How sweet, I’ve got this brotha creaming in his drawers and he ain’t even much sniffed the panties yet. “Okay, we agree the interest we share is real and strange. Now what?”
“Earlier you said I was strange, what did you mean?” Richard asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
Dior analyzed the question for a brief moment. If she played it right, Richard would be wagging his tail like a happy dog, a good dog. “I don’t know how to explain it. You’re a nice man, smart, even powerful. Yet still you’re humble and don’t carry your title pinned to your chest. I guess that’s where the strange part comes in. To be as successful as you are, you’ve got to be a take-charge type but I see lil’ hints of insecurity that don’t make sense to me.” Dior spread her legs open then leaned back against the love seat knowing that Richard couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering to the place he wanted to cram those insecurities of his. “Maybe if you told me about yourself,” she suggested, utilizing a technique she acquired when working as a stripper: Get a man to talking about himself so he can open up then it won’t be long before his wallet follows suit.
Richard’s eyes roamed every inch of Dior’s thighs. He’d forgotten the question momentarily. “Uhm, is this an interview?”
“I’m curious. But if you think I’m trying to get into your business, I . . .” Dior cleverly crossed her legs again to insinuate that he wouldn’t get in if he kept his guard up.
“No-no-no,” Richard stammered, with his hands raised in a defensive posture. “I don’t think you’re trying to pry. You should know something about the man sitting in your den. Where should I start?”
“Right here, today,” Dior answered assuredly.
He shrugged his shoulders then leaned back. “I’m a minister, married with two daughters, ages sixteen and eight.”
“Now that I’m up-to-date with the family dynamics, why don’t you tell me about Richard? I mean, what do you like to do? What kinds of things make you laugh, happy, get you mad and show your tail? Here’s your chance to impress me. Isn’t that what the fellas do, try to impress women to get us hot, bothered, and naked?”
Richard chuckled when the word naked flew out of her mouth. “Whewww. You’re bad, very very bad. I’m way too old to waste time with that whole trying-to-impress-people business. Besides that, I’m married. Life for me is what it is and that’s as far as it goes.”
She bit her bottom lip to keep from saying what was on her mind. Men are never too old to floss and the married ones are the worst. They’ll say anything to get their freak on. Dior stood up, then walked over to her wet bar. She poured two measures of wine then grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “I have another question since you half-answered my last one,” Dior said from the other side of the room. When she returned, she bent over to set both glasses on the coffee table, making sure that Richard’s face was less than a foot away from her tight behind. She wanted his full and undivided attention. “You scared of me, Richard?”
Dior’s mischievous whispers dazed him. His mouth was as dry as cotton when it popped open. “That’s an understatement,” he admitted. “There’s no use in lying when the truth will do, right?”
“No need for lies at all. Listen, Richard, because I need you to hear this. Honestly, I’m not trying to be your future,” she lied. “The present has always been more of my size. If it decides to flip on me, I can deal with that today better than I can tomorrow.”
Richard was further impressed with Dior’s simple yet cerebral thought process. “Hmmm, well said. Where’d you pick that up?”
“The same place I get all of my little sayings: from the streets. I signed up for college one year, that’s about as far as I got, though.” She snickered. “Drink up, it’s pretty good.”
Richard glanced at the wineglass nearest to him. “I don’t usually drink unless I’m having it with dinner.”
“I could whip up something if you like. Yes, I can cook so don’t be looking at me like that.” Dior reached over and brushed her hand against his leg the same way she had to Giorgio. She laughed inside when Richard reached for the wineglass then hurriedly gulped down a swig. “You’re really thirsty. Let me get you some water.” Dior was glad she had the bottle on standby.
“Thanks. I told you I don’t typically drink,” he said, somewhat uncomfortably. “You’re right, you know, about my insecurities. Most of the time, I am the decision-maker. It’s my nature. With you, I’m not the one in control. You hold all the cards and that’s sort of tempting. Okay, it’s turning me on. You’ve got me feeling like a youngster, goofy and giggling. No one has thrown me off my game like this, until now. With you, I don’t have to be serious all the time or put on my best face because members are judging me. It’s been a long time since I felt normal.” Richard squinted when a question entered his mind. “Dior, I know it’s not polite to ask a woman this, but I have to know how old you are.”
