by Candice Dow
When we resumed dancing, he twirled me around in his rapture and dipped me down in lust. We breathed in unison at a hesitant, but affirmative pace. My anticipation increased as I resolved that I was going to make love to this man.
Scene 17
RASHAD
What are we going to do with all of this chemistry? Our bodies spoke volumes and our eyes were paralyzed in one another’s gaze. I leaned my forehead into hers, “You want to get out of here?”
Her eyes fluttered as she nodded. It confirmed that she felt what I felt and neither of us could control it. When we hopped into the taxi, I couldn’t keep my hands from touching her and her delicate fingers raked my face. My soldier stood armed and ready to fire.
We inched toward one another and our lips locked. She held me tightly while I stroked her back. Her hands inched up my shirt and we moaned. Our reason left us and we steamed up the windows. When we finally pulled up to Fatima’s house, I tossed the driver a twenty.
The fearless gaze that we’d maintained throughout the evening escaped us as it took moments for her to retrieve the keys from her purse. When the door swung open, I pinned her to the wall and kicked it closed with my foot. Her hands framed my face as we kissed and I removed her top. She kicked off her shoes without disconnecting with me. We moaned anxiously as she began to unbutton my shirt. She lifted my wife-beater and kissed me on my chest. I reached down to pull her skirt up. My hand traveled slowly up her legs. I yanked at the slinky thong covering her womanhood. Her inner thigh was soaked with her goodness. I couldn’t resist the desire to touch her. It was so warm and snug. Her muscles contracted and sent sparks through me. I fumbled with my pants. Finally, my slacks dropped to my knees. I lifted her up and her thighs clamped around me. Her wetness dribbled on me as I rushed to the nearest chair.
Her skirt bunched around her waist as she straddled me. She looked down at my manhood and smiled. When I looked down to acknowledge her acknowledgment, I was covered with her love.
Not another second wasted, I lifted her hips and lowered her down onto me. She winced. I recoiled. “Are you okay?”
She nodded and I helped her glide down gently. She whimpered slightly when we united. My arms crisscrossed around her back and my hands rested on her shoulders. Her small waist snaked back and forth and her adorable face transposed graciously into a million expressions of appreciation.
I wiped sweat from her forehead as she whimpered desperately on me. I wanted to protect her. Why did this feel so right? Why did she feel so right? She nestled her head into my neck and bit softly. She purred and her pleasure brought me pleasure. My muscles cramped as I tried to restrain my satisfaction. I clutched her shoulders to fight the urge, but in the sweetest voice, she said, “Go ahead. It’s okay.”
All my lonely nights escaped me and I rested my head on her shoulders. How could I be so fortunate to get paid to feel this good? The dew on our skin pasted us together as we both exhaled sighs of gratification. Our heartthrobs conversed as we sat in silence for a ten-minute eternity.
She held my face in her hands and our foreheads knocked. Her lips grazing mine, she asked, “Are you okay?”
I traced her spine with the tips of my fingers. “Yes, are you?”
“I can’t believe we’re here.”
I pierced into her eyes. “Me either, but it feels right. Doesn’t it?”
We exchanged soft laughs and deep breaths. Finally, she asked, “Do you want to go downstairs?”
My back lifted from the chair and she climbed off of me. Her wrinkled skirt inched down. We both acknowledged that we forgot she was wearing it with a short chuckle. She reached out to help me from the couch.
My hands clung gently to her waist as we headed to her bedroom. A narrow hall led to a huge room that spanned the entire lower level. As I looked around in amazement, I slowly released her. I tried to calculate the square footage. The room was practically the size of my mother’s two-bedroom apartment.
When she noticed I was in awe, she said, “Are you okay?”
I shook the shock. “Yeah, I’m fine. Your bedroom is amazing.”
She mumbled, “Thanks.”
“I’ve never seen a brownstone laid out like this.”
Discomfort formed wrinkles in her forehead. “It was a wedding gift.”
Trying to convince her that it was okay to discuss it, I grabbed her hand again and smiled. “This was a pretty nice gift.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “My husband did it.”
I tried to shake the thought that he miraculously gave her a room the size of Alabama in the heart of Harlem and said, “That’s good.”
She walked into her large walk-in closet. “Make yourself comfortable.”
I was in another man’s castle, trying to make his wife my queen. How the hell could I make myself comfortable? She stepped out of the closet wearing a pink negligee and I was suddenly at peace again. I reached for her hand and we two-stepped to the emotion vibrating in us.
When I woke up to a loud snore, I couldn’t imagine it was the delicate little lady lying in my arms. How could something so beautiful sound like this? I peeked over at her alarm clock and realized she had another hour or so to sleep. I slithered from the bed, trying hard not to wake her. With the sunlight beaming in the room, I was able to scrutinize the details. My stomach began to somersault with envy.
I tiptoed into the bathroom and the cream ceramic tile chilled my feet. I hopped onto the carpet and looked into the mirror. When will you be able to rent a room, nonetheless build one? Before I beat myself up too much, I stepped away from my reflection. The water drizzling in the garden tub helped drown my feelings of doubt.
