Damn, Solomon’s thumb. The thicker one he’d stuck inside Ciara’s pussy last night while maneuvering his middle finger in her ass at the same time, smothering her clitoris with subtle kisses while drinking her coconut body fluids . . . Ciara shivered. Who could top that? It wasn’t like she was seeing anyone else. Or had the time to find a replacement. And that youngster, Darius Jones, whom she’d just met earlier, who was probably still breast-feeding and figuring out how to return her pen, was tempting but wouldn’t know what to do with an experienced woman. Ciara pictured herself teaching Darius all of Solomon’s tricks.
“There you go again,” Monica interrupted Ciara’s thoughts, “trying to convince yourself with your sporadic decision-making. You damn near ’bout to cum just thinking about Solomon. I’ll bet you a day at the spa. And, if you date that arrogant brother who lost that fat-ass contract to you, I’ll throw in a trip to anywhere in the world. Bet you won’t follow through. Deal?” Monica walked over to Ciara. Her pinky finger curved into a C.
“Deal.” Ciara’s little finger latched onto Monica’s then pulled apart. “And, speaking of contract, I’m going to need your company to help me out with this one. Either you or that fine-ass brotha. The requirements are more demanding than I realized.”
Monica’s forehead wrinkled. “I know that look. You’re frowning. What is it?”
“Darius fell for the expensive family jewel pen trick. He darn near broke his neck sneaking out of the conference room. I pretended not to see him.”
“You are so crazy. Always playing games. How many of those cheap pens did you buy?”
“A dozen. But it works every time. Like the rest, Darius kept the pen because he wants to see me again. By the time he finds out the pen is fake, I’ll have him trying to feel these babies.” Ciara held her titties.
Ding dong.
Saved by the ringing doorbell, Ciara quickly stood. Brushing past Monica, she said, “That’s Solomon. Call me in fifteen, naw make that thirty minutes.” Ciara opened the door to let Solomon in and Monica out.
Solomon graced the doorway wearing a black long-sleeve pullover sweater. The darkness of the night faded into Solomon’s onyx complexion and blended with his clothing. His smile showed teeth that were slightly crooked but brighter than the stars crackling like pop rocks in Ciara’s uterus.
“Hey, baby,” Solomon said, gripping a handful of Ciara’s cheeks. His lips smothered her mouth as his tongue parted and eased into hers, suctioning softly. His abs flattened her breasts as he pulled her booty closer. His pulsating dick greeted her stomach.
When Solomon stepped back, Monica’s eyes lowered then widened. “I’ll make that reservation. First thing in the morning.”
Ciara replied, “Thirty minutes,” then closed the door and turned the top lock.
Ciara’s thoughts moved toward her cervix and stopped between her thighs. Breaking Solomon’s renewed grip, Ciara pulled away. “Hi, baby.” She went into the kitchen and poured two glasses of brandy. Returning to the living room, Ciara extended one snifter to Solomon and resumed lounging in her favorite seat. Solomon sat where Monica had been, clamped his hands behind his head, leaned back on the sofa, and spread his thighs wide. His dick, as it normally responded whenever Ciara was near, bulged, creating a hump under his zipper.
“Solomon,” Ciara rubbed the nape of her neck, “We need to talk.” Her eyes drifted toward his hard-on then back to his disintegrating smile as she pressed the power button on the universal remote, turning off the CD player. Nervously Ciara plucked her lashes, causing her lids to detach from her eyeballs. “I love you. But—”
“But what, Ciara? Damn. Here we go again. I coulda swore we had this same conversation last night.” Solomon leaned forward then scooted to the edge of the sofa. “But, you can’t continue seeing me. Right? You need to make up your damn mind. One week you want me and the next week you don’t. I can’t continue like this, Ciara. You know how I feel about you. And I believe you feel the same about me. But if you don’t want a brother around, just tell me to leave and I’m out.”
Ciara focused on Solomon’s dick then exhaled. Why did she have to choose brothas who had more drama than her? Ciara crossed her legs, burying her pussy into the cushion. “Solomon, it’s just that . . .”
Solomon placed his glass on a black hand-carved coaster on the antique chestnut end table and remained quiet.
