Urban Love Prophecy

by Jessica Ingro

  That didn’t mean life was easy. No, I still had my fair share of groupies to contend with, as well as artists who thought he was fair game. We still argued and we still pissed each other off. If we ever stopped, that’s when I’d worry. Because that would mean we gave up on each other.

  “I missed you too. Phone sex just wasn’t cutting it anymore. I need my stallion,” I said in a low, needy voice.

  Taking my cue, he spun me around and pushed me into the wall. His hands cupped my breasts before running down my front to the button of my jeans.

  “Door, Jay,” I got out in between moans when his hand reached in and found the exact spot that needed his attention.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, and I mewled in protest when I lost his hand and his warmth at my back.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw the door close. Within seconds, he was back and his hands were working my jeans over my hips. I kicked my heels off and used my feet to get my jeans off.

  Wanting to see Jay’s face, I turned around in time to see his jeans drop to the floor, and his boxers follow suit. I licked my lips at the sight of his heavy length.

  “For as much as I’d love your mouth right now, we don’t have time.” He correctly read my thoughts. “Wrap your legs around me, Mama, and hold on tight.”

  His hands went to my ass and lifted me up. Then he slammed me down on him, and I cried out at how good it felt to have him connected to me again.

  “Fuck, baby. You feel so damn tight.” He kept up with his steady motion. My back pounded against the wall with each thrust, heightening my arousal. God, I loved it when he gave it to me hard and fast.

  “Jay,” I whimpered on the edge of an O that was sure to split me apart with its force. In that position, I never needed additional stimulation to find it. Not with Jay’s size and the way he ground into me with every few thrusts.

  “Give it to me. You’re so fucking beautiful. You’re my queen, Tori. Never forget that. Now give me all of you.”

  That was all it took. My head flew back. My toes curled, and a string of curse words flew out of my mouth as I came long and hard. Jay wasn’t much further behind me. His lips met mine, and he groaned into my mouth as he released himself inside me.

  I wrapped my legs tighter around him as his body weight settled me into the wall. His cock was still deep inside me. I took his hat off and he rested his head on my chest. I ran my hand over his hair as we both came down from our delicious high.

  “Ten minutes, Jay.” We both heard said through the door.

  Jay groaned. “I like right where I am.”

  “Me too, honey. But it’s time for you to make magic.”

  He lifted his head and once again blue eyes met green as he communicated how much love he felt for me without needing words.

  “I love you, too,” I whispered in answer to his unspoken words, before placing a soft kiss to his lips. “Now set me down so we can quick get ready.”

  Once we were cleaned up and dressed, we walked hand-in-hand down the hall towards the entrance to the stage. The closer we got, the energy from the fans became a physical thing you could feel.

  He gave me a quick, hard and wet kiss. Then he ran out when his name was announced.

  I watched with elation as he welcomed everyone and the crowd’s roar was deafening. There are no words to describe the sense of pride I felt watching him up there. He was born to entertain. He was born to lead. He was born to inspire. I was born to love him. To support him. And to hold him up when he needed it. Some women might not feel like that was enough. But to me it was everything.

  What didn’t kill us, made us stronger. Jay and I were a testament to that fact.

  My breath caught in my throat, and my heart skipped a beat when a familiar tune filled the arena. A huge smile spread across my face when I heard Jay’s smooth voice sing out the first line of our song. Well, my song.

  Looking back on that night, I always smiled. Not just because my husband broke records with how quickly his concert sold out, raised tons of money for a good cause, and made me supremely proud of him. No, it was because that night while we gave ourselves over to the consuming need we had for each other, we also conceived our second son, Lawrence.

  * * *

  Jay

  Looking over at the most beautiful girl in the world standing on the side of the stage, I decided to do something I had originally promised her I wouldn’t. The only reason I so easily agreed with her request was because I figured I could surprise her when the time came.

  “Let’s welcome my beautiful wife, Tori to the stage,” I said into the mic, and the crowd went crazy with their approval.

  She shook her head and laughed, but she still strutted that fine ass my way. She’s fly as hell, even after three babies, and the way her hips swayed to the beat of the bass made me instantly hard. My diamonds glittered all around her, from her earrings, to her rings, to the necklace she always wore.

  Things turned out just like I said they would all those years ago.

  I had a down ass woman so fine every man that saw her wanted her. One that stands beside me through my highs and my lows. She looks past my history and forgives me for all my fuck-ups. She makes me laugh, makes me want to be better, and loves me for me. Not for the me with money flowing and an A-list status.

  I’d fight to the death and lay down my life for her. Nothing in life would ever be as important as Tori and the family we’re building.

  One of the roadies handed Tori a mic and she sang her part of the song I wrote for her like it was nobody’s business. The backup singers had planned for this, so they took a step back and let my girl shine. She had always wanted to perform with me on stage and that’s just one more dream of hers I’m glad I could fulfill, seeing as how she’s fulfilled all of mine.

  Her hands ran over my back as she pranced around me, playing the vixen I know her to be when we’re alone.

  The crowd was amped to watch us together. It wasn’t something they usually got since we kept our private life just that. Private. Being on the stage together tonight, there was no way to hide the love we had for each other though.

