Love's Inconvenient Truth

by Love Belvin

  “Ready?” I shrieked.

  With a fixed scowl and narrowed brow, he grated, “You can pee and brush your damn teeth, Elle.”

  “Oh,” I leaped in place. “Right! Okay…” I turned for the bathroom.

  Twenty minutes later we were walking out of the lobby of the hotel and began our jog onto the street. I’d met my target heart rate already, confused by his visit. His presence alone should have meant good news, but that glower and cold tone didn’t sit well with me.

  We’d been at it for about a half a mile when he finally spoke.

  “So, you’re back for good?”

  That was an odd question. While out in California, I still reported to Jackson. He knew my developments out there even though he made it so they were funneled.

  “I’m sure you’ve spoken to Rayna. I hope to be.” My voice crackled.

  “Dynamic Branding has moved, you know?” Jackson’s voice was steady as we ran with speed in Central Park.

  I’d heard about a pending move a month ago, but had been too wrapped up in counseling and tying up loose ends before my leave to remember to follow up on it. My guard flared immediately and tears spiked my ducts, threatening to spill.

  Fight…

  “I hope the move included space for me.”

  “That’s the thing,” Jackson kept his gaze forward while speaking. “Lots has changed over the past few months. That’s the purpose of my visit this morning.”

  Here it comes.

  My feet stopped their cycling motion, leaving me behind him. Jackson realized I stopped and rotated to head back my way.

  “Are you firing me…transferring me?” I tried collecting my breath. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Yes and no,” he answered matter-of-factly, lungs unperturbed. “It’s my responsibility to make sure all roles are laid out and understood as COO of J.G., Wizer and Hunter and CEO of Dynamic Branding. If you’re returning permanently to my team, there are things you must be aware of professionally—”

  “Professionally?”

  That hurt like hell. So his dealings with me were limited to a professional relationship.

  “Yes, Elle. Why is that such a hard concept?”

  “Because!” I shouted.

  “Because what?” he matched my tone in the middle of the park where other runners sped past us, paying curious stares. His glare was as intense as I recalled it. I couldn’t care less. I was losing my…future.

  “Because Rayna Jacobs is your personal friend. I know she’s told you the nature of my return and that it was permanent. Why are you treating me like a stranger, Jackson?”

  I, too, was dancing around the issue. Too afraid to label it our future.

  “My relationship with Rayna Jacobs is personal. I don’t discuss the employment status of my subordinates with her.”

  His height shrunk me. Jackson’s chest was broad and carved. For the first time, I felt physically intimidated by his athletic frame. But I had to fight. If he wouldn’t address it, I had to.

  “Are things serious between the two of you?”

  “With Rayna? I’d say so—”

  “No! With you and the girl you’re dating. I saw you two were pretty hip-locked at the table last night.”

  I felt my cry traveling up my chest. I couldn’t stare Jackson straight in the eyes because if I did, I’d lose it. He was in rare form this morning: formal and forthcoming. I wanted to cut to the point and knew he’d give me the answers I needed from that single question. No need to continue to torture myself.

  “We were—”

  “I had tubal reversal surgery!” I blurted unplanned, sounding like an errant child. With my voice at a shrieking level that I couldn’t help, I continued. “I want this! I want you. If it means going to the extreme to make sure you can have every piece of happiness you deserve, I’m willing to do it!”

  Wait!

  Did he just say they were?

  Did that mean they are no longer?

  The beam in his eyes changed. His pupils darkened, but his penetrative gaze remained stapled to me, studying me. “You didn’t have to do that. I don’t want kids…never wanted them. That was totally unnecessary, Elle,” his tenor turned throaty as he inched toward me.

  “I had to—”

  In a span of two seconds, Jackson grabbed me into his chest, lifting me off my feet. He pressed his lush lips into mine and buried his tongue in my mouth. As he swept my entire cavity with ravishing intensity, my limbs went loose, arms collapsed behind me as I allowed him to have his way with my mouth…and adversely, my heart. I’m sure in the back of my mind I registered embracing this man orally in Central Park, in the middle of the walkway. But I didn’t care. Jackson was exposing his longing for me through this act, one that he didn’t bestow on just anyone.

