Strangely Amazing

by Amiee Smith

  “The wager will be fair,” I say, retrieving a new ball from the rack.

  “Okay. I’ll bite.”

  (G-d, how I hope she’s serious.)

  “If I win I get to kiss you again.”

  “And if I win?”

  “You let me buy you a BMW so you never need to ride the bus again.”

  “The i3?” she asks, chuckling.

  “As you wish,” I say with a grin.

  Her gaze meets mine. “No, you can’t buy me a car, Michael! What happened to you being a regular guy?”

  “Beautiful Lilly, I’ll let you be the queen of the geeks with your crown of degrees. I’ll even drop to my knees in your presence. But you must let me be a man who has spent the last decade amassing more wealth than I could spend in this lifetime. Yes, I use the money to live well, but I also employ people, donate to USC’s scholarship fund, finance research foundations, and when I want, I buy my girlfriend a car.”

  My voice, firm and direct. The regular guy shit messed up the first part of this date, I’m not going to let it ruin the rest of the evening.

  “You’re right. I’m being a bitch. Thanks to benevolent people like you, I went to MIT without taking out a single loan. I apologize.”

  Remorse clouds her eyes.

  “So, you’re good with being my girlfriend and letting me buy you a car?” I ask, jokingly (kind of not).

  ◆◆◆

  She let me win.

  Our scores were identical until the last frame, when she rolled a gutterball. I guess my kisses are more appealing than a car.

  We’re holding hands in the elevator heading up to the kitchen on the main level. I run my nose over the delicate skin of Lilly’s slender neck. G-d, this woman smells like cake and I’m craving a bite. And I don’t even eat cake.

  “Michael, you can’t kiss me in an elevator. That’s already been done,” she says with a deep chuckle.

  Her alto voice, vacant of girlish inflection, sends exhilaration up my spine. I will never get enough of hearing her say my name. Sultry. Soothing. Like a Sade song.

  Wrapping my arms around her slight waist, I draw her body closer to mine. My lips slide over her cheek, grazing the corner of her mouth.

  “Elevator kisses are now a part of the billionaire man playbook. I’d hate to deviate from the game plan,” I say.

  Lilly backs out of my embrace. Her brown eyes lock on mine.

  “You’re a billionaire?”

  I nod my head. Reluctantly slow. All roads lead back to this regular guy shit. There is nothing regular about my lifestyle. I exhale privilege and inhale money. But I’m still a child of immigrants from war-torn Iran. I’m still a man inflicted with a chronic, painful, unpredictable disease. I’m still a man with a wide-open heart many misperceive as ignorant.

  Yes, I’m rich… and can sometimes be a prickly snob, but I’m still a man searching for love. Real love. And if Lilly can’t get past my wealth, then this isn’t going to work. But damn, wouldn’t we be a beautiful couple? As beautiful as Nick and Lynn.

  The elevator opens, and we step out.

  “Lilly, I thought we were done with the regular guy portion of the story?”

  “We are. I’m just shocked a billionaire can play GTA like a fuckin’ rider,” she laughs, her fingers squeezing mine.

  Her “fuckin’ rider” triggers the part of my mind that is programmed with thousands of hip hop and R & B songs and I quote the chorus of the Fabolous song, “You Can’t Deny It.”

  Lilly’s lips grasp mine in an over-too-soon kiss, leaving behind the taste of grenadine from her adult Shirley Temple. I hate the syrupy, unnaturally sweet flavor, but on Lilly, it’s as refreshing as papaya on a warm, cloudless day in Mexico.

  Her eyes hold mine captive as she speaks, a cat-like smile shaping her wide mouth.

  “It’s difficult to deny you, Michael. I may wanna fuck with you, but after dessert. I hope you intend to make good on your promise.”

  “I already have.”

  I lead her through my open concept first floor to the kitchen in the center of the space.

  As directed, the pastry chef at the restaurant I co-own has laid out a spread of eight different desserts on the white marble island. Each dish is colorful and creatively plated. A menu printed on ivory card stock sits in the center. She runs an unpolished nail down the sheet.

  “Michael, this is spectacular. How did you do this? When did you do this?”