“I don’t have a problem with answering that. I’m twenty-six. And you?” Richard’s eyes widened. He threw on a befuddled expression. “What? Don’t tell me you forgot?” she teased. It was easy to see Richard had a problem digesting the realization that she was younger than he thought.
“No, I remember,” he chuckled nervously. “I’m forty.”
“Oh, I see. You’re still having issues with letting go of your thirties. Let it go, then laugh about it. Forty looks good on you.”
“Good, not great?” he joked, while fishing for a compliment.
“Don’t push it. Good is good enough for me. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Richard. Maybe I’ll figure it out before I see you again.”
“So, I’ve earned an invitation for a return visit?”
“Who said we were finished with this one?”
Ten
Trust Me
Dior lifted Richard’s wineglass from the table then handed it to him. “Here you go, sugar. Sip on it and relax.” She winked at him then strutted past. His head was on a swivel as she closed each of the window blinds in the den to darken the room. He was still tracing Dior’s steps with his eyes when she cleared the floor by shoving furniture aside. Richard didn’t know what she was up to. Her peculiar behavior intrigued him.
As Dior paced the floor like a model down a runway, her confidence kept him glued to her every move. The thought of asking what she had up her sleeve occurred to him, but the old adage about looking a gift horse in the mouth warned against it. Besides, he’d rather imagine himself mounting that horse for a long ride.
After clanging pots and pans in the kitchen and then taking a quick jaunt upstairs, Dior returned to the den. She stared at the lump in his slacks, blatantly undressing him with her eyes. The naughty expression she wore embarrassed Richard. Her carnal leer shattered the pillars he’d counted on propping up his principles. With utter disregard to his marital status or professional prominence, Dior flirted shamelessly. She was in total control of the situation and of their association. She’d learned the hard way that a woman should hold on to control like a grudge. Richard was on her playing field, wounded and wanting. Giving in to his desires would cause an eventual shift in momentum, which was the natural order of things. Dior fully understood that men were wired to hunt until capturing their prey. She was careful not to relinquish that control too soon because it was extremely difficult to restore, if at all. Keeping Richard off balance and out of his mind was her recipe, two heaping helpings of both. One quick glance at his hungry eyes was a clear affirmation that he’d already begun to simmer. She chose the most opportune moment to turn up the heat and bring his curiosity to a steady boil.
Dior reached into the back pocket of her tight denim make-him-want-some shorts she’d picked out just for the occasion. Holding his gaze, she pushed the power button on a tiny remote control. Richard chuckled when soulful sounds from the entertainment center permeated the room. “Dior, I don’t, I don’t dance,” he said awkwardly, hoping she wouldn’t insist he did.
“Ain’t
nobody expecting you to neither,” she replied slyly. “Something about you being all up in my space put me in a playful mood.” There were no visible signs of trepidation when Dior’s hips began to sway in perfect rhythm with the music. “If you got anywhere to be, now is the time to get going,” she offered sensually, with her head tilted back and both eyes closed.
Richard sat there for a second with a constipated expression, shaking his head feverishly. “Uh-uh. I’m good.” You kidding me? Ten strong men couldn’t pull me off this spot.
Dior raised her left hand above her head and then eased the right one down inside the front of her shorts. She rotated her pelvis in a slow calculating manner certain to grind out any leftover apprehension Richard couldn’t shake off by himself. When his mouth fell open, Dior moaned passionately. You’d better close that thing before I put something in it, she thought to herself. It’s on now, Deacon Do-Good. You messed up and walked into the House of Dior. You should’ve left when you had the chance.
