm around French’s shoulder and his jaw hits the ground. Before the crowd can get unruly or turn to see what he’s gawking out, I mouth, “Fucking. Play.”
Arik blinks rapidly a few times, clears his throat, and says, “Sorry. Bit lightheaded. Dehydrated maybe? Who wants to buy me a drink?”
The people at the other tables laugh at his comment, and I slink down a bit into my seat to relax.
No. The guys don’t fucking know yet. They will now that he sees. Fucking gossips as bad as Chance. I didn’t bring French here to tell my friends I’m fucking the boss. I brought her here to reassure what she normally can only observe from a distance. That they really are alright no longer under her wing. That they’re alive and well. That they’re…happy. Which believe it or not is all she strives to provide for us.
He begins to play and French leans into my hold. Her attention lovingly admires the way he hits each note and caresses each key, but unlike the other women who come here to drool and swoon, she’s experiencing something different.
Pride…which is why I’m not jealous. Her lovey dovey eyes aren’t because she wants to fuck him. They’re because she’s satisfied with herself and all she’s done to his face and behind the scenes to help him reach his goal, which in case you haven’t picked up on is playing music for a living.
Arik cycles through a couple songs of his choosing before taking requests from the crowd. Some of them he plays just the chorus while others the entire song. He leads us through a medley of music that engages the crowd as well as shows off his impeccable skills.
And if you ever tell him I said shit about how talented he really is you’ll regret it. Am I clear?
By the time French has finished nursing her glass of champagne, I can tell she’s seen enough to soothe the worries she thinks are invisible.
At the same time I ask for the check, Arik says something unexpected, “One of my best friends is in the audience tonight.”
I instantly tense.
Not a fan of attention when I’m not getting paid to be.
“And he brought his…girlfriend…” the word seems to feel strange from the way his mouth contorts.
Gonna punch him in the fucking gut for this later.
“Who...” His head bobs back and forth. “Gave me the career of my dreams. Because of her I have been given more opportunities than I think I’ll ever really know.”
The honesty unconsciously causes French to look away.
Flashy clothes and a bitchy attitude, to hide the modesty.
I tug her closer to me.
“So to honor the two of them and their presence, I’m going to play an oldie, but a goodie. Perhaps it’ll…set the mood for what happens when they leave here.”
Kill him. I’m gonna fucking kill him…
“And if it doesn’t for them, then it sure the hell will for me…”
There are a few women who giggle in the crowd.
I arrogantly chuckle under my breath over their false assumptions they’re going to benefit with him from it.
When you get time, you should meet the woman he more or less accidentally fell in love with. Met her once over lunch. She’s almost like a diet French in ways.
Arik plays the few notes that lead up to the first verse before belting the opening lines of “I’ll Make Love To You’ by Boys II Men. The collective swoon around the room is undeniable. French, however, snaps her head up at me and bites in a low whisper. “Are you responsible for this?”
“No.”
“Brock.”
With my eyes firmly planted in hers, I repeat. “No.” When her guard finally lowers, I tease, “But he just proves my point. 90s R&B was better.”
She rolls her eyes and lets her attention wander back to where he’s singing. After insisting the waitress keeps the change, I shift French onto my lap, wrap my arms around her waist, and lower my face to the crook of her neck. As Arik reaches the chorus, I sing quietly in her ear in unison. Her body slowly grinds its demands to be whisked away from the situation, but I continue toying with her. Dragging her earlobe between my teeth. Humming against her favorite spot by her collarbone. With each passing note, French melts into me, secretly submitting to me in a room full of people. She lightly strokes my arm. Rolls her hips. Arches back in desperation. My cock nudges its request to bail, and I groan my agreement. Just as he reaches the chorus again, the two of us stand to exit. With one last look, I toss him a nod of approval, gratitude, and commendation on doing what he loves for a living. He immediately reciprocates the action.
Never fucking doubt how much I fucking care about those assholes.
The drive back home is a sexual fog. Every chance granted to grope or feast on one another is taken. Our hands take turns taunting one another with provocative strokes and pulls. Between her hearty moans and my loud growls, we manage to make it back to the penthouse in one hot, frustrated piece.
