When Somebody Loves You Back

by Mary B. Morrison

  Damn, reflecting on the pussies he’d stroked, there really were too many females to track, trace, or remember names of, let alone faces, places, pussylicious tastes. Darius’s tongue got hard, sliding along his lips. “Umm.” Fancy’s honey-suckle milky soft pussy lingered as he inhaled. His mental palate always tasted her on his lips. Darius drew an imaginary outline along the bumpy tips of pretty Miss Kitty. “Um, um, um.” Ever so sweet, better than the most decadent dessert.

  Just use a condom, dawg. If Fancy questions why…lie. Better yet, don’t answer her: You’re the man, that’s your pussy, and she has the rock on her finger to solidify. Fuck! I see why so many people are infected. I got it. You’re a genius, man! Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Fuck her in the ass. Condom necessary. Explanation unnecessary. Darius would legitimately protect everybody’s best interest.

  Knowing he could’ve been positive didn’t give his morality a reality check. Darius had to die someday from something. Why not go out like a G, on top?

  Sex wasn’t everything. Sex was the only thing that mattered to Darius. To any man who was a real man. When Darius wasn’t getting his head straight-up waxed, he thought about busting nuts like that Thoroughbred that got paid a half million a pop. His sperm was priceless. Wham! Bam! Gotta go! Who invented that cuddling nonsense? Pillow talk? If his woman was too busy to fulfill her duties, another woman of his liking would do if she’d let him bang her a time or two. Now that he was a professional player, Darius’s new rule: a two-fuck maximum to minimize the drama.

  Sex. Master or slave? So powerfully tempting, made his legs weak before, during, and after orgasms. Don’t fight the feeling. Go on. Succumb to the cum. Do her. One better. Do you.

  Flawless beauty graced Fancy’s entire body. Perfect full lips. Supple, firm tits. Blemish-free skin. Tight phat ass. Unbeweavably long hair that tickled his dick. Great tone with the right amount of definition to accentuate her femininity. Other than his mother, Darius had never met a woman so obsessed with her appearance.

  Fancy was highly intelligent. Owned a thriving real estate firm. Plus, she was a self-made millionaire like his mom. For the first time Darius realized why he loved Fancy. Her beauty and self-determination reminded him of all the things he admired about his mother. Only difference was, Fancy couldn’t cook worth a damn. Thus, he’d have to hire a chef. Female, ’cause no nigga was hangin’ around his woman when he wasn’t home.

  The train of her gold gown sparkled, covering the limousine floor. Her lips puckered fractions of an inch from his dick, making Slugger harden into an aching throb. Darius imagined Fancy sucking him again until he exploded all over her face before waking her. Badly he had to moisturize her pussy with his creamy sperms. Could he think of anything other than sex? No. Not really. Nothing felt better than cumming.

  Lovingly massaging her scalp, Darius gently said, “Ladycat, we’re home.”

  Sleepily opening her eyes, Fancy sat up, stretching her arms across his face. “What was all that about?”

  “What?” Darius’s eyes shifted to the corners.

  “Don’t play me for stupid. Who’d you call?”

  “Call, who?”

  Frowning, Fancy stared at the house, then at Darius. “Did the lights just go out?”

  “No, I mean yes, it’s the timer,” Darius lied, feeling his dick slump between his shrinking balls. Exhaling, he said, “Wait right here.” Any reason to escape Fancy’s series of questions was welcome.

  Zipping his pants, Darius left his belt unbuckled just in case he had to whup ass. Cautiously he entered his home. “Ashlee?” he whispered.

  Darius searched the downstairs hallway, then trotted upstairs. Bypassing Ashlee’s old bedroom, he stopped, backed up, then slowly opened the door and hissed, “Ashlee? What the hell?” A wedding gown was on the bed. Darius closed the door, locking it from the inside first. Fuck! Ashlee wasn’t lying. That conniving crazy woman was somewhere in his house.

  “Ashlee!” he yelled this time. “I’m not going to play games with you! If you’re in my muthafuckin’ house, I’ma beat your ass, then call the cops, and have you arrested for breaking and entering!”

  The threat sounded good. No way in hell would Darius hit a woman. Ciara could’ve died from gashing her head after she pulled away from his embrace, slipped, then hit her head on the sharp edge of a table.

  The house was eerily quiet. Darius heard himself breathing heavily.