  “The pastry chef at my restaurant took care of it while we were bowling. He was recently named 7x7 Magazine’s best pastry chef, so I trust you will find something there you like. Tea?”

  I move past the island and retrieve a stainless steel electric kettle from the cabinet. After filling it with water, I plug it into the wall and set the digital temperature gauge.

  “Tea would be great. Chef Miguel Rosa? I follow him on Instagram.”

  “He’s gay,” I interject, hints of jealousy hang on each word.

  “I hope so. In between dessert pics are lots of him and his partner all gooey in love.”

  (I want to be in gooey love with this woman.)

  I pull a jar of rose petal full-leaf tea from the pantry before setting up two white and gold trim tea cups with matching saucers on the island. Scooping leaves into a large, round tea infuser, I wait for the water to reach 190 degrees.

  “I assume you’re not having dessert so I’m going to taste everything. I deduced from dinner you’re on a no sugar diet, but I don’t think your reasons are blood sugar related.”

  “No. I’m not diabetic, but I don’t eat sugar. Ever. I’ve learned to ask, repeatedly. Especially when I dine at a new restaurant. I imagine it’s annoying to others, but I don’t care.”

  “I wasn’t annoyed.”

  My eyes call bullshit. Lifting an eyebrow, I hand her a gold fork, knife, and spoon.

  “Thank you. Okay. I was a little perturbed, but only because you were being so secretive about it. I conducted a study a few years back on food as medicinal therapy. It would be interesting to know what type of diet you are on.”

  “I don’t want to be your experiment,” I say, more sharply than I intend.

  I dated a nurse a few years back and my disease became the center of the relationship, killing the romance.

  I retrieve a white and gold teapot from the cabinet and drop the infuser inside. Lilly stands.

  “I’m sorry, Michael. I’ve crossed a boundary. Particularly for a first date. Maybe we should end the night here? We can meet up again before you return to L.A. Out of respect for you, I won’t ride the bus. I’ll request an Uber.”

  “No. I’d prefer if you stay. Sit. Have your dessert and tea. If you still want to go home afterwards, I’ll request a car for you,” I say, pouring the now boiling water in the teapot.

  Lilly doesn’t respond but sits at the island and bites into a flaky pastry with chocolate oozing out of the center.

  “Oh. This is 50 shades of heaven.”

  She speaks as she chews, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “Which one? I’ll tell Chef you liked it.”

  “Kouign-Amann. It’s like the superhero version of a chocolate croissant.”

  “Would you like sugar cubes with your tea?” I ask, placing her cup in front of her.

  Lilly dips her fork into the next dessert, a lemon tart.

  “No. I’m nearing sugar overload. My old roommate from pharmacy school is Persian and she puts a sugar cube between her teeth as she sips her tea. She says it’s a Persian thing.”

  “Totally. I grew up thinking everyone had tea like that. It wasn’t until I went to college and had non-Persian friends did I realize it was a Persian thing.”

  I settle into the barstool next her with my tea, my leg caressing her leg. She speaks in between sips and bites.

  “Are most of your friends Persian?”

  “Not so much now. Growing up, yes. I still socialize a lot with family because most of them live within miles of my house in L.
A. What’s your family like?”

  “My grandma raised me. I’m an only child, so it was just me and her.”

  “She must miss you. What about your parents?”

  “She does miss me. Growing up, I always told her I was going to leave Detroit and never return. We talk often and send cards every week. I visit at the holidays. She doesn’t like to fly alone, so she hasn’t been to San Francisco. I don’t speak to my parents. My mom never wanted children and from what I hear, she’s still the prettiest gold digger in Detroit. My dad is a classically trained cellist. Graduated from Juilliard. Parenting wasn’t a part of his life plan. The music, women, a little heroin, his preferred lifestyle.”

  “I’m sorry, Lilly,” I say, my chest filling with sympathy.

  “Please don’t be. My grandma is wonderful. She saved me from the foster care system and encouraged me to pursue math and the sciences.”

  “I look forward to meeting her,” I say before taking a sip of tea.

  “First date and you’re already making plans to meet my grandma?”

  “Tonight is the first night of the rest of our life together,” I say with a cheesy grin.