“Baby, I want more,” dick was what she thought but said, “I want to be your wife. I want us to be together. Grow together. I’m ready to,” ride that big black dick, “have kids. Yeah, um, our kids.”
“Oh, I see. This is about you. Forget about what Solomon wants?”
“Solomon, baby, what do you want?”
“I want a woman who supports me. A woman who’s not going to stress me out. But baby, if you can’t wait until I sort things out, then I’m out.”
“Oh, I see. You want a woman who’s going to support you. Whatever that means. And you want your woman not to stress you out. And you—”
“Ciara, don’t play on my words. You know what I mean.”
“No, Solomon. I don’t. It’s not all about you anymore. What about me? I’ve waited two years for you to start your own business. You’ve been separated since we met. And. Well. You still haven’t filed for a divorce.” Neither had Ciara but since Solomon assumed she was single, Ciara hadn’t lied. Her husband, Allen, kept his dual citizenship and moved back to France. Allen was the finest African-American Frenchman with the sexiest make-a-woman-wanna-take-her-panties-off French accent that Ciara had met. Ciara wasn’t sure if she married Allen because of the way he asked her to marry him, because Allen had no boundaries in the bedroom, or because of the lucrative financial proposition.
“Why should I pay for the damn divorce when she’s the one who left me?”
“Solomon, don’t you see? She’s never going to file. And why should she? If you die before her, she’s entitled to everything you own because you don’t have a will or a living trust. Nothing. She has control over all of your funeral arrangements. And from what you’ve told me, she’ll gladly cremate you and literally flush your black ass down the toilet. Solomon I told you, I’ll pay for the damn divorce.” Ciara seldom cursed but the more she cursed, the madder she’d become. Solomon had agitated Ciara so she rolled her eyes toward the back of her head. “Shit!” Ciara blinked several times. Touching her eye, she searched for the irritating lash stuck to her clear contact lenses. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Let me handle my soon-to-be ex-wife. And I’ve told you. I don’t ask for you to do anything for me, Ciara. I got a job. Remember? I work for Brinks.”
Work for. Not own. Yeah, then why in hell was Solomon always suggesting she buy him something like the shirt, shoes, and socks he wore? Maybe he didn’t love shopping like Ciara.
“Don’t look at me like that. I know what you’re thinking. You’re the one always buying us stuff online. I could’ve bought all this myself, including the boxer-briefs. Ciara, this is small stuff compared to what I’m going to do for you when I’m your man. Come here, baby. You know how Solomon feels about you.” Solomon slapped his knee.
No he did not say when he’s her man. The phone rang, commanding Ciara’s attention. Ciara shook her head, knowing it was Monica.
“Monica,” Ciara answered in the kitchen, watching Solomon slide his slacks over his beautiful thick cucumber-shaped, portabello mushroom–headed, beautiful black circumcised dick.
Solomon walked up to Ciara, hung up the phone, and spun Ciara facing the kitchen sink. He leaned her over, placed one leg on the step stool, and her warm thigh on top of the cool tile counter, then spanked his head against her clit. “Stop trying to take my pussy away from me, woman.” Solomon circled his head over her moist vagina, meshing their juices until she became slippery wet. In. Out. In. Out. His head probed hard against her G-spot.
“Baby, please,” Ciara moaned, “Let’s finish talking.”
“Ssshh. I am talking. Don�
�t you hear me baby?” Solomon deliberately penetrated at a snail’s pace as deep as he could. Ciara’s hips rocked, cradling Solomon’s dick into her deepest spot. Solomon embraced her breasts then kissed her earlobe. His tongue traced the outer part of her ear, slipping the tip inside.
Grinding her hips downward, Ciara moaned. “Aw, baby. Aw, yes. You know that makes me . . . aw, she’s cumming daddy.”
Solomon pushed deeper, jerked his dick out, then carried Ciara a short distance. He whispered in her ear, “Bend over the island so I can fuck you like you like it.” His dick grew harder. Longer. Rapidly pounding inside, generating pleasure. Pain. Pleasure. Each time Ciara’s titties clapped, the island rolled an inch farther. Refusing to lose contact with the pussy, Solomon stepped closer.
Ciara shook her leg. “Ow, wait, baby. You’re pressing against that nerve.”