  It wasn’t until he pulled back that I noticed he was out of breath.

  Through lidded eyes, I regarded him, short of breath myself. “If I didn’t have to unfix myself, why the kiss?” I drawled out, dizzied by his affection.

  “I was going to kiss you anyway,” his tone guttural and eyes just as hooded. “Why do you think I asked you to brush your damn teeth?”

  “The kiss is that “professional” thing your visit is about today?” my tone was dry.

  The side of Jackson’s lips twitched into an incredibly delectable leer, further melting me. But I was still confused.

  Then I was pained when he placed me back on my feet and folded his arms, seemingly shutting me out. His glower had that quickly returned.

  “Professionally: you can resume your role as Senior Account Supervising Manager, a newly created hybrid role. Bridgette is taking medical leave then maternity starting next week,” he informed. Oh my god! Bridgette’s pregnant? “She’s already informed she wouldn’t be able to take on her former role after the baby and that she’d figure out what her future with the firm will be once her leave time is up. This leaves two roles to fill. Given your impressive output on the DB team, I have no doubt you can take on the merged roles.”

  Gazing unseeing into the air, I bit my lip and nodded, trying to process this announcement. No matter what the new role called for, it still left the most important piece of my future hanging in the balance.

  My eyes nervously shifted to meet his searing gaze.

  “And personally?” I expanded my chest, prepared for whatever he was going to bring.

  “There’s a matter of your things that are in storage and the things being shipped from Cali, according to Rayna.” I’d asked her to ship my things a few days after my return, thinking by then I’d know where things stood between Jackson and me. “If you accept the Senior Account Supervising Manager position, it would mean your things would have to be moved into Trump International. It would mean you having to make nice with Bella. It would mean you sharing my bed. And that would mean our colleagues—the world—knowing about our official relationship, and we don’t hide an affair. It would mean you would be mine to kiss in the middle of Central Park or wherever the hell else I feel inclined to.”

  This time, I lunged at Jackson, taking him into my mouth in an impassioned kiss.

  “Only under one condition,” I breathed.

  “What’s that?” His glare returned.

  “You take me back to my new home at Trump and make love to me like I’m yours to show off to the world.”

  Overtaken by his emotions, Jackson grabbed me into his chest again, this time I wrapped my legs around his narrow waist.

  “I love you, Elle Ann.”

  “Not more than I love you, Jackson.”

  Jackson smiled, a bright promising smile that reminded me of his age; one that I’d come to accept and embrace fiercely. “I’ll spend my life proving you wrong.”

  Epilogue

  Absolutely flawless…

  “What?” she shrieks with wide eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that? You can’t be ready again.” She emits a giggle that resounds in my damn belly.

  I’m
not quite ready to have her again, just trying to examine her state of mind and observing her feminine allure at the same time. Her golden blonde waves in a messy display framing her flushed face. She’s probably leaking my essence as we speak, that erotic visual stirs my groin. I continue to rub her feet, concerned about the weight she’s put on her ankle that she sprained a few weeks ago.

  “Gosh, this is beautiful. What a view,” she muses on a gratified sigh while studying the glowing Eiffel Tower from the balcony.

  We’ve just finished making love. My boorish ass couldn’t apply pace once we hit the door of our suite. I had to endure sharing her with clients and several thousand others during dinner and a show. She’s glowing now and when her thin lips, painted in some purple hue she’s become quite fond of lately, widens from contentment, my chest expands. There’s a new beam in her eyes, reflecting her light spirit. When I met her, she had shadows of pain in her pupils, similar to that of my soul. She laughs more and thinks less. She’s coming full circle in healing and that only propels my own emotional development.

  “I bet Dale and Patience’s suite doesn’t top this one,” she utters with mischievous humor in her eyes. “Where are they staying again?”