  “You’re really committed to this ‘the one’ theory?”

  “Yes. Now, I need to prove it to you,” I say, stroking the top of her slender thigh.

  CHAPTER 5:

  LILLY SHEPARD

  “Yes, Michael! Oh, yes!”

  His cock plows my cunt like it’s the last day of Earth. Any minute, we’re going to explode into the tiniest unit of matter only to float through the solar system and await our next incarnation.

  We’re in the game room. I’m bent over, my belly parallel to the floor. Michael stands upright behind me. Angled on my tip toes, our bodies are perfectly aligned. The skirt of my red dress bunches around my waist. The cold metal of his belt buckle crushes against my thigh.

  LoveRance raps “UP! (Beat the Pussy UP)” on the speakers positioned throughout the room. No verses. Just hook. On repeat. It must be some billionaire exclusive track.

  “Yes. Michael. Yes. UP!”

  My words, desperate and filthy. The first surge of my orgasm forms from the depths of my core. I want to brace myself for impact, but Michael’s hands grip my wrists on either side of my body as he thrusts in and out with more and more force. Hitting that spot. Deep, quiet grunts sound from behind me.

  I want to open my eyes, but I know I’ll only see stars. I want to tell Michael to keep up, so we can go to the same galaxy together. But really, I just want him to beat-it-UP. Until we’re both just atoms. Bonding him to me.

  My sex grips his length, pulling him deeper inside. Michael groans my name. My hips heave forward. I feel as if I could fall, but he’s got me. He’s got me.

  I let go. The velocity of my orgasm splits me in half. And then quarters. And then eighths. And then sixteenths. My body, going and going and going until I no longer care where we end up. Because he’s got me. He’s got me.

  I awake from my dream with a gasp, Michael’s name on my lips.

  My eyes open to fresh morning sunshine and the most beautiful view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Even without my contact lenses, the reddish orange hue of the landmark gleams like a glossy photograph. Floor-to-ceiling windows provide a panoramic view of the San Francisco Bay, Marin Headlands, and The Palace of Fine Arts.

  We’re in Michael’s private quarters on the top level of the house, lying on a large, white U-shaped sofa in the sitting area outside his bedroom.

  My clothed body is wedged between the crease of the sofa and his fully clothed body. My head rests on his chest. One of my long legs wraps around his longer legs.

  Last night, after dessert and tea, Michael invited me up to see the view. We sat on this sofa and talked for hours. Like a montage in a movie, we connected; little red hearts vibrating above our heads.

  Our conversation, light and littered with lots of laugh-out-louds:

  Gaming— video games, chess, dominoes, cards… he’s into games as much as I am.

  A debate on “The Chappelle Show” vs “Key & Peele.” I’m K & P; he’s Chappelle.

  Favorite hip hop albums— Michael: Illmatic, The Chronic, Doggie Style, The College Drop Out and Aquemini. Me: The Carter III, Things Fall Apart, Black on the Both Sides, To Pimp a Butterfly and The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill.

  The pros and cons of being lefthanded; we’re both southpaws.

  Favorite seasons of the “Real World.”

  Best childhood memories.

  And a wager on who could name all ten members of the Wu-Tang Clan. He won more kisses. I always forget Inspectah Deck.

  Last night, there was no beat-it-UP moment. Michael was a perfect gentleman. Only blessing my lips, tongue, and neck with lots and lots of kisses all night long. Some hot and juicy, most sweet and adoring. He didn’t get handsy— only warm hugs, hand holding, and gentle shoulder squeezes.

  All of which made me yearn for him to beat-it-UP. Any way he wants. As many times as he can handle.

  Michael never went there.

  Now I’m embarrassed as all get out because I’m quite certain I was just dry humping his leg in my sleep.

  I need to leave.

  Michael’s head is turned away from me. To test how deeply he sleeps, I lift his arm circled at my waist to untwist the skirt of my dress. He doesn’t stir. I swing my leg over his body, my foot easily finding the floor. My aroused cunt hovers over his junk. If someone were to walk in, I’d appear to be straddling him.

