Unique (The Manhattanites #6)

by Avery Aster

  “Bring it.” She tapped the underlying soft flesh of his balls.

  With his hands holding up her left leg over his right shoulder, he pierced into her again. This time, though, it was about his needs, his release. Thrusting deeper than ever before, he pulled back and forth as she moaned in his mouth.

  Pumping once, thrusting twice. “Tell me you love me.”

  She held onto his shoulders. “I love you more than ever, Big Daddy.”

  “Say it again, and don’t stop ‘til I come.”

  Nervous, she looked up at him. That request was a new one. In the three years they’d dated, and probably nine hundred or so times they’d fucked, he’d never said that before. But she was madly in love with him, so she did as he wished. “I love you, Warner.”

  “I’m going to—”

  She pressed her hands against his cheeks as his hazel eyes flicked to that possessive look. “I love you so much.”

  “Red. Yes. Taddy.” He drove in harder, his body shuddering, trembling almost violently.

  “I love your heart. I love your mind. I love your body. I love your smile.”

  He growled in her ear as his body collapsed on top of hers.

  The pilot’s speaker came on. “Mr. Truman. We’re going to need you to take your seats now.”

  “We’re coming!” Taddy answered for him with a double entendre.

  He climbed off her and extended his hand, helping her off the bed.

  As they dressed, she saw the box on the table.

  “Here, let me.” He came up behind her and zipped her dress up the back. He couldn’t see she’d taken the gift in her hands. She was nervous. This was a ring box; she wasn’t stupid.

  “Warner!” she voiced in surprise, opening the box.

  He laughed and turned her around. Warner dropped to one knee like something out of the movies. “Taddy Brill, I love you. Will you marry me?” The hope in his eyes was quickly darkened by the realization of what she might say. Warner knew her better than Lex, Vive, and Blake. He’d been a part of her life so intimately. He was there when she confronted her mother and helped her when she’d learned Eddie Easton wasn’t her paternal father.

  Each office Brill, Inc. had opened overseas—Hong Kong, Sydney, and Qatar—he’d co-signed the leases, the loans, bought the buildings. Her business was just as much his as her soul was, too.

  There was one thing Taddy Brill was not and that was a gold digger. Every penny she’d made, she earned. Independence was who she was. It defined her.

  “Taddy?” His voice had changed.

  She dropped to her knees, looking up at him. Her hand came up to his cheek and she kissed him on the lips as if it might be the last. She had no clue how he’d react to her reply. “I love you, Warner. I want nothing more than to share my life with you. And it pains me to say this, but I can’t marry you.”

  “You’re kidding. Red. Come on….”

  “No.” She closed the box, allowing it to fall into his hands. The hurt look on his face and the devastation in his eyes told her she’d just destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to her.

  Dick Heaven

  Backseat @ Yellow Cab, New York

  Kiki

  “Touch my balls with your tongue. Babe, that’s it. Right there!” Dejon’s dirty talk burned permanently in her consciousness while she sat in the yellow cab. Her skin prickled in ways and in places she didn’t know existed—between her legs.

  Since Dejon had gone down on her in Stockholm, her feelings for him had intensified, from a ten to a ten-thousand. Infatuation had been there, and lust, too. Her love for him remained unconditional. It was Kiki’s desire for Dejon Turay to take her hard, take her fast, take her raw, and take her now. It ate away at her as some kind of untamed animal, from the wild. Hungry and determined, he’d been aggressive to get her to orgasm.

  An enigma, she didn’t understand Dejon’s moods. One minute, he’d be all sweet and loving. Then the next, it was as if a nymphomaniac had taken over his delicious body. Was this normal for all guys? Why couldn’t they have a balance of sweet and tender? Without having any other relationship experience to go on, it’d pained her to deny him. She wanted to give this to him, and herself. And soon!

  Manhattan’s skyline stood in the far distance ahead. Erect and prominent, her sights caught the splendor of the Empire State Building. Kiki’s mind blazed with erotic thoughts and images of Dejon’s cock. How it had looked up-close, felt between her hands, filled her mouth, and tasted on her tongue. Dick Heaven!

  Sculpted to perfection, long and thick, she’d never touched, or kissed, another penis to make any comparisons. But she felt confident her fiancé’s was exemplary.