Solomon kept stroking so Ciara reversed her hip rotation. By the time Solomon stopped fucking Ciara, the island was in the living room and so was Monica.
“Damn, girl, don’t you knock?” Solomon said, covering his partially erect dick.
“Let’s see. Do I want to go to Barbados, Portugal, Okinawa, or Puerto Rico?” Monica said, eyeing the semen streaming down Ciara’s legs.
“Monica,” Ciara sang, pointing toward the door. “Please.”
“That’s what you two get for hanging up on me. I’m leaving,” Monica said as she turned the knob. “But you my sister owe me a trip. Good night.”
“Good night, Monica.” Ciara closed the door. This time she didn’t bother locking the top.
“When you gon’ change your locks? When we do get married, she can’t come walkin’ up in my house whenever she feels like it.”
That statement wasn’t worthy of a reply. Since both of them lived alone, Ciara’s parents, who’d retired in Los Angeles then moved to Florida, had told them in case of an emergency they were never to place a lock on the door that neither of them had keys to, which meant Monica would forever have twenty-four-hour access.
What? When we do get married, Ciara repeated in her mind. She was beginning to question not only why she was still with Solomon but why in the hell did she want to marry him? She could do a lot better. He was inconsiderate, at times. Unfaithful, sometimes. Demanding, all the time. Didn’t do anything special for her on her birthday or holidays but was quick to not only remind her of his birthday but to specify what he wanted. Christmas was a joke. New Year’s too. Whatever country she visited, he wanted to go, of course at her expense. Maybe delaying his divorce was Solomon’s protection from fully committing and a good thing for Ciara.
“You know nobody else can make love to you like I do,” Solomon said, holding his dick in one hand and rolling the island back to its rightful place with the other, “So stop trippin’. Everything’s gonna be all right. Trust me.”
Solomon must have thought that his dick was some sort of magic wand casting spells upon her pussy. He was right. But one day Ciara was really going to let Solomon go. Pompous man believing he was the only brotha who could sex her to tears and cheers at the same time. Ciara went to her master bathroom then showered without saying another word to Solomon.
Damn, why couldn’t she leave his ass alone? Ciara knew Solomon wasn’t the one. Was she so blind that she couldn’t see she was settling? But all of her men were just alike. Liars. Cheaters. Maybe Monica was right. Maybe Ciara didn’t need a man. The only thing a man could do for her, Solomon was excellently providing. Maybe she’d quit procrastinating, make that trip to the pleasure store, and buy herself one of those big mechanical dicks with the rabbit ears. “Ooh.” Ciara shook her head. What if she became like Monica and started fucking herself on the regular so that she’d become content being manless? Or worse, what if she’d become asexual? Anal sex was an option Ciara occasionally fantasized about. One day she’d try it but not with Solomon’s jumbo dick.
While Solomon washed her back, Ciara reflected on her failed marriages. Her first husband had just lost interest in her for an undisclosed reason. Packed his clothes. Left her and everything else in the house. Never returned. Never called. And the second one claimed she worked so much she didn’t need him. Maybe the first husband felt the same. Unneeded. Unappreciated. Unwanted.
As Solomon repeatedly washed his trophy dick, more than any other part of his body, Ciara slid the glass door ajar enough to get out without wetting the pink marble floor.
Ciara toweled herself dry, parted the sheer canapé veneer cover surrounding her bed, pushed twelve decorative pillows of various sizes to the floor, and snuggled under her red flannel sheet.
Solomon cuddled behind Ciara and hugged her waist.
Curious, Ciara asked, “Solomon, do I make you feel unneeded?”
Solomon sighed heavily. “You dah man. Why do you think I let you pay for everything? Yes, you do. But what’s new. You set the alarm?”
Was Ciara any better than Solomon? While she’d admit Solomon was her best lover, he wasn’t her only lover. Discreetly she still fucked Allen whenever she went to Paris. Rome, in D.C., was a certified freak disguised in a business suit. Roosevelt in London, and Donavon minutes away in Long Beach. Donavon. Damn, her pussy was overdue for Donavon’s cunnilingus special.
“Of course, I set the alarm.” Ciara closed her eyes. “It’s always set. Two o’clock. Solomon’s standard time to get up so he can hit the gym before going to work.”