  Checking the remaining rooms, Darius returned to the limo. Hesitantly he escorted Fancy to the door. One hand braced her back, the other swooped under her legs as Darius carried his bride-to-be over the threshold, then kissed her lips before she opened her mouth. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I have to go check on someone, I mean something. You know where everything is. Um, make yourself comfortable.” Raising his voice, Darius continued, “I love you, Ladycat! I want you to stay here with me. Move in.”

  Fancy poked Darius’s side, then hugged him. “You’re so silly. I’m not deaf. Stop yelling.” Pulling him down to her, she pressed her lips tenderly along his neck, then on his ear. Juices trickled off her wiggling tongue into his eardrum. Another hot spot. “And just because we didn’t get married,” she said pinching his nipple, “doesn’t mean we can’t have honeymoon sex. Me-ow.” Fancy purred, licking from his chin to his cheek. “I wanna do the private dance I’ve practiced all month exclusively for my man.”

  Darius watched Fancy’s hips grind the number eight into the air, then into his heads. Pushing her away, he said, “Later,” then removed Fancy’s hands from his sizzling nipples.

  “Baby, this has been a long and hectic day, I need you to take the edge off Miss Kitty. And don’t think I forgot about your conversation in the car.”

  “Okay, tell me, what did you hear?” Right now starting an argument was better than fucking.

  Tilting her head down, batting her eyes up at him, Fancy pleaded, “I don’t wanna argue. Make love to me. I need to feel your dick inside here.” Massaging her clit, Fancy reached behind her back, then stood in the foyer peeling away her gown.

  Swaying like a tree in a gusty wind, Fancy caressed her breasts. Darius’s eye followed her hands’ movement. Sucking her fingers, touching her navel, twirling her pubic hairs, then spreading her pussy lips wide, invitingly she swiped between her thighs. Darius bit his fist as Fancy pasted a mustache of sweetness under his nose, easing her scented fingers into his mouth alongside his knuckles. Lusting to lick her protruding nipples, suck her engorged shaft, bury his face in her pretty money bag with a dollar-sign-shaped bush, then cum deep enough inside her to impregnate her again, Darius said, “Later. Not now. I’ve got a lot on my mind.” His love for Fancy refused to let him put her at risk ever again.

  “Well, I do too. Come on. Don’t make me take your magic stick,” Fancy protested, palming Darius’s stiff dick like a pitcher warming up on the mound.

  “Oh, shit!” Spasms traveled from his feet to his head. Closing his eyes, Darius jerked his pelvis forward, then back, trembling on the verge of busting a nut in her hand. His legs weakened as he pleaded, “Baby, please.”

  “Uh-uh. No, you won’t cum without me. Don’t walk away, baby. I can see he wants me. Don’t you?” Fancy pleaded, following Darius into the bedroom.

  If she only knew he needed her more than he wanted her. “Not tonight. I’ve got a headache. In fact, get me some aspirin.” Could headache medicine cure a dick-ache? Probably not but it couldn’t hurt.

  Entering the bedroom behind Darius, Fancy stopped in the doorway and pointed.

  Ignoring Fancy, Darius entered the bathroom, pissed, scrubbed his hands clean, then retrieved the red and white bottle from the medicine cabinet. Antiinflammatory. Exactly what he needed.

  Following him, Fancy stood in the bathroom doorway and asked, “Darius, why is your bed messed up?”

  “I guess the maids didn’t come.”

  Aligning the arrow on the top with the notch on the bottom, Darius shook two tablets into his palm,
filled a mouthwash cup with faucet water, and swallowed the pills. Raising his hand, he slammed the medicine bottle on the counter and yelled, “Damn! Get off my ass! Fuck!” Before Fancy spoke another word, Darius brushed past her and said, “I love you,” then stomped his way to the garage, got in his platinum Bentley, turned on his headlights, and backed his car into the driveway.

  Reentering the garage, Darius hissed, “Ashlee, I know you’re here somewhere. Where are you? Ashlee!” Tiptoeing to the wall, Darius retrieved a flashlight from the middle shelf. The bright light beamed in every corner. “I swear when I find you, you’ll be sorry.”

  Settling into his car, Darius drove off, searching his neighborhood for Ashlee. Approaching a black SUV, license number HH2, Darius slowed down, lowered his window, peeping at the foggy passenger-side window. Raising his window, he mumbled, “This is ridiculous. She ain’t worth my trouble.”