  With the airport behind her and the city’s incoming traffic bumper-to-bumper in front, it might be another twenty or so minutes before the cab made it to her doorstep.

  In the backseat, Kiki uncrossed her legs. A muffled gasp escaped her lips as the desire to touch herself dominated her. The day before, while she’d worked with Paloma, this lust cloud had ruined her ability to think professionally. To the point where Paloma, one of the world’s most famous and luxurious jewelry designers of her lifetime, had stopped whatever she was doing and asked if Kiki was all right.

  Drunk! That was how she felt. Or at least how she imagined intoxication would be. Under Dejon’s influence while on the trade show floor, her brain was incapacitated to do much else other than think of his dick in her hands and playing peek-a-boo with her ass cheeks.

  On the plane ride home, the urges had returned, hearing Dejon say, “Touch me! Touch me!” Again, she thought in much more detail about sucking on his beautiful cock, taking it up her ass, and deep, deep, deep inside her pussy.

  Seated between three hundred or so people on the flight, she’d taken a blanket and covered herself. Crossing then uncrossing and re-crossing her legs to relieve the churning in her lower body, nothing worked. It was as if her pussy had been set on fire and there was only one way to make it stop.

  There, in the yellow cab, she sat alone—just her, Dejon’s words, and the undertow taking her down as a current of bliss and lust rose up to orgasm.

  Sorta….

  His driver’s ID said Satchet. Mumbling on his phone, the driver spoke in Hindi. Whenever he stopped at the red lights, Satchet penciled in his crossword puzzle and laughed to himself, all while taking a bite of something saffron-smelling from a Styrofoam box.

  Preoccupied, Satchet, the crossword-playing, cell phone-chatting, forever-eating, yellow cab-driving guy wouldn’t notice if Kiki touched herself. Right?

  “Hmm.” For privacy, Kiki closed the thick acrylic divider separating her from Satchet.

  Quiet.

  She rolled down the window a smidge. Fresh air kissed her face as she felt her lips curl into a smile. Exhausted from the trip and yet oddly euphorically high with memories of being in Dejon’s arms, she replayed for the one millionth time every word he’d spoken.

  “Babe, this is the best. You’re perfect,” he’d complimented.

  Tapping her fingers along the grainy leather of the Coach bag on her lap, she glanced up at the driver. Satchet’s attention appeared to be on the Long Island Freeway, not on her. In one fell swoop, she locked the door, closed her eyes, and then slid her hand under her purse. She rubbed her palm and fingers against her slacks, yearning to pull her pants down.

  “Look up at me. Let me see your beautiful eyes. That’s my Kiki.”

  ”I want you, Dejon. Now,” she purred to herself, forgetting she didn’t have much experience masturbating, let alone never in a billion years had she touched herself in public.

  Kiki didn’t see any other way to make the crazy desires stop. She had to, or she was going to go insane. It was that simple. The New York Post’s headline the following day would read ‘Cock-Starved Vagina Causes Woman to Be Admitted to Bellevue’s Asylum.’

  Eyelashes heavy against her cheeks, she inhaled a shallow breath. Again, she heard Dejon speaking to her. Lic
king her middle finger, she glided it under her waistline, past her panties, and straight into her warm, moist place.

  “I can’t wait to make you nice ‘n’ nasty.”

  With a shaky hand, she raked her nails through her pubic hair. Pressing down hard on her swollen flesh, she increased friction and whimpered, “Ohhh, gosh.” In quick circular motions, three fingers from her right hand massaged her lips.

  How liberating.

  Free and in control of her own needs, she stroked up then down. Hunkering down farther in the seat, she could no longer see out the window. With a flick of her clit, a tingly sensation traveled all the way up to her scalp. The heat came off her—first, a simmering burn and then scorching, bringing her to her knees.

  Make me your wife. I want to be your…everything.

  Her upper body felt heavy. Buttocks pressed against the door, she rested her forehead on the seat in front of her. Again, she licked her fingers, reinserting them. Deeper this time into her vagina, while a moan lodged in the back of throat.

  “Let me fuck your sweet mouth,” he’d begged.

  “Forget my mouth, Dejon. Take me.” Almost brave, she spoke louder and pinched her clit, in that special way as Dejon had done the day before.

  Wet and hungry was how her flesh felt as she caressed herself. Nearly vibrating, ready to take off into another world, she’d never felt herself so eager.