  Before swinging my other leg over him, I pause to admire his profile. This man is beyond delicious. His copper skin, the dark trimmed-up stubble tracing his jaw line, thick lashes and brows and his tall hair— all delectable. Instinctually, I lick my lips.

  I need to go.

  I lift my leg, but my size ten foot is caught in the cushion. I land legs spread on his body. My chest against his chest. By some miracle, I don’t wake him. Wiggling my foot free, I resume my escape. Clumsily, I try to wrangle my body off him and regain my footing at the same time. My long limbs flail to compensate for my lack of upper body strength.

  No matter what I do, I can’t seem to get off him. It’s like my tits and core have organized a sit-in, protesting my brain’s attempt to flee. (Oh! How I want to meet my body’s erotic demands.)

  “Beautiful Lilly, I’ll help you…” Michael says in his sweet, romantic coo.

  It’s the same voice he used all last night. The same voice he used to ask me to stay over. The same voice he used to make good on his promise to remind me to remove my contact lenses. The same voice he used to tell me over and over how beautiful I am. The same voice he used to tell me I’m the one for him again and again. And now that same voice is causing me to feel shame over my dirty dream. This man is genuinely trying to court me, while my mind ponders all the ways I can get laid.

  With his eyes still closed and his head turned away from me, Michael finishes his statement.

  “…But only after you tell me about your UP! dream.”

  His voice, clear and direct. Self-assured. I bet this is the tone he uses to close deals. Michael’s arms circle my body, his hands squeezing each cheek of my ass.

  In the light of day, there is no gentleman in his touch.

  One of the many things I learned about Michael last night is that his mind is a reference guide of hip hop lyrics and 90s R & B songs. I don’t need to recount my dream. He knows what it means.

  He knows my body is aching for his tongue to dart between my slit. He knows I’m so soaked I could cream. He knows I want him to turn my cunt into his dirty investment account.

  In the light of day, I’m intent on getting laid.

  “Michael, we’re in our thirties. You can stop playing hard to get. Let’s go to your bedroom. We’re going to need more space,” I say, wiggling out of his embrace.

  His amber eyes fly open. A growl rumbles from deep in his sternum.

  With a newfound grace and ease, I lift my body and stand next to the
sofa. Lowering the zipper on the side of my dress, I slip my arms out and let it fall to the floor.

  I pause, letting Michael’s eyes lick down and UP— from my narrow knees, to my untouching thighs, to my navy La Perla thong, to my light-brown tummy, to my small breasts and dark nipples, to my determined eyes.

  “Had enough?” I ask, holding his gaze.

  Michael rises from the sofa, smiling. His handsome grin sets off an explosion of lust throughout my body. Yes. Right now. UP.

  “Lilly. Beautiful Lilly. I don’t think ten lifetimes would be enough.”

  CHAPTER 6:

  MICHAEL AHMED

  “Why don’t you tell me about your dream over brunch?” I ask, brushing a quick kiss over Lilly’s lips before heading over to the kitchenette across the room to start coffee.

  “I don’t want to go to brunch. I thought we could…you know…well… right now…go in…there.”

  She’s all gasps and sputters, pointing to the double doors leading to my bedroom. I want nothing more than to spend the day with my face and dick buried between those thighs in the peace and tranquility of my bedroom. But I know as soon as she is satisfied, she’s going to bounce on me.

  I’m sure if I had not stopped her, she was going to leave this morning without saying goodbye. Writing me out of the story of her life, her mind would concoct some “he’s not a regular guy” bullshit to keep her from picking up my calls or replying to my text messages. And making it easy for her to forget I’m the dude working overtime to win her heart AND fuck her into the next century.

  I want nothing more than to let her pussy rock my mic. Hell, I’ve got a mind full of dirtier ways to get her off and UP. But. Not. This. Morning. There will be no warm white transfers into her cunt until she knows this connection between us is more than fucks and giggles.

  She needs to trust me. Just a little bit. I gotta find some way around the pile of bricks and concrete blocking the pathway to her heart.

  And I send immense ill will to whatever dude left her emotionally battered and leery of my affection. Despite her absent parents, Lilly spoke fondly of her childhood last night. She left Detroit with heartful hope and big aspirations.