Madam, May I

by Niobia Bryant

  Damn good.

  “Hello,” she said, closing the door and slipping the tag on the door.

  “Hello, neighbor,” he said.

  Desdemona almost gasped. His voice was deep, and he had a British accent.

  “Are you Idris Elba?” she asked in a whisper as if it were top secret.

  He chuckled. “Definitely not,” he said, pushing off the wall.

  Desdemona felt silly. “Right. I mean, you two aren’t identical. I just . . . uhm . . . the accent threw me . . . for a second,” she said, shaking her head a little as she tucked her blond tresses behind her ear.

  “Brent Yarborough,” he said, extending his hand. “And you look stunning by the way.”

  She opened her mouth to give him her alias but stopped herself. He was not a consort. This was her birthday. She didn’t want to be anyone but herself. “Desdemona Dean,” she said, sliding her hand into his. “And thank you.”

  “Can I tell you a secret?” he asked.

  Desdemona eyed him. “If you want,” she said.

  “I’ve been waiting out here for you,” he admitted.

  “Why?” she asked, opening her clutch with her finger and preparing to withdraw her baton if need be.

  “I wanted to meet you but I didn’t want to intrude if you were with someone,” he explained. “This way I could play it off.”

  She smiled. “I wondered if you were with someone as well, Mr. Yarborough,” she admitted.

  “I’m not.”

  “Neither am I,” she replied.

  A hotel room door opened, and a crowd of twenty-something women exited it. They fell silent as the women passed by them on the way to the elevator at the end of the hall. When the hall was quiet once more, they shared a smile.

  “I’m in town to celebrate a friend’s engagement,” he said, coming over to stand beside her. “But tonight, I would rather have dinner with you, Desdemona Dean.”

  Life is for the living.

  “Today is my birthday, and I would rather have dinner with you than eat alone,” she said, offering him her arm.

  Brent chuckled as he slid his arm through hers and reached in the inner pocket of his blazer for his phone with his free hand. “Max. I’m skipping out on dinner tonight. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” he said, giving her a wink.

  His friend laughed. Desdemona could hear his friend’s voice echoing through his phone.

  “How pretty is she?” Max asked.

  Desdemona looked up at Brent, knowing he was unaware of her eavesdropping.

  “A Lamborghini,” Brent said.

  Well, that’s definitely better than a Hyundai. I guess.

  “I don’t blame you then,” his friend said. “Breakfast in the morning? Or you’re hoping to sleep in?”

  Brent looked down at her.

  Desdemona gave him a curious eye before slowly arching a brow.

  He looked surprised, and then his eyes widened a bit in understanding.

  She lifted up on her toes so that her mouth was near the phone. “Hey, Max. This is the Lamborghini, and Brent will be right on time for breakfast because he won’t be sleeping in with me,” she said, before reaching with a finger to end the call.

  It immediately vibrated.

  She walked away from him down the hall with her sultriest walk, glancing back at him over her shoulder, enjoying the flirtation. “Vroom vroom,” she said, imitating the sound of a Lamborghini’s engines being revved.

  He slid the phone back in his pocket and followed behind her.

  Desdemona paused, wondering what Loren’s reaction would have been. He would have enjoyed seeing the lighter side of her and made some kind of joke to make her laugh as well.

  Maybe that’s because one was a grown man and the other a boy.

  Still, as she stepped onto the elevator and turned to watch Brent join her, she thought of how enthusiastically he had championed her celebrating her birthday, and she wished he were there.

  * * *

  Desdemona had fun.

  More than she’s had in a long time.

  The dined at Picasso’s in the Bellagio. Played high stakes poker at several casinos on the Strip and slots in Old Vegas. Danced like crazy at 1 OAK. Made it rain on strippers at Club Lacy’s.

  As soon as they stepped on the elevators at the Bellagio and the doors slid closed, Desdemona pressed her body close to his, gripping the lapels of his suit to jerk his tall frame down toward her. Her eyes searched his before she licked at his bottom lip and made a little grunt of pleasure in the back of her throat.