  Driving downhill thinking of women, where in the hell was Ciara’s scheming ass? Asking him to help raise her son after his paternity test came back negative. Aimlessly cruising for an hour, Darius prayed that Ladycat was peacefully sleeping, because he had unfinished business that would preoccupy his time all night and well into the morning.

  En route to his destination, he felt salty water clinging to his eyelids. Blinking repeatedly, Darius was tired of crying, but the tears overruled, siding with his depression. His deceased grandpa Robert’s voice echoed in his mind, “Crying is for girls and sissies.” Darius should’ve been celebrating his dreams come true of finally going pro, getting married, and being an expectant father, but the women in his life wreaked havoc. Worrying about Ashlee, Fancy, Ciara, his mother, their issues always superseded his problems. Why, deep inside his heart, did he care about each of them?

  Darius refused to cry over some bullshit that wasn’t his fault. Easier to discount his mother’s lie as bullshit than to try to understand why, of all the women in his life, she’d lied. The more he prayed seeking the truth, the more he hated—not his mother—himself, because of what she’d done. Could a woman make a man hate himself? His mother was easier to forgive than the lie, but the pain she’d caused was impossible to forget. Because of her, his life was filled with endless disappointments and an underlying disregard for all women.

  Was Darius one of the men whose actions toward women differed from his affection? He said he loved women but had a hard time showing them. Obviously he loved sex. But maybe sex was all he loved about women. Outside of being a sperm receptacle, being fruitful and multiplying, cleaning house, raising kids, women had no other purpose. Females were cute to look at too. Some of them.

  None of his women could comprehend him. Perhaps because he didn’t understand himself. Contradiction upon contradiction. Darius wanted to shed his tears on Fancy’s shoulders. Instead he’d chosen a woman who’d best know his pain. A woman who wouldn’t judge him.

  Pow! Pow!

  “What the hell?”

  From seventy to zero, Darius’s heart punched his chest from the inside out. Fighting with his steering wheel, Darius could hardly breathe. Spinning like a donut, Darius’s car whirled in a circular cloud of smoke.

  Honk! Honk!

  Were the people around him so ingrained with their destiny they couldn’t see he was dying? Speeding cars dodged his Bentley. Bright white lights blinded him. “Ma Dear?” he whispered. Soon his luck would end. Two bullets fired. Two shots sliced his head. His heart. Blood dripped from his subconscious as Darius navigated his way to the slow lane, then exited the freeway. His body slumped over the steering wheel. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. He couldn’t exhale.

  A man couldn’t take another man’s life and go free. The day Darius pulled the trigger, killing Fancy’s father, haunted him every day. How could he and Fancy pretend or ignore that Darius had single-handedly executed a death sentence? Unwanted mission accomplished. If Darius hadn’t shot Thaddeus, Thaddeus would’ve raped, then killed Fancy. Darius cried long and hard, begging, “Lord, please forgive me. When I try to do right, I do wrong. But I want to do what’s right. Help me please.”

  A caring angel wing rested on his shoulder. “It’s okay, baby. You did what most people do, you did what you thought was right. But I want you to know. God is a forgiving God.”

  Darius knew it was Ma Dear’s spirit speaking to him before the bright light shrunk into a dot, then vanished. He exhaled, thankful he could see a glimmer of hope. Ma Dear was the only woman who’d never given up on him. He feared that somehow he’d failed his grandmother. Darius’s mind had made his third deepest fear—abandonment—resurface. He didn’t want to be lonely, or go to hell, or end up in purgatory for straddling a fence of women. One day Darius would give his life to God. Hopefully, before his last breath. Murder wasn’t worth battling alone. Darius had visited Fancy’s therapist once. At first he believed that therapy was for crazy people, but Mandy actually helped him. When Mandy’s office opened, he’d call for another appointment. Like with his first visit, Darius wouldn’t tell Fancy. Especially since Mandy refused to see Fancy after Fancy called her a bitch.

  Drying his eyes, he glanced in his rearview mirror. Large brown eyes, a do-rag, and a pale face reflected back.

  Ashlee whispered, “Hello, Darius.”

  “What the fuck!”