After I looked in every cabinet for some ordinary soap, I finally showered in lilac shower gel. I smelled just like a chick as I crept back into the room and threw my dirty boxers back on.
She squirmed and I monitored her for a minute, but she drifted back into her coma. When I went upstairs into the kitchen, I searched high and low for breakfast food. What does this woman eat? I found multiple bags of coffee, but no food.
I noticed her house keys on the dining room table. Should I? I inched closer. Before I could rationalize my decision, I crept downstairs, put my clothes on, and headed to Pathmark.
I bought more than the bare necessities, so I ended up catching a taxi back. With each step toward the door, I prayed that she was still asleep. If breakfast was done when I explained that I stole her keys, I assumed she would digest it better. With three bags in each hand, I struggled to unlock the door. Just as it swung open, her home phone began to ring. Shit! Who is calling at six-forty-five in the morning? It finally stopped after almost six rings. I stood at the top of the stairs trying to see if she was awake. Dead silence, aside from her snore. Had it not been for that, I would have thought I killed her.
I rushed into the kitchen and mixed the eggs and cinnamon for my mother’s famous French toast. Her pots and pans were meticulously stacked. I was afraid to destroy the work of art. In between the bacon and French toast, I brewed a pot of coffee. Just as I poured the eggs into the pan, her alarm clock sounded. My plan to have breakfast done and the kitchen clean by the time she saw it failed, as she stood in the doorway of the kitchen, bundled in her robe.
“Look at you.”
While I made her plate, I looked up at her and smiled. “Look at you.”
She curled her lips. “Went grocery shopping?”
I nodded.
“Thanks.”
“Anything for the Teem.”
She giggled. The twinkle in her eyes said she liked the twist that I put on her corny little lady line. I walked out into the living/dining room and put her plate on the table.
“Your coffee is coming.” She began to speak, but I interrupted. “A lot of cream and more sugar.”
“You’re too much.”
When I brought the coffee back, she stroked my forearm. “It’s no fun eating alone.”
“Okay, I’m coming.”
> After I scraped a few eggs onto my plate, I rushed back in to eat with her. She hadn’t touched her food. I frowned. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I was just waiting for you.”
I smiled at Fatima’s softer morning personality. She raised her coffee cup. I raised my fist. She giggled and said, “To releasing control.”
“To releasing, in general.”
She curled her lips in embarrassment. I smiled. That statement applied to me as much as it applied to her. She set her coffee cup down and looked at me. “You’re too funny.”
Finally, she put a piece of French toast in her mouth and looked at me in admiration as pleasurable expressions rippled across her face. “This is so good. This is my favorite breakfast food.”
I nodded. Why did she feel the need to reiterate everything that she’d already written down? Time ticked away as we had our morning bonding session, I peeked at my watch.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“I’ll get there when I get there.”
I nodded. “Okay, don’t bite my head off when you’re running late.”
“Trust me. I don’t bite.”
“Okay. I trust you.”
She winked and we enjoyed a peaceful morning. I was really feeling Fatima minus one decibel.
Scene 18
FATIMA
When I got into the taxi, I immediately called Mya. She picked up on the first ring. “Ho.”
“No, I’m not the ho. He is…”
“Ooh.”
I giggled and she joined me, but I don’t think she really thought I’d done what I did. She asked, “What did y’all do yesterday? I guess you’re enjoying his company, huh?”
I enjoyed something else, too. With my lips curled, I giggled again. “Mmm-hmm.”
“Ho, stop withholding info. How was he at dinner? Did he stay the night?”
“Oh, girl.”
“Tima, don’t make me hurt you.” She began to rattle off my evening. “I didn’t hear from you after dinner. If it was bad, you would have called me. I called around seven this morning.” I imagined her stretching her mouth, as she stressed. “No, you didn’t.”
“Did I?”
“Tima, you didn’t.”
“Well, hell. I haven’t been that close to a man in three years. I couldn’t resist.”
“I knew that was going to happen. I want to hear every detail.”
“Well, it probably would have never gotten to that point, had we not gone dancing.”
“Dancing?”
“Salsa, at that.”
“He likes salsa.”
“Girl, talk about Livin’ La Vida Loca!”
“You’re stupid. That was an added bonus, huh?”
“Pretty much. And he’s really good at it. He swept me off my feet.”
“So—the sex?”
“Excellente.” I giggled. “Muy bueno.”
“Well, I’m glad you got some sex therapy. Maybe now, I don’t have to worry with admitting you to a psych ward.”
I sucked my teeth. “Whatever.”
“Three years without sex would drive any woman crazy and you’ve been tipping the insane scale a lot lately.”
When I pulled up to my building, I rushed her off the phone. “Okay, we’ll talk. I’m at work.”
“I know you’re not just getting to work.”
“I’ll call you later, honey.”
When she continued to interrogate me, I said, “Smooches.” Then, closed my phone.
I bounced into the office. Kia frowned before she greeted me. I smiled. An inquisitive stare covered her face as I waltzed into my office. When I sat down, I took a deep breath before turning on my computer. While my mind replayed the visions of last night, she stood in my doorway.
“What’s up, honey?”