As soon as the door is shut behind us, I yank her up by the ass and bury my mouth back against her neck where it belongs. French instantly whimpers her consent and claws at my shirt. Digs her heels into my ass. The process to shed our clothes becomes a brutal battle filled with brazen bites and carnal cries. When I finally drop her onto the bed, my entire body is erotically buzzing and begging to come right away. There’s no build up. No foreplay. I spread her legs wide and thrust inside with so much force the entire bed rocks.
French bows upward, pussy already pulsating like she’s close. She begins to impatiently lift her hips upward, anticipating each push and accelerating our speed. After a couple of pumps, I force myself to slow down again, wanting to savor this shit. To commit it to more than memory.
To make it history…
Her legs wind around my rocking hips while she digs her nails into my side in a less than subtle way to demand I move faster.
With a harsh growl, I grab her hands and pin them above her head at the same time I cease moving. She humphs her disapproval and settles her brown eyes into my blue. In a firm, but gentle tone, I plead, “Just let me fucking make love to you for once.”
The shock that fills her face is unexpected.
My eyes frantically search hers the
moment I realize we’ve never said it. We’ve never made the unspoken declaration verbal.
Guess part of me thought the fact we both knew it was sufficient…Fuck…After tonight, it just…it doesn’t feel like enough anymore.
I release one of her hands and use it to brace myself while the other folds with hers leaving it pinned. As I begin a leisurely rocking, I keep my eyes connected with hers. This time she doesn’t deter. She simply submits to the gentle yet hard thrusts. Her lips part to softly sigh my name when I hit her g-spot.
Fuck that’s beautiful…
With everything in me, I focus on keeping my cock moving at the same steady, unhurried pace. Each time my dick reaches her hilt, her pussy swells in a scorching satisfaction and submerges me deeper in an unfamiliar serenity.
French’s free fingers lightly feather the scars on my bicep and chest as if giving them her seal of approval. As if giving me her seal of approval. When her fingers slip under my chin, caressing the mark left behind by a beer bottle, I instinctively flinch away. In one swift move, she grasps my chin and whispers, “I love all of you. Every. Last. Fucking. Piece.”
The declaration receives a roar of relief. My hardened shell shatters, and my movements slightly increase. Her body begins to buck against the thrusts, except this time it feels like it’s begging for me to believe what her mouth let escape. Driven by appreciation, respect, and love, I dive deep into her wet depths again and again, pushing through her first orgasm, straight for the next.
My body flexes as it strains to hold off from coming before she does a second time.
She deserves two. She always deserves at least fucking two.
I let my sweaty forehead fall against hers. “I love you and I’m gonna spend the rest of my fucking life loving every fucking piece of you.”
French’s breathe hitches and her pussy succumbs to my dick’s unrelenting pursuit of a second orgasm. Her muscles tremble so intensely they cause my thrumming cock to surrender as well. Our hands bruise one another’s while dark, sensual moans sway between us. Together we tumble around in a mind-numbing euphoria in which the only thing we need to live, to fucking exist, is each other.
This is the happiness I always wanted in my life. I’m never fucking letting it go.
French
Brock: Fuck…I can’t get you off my mind.
I’m not smiling…No. I’m not. I’m…fuck you…fine. I am smiling. Who doesn’t occasionally enjoy being all someone can think about? It seems ever since we said I love you last week things have changed. Noticeably changed. Like we’ve completely abandoned the notion of being professional. Two days ago he pinned me against the wall outside of my office to kiss me and didn’t stop until Prince L interrupted with a question about his schedule. Yesterday he hand delivered roses to my office along with a chocolate chip waffle. At the penthouse? Aside from his shit suddenly appearing right alongside mine in the bathroom, he’s doing little things like cleaning the dishes. Sweeping the balcony. I know this is probably what normal couples do, but we’ve never been fucking normal. Hell, neither of us were raised around normal. It feels…amazing, yet…I’m skeptical. Call me a realist.
“French,” Mouse squeaks, now in my presence.
He makes that unfortunate sound often…
I close the message, place my phone face down, and look up at the private investigator.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he cautiously continues. “I’ve just been sitting here a few minutes and didn’t know if you knew it or didn’t know it or-”
“Explain to me why I cut my meeting short with my financial advisor to be here.”