  CHAPTER 6

  Darius

  Ashlee’s, hopefully temporary, insanity was exactly the kind of underhanded immature feline foolishness that made Darius distrust women. Ashlee sat in the backseat of his car like he was her damn chauffer. Legs crossed. Head cocked to the side. Arms overlapped damn near under her neck. Darius cruised to the next public place and parked in the most visible space he could find, a hotel parking lot in Beverly Hills.

  Turning to face Ashlee, he asked, “What the fuck are you doing? First you’re trespassing in my house, now you’re hiding in my car.”

  “Our house. Our car, Darius.” Ashlee stared through him.

  Banging his fist on the headrest, summoning her attention, Darius yelled, “It’s not our house! It’s my damn house!” then gestured toward Ashlee, asking, “And what the hell are you doing with my clothes on?”

  “Our clothes,” Ashlee calmly replied.

  “Your ass is crazy. Get out of my car.”

  “Our car.”

  “Oh, you’re acting so brand-new I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Darius said, shaking his head. “All right, Ashlee. Tell me. What do you want from me?”

  Melancholy, she asked, “Why do you hate me?”

  Her question fucked with his head as Darius stared into Ashlee’s sad brown eyes. He didn’t hate her. He loved her but didn’t know how to be her friend without using or hurting her again. His hostility was meant to protect, not hurt, his women.

  “Look, Ashlee. I don’t hate you. It’s just that…” His words trailed into thoughts. One woman couldn’t satisfy all of his needs. Make that desires. A light bulb went off in his mind. But if Ashlee was infected, and there was a possibility he might be too, then why not? Hell, a good fuck was what she’d probably wanted, and deserved for stalking him.

  Matter-of-factly, Ashlee said, “I don’t want you to marry Fancy.”

  Darius opened his glove compartment. Yes! He had condoms. Quickly he rolled two into his palm.

  “Let’s get a room here. That way I can get some rest and you can have my undivided attention.” Not giving Ashlee an option, Darius valet-parked his car, then said to Ashlee, “Let’s go. You can get everything off your chest at once.” So could he. Darius eased the condoms into his pocket.

  Smiling at the woman behind the counter, Darius placed his American Express card in front of her. “One room, best available, one night.”

  “Aren’t you, um, don’t tell me,” she said, bouncing her titties. Pausing to read his credit card, she continued, “Yeah, it is you. The guy who killed a man, then got drafted. How’d you get away with that, playa?” Waving her hand, she continued babbling, “Forget I said that. So”—she smiled wide—“wh
o are you playing for?”

  Best to ignore her kind. Darius looked at Ashlee, then turned to the clerk. His head involuntarily snapped back toward Ashlee, shaking side to side as he wished he’d made her wait in the car. Seeing Ashlee under the lobby’s sparkling chandelier, he thought she looked horrible. Dark circles underneath both eyes. Smeared lipstick. Dirty face. White shoes? Debris tangled in the stringy matted hair sticking from underneath his do-rag.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  Ashlee softly replied, “You.”

  Hopefully that wasn’t the devastating effect Darius left on most women. Was it? “Fine, let’s go.” Before anybody else sees me with you, Darius thought.

  Ashlee paced her dragging steps two feet behind him. Darius peeped over his shoulders every few seconds until he slid the key card into the slot and opened the door. Ashlee placed her tote bag on the computer desk, then sat on the edge of the king-size bed.

  “Why are you still wearing your tuxedo?”

  “Whooooa.” Darius exhaled. Was the pussy worth all this? Popping the cork on two bottles of champagne splits from the minibar, Darius answered, “Didn’t feel like changing.”

  Darius filled one glass, handed the bursting bubbles to Ashlee, then gulped his straight from the bottle as he sat beside her. A shower for both of them would be nice, but Darius hadn’t planned on staying long after he’d gotten what he’d cum for. He watched Ashlee remove his button-up. Unzipping her jeans, she stepped out, left leg, then right, placing her denims over the back of the large cushioned chair. All that remained was his wife-beater T-shirt, no panties.

  Damn. Darius hadn’t seen the scars on Ashlee’s thighs from the fire he’d rescued her from months back. That was his fault too. If he hadn’t pissed off Ciara, Ciara would never have burned down his office with Ashlee inside.

  Touching her thigh, Darius said, “So that’s where they took the skin to reconstruct your face.”

  Ashlee nodded. “I have lots of scars, emotionally and physically, to remind me of you. How many scars do you have to remind you of me?”