  “The Meurice.” I murmur, spellbound by her globular breasts, which are haphazardly hidden by a delicate sheet I just pulled from the bed.

  It was the least I could do after I stripped her ass naked in the foyer of our suite…with the door wide open. By the time we made it over to the balcony door of the suite, she was screaming from her second orgasm. Then I finished her off with her last one here on the floor.

  We’re in a suite at the Four Seasons Hotel George V in Paris. We flew out yesterday to support Dale in his Back to the Art of Love tour where he kicked off the European leg here at Stade De France. The event sold out within hours, the venue packed to capacity. With a number one album on the R&B and R&B/HipHop charts, number two on the Billboard Hot 100 and number one on the top 200 for the second week out, one could easily assess the genius of my lady. Elle has busted her ass to make good on Dynamic Branding’s promises to Dale’s camp, aka her plans. That was all her.

  I wanted to treat her well while here, pulling out all the stops. She’s that special to me. I swear, I feel like I’m living a life without a damn roof now that she’s by my side. This woman who thought she was incapable of companionship and commitment has held me down and gone to war with anyone in my path since the day I met her and certainly over the past eighteen months or so when we decided to give us a try.

  Things haven’t been perfect. We have our fair share of fights over me “communicating more” is how she puts it. Throwing every problem I encounter on her shoulders isn’t my idea of being the man in this relationship. I filter the things I think she can take on. And she cuts my ass every time she feels I’ve withheld something from her. I’m improving. I have to. She’s earned my respect from battling alongside me anything that brings conflict to my world.

  Like with Miracle. Not only does she join me on my visits with her, but Elle has also arranged for Miracle to visit our home once a month. It’s difficult considering the expense for her care and travel, but that one act makes little Miracle’s plight less sterile and like she’s actually a part of a family. Elle has arranged birthday parties and festive Christmas visits that included a Santa Claus among other fun filled activities. Miracle may not be able to process it, but I do. It increases my love for this woman tenfold. I’m still not ready to share Miracle’s existence with my family and Elle respects my decision.

  I love Elle with an intensity I never knew possible. Shit. Certainly nothing my pops told me existed. Elle still works out regularly, just not as excessive as she did when we met. She’s since learned it was a coping mechanism that was unhealthy. Since, we’ve replaced it with wild lovemaking each chance we get. I worship her body, covet her heart and venerate her mind. But even with all of these elements, I want more.

  And apparently she does, too…

  The morning we left for France, when Elle thought I was showering before our flight, she was on a three-way call on speaker with her mother, Eleanor, my sister, Candice, and mother Valerie—believe it or not, Elle and Mom Dukes have found a way to co-exist and amicably, though they still have their rivaling views—where they discussed me proposing to my girl.

  “He’s going to do it for Christmas,” Candice assured. “His ass better!”

  “Your mouth, dear Candice,” Eleanor warned.

  “My bad, Mrs. Greene, it’s just frustrating as hell to know the knucklehead hasn’t done it yet! I bet you have to help him to the hole, too, huhn, Elle—”

  “Candice!” Eleanor and Elle yelled simultaneously.

  “That is unequivocally and irrevocably false! That is an area he’s well conversed with…without instruction—”

  “Elle!” the other three women screamed through the lines.

  “No one wants to hear that about their brother’s sex life, okay?”

  “You’re supposed to be correcting her on her potty mouth, precious, not bragging about your unwed sexcapades.” As I spied from the doorway of the master suite, I could see Elle’s shoulders drop in defeat at that indirect scolding.

  “She may be on to something, Eleanor; Jackson is a prodigy of Quincy Hunter!” my mother pointed out.

  All the women sighed at that one.

  “Listen, ladies, I’ve gotta go. He’s probably finishing up his shower. We have to be at the ClearPort in an hour. I appreciate your encouragement, but this is something I have to either wait out or get over.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Candice suggested.

  “Oh, hell no! I’m not that liberal.”

  “No!” the other women gasped.

  Elle sighed again. “It is what it is. Well, at least I share his bed, right?”