  Sprawled out, she didn’t care what was going on around her. Miley Cyrus could’ve been cleaning the cab’s windows with her long-ass, giraffe-like tongue and Kiki would never know it. Dejon was on top of her. He was all that mattered. I love you, Dejon. I love you so much.

  “Make my cock disappear. Get it all the way in there,” he’d dominated.

  Hands moving faster, she arched her feet as if letting out steam from the soles of her shoes. Pent-up erotic air decompressed from her tense, undersexed body.

  “I’m going to…Ahhh.” In her mouth, she tried to taste him—that saltiness, that manliness, all of him, musky and sweet. Mmm.

  “Sooo close. Yessssah. Almost.” He’d almost orgasmed.

  Frantic! Her hands—now longer fingers, now Dejon’s cock—thrust inside her. Blood pounded in her ears. Ready to shoot off, to somewhere close to Dejon Turay, she pressed her feet against the passenger partition.

  Her hand slickened and glazed from her new excitement.

  The car screeched to a halt.

  Ouch! Her body smacked the divider. Then sweet cream jetted. “Yes—”

  Lunging forward, the car moved up a foot and then stopped again.

  Engrossed in her Dejon fantasy, Kiki’s body bounced toward the seat.

  “Ahem. Lady! You back there?” Satchet shouted in a thick Indian accent.

  Oh, come on, already. Can’t I have ten minutes to myself?

  “Eight Street. Five Avenue. We are here. $46. Plus tip.”

  “One sec….” Wiping her damp forehead, she pulled herself up onto the seat, swallowed hard, and asked, “What?”

  He pointed to the meter. “Green Village. You are here. I get your bag.”

  Iced Sherbet Diamond Stolen

  Kiki

  Manhattan’s crisp fall air invigorated her senses as she stepped onto the curb. Was it enough to shake the jetlag from Air Sweden’s eighteen-hour flight home?

  Nope.

  The layover in Moscow had made the trip unnecessarily long. I need a hot bath. Walking into the marble lobby of her apartment building, she spotted a UPS box sent from Provo with her name on the address label.

  “Kiki! Welcome back.” Caris, the doorman, greeted. Peering out from his green bifocals, he scratched his bald head and handed her a receipt, acknowledging the package. “I’m glad you’re home. Your roommate hasn’t come out of the apartment in four days. I’m worried.”

  Ugh. She’d hoped to get in some alone time before heading to the office. Kiki needed all of her energy for the Style Gala preparations. “Duckie may be experiencing something personal.”

  “Has Duckie’s Master, Dom, whatever the boys are calling him these days dumped him again?”

  “Pretty much.” She smiled, realizing Duckie’s openness about his servitude as a submissive to a wealthy older man was privy to all, even their doorman. The previous summer, Duckie had been collared by Mr. Leather USA. “Any unusual noises…or smells, like before?” She had to prepare herself for those accusatory stares from fellow tenants, who’d fallen victim to Duckie’s hallway tirades.

  “Three days ago, it was non-stop Adele music and that fruity hookah stench.” Waving his hand over his nose, Caris suggested, “Maybe I could cheer Duckie up with a romantic dinner.”

  He’d had a crush on Duckie ever since they’d moved into the building. A Vietnam veteran who’d returned to America and lived through the Stonewall riots, disco, and the AIDS crisis, Kiki had found Caris’s stories fascinating. Caris didn’t understand why Duckie’s feelings for him weren’t mutual. He was also pushing seventy. While Duckie lusted after older men, Kiki had figured Caris might be a smidge too old.

  “Sounds like Duckie’s grievance ritual with accompanied melodramatic anthems. What about yesterday? Any more noises?” Shifting from one sore foot to another, she counted how long she’d been in these dressy work clothes. Twenty-six hours.

  “The tunes progressed to Lady Gaga and Beyoncé.”

  “Good. Peppier music means Duckie’s spirits are lifting. Thanks, Caris.” Taking the package, she placed it on top of her roller bag and offered, “I have a feeling Mom sent some of those chocolate mint sandwiches you enjoy so much. I’ll bring ’em up when I’m on my way back out.” Kiki made her way into the elevator. Pushing B, she headed for the basement.