He cocks his head in curiosity. “You have a financial advisor? You don’t just…decide where all your money goes?”
“An extra ear and watchful eye for a portion of my investments is a responsible decision. Making millions doesn’t simply come from giving startup funds to sex shop owners. Now would you like to discuss how your habitual spending on pacifiers is being contributed to the endless pursuit of making me one of the richest women in the country, or would you like to stop wasting my time and testing my patience?”
“That one.” He quickly clears his throat. “Definitely, that one.” His eyes cut a glance at the empty seat beside me. “Surprised you’re alone today.”
I fold my hands together in a low tone and growl, “Do not mistake my unaccompanied nature for weakness. If you even flinch at me the wrong way I will send you back to the Disney Clubhouse in so many tiny broken pieces, Humpty Dumpty will feel sorry for you.”
Mouse moves his mouth, although nothing comes out.
“Final warning.”
“Right!” After giving his glasses an adjustment he begins, “As you recall I have been following the subject we discussed a couple weeks ago-”
“Daily assessment reports prove that.”
“Correct. But I recently had the opportunity to test the subject’s DNA. It’s a match.”
My ability to breathe ceases.
Holy shit…We…We fucking found him. We really fucking found him…
Mouse nods. “Once it was confirmed, I established contact with his wife. In many cases as you are aware it is often easier to present someone with information like this with the support of a spouse behind them.”
“In deed.” I adjust myself in my chair. “I take it she handled the information well?”
“She was completely behind the idea of him knowing, however, she requested we get in contact with his parents, and gage their feelings on the situation. He is…close to them, and she wants nothing to destroy that. So, after a long day of drinking ice tea and shooting clay pots-”
“Pigeons.”
“We didn’t shoot birds!”
Intelligent and not all at the same time. I’d say impressive except it isn’t.
“That’s what they’re called.”
“Oh,” he nods slowly, “right. I feel Thomas mentioned that. Thomas is his father by the way and Tina is his mother, which I’m sure he will tell you about. They…always hoped this day would come.”
“Then why didn’t they tell him sooner so he could make the same effort to locate Brock?”
Mouse’s face tries not to fall. “They feared he might be…dead.”
I worked damn hard to make sure that didn’t happen…
“They tried looking for Brock a couple years before it was time for their son to graduate. But as you know his foster records are fucked up and by that point they feared he was most likely…well…” He clears his throat. “A victim of the system. So they let it go. While Brice is aware he was adopted, he doesn’t recall having a brother.”
Which means he doesn’t suffer the agony Brock does. He just got the better stick all around, didn’t he? Bitter? I don’t know…maybe. A bit. Who separates twins? And who doesn’t tell someone they are a twin? Who fucking keeps that from their child? No. I don’t want to hear the ‘you’re not a mother’ bullshit. Right and wrong. It’s simple.
“Thank you, Mouse, for your services. I will have a meeting arranged with Brice to introduce myself and my intentions. Afterwards, I’ll send your final payment.”
“Actually, Brice will be here for that meeting in,” his eyes glance at his cell phone, “about two and half minutes. He’s very punctual.”
Impressed at his initiative, I smirk.
“Is your…face okay?”
The scowl I was bearing before immediately returns.
Mouse slides a check towards me. “And my services have been paid for. Your father-”
“Do not call him that.”
“Rhys….Rhys has fully paid for my time and insisted that I return this to you.”
I try not to glare.
Sonofabitch! Why? Why does he just think he can fucking buy his way into my life? And he better not fucking think this has secured him more time than a weekend. I didn’t ask him to pay. I can take care of myself.
All of a sudden, the waiter ushers over a sight that cracks my jaw. A man
in a dark navy- blue suit, with broad shoulders and a familiar cut jawline approaches the table. His bright blue eyes look the way I want the ones I’ve stared into for a decade to appear.
Truly at peace.
“I’m not late, am I?” Brice’s voice cautiously questions, a smile already on his lips.
Politely, I reply, “Not at all.”
“Oh good,” he sighs in relief at the same time he sits directly across from me. “I wasn’t exactly sure who I was meeting since my wife and my parents refuse to tell me details, but insisted I come.” I watch his expression dance between intrigue and apprehension. “My wife-”