  Stepping into Tori’s body, my hand rested on her ass, pulling her tightly to me. Her left hand held the mic while her right held onto my shoulder as we grinded together through the last verse of the song. My fingers traced the tattoo on her lower back of a crown with a J in front of it. She insisted on getting the ink after I came home and surprised her with mine: a crown with a T in front of it.

  In the spotlight with the crowd eating out of her palm, Tori’s smile was radiant and her laugh rang out.

  God, I loved this woman. My prophecy come to life. My world. My soul mate. My equal.

  Some women want a man who will come in and sweep them off their feet. One who will say and do all the right things. I think that shit is whacked. I’d like to see you name one man who is flawless. Nobody walking this earth’s surface is perfect like that. Love stories aren’t meant to be tied up in a neat little bow. They’re meant to show two people who can take the bad and spin it into something good. Who can accept the other for their faults no matter how messy they are. Two people who love each other despite their faults. That isn’t always a pretty picture.

  Tori and I may have had our ups and downs, but we wouldn’t have it any other way because perfect is unrealistic and cliché.

  When the song ended, my girl took a bow before giving me a tight hug. “You are so in trouble for that,” she whispered in my ear.

  She tried to act pissed as she walked off the stage. Just as she was about to exit the neon lights, she turned and blew me a kiss so I knew it was all good. She might have wanted tonight to be about me, not her being thrust into the spotlight, but what she needed to get was that without her… there was no me.

  The End

  Interested in obtaining a messenger bird like Tori’s?

  Visit http://messengerbirds.com/ for more information.

  Turn the page to read the first two chapters
of Love, Your Concierge (Concierge #1).

  Love, Your Concierge

  Copyright © 2014 Jessica Ingro

  Friend-Zoned characters & dialogue, Copyright © 2014 Belle Aurora

  Chapter One

  The Legend of Multiple Orgasms

  Hello. I’m Elizabeth Ward. Your Personal Concierge.

  I found myself giggling at the absurdity of that statement. I sounded like I was at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, when in truth, I was writing my newest client a note to introduce myself. You’re probably wondering why it is that I’m introducing myself to a client through a witty, little note. It does seem strange come to think about it.

  I always leave a calling card, if you will, when I visit my client’s homes. It’s my way of connecting with each one of them without having to be in their faces. Most of them prefer to have me be a presence that hovers in the background and doing my business without them knowing how it gets done.

  These notes are my signature branding. I spend way too much money each year on creamy, heavy stationery with my name in calligraphy at the top. Each piece of elegant paper has a light blue ribbon weaved through the top and tied in a bow. Elegant and classy.

  So here I am, standing in a man’s house with his grocery list in my hands when I’ve never actually met him. See, I was hired last week by his middle-aged executive assistant to assist the Mr. Grant Morgan.

  Mr. Morgan is known around Manhattan as one of the top litigation attorneys. People from all over New York, New Jersey and Connecticut pay big dollars to have this bulldog on their side. I would even bet my next payment from Mr. Morgan that his clientele reaches beyond those three states, which is precisely why I was stoked to gain his business. He is an excellent reference to have, and hopefully he’ll recommend me to some of his friends and colleagues.

  His prowess doesn’t stop in the courtroom though. It very much extends into the bedroom as well. Even though I’ve never met him, his reputation precedes him. There are legendary stories circling the city about his stamina, his endowment, and how well-versed he is at using both to exact pleasure from his partner. You can hear it whispered amongst the socialites or gossiped about by assistants. I once heard a story about him leaving a woman practically catatonic, she was so thoroughly fucked. It took her days to recover. I’m sure that is a bit exaggerated, but hell! He’s even been in the running for New York City’s Most Eligible Bachelor four years in a row.

  I’ve been known to have a decent fucking every now and then, but the very thought of receiving multiple orgasms and having earth shattering sex for hours with this man, makes my toes curl and my body feel flush. And I don’t generally react this way to my clients. I’ve never found myself turned on by any of them. I’ve always kept the lines between my professional and personal life clearly defined.

  I’ve seen pictures of Grant on Page Six and in other various newspapers and magazines. He’s perfect in every way. He is tall, measuring in at over six feet and appears dark and demanding. Even in a picture, it feels like he is looking through you. If he told you to drop your panties in the middle of church, you’d be compelled to do so. With his dark, curly hair and his piercing, blue eyes, this man could have sonnets written about him. Hell, I’ve thought up a few on my own, and I’ve never actually met him.

  But, alas, I never get involved with my clients, so I’ll have to find my orgasms somewhere else. My father always warned me never to mix business with pleasure. I’ve witnessed the scary, life altering results of such bad decisions, and I’ll never succumb to that temptation. Take a look around you the next time you are at work. Americans spend about a third or more of their time at work. When love goes bad, you’re forced to look at the other person day after day after day. Sheer torture if you ask me – to have to be pleasant to an ex after a bitter break up or to be forced to watch them date when you’re still in love with them. Just think of the secretary who thought her boss loved her, but instead refused to leave his wife. How do you think she feels whenever the wife drops in for a quick “lunch”?