  Brent gripped her hips as he captured her mouth with his own.

  Desdemona broke the kiss, sliding her hands up to the back of his head to take control and kiss him. First a soft peck and then as she smiled against his mouth, she deepened it with her tongue. He moaned in pleasure.

  She did the same at the feel of his growing hardness pressing against her stomach. The elevator slid to a smooth stop and the doors soon slid opened. “Your suite or mine?” she asked against his lips before kissing them again.

  He raised his head to look down at her, his eyes showing surprise and then filling with desire. “Your choice,” he said.

  Desdemona turned from him, taking his hand to lead him into the hallway and down to the door of his suite. She chose to use his because as soon as they were finished making love she planned to leave him sleeping while she went to her own bed.

  As soon as the door closed, he picked her up in his arms with ease and carried her to the sofa. He turned and sat down with Desdemona straddling his lap with the skirt of her dress up around her waist.

  This five-year dry streak is finally over.

  She sighed when he pressed kisses across her clavicle as he reached behind her to unzip her dress.

  “You’re sexy as hell,” he whispered in her ear before sucking her lobe.

  “Am I?” she asked, as the top of the dress fell and revealed her breasts to him from the glare of the Vegas lights streaming through the open curtains.

  Immediately he ducked his head and captured a nipple in his mouth.

  Her moan was satisfaction, hunger, pleasure, and need all in one.

  “Yes,” she sighed, stroking his head as she tilted her own back.

  For the first time in a long time, she felt normal. Every piece of her body felt alive. Their chemistry was not explosive, but he was skilled and she was horny.

  As he switched his attention to her other breast, he dipped one hand down between her buttocks to stroke her core with his middle finger.

  A fuck you before he fucks me?

  She gasped at the feel of that finger slipping inside her.

  I am so clever.

  He soundly smacked her buttock, causing it to jiggle, before he released it to press his hands down between them to slide another finger inside her while massaging her throbbing clit with his thumb.

  She bit her bottom lip and winced in pleasure as she slowly circled her hips and tightly gripped the shoulders of his blazer.

  “Kiss me,” he whispered up to her.

  Shifting her hands up to his face, she tilted his chin up before lowering her head to suck his mouth before she traced it lightly with the tip of her tongue.

  “I’m so hard,” he said into that space between their lips.

  “Good,” she replied, kissing him again. Slowly. Deeply.

  It was nice. Really nice. Her body was warmed with desire for him. But she wanted more.

  More of a rush. More excitement. More action.

  “Suck your fingers,” she ordered, rising from his lap to stand between his open legs.

  He did, easing them into his mouth as he cut his eyes up to her.

  “Want more?” she asked.

  He nodded eagerly as he sucked away.

  Slowly she turned, giving him a flirty look over her shoulder as she wiggled her buttocks before bending to grip her ankles. She knew that the move framed her buttocks like a heart shape and exposed her core like a mois
t pit in the center of a peach.

  He grabbed her hips as he buried his face between her cheeks, turning his head slightly to kiss each one before dragging his tongue right up the middle.

  She twerked a little.

  He chuckled.

  Suddenly the room was flooded with light, and a high-pitched squeal filled the air like a siren.

  Desdemona closed her eyes and released a sigh as the feel of Brent’s mouth disappeared, and he jumped to his feet with a lot of “baby, baby, baby” that would put James Brown to shame.

  “You with a Vegas prostitute!” the woman said moments before loud slaps echoed in the air.

  Not a prostitute but you’re close, lady.

  Desdemona rose and turned with calmness as she watched Brent valiantly trying to block the open-handed blows the woman was throwing at him with the speed of Ali. She walked over to the bar, naked and in her heels, to pour herself a drink. She chose a shot of bourbon.

  “No, she is not strutting around here naked.”