  “I’m not going there with you again with that disgusting shit—”

  “CANDICE!” the three women screamed at an even higher pitch.

  On that note, I slipped my snickering ass into the bathroom before I got caught eavesdropping.

  “Sing me something.”

  Elle’s mouth goes agape under her surprised eyes. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I am.” I nod as I go back to kneading her delicate toes.

  After taking a few minutes of deliberation, Elle straightens.

  “Baby, you can’t have all of me, ‘cause I’m not totally free. I can’t tell you everything that’s going ooooooon!” Her little arms sway in the air to a familiar rhythm.

  I drop my head to the side. “Cut the shit, Elle,” my tone wry, though I’m deeply amused.

  I usually entertain silly Elle, but I need something more tonight. I want her soul to open for me.

  Fighting her smile, she grins. “What? You’re serious?”

  I nod, eyes sober with the need for her to comply emotionally. Elle sings for me a lot, and often on request when it’s just the two of us wrapped in one another. Sometimes that act soothes something deep within. She doesn’t like the label of singer, but I reap the benefits of the one gift she resents. When she does it for me, it’s no act; my lady sings from the pit of her soul. It’s after two in the morning, but I couldn’t give a damn. I need her open.

  Elle’s eyes drop as does her chin and she bites her bottom lip. Then her head begins to rock. When her eyes appear on me, my heart skips a damn beat.

  She belts, “If I ain’t got nothing, I got you…”

  It doesn’t take long for me to identify the song as Beyoncé’s “1+1”. That song has taken on new meaning for me since the first time she sang it last Valentine’s Day while we doubledated with Marie and a friend of mine she was trying to pair with. It was a magical experience that I regrettably shared with the entire restaurant at DiFillippo’s. I wanted that expression of her passion all for me to consume alone.

  My lady sings this shit from her soul. While she hits each descant precisely, you can catch the coarseness in many of the notes. S
inging may not have been Elle’s favorite expression before meeting me, but when she does it for me, she brings every emotion she can’t speak. I watch raptly as her bare shoulders rise and drop, her neck sways, and fingers occasionally reach out to me. And when she belts out the curvy “Ooooooh,” before the “make love to me” my chest constricts. In fact, each times she demands for me to make love to her, my dick twitches with hungry need. She gets so caught up in the spirit of the song, but never leaves me behind. When a single tear spills from her left eye, I drop my head on the door behind me.

  Shit! I love this woman…

  When she’s done, Elle collapses her head on the door behind her, too, with closed eyes, pebbled nipples and pulsing carotid artery. She’s coming down from the high of exposing her passion for me. I wait patiently for her eyes to appear. When they do, they’re hooded.

  Damn. My dick twitches again.

  “Your lips are kinda dry, doll,” I drawl out noncommittal.

  Elle’s eyes bulge and she cups her mouth. Clearly embarrassed, but expressing humor, she asks, “Really?”

  With hiked brows and a deadpan expression, I nod. “There’s a tube of ChapStick in my left pocket. I gesture with my chin to the left of her on the floor.

  She quickly shuffles in search of my jeans. My anxiousness prevents me from laughing. Elle’s lips, though slightly swollen from me ravishing them on our cab ride from the venue to our suite when I tapped out a few minutes ago where we’re sitting, aren’t dry at all.

  Elle freezes.

  That’s my cue. I shift to my knees and use the other end of the sheet to cover my raging erection that’s interfering with my heart for the first time as it concerns Elle Jarreau. When she pushes back and is sitting on the pads of her butt again, Elle gasps at my new proximity.

  “You’ve been a partner in every way except one. You’re my heavy hitter at Dynamic Branding, my quarterback in my side ventures, my sole support with Miracle, and my award-winning lover. Now, I want”—I swallow hard—“I need you as my wife.” I pull the small velvet box from her shaking fingers and open it. Her eyes are still pinned to me, mouth hanging open and tears falling freely. “Elle Ann Jarreau, will you do me the honor of marry—”