Richard wasn’t going anywhere. Dior’s saucy gyrations and provocative performance had him transfixed in the worst way. When she unzipped her pants and shimmied out of them, his heart rate quickened dramatically. She’s actually coming out of her clothes, he thought. A private striptease, for me? Hallelujah. Richard leaned forward to sneak a closer peak at Dior’s black thong as she adjusted the thin patch of cloth covering her shaved pubis. Richard was flabbergasted and uncertain whether to fish around in his pocket for loose singles or hand over his wallet outright. Whatever Dior demanded would have been within acceptable limits as long as she didn’t stop dancing, gyrating, tempting. She readily recognized the shroud of desperation on his face. It played the same on Giorgio’s and all the other men who came before him. Dior was intoxicating, carefree, and wild. Men wanted to touch that side of her and tame it simultaneously. As far as she was concerned, they were all the same, with slight deviations of course. Trading tit for tat seemed like a fair barter in the past. However, Richard would be handled differently, she decided. Considering how his ego was bigger than most, it was likely to be more fragile as well. She was resolved to stringing him along slowly and patiently, so he wouldn’t buckle beneath the weight of guilt and grandiose sex. The only thing more predictable than married men was their susceptibility to a bad case of remorse after steamy episodes of unbridled pleasure with Dior. She’d saddled Richard with the abridged version so he wouldn’t fall apart the first time his wife looked at him sideways. It would have been a shame to let him off the hook so soon after getting him to take the bait. Nice and easy, Dior thought, while sauntering nearer to him. Be careful not to bruise his inner man. It can’t take the strain, yet.
The same sex-starved expression Dior recognized earlier was still plastered on Richard after she pulled the thin shirt over her head. When she flung it in his lap, his mouth watered. He swallowed hard. His eyes said a multitude of things he wasn’t prepared to voice openly although Dior heard them loud and clear above the music. He wanted to tell her that she made it impossible to see past her toned thighs and firm breasts. He wanted to convey his fantasies, which always resulted in him driving her crazy in bed with her high heels on. Dior tossed the small remote aside when she’d heard enough silent whispers. Richard took a deep breath then pushed out a heavy sigh instead of uttering a single word. “You like the way I move?” she moaned tenderly, sliding her moist tongue along his neck. “You like the way I move you?” Before he could muster a response, Dior massaged the stiff monument he’d erected especially for her. “Ooh, is all that for me?” she purred seductively. “Impressive.”
Richard nibbled on Dior’s neck then and lowered his head toward her breasts. When she pulled back, he pleaded quietly. “Come on now, you know that’s not fair. How am I supposed to be this close to those and not be expected to sample them?” Dior offered no immediate answer. She stared longingly into his eyes, pretending to qualify him for the next phase. Richard didn’t comprehend that she’d sized him up for bedsheets during their first conversation. She took so long to answer, he almost repeated the question. His eyes, suddenly saddened, closed momentarily. “Too much, too soon?” he asked after opening them.
“It’s about trust, right? I need to know I can trust you,” Dior said, with her hand extended toward him. “Some men can’t take no for an answer. Can you take no for an answer and still be down with me? Can I trust you, Richard?” Dior was one step ahead of him. She knew the kind of man he was, cautious and respectful even in the hole he’d dug for himself. He couldn’t spend any time thinking of all he had to lose if she appealed to his need to prove himself. Reverse psychology rarely failed her because of men’s predictability.
Having been stamped by Dior’s wickedness, he reacted in the manner to which she was accustomed. She had actually anticipated his every reaction to this point. His next question was no exception. “What are you going to do to me?” slipped out of his lips in one helpless groan.
“Honestly, I haven’t figured that out yet. Thought I’d just let it ride,” she answered, shielding the truth with a lie. “Come on, sugar. It’s time to get wet.” Dior started up the carpeted stairs with Richard in tow. Following closely in her steps, he marveled at the curve of her behind and the rich cinnamon hue in her skin. There wasn’t a scratch on it, no stretch marks or blemishes. Dior was a crafty chameleon who carried all of her scars beneath the surface, hidden from plain view. She’d learned to disguise the pain and reinvent herself at a moment’s notice. Had Richard caught a single glimpse of her past, he’d have reconsidered her suggestion to ride it, much less stumbling over himself to do it.