  Located at the corner of Fifth Avenue and East Eighth Street, Taddy had found Kiki the apartment through her talk show host friend, Poppy White, who lived upstairs in the penthouse. Designed in 1928, the Art Deco skyscraper was a social step up from the Jersey City apartment she’d lived in before. It had only one tiny setback.

  Twice over her budget, the apartment, with its cement floor and brick walls, was a renovated boiler room. To prevent a maintenance fee increase for the tenants during the recession, the Co-op board elected to rent out the unused space, after upgrading the building to central heat and air conditioning.

  She’d enjoyed the studio and had the best times living there. Looking ahead, her skin got goose bumps thinking about the memories to be made with Dejon at his loft in SoHo, once they married.

  “My body needs a good fuck. Come, save me. My pussy is in the palm of your hands” blasted from the other side of her apartment door.

  “Ahhh, he’s playing ‘Save Me.’” Kiki knew this ‘80s Birdie Easton song remixed to rapper Waris Sugar meant her roommate was at the makeover portion of his doom-and-gloom saga. Sliding her key into the lock, she opened the door, inhaled burnt strawberries from the hookah, and expected to find him covered in a Baden Cosmetics mud mask.

  In awe, she stood in the doorway, not expecting this one.

  Was this a nightclub? The apartment glowed neon blue.

  “Hey, gurl.” Naked, Duckie hung in a sling he’d apparently chained from the ceiling’s pipes. Sunglasses on. Tanning lamps up. He threw an extra pair of Chanel shades her way. “Put those on to cover your eyes.”

  Lord, give me strength here. She walked over to the music system and turned Birdie and Waris down to volume two. Picking up Duckie’s fuzzy bathrobe from the floor, she threw it in his direction. “Are we doing mud masks and massages today, Mr. Capri?”

  Kiki wasn’t fazed. After working for Taddy Brill for the last two years, she’d pretty much seen it all. Having Liberace’s doppelganger as a roommate was a walk in Central Park.

  “That was yesterday, boo. Today is colonics and twerking dance class.” Stepping out of the sling, he stood at about five-foot-ten. He tied the robe around his tight waist and then attempted to jiggle his ass, showing Kiki his booty moves. Duckie didn’t have anything to shake, just b
ones.

  “Did you eat while I was gone?”

  “Am I giving off gaunt?” he asked proudly.

  Never insulting anyone, she realized with her roommate, tough love was sometimes necessary. “You look as if I should fix you one of my Fluffernutter sandwiches.”

  “Thanks! Diet accomplished. Hunger is exactly the look I was goin’ for.”

  “Why?” At the cabinet, she pulled out a jar of peanut butter and a tub of marshmallow cream.

  “Gives a more youthful glow.” Turning the tanning lamps off, Duckie fingered his Justin Bieber-inspired haircut then pouted. “Master Roane hasn’t called me. No texts or emails, either. Rumor has it he’s collared a new sub, some twink who attends Parsons Design School. Can ya believe it?”

  “Duckie!” She wasn’t humoring him. Instead, she made him something to eat. Grabbing the last two slices of white bread from the bag on the counter, she knifed the salty brown spread on the right and the white goop on the left. Licking the cream from her thumb, Kiki sat Duckie’s plate on the counter.

  “I mean really. At twenty-three, I’m over the gay hill. These eighteen-year-old bottoms are sneakin’ up behind me, stealin’ every eligible top out there. I’m going to be exiled to Brooklyn.” He came over and picked at the food.

  “There’s a nice guy out there for you. I’m sure of it.”

  “You’re lucky you found your soulmate and are getting married.” Duckie pointed his manicured finger in a sassy accusatory way at her. Then he took a bigger bite. Talking with his mouth full, he managed, “Even if your wedding is in your parents’ backyard and I…Duckie Capri, your gay bestie…wasn’t invited because they don’t allow homosexuals in Provo.”

  Oh, brother. Ignoring his invitation to join his pity party, she reminded, “Shouldn’t you be at work? Mr. Morgan put you on probation the last time you pulled a no-show. And you were, too, invited to my wedding. You just don’t wanna come ’cause it means interacting with my polygamist family.”

  Raised to keep her family’s lifestyle a secret from anyone who didn’t go to her fundamentalist temple, Kiki hadn’t even told Dejon about her father’s four other wives. She’d thought of all people, Duckie wouldn’t judge. So she’d told him. Huge mistake!