  Desdemona glanced at them over the rim of her glass as she sipped the brown liquor. The woman was thick and tall with bright red hair and pale skin. “I really should get dressed,” she agreed, finishing the drink and walking over to the sofa to pick up her frock.

  “Who are you?” the woman shrieked, trying her best to walk past Brent, who blocked her like a defensive lineman.

  “Who are you?” Desdemona asked in return as she eased her dress up over her body and reached behind her to zip it up.

  “His wife,” she stressed, poking her chest with her finger.

  “Could you leave please?” Brent asked, his voice tight with anger.

  “Yes, just as well, as you could have told me you were married,” she said, picking up her clutch and tucking it under her arm. “My apologies, Mrs. Yarborough.”

  “Get the hell out!” he roared, pointing toward the door.

  “No,” she told him before shifting her focus to his wife standing behind him with her hands on her hips and her chest still heaving with her hurt and anger. “Do you have any questions for me before I leave? That’s the only way you’ll get the truth tonight, and you deserve it.”

  “Bloody hell, are you crazy?” Brent asked, his accent thick.

  Desdemona gave the wife one last look of question before nodding and turning to walk to the door.

  “Baby, please let me explain. I was drunk—”

  Desdemona shook her head at his pitifulness as she turned the doorknob.

  “How long have you known my husband?” his wife called over to her.

  Desdemona paused, hearing her hurt and need for clarity on the true standing of her marriage.

  “Amanda, please,” he pleaded. “Let her go.”

  She turned and faced them. “I just met him tonight. We happened to have adjoining rooms. We’ve never had sex. He doesn’t have my number. I don’t live in Vegas and he has no clue where I do live. He agreed to spend my birthday with me—”

  Amanda grunted as she pushed against his chest with both hands. “You celebrating birthdays?” she snapped.

  “We had dinner downstairs at Picasso’s, gambled, went to 1 OAK and then a strip club,” Desdemona told her.

  “But all night you were sneaking and calling me,” she said, her tears falling in earnest.

  “She’s lying,” he lied, trying and failing to wrap his arms around his wife to comfort her.

  “He paid. Check his credit card statement when it’s available,” she said, walking back over to the bar to pour another shot. “And of course, you saw how we were going to end the night for yourself.”

  The woman’s body crumbled to the floor as she covered her hands with her face and cried with loud wails.

  “Amanda, I will never see your husband again, and I’m sorry I ever met him,” Desdemona said, moving toward them as she swirled the drink in the glass she still held.

  She watched as he dropped to his knees to pull his wife’s body close to his chest and whisper comforting lies to her. At this moment, in the midst of flames that might very well destroy their marriage, she was clear on why she never wished to wed.

  Her chest ached with a pain that she knew was nowhere near what this betrayed wife felt.

  She tapped his shoulder, and he whirled to look up at her with anger in his brown eyes. Desdemona raised her hand swiftly and gave him a wicked backhand that echoed in the air, caused his head to swing to the right and made her hand sting.

  “That’s for treating me like a whore,” she said, her eyes like steel as she met his hostile stare.

  He jumped to his feet.

  “No, Brent,” his wife yelled, falling forward on her knees to wrap her arms around his legs and pull at his arms.

  Desdemona turned and walked to the door when he helped his wife to her feet. “Maybe it’s a one-time slip and y’all can work your way through it, but the best way to do that is with the truth, and I just wanted to make sure you make the best decision possible for yourself, Mrs. Yarborough,” she said, opening the door and leaving without another look back at them.

  In her suite, she undressed and showered, hating that she felt she had to be cleansed of Brent’s touch and his kisses. Of another bad decision. Bundled in the plush white robe offered by the hotel with her wet hair wrapped in a towel, Desdemona retrieved her iPhones from her clutch and made her way over to the chaise lounge sitting before the windows. She eyed the majesty of the Bellagio fountains. The movement of the water and the light display were simply beautiful. “Happy birthday to me,” she sang softly with a half smile as she raked her fingers through her wild mane of loose waves.