At the top of the stairs, Dior waited until Richard was within striking distance. She pulled his arms around her waist then leaned back against his chest. “Hmmm, I’ve wanted to do this since you rang my doorbell today. I knew it would feel so good.” She looked over her shoulder to survey his reaction. He was falling, off balance, and rapidly losing the slight grip he had on his mind. “Let’s get in there before it spills over.”
Richard hadn’t noticed the sound of running water before Dior mentioned it. Two doors on the second level of her modest home were closed. The entire floor was covered in a light colored carpet. He couldn’t tell how long she’d lived there, only that she’d taken good care of the house. Her bedroom furniture was a chestnut shade of oak, more subtle than the downstairs furnishings. Except for the fancy royal blue comforter fashioned with gold trim and flat-panel screen television, it reminded him of his oldest daughter’s room. Tasteful is the word that came to mind. “I like your style,” he whispered, as she gestured toward the bathroom.
“Thank you. It’s not much, but it’s home.” She shut off the water then opened a slender closet door. Dior passed two thick bath towels to Richard then smirked at him oddly. “Unless you like to air dry, you’ll need these.”
Richard’s grin evaporated when he caught her meaning. Candles surrounded the bathtub, flames flickering slowly. He gawked at the satiny bubbles floating atop the bath she’d drawn while arousing him downstairs. “That’s supposed to be for me?”
“For us,” she informed him. “I thought we’d spend some quality time getting to know the ins and outs, so to speak.” Richard didn’t have a clue what that meant but it sure did sound good when she said it. He went to unfasten the second button on his golf-style polo shirt until Dior stopped him. “Uh-uh, I’d like to do that if you wouldn’t mind.” She grabbed the tail of his shirt and pulled it over his head in the same manner she’d removed her own. She ran her fingers through a thick nest of hair on his chest. “I like this; it’s very manly.” Dior didn’t mention how she also liked Giorgio’s as well. Richard watched as she fluffed his shirt before placing it on a hanger. He enjoyed it even more when she unfastened his belt and zipper. “Step out of your pants, sugar, so I can put them away too.” He gladly did what he was told then looked away as she knelt down to relieve him of his red silk boxers. Richard dropped his eyes with a grimace that made Dior giggle. �
��This is not the time to be modest. Let’s see what all the fuss is about,” she jested sensually. Dior, eye-level to the pastor’s penis, inspected it closely like she’d always done after hearing too many horror stories about men who let their equipment get out of whack. Richard didn’t appreciate being examined. The broad frown masking her face gave him pause.
“Is something wrong?” he grunted uneasily.
“Nah, not with me, but that big ol’ thang of yours looks like it hurt. How long it’s been swollen up like that?” Richard fought off the urge to laugh, but it still came pouring out.
“I hope you’re getting your kicks. Got me standing up here like some kind of nervous patient?”
“Uh-uh, we’ll play naughty head nurse next week,” she moaned. “Don’t worry though; I’ll go ahead and work on that little problem you got today.”
Dior eased her thong panties down past her knees then stepped out of them. Richard leaned against the vanity counter with his arms folded. He observed the clinical manner with which Dior checked the water temperature, tied up her hair with a long multicolored scarf, then sprinkled in a powder substance from a glass canister resting on the back of the bathtub. It didn’t appear to be rehearsed but he could tell she did it the same way every time, whether or not she had an audience. Dior didn’t let his presence affect her routine. He doubted she’d let any man change her beyond the person she intended to be. There was something to be said for that, something to be admired.
Against his better judgment, Richard climbed into the water facing Dior. “Ouch, it’s kind of hot!”
“Ouch, you kinda sound like a punk,” she smarted. “Big old baby. Stop crying and hand me that loofa so I can relieve some of that tension of yours.” Dior lathered Richard’s body from head to toe, bathing every inch in between. He enjoyed the time she spent on his in between the most. Afterward, he tried his best to reciprocate but was all thumbs. Dior gave him a pass then told him she’d expect a better effort in the future if he wanted more of the same from her. “A man who’s bathed daughters before ought to be more accomplished at this sort of thing,” she hissed jovially, while nestled against his chest.
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