  You wouldn’t shit where you eat, so why would you fuck where you work?

  I started my concierge business while still in college. I grew up in upstate New York as an only child. My mother was a school teacher, and my father worked as a field engineer for the local telecommunications provider. Money may have been tight, but I always had the things I wanted, and we always had fun together. I never felt any hard times my parents may have had.

  When I got accepted into NYU, I was beyond excited for my future. I was only a couple of hours away from my parents, living the high life in the city and going to the school I had always dreamed of. Then my father had a stroke during my junior year that left him completely debilitated. Seeing as how dad was the breadwinner, it didn’t take long for medical bills and the cost of living to deplete my parents’ savings. That is when money became so tight, everyone in my family could feel it constricting around our throats.

  I no longer had the luxury of their financial support, so after my scholarship, I was responsible for the rest of my education and living expenses. I know it was hard on them when they couldn’t finish giving me my education, but sometimes in life shit happens.

  I was twenty-one years old at the time, and I knew waiting tables wasn’t going to be the ideal situation with my school schedule and the way of life I was slowly becoming accustomed to living. There is so much to see and do in New York. It really is the city that never sleeps. Restaurants, museums, and clubs abound. I didn’t want to be forced to sit back and watch while my peers were out having fun and getting into trouble.

  That’s when my own fairy godmother came to rescue me.

  When the money troubles hit, my college roommate, Maya, reached out to her aunt Collette, a top fashion designer in the city. Over a holiday vacation, Collette had been complaining to Maya and her family about how desperately she needed an assistant – someone who would make her life easier. Someone who would do the nitty gritty errands and jobs that she found consumed too much of her time that she didn’t have to spare.

  That is where I came into play. I became that person for her. I was the one waiting for deliveries, picking up dry cleaning, folding laundry, and so on. I busted my ass morning, noon and night to make sure her expectations were met. I began craving her assignments. I was young and shopping in high end boutiques while networking with some of the most influential people in Manhattan. Serving her needs and being the best assistant I could be became my obsession.

  Collette was so happy with my work that she started referring her industry friends to me. People who didn’t require a full-time assistant at their beck and call. I’m talking big name clients that any personal assistant in the business world would give their left tit, or nut for the males out there, to have. And they were mine! All mine!

  They weren’t all easy to work with and the tasks weren’t all glamorous, but I was good at it. Damn good. I had found my calling. And over time, money became less and less of an issue.

  Being a personal assistant allowed me to be the control freak that I knew, deep down, I really was. Organization, control and essentially telling people how to run their lives – these are the things I specialized in. Throw a challenge my way, and I will beat it every time. I am that good!

  Of course, these character traits extend into my personal life as well. Some people say I keep myself too regimented and need to let go a little. I say there is nothing wrong with having things carefully crafted and planned. Chaos breeds disaster. Plain and simple. And that is not how I want to live.

  Besides, I don’t have a lot of free time to enjoy my personal life. I’ve had hookups, but nothing long-term. I live for my clients these days. A time will come when I can focus on me. Now, however, is not that time.

  Once I graduated from NYU, I had half a dozen clients and just as many new referrals looking to have me as their fairy godmother. Life was great. I moved into a quaint, one bedroom apartment in an up and coming neighborhood in G
reenwich Village and hit the ground running with my new business that I masterfully titled, Your Personal Concierge. Calling yourself a personal assistant is so last year… don't you think?

  Over the last decade, I guess you could say I’ve seen everything. And I do mean everything. The stories I could tell you would keep you laughing for days and wondering what the hell people with money were really thinking.

  Let’s see… There was the investment banker who was having an affair with his young, Swedish nanny. I walked in on him with his pants around his legs, literally, and his wife wasn’t much further behind me. Needless to say, the girl got deported and the wife took him to the cleaners, getting me in the divorce. I still have visions of him continuing to fuck her, while I watched, and then scrambling off her when the wife started throwing stuff at his head.

  Oh, and there was the Sweet Sixteen party for a snobby Manhattanite. The little brat made me organize a trip beforehand to Italy for her and her ten “closest” friends, so that she could find a one-of-a-kind dress to wear to her party. Then I had to convince the “it” rapper of the moment to appear at the party, just to have her snub him and decide I should have gotten another “it” rapper instead. That was embarrassing and a complete waste of her daddy’s money.

  To make it worse, she whined all night like Veruca Salt in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if she had started singing “Give it to me now.” She even had the nerve to kick a girl out of the birthday party just because the girl’s diamond necklace was bigger than hers.

  But the real kicker was when she disappeared, and I had to hunt the bitch down so she could cut her cake. For almost an hour, I scoured every nook and cranny of the rented mansion in the Hamptons, wearing the ridiculously high and uncomfortable shoes she insisted I wear, just to find her in the wine cellar. And what I found there had me cringing and wanting to bleach my eyeballs. She and another girl were experimenting with the bottles of wine, if you catch my drift. Not only were they underage, but they seemed to be enjoying it way too much for my liking. And when she realized that I could out her for being a lesbian, she tried to have me fired.