  What a night.

  She allowed herself just one brief moment to wonder what had become of the Yarboroughs after she left their suite before pushing thoughts of them away. She was a footnote in their life as far as she as concerned. Nothing more.

  Picking up her prepaid iPhone, she checked in with her businesses. All of her courtesans were booked for the weekend except for Denzin, but she would compensate him for serving as her backup while she was out of town. No calls throughout the night alerting her to trouble. All was well.

  Unlike her business phone, Desdemona had her personal phone on Do Not Disturb mode, silencing any calls or texts. She had just one notification. Just before midnight, Loren had texted her. She unlocked the phone and opened it.

  THE_TUTOR: ONE LAST HAPPY BIRTHDAY BEFORE MIDNIGHT AND YOUR SPECIAL DAY ENDS.

  She chuckled at the animated gif of exploding balloons revealing a dancing dog wearing a party hat and holding a birthday cake.

  He really is a sweet kid.

  DESI: In Vegas. It was memorable. Thank you for pushing me to celebrate.

  She set the phone down on the chaise and lifted her legs atop it as she settled back and looked out the window at the strip.

  Her minuet text tone played.

  THE_TUTOR: I WISH I WAS THERE TO SKYDIVE. DID U?

  Desdemona smirked. “Humph. Skydived into some bullshit,” she muttered as she typed with her thumbs.

  DESI: Definitely not!

  THE_TUTOR: DON’T YOU WANT TO KNOW HOW IT FEELS TO FLY?

  THE_TUTOR: LIVE LIFE WITH NO REGRETS. FLY!

  Desdemona tapped the edge of the phone against her chin and looked up at the night sky.

  “No regrets,” Desdemona said the next morning on the airplane, attached to the harness of a tall and lean skydiving instructor.

  She was moments from a tandem jump, at the edge of the open doorway of the plane thousands of feet above the ground with nothing but blues skies in her view. Her heart pounded wildly. Her knees quivered a bit, and she felt anxious beyond belief. Her adrenaline was in overdrive. She felt trapped somewhere between terror and euphoria.

  She did as instructed, and within moments they were leaning forward and jumping from the plane. “No regrets!” she yelled, forcing her eyes open to take it all in as they free fell through the air.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday,
November 19, 2018

  Holidays are the worst. Now is the time for family, and I have none . . .

  The heels of Desdemona’s shoes clicked against the polished tiled floor as she made her way to her showroom. She pointedly ignored the tasteful Christmas décor in the halls as she unlocked the glass door and entered. She paused in the doorway at the sight of a huge Christmas tree near the large wooden desk serving as the checkout counter. “Patrice,” she said, with a twist of her lips in annoyance.

  She turned on the lights of the showroom and unplugged the lights on the tree with a rough jerk before flinging the cord away. Thanksgiving was in a few days, bringing on constant conversations about turkeys, traveling, and quality family time. Desdemona couldn’t care less about all three.

  Turkey was dry.

  Traveling during the holidays was hell.

  Family was nonexistent.

  Top all of that off with a considerable slowdown in her business as everyone wanted to be the perfect family man or woman during the holidays. “Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-bullshit,” she sang.

  Still, this year she was taking advantage of the break and was booked to spend the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve in Dubai. She shifted the sleeve of her silver fox fur coat, diamond bracelets, and watch to stroke her newest tattoo. “No regrets,” she read the words inscribed on her inner wrist beneath a black-and-white butterfly in flight.

  Her trip to Vegas and the skydive had created a desire for more in her.

  And upon her return from Dubai, she was scheduled to take her GED.

  Possibly the biggest leap of all.

  She removed the fox coat and slid her hands into the pockets of the pencil skirt of her tailored black suit as she walked over to weave her way among the dress-covered mannequins. Each was posed in a different position, and they were more than a foot taller than her in height because of the black boxes upon which they were placed. It felt almost like being lost in a beautiful bedazzled forest.