She snickered and mumbled, “Honey?”
“What’s up?”
Finally, she got up the nerve and asked, “Fatima, are you okay?”
“Don’t I look okay?”
She nodded and whispered, “Actually, you look like you had a drink this morning.”
Boy, I wished I could share with her why I was intoxicated. Instead, I touched my chest like I was appalled. “Kia, I’m just in a good mood. Can’t I be in a good mood?”
“Yeah. I guess.” Still, she had a constipated look on her face. What the hell is her problem? Maybe she needs a piece, too. She pointed a folder in my direction and her words dragged out, “The art department sent over the cover for Tisha Blount’s new release.”
I reached out. “Well, let me see it then.”
Like she expected me to explode, she crept over to me. When she got close, I growled and snapped my hands out with clawed fingers. “Boo!”
She flinched and her eyes bugged out. I laughed hysterically and said, “I’m just picking with you, loosen up.”
She laughed with hesitation and studied me as I opened the folder. I said, “I love it. I absolutely love it.”
“You do.”
I nodded. “It’s fabulous.”
“But, you…”
“No, say it. I—what?”
“You always hate the covers where the female looks so desperate for the male.”
“She doesn’t look desperate.”
She tapped on the young lady lying on the man’s bare chest. “Look at her. Her hair is covering her face. Her head is down like she’s praying on his stomach.” She brushed her fingers over his face. “And, look. He’s not even looking in her direction.”
“You’re absolutely right. I didn’t even see it that way.”
“Usually, you do. You always point that stuff out to me.”
Depending on my mood, I might say anything. Too bad she was taking it all in. I chuckled. “Really.”
“But it could be the Mimosa that you had this morning that’s distorting your vision.”
Shocked that my quiet assistant had blasted me, my mouth stretched open. She obviously paid more attention than I gave her credit for. Since her observation was so on target, I came clean. “Okay, okay. I went on a date last night with this amazing guy.”
She smiled and gave me a hug. While I pushed her away, I said, “Okay, I said I went on a date. I didn’t say I was getting married.”
“I know. I’m just…”
“What?”
“I’m really happy for you. Is it someone from the dating service?”
My eyes twitched. “The dating service?”
“Yeah, remember you asked if I’d go through a dating service?”
“Oh yeah. I forgot. No, this is a guy that my friend Mya introduced me to.”
“That’s so good. I’m so happy for you.” She hugged me again, leaving me baffled.
“Why do you keep hugging me?”
“I don’t know. I think you deserve someone nice. You went through a lot.”
She’d probably be really disappointed to hear that I actually had to pay for this nice guy. “That’s so sweet of you.”
“And you haven’t dated since…” She paused as if she regretted her decision to bring up the death of my husband.
I smiled. “Nope, I haven’t dated anyone since Derrick died.”
My sexual drought must have been scribbled all over my face. She half-smiled at me and said, “Oh well, I have phone calls to make. Also, you have a meeting in a few minutes.”
When she turned to leave the office rapidly after what I thought was a bonding moment, I turned my nose at her back. Loosen up.
Scene 19
RASHAD
Before last night, I assumed I would learn as much as I could about investing. Then I would see if I was interested in making a power move sometime in the future. Yet, jealousy sparked my ambition as I rushed home to print out the list of organizations that offer money to mid-income people to purchase houses in the city. I spent nearly two hours on the phone with people who pretty much explained that their organizations were hoaxes. City Props was the only organization that told me t
o come and fill out an application. As I darted out of my house and down to 114th and Frederick Douglass, I had become one of those people in a rush for time.
While I panted in front of the building, I took a moment to catch my breath and a second to pray. I opened the door and stepped up to the receptionist. As I looked around the small office, I said, “I’m here to fill out an application.”
Her pupils danced as she asked, “Ah. For what?”
“I’m interested in applying for the grant to renovate vacant properties.”
She raised her eyebrows. “See, we offer a bunch of programs. So, I just needed to make sure.” She leaned toward the desk and whispered, “You don’t look like the typical fixer-upper type.”
As my forehead creased with curiosity, she added, “That’s a good thing.”
“Is it?”
“They’re usually the contractor-type with the dirty fingernails, you know.”
I nodded, but in my mind I was looking forward to getting my hands dirty. As she handed me the application, she explained, “Once you finish this, Monique will screen you.”
After I filled out literally fifty pages, Monique stepped out from her small office wearing jeans and a City Props polo shirt. Her adorable smile made me smile as she said, “Mr. Watkins?”
Why does it turn me on when a woman says my name like that? When I stood up, I extended my hand. “Monique?”
“Monique Browne.”
“Good to meet you.”
I followed her into her office. The screening basically consisted of her telling me that my application would need to go through a million people before it was approved. Did she just say the mayor? You mean to tell me that Mayor Bloomberg decides if my black, broke ass is worthy of a grant. I don’t know why I felt the need to rush this. It’s not like I had registered for any of the contracting courses that I put on my to-do list. In less than twenty-four hours, envy had shifted me from a starving actor to an entrepreneur.
While I wondered what could expedite this process, Monique batted her eyes, “Mr. Watkins?”