Ciara’s mind drifted. Who was she kidding? The one time, one week, she’d ended her relationship with Solomon, she was unbelievably miserable. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to hang out with Monica. Didn’t enjoy fucking Donavon. Sexing Donavon was only fun if Solomon was her man. Ciara, the control supreme queen, had unintentionally fallen in love, again.
CHAPTER 7
To no avail, Darius spent the better part of the previous evening trying to convince Candice to award him the contract. Candice maintained her loyalty to Ciara. “Sorry, Darius. My decision is final.” Hell, no. No way. No wasn’t an option. Darius vowed to make Candice say yes. Angel tapped on the square windowpane, interrupting his thoughts.
Darius motioned for Angel to enter his office. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long,” Angel replied, closing the cherry wood door. “It’s seven-thirty. You ready to go over today’s schedule?”
“Sure. Come on over. Have a seat.”
Angel sat at Darius’s desk and crossed her legs. Angel was model material. Flawless honey-colored skin. Nineteen-year-old long legs that could wrap around his waist. Twice. Slanted eyes. Thick lips. Today she wore a tan blouse that clung to her C-cup breasts. The navy miniskirt with tan pinstripes covered half her thighs standing. Whenever Angel smiled at him, his dick double pumped with joy. And to hear her answer the phone, “Somebody’s Gotta Be on Top,” was orgasmic. All of his male clients loved Angel. The women dealt with Angel as little as possible. Ciara would probably become the same.
Each workday began the same. Comparing his palm pilot schedule to hers, Angel said, “Eight-thirty, your new employee arrives. Nine-thirty, review financial reports with the director and sign checks. Eleven, call Ciara. Noon to one, lunch with Crystal. One-thirty to two, return phone calls. Two-thirty, meeting with Tony at Parapictures. Three-thirty, staff meeting with all departmental heads. Six o’clock, client meeting. And seven-thirty, dinner with Kimberly.” Angel smiled. “Any changes?”
“One-thirty to two, set up a meeting in my office with HR. I’ll return calls between appointments.”
“Certainly, Mr. Jones.” A few taps on Darius’s screen then hers, and Angel placed his palm pilot in his hand.
Angel left and reappeared moments later. “Mr. Jones, your new employee arrived early and Ms. Monroe is on the phone.”
Darius nodded. Ah, yeah. The lady had called sooner than expected. “Good first-day impression for my new employee. Introduce her to the staff, show her to her office, then call me when she’s at her desk.”
“Cer
tainly, Mr. Jones.”
When Angel turned to walk away, Darius eyed Angel’s thighs and ass. He cleared his throat, picked up the phone, and added bass to his voice. “Darius Jones speaking.”
“Good morning, Mr. Jones. This is Ciara Monroe. I need to make immediate arrangements to retrieve my pen.”
Ow. Darius purposely exhaled into the receiver. Ciara’s voice was sexier than he’d remembered. Or was he turned on from watching Angel? “Sure, how’s Friday night?” Darius replied, admiring Ashlee in the photo on his desk. Man, oh, man. Darius shook his head. So many fine women in the world. Pussy should come in assorted six-packs. “I’ll pick you up around seven.” Wellington had given Darius great tips on how to romance a woman.
“Friday? Pick me up? No, thanks. I don’t need to be picked up, Mr. Jones. I just want my pen. Today. That’s all.”
Was she serious? She wanted something but that ninety-nine-cent pen was not it. Darius opened his desk drawer. Darius had said Friday and that’s what he meant. He had whatever Ciara had wanted, which meant he was in control. “So, you’re turning me down?”
Ciara’s voice escalated. “How old are you, Mr. Jones?”
“Legal. Single. Now, if you’re feeling too old and not up to the challenge, I do understand. We can make other arrangements.”
“What? Old? If there’s one thing I welcome it’s a challenge. You, of all persons, should know that. Too much testosterone perhaps.”
Darius noted her wit. Wealthy women were clever whores. Closet freaks. “So I take that as a yes.”
“Mr. Jones. Holding my pen hostage is an undermining way to get a date. If you’d like to stroke my mind, invite me out.”
Who’s undermining whom? In his sexiest voice Darius said, “May I have the pleasure of taking you out?”
Ciara casually responded, “Why not. Friday it is. Seven. I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Mirage hotel.”
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