by Kennedy Ryan
I stand and gather our plates. Bristol, bottle in one hand and wine glass in the other, follows me to the door that leads back to the loft.
“I’ll think about it.” I gesture for her to walk ahead of me down the steps, mostly so I can catch glimpses of her ass under my shirt.
“Don’t just say you’ll think about it.” She looks over her shoulder, rolling her eyes when she catches me checking her out. “Really? You see me naked every day. Don’t guys ever mature beyond tenth grade?”
“Chronologically, yes.” I drop a kiss in her hair as I pass her propping the door open for me. “In dick years, no.”
Her phone dings from the coffee table in the living room. I hate that phone sometimes. Managing entertainers, her work is around the clock and all over the globe. Bristol’s clients are usually spread across a few different time zones and never take into account the one she’s in.
“Hmmmm.” She takes another sip of her wine without glancing up from her phone. “You still interested in that panel in New York? The Artist As Activist thing?”
As soon as she says ‘New York,’ I’m reminded of my quandary. I have to talk to her about next semester before the night is over.
“Uh, yeah.” I load our plates and utensils into the dishwasher, watching her across the open space. “Definitely.”
“Hmmmm.” Bristol continues scanning whatever she’s reading, a slight dip between her brows.
“What’s up?” I ask. “Something wrong?”
I cross the room to read over her shoulder. It’s an email from the organizer, a popular New York-based radio personality named Angie Black with an army of loyal followers. I’m pretty sure Black isn’t her real last name, but she’s a titan on Black Twitter, #BlackGirlMagic at its best. I study the details, trying to figure out what has Bristol grunting and scowling, and then one name leaps from the list of panelists Angie provided.
Qwest.
“I didn’t know Qwest was invited.” I keep my voice casual, pull Bristol’s hair back, and tuck my chin into the crook of her neck and shoulder.
“Hmmmm,” she non-comments again, stepping away to set her wine glass on the counter, her monosyllable speaking volumes.
“You okay with that?” I grab her wrist, forcing her to face me. I cup the smooth line of her neck and lift her chin so I can see her expression. “I don’t have to do the panel.”
She squints in consideration for a few seconds, her lip between her teeth.
“No, it’s fine,” she finally says. “Qwest performed on tour with you this summer for a few shows and everything was okay, right?”
Qwest joined me on tour for two shows and everything seemed fine, but then I did avoid her like syphilis when we weren’t on stage together.
“Yeah.” I nod, keeping the syphilis qualifier to myself.
“And you have to work on her next album, right?”
We struck a deal from the beginning—Qwest featured on my album, and I’d feature on hers. I also agreed to produce two of the other songs on her project.
“Those are all things I’m legally committed to do, though.” I kiss the corner of Bristol’s mouth. “If you don’t want me to do the panel, I won’t.”
“But you really want to do the panel.”
It’s a statement, not a question. She knows I’m taking every opportunity I can to talk about criminal justice reform and improving relations with law enforcement . . . so yeah, I really want to do the panel, but I don’t want Bristol feeling some type of way about Qwest and me doing this event together.
“I want to, yeah. It’s important.” I link our fingers and dip my head so we’re looking into each other’s eyes. “But not more important than you.” I settle our linked fingers over my heart. “Not as important as us, Bris.”
After a moment, she yields a smile.
“I’m fine with you doing the panel—on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“Piggyback ride.”
I fake exasperation, allowing her to shift the subject and lighten the air around us.
“Carry you up them steps?”
“Yes, up them steps.”
She turns me around and presses on my shoulder until I’m squatting. When she jumps on my back, my hands hook under her long, smooth legs. I pretend to struggle under her weight and she laughs. She sounds so happy I can’t help but grin thinking of my driven, sarcastic girl describing herself as a bird.
“If I give you a piggyback ride,” I tell her at the bottom of the staircase, “you give me a blow job. We’ll call it even.”
“What’s so special about a blow job?” She tightens her arms around my neck when I start up the stairs. “I give you one like every other day.”
“First of all, I can’t believe you actually just asked me what’s so special about a blow job. You may as well ask what’s so special about the Taj Majal. A blow job is practically an eighth wonder.” I press on as she laughs into my neck. “Second, the operative words there are every other day, so obviously, there’s room for improvement.”
“No, the operative word is blow job.” She lightly smacks the side of my head. “Sounds like work for me.”
“Well you’re employee of the month.”
“I better be the only employee.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me cheating.” I squeeze her thighs. “I like my balls attached.”
Her husky laugh draws an answering chuckle from me. We’ve reached the bedroom and she slides off my back, walks around me to stand at the foot of the bed, mischief in her eyes, and smiles.
“What’s a habitual line stepper?” She tugs at the hem of my shirt, emblazoned with the tagline, flashing black silk panties at the apex of her thighs. My eyes are glued there in case she lifts the shirt again—wouldn’t want to miss that.
“Huh?” I burn a look over her breasts taunting me through the white cotton. “What was the question?”
“Habitual line stepper?” she asks patiently, pointing to the front of the T-shirt.
“Oh, uh . . . it’s from a Dave Chappelle sketch, the one where Prince slaps Charlie Murphy.”
“Prince slaps who?” She shakes her head. “I don’t get it. I watched an episode and wasn’t that impressed. He just makes a bunch of racial jokes.”
“At least he makes fun of all races equally, and religion and politics and everything in between. Nothing and no one is safe. He’s a master of satire and social commentary, and funny as hell. You must have seen a weak episode.”
I take a step closer, lifting the hem to expose the smooth skin of her waist. I pull the shirt over her head and toss it into a corner. Her hair settles back around her shoulders, falling forward so her naked breasts poke through the dark strands.
“Forget Dave Chappelle,” I say huskily.
I could write a sonnet to Bristol’s nipples, the way they tip her breasts, the blend of pink and brown, roses and chocolate, shading her areola. I lean down to hover over them, my eyes snaring hers. Anticipation thickens the air.
“I’m wanna do to you what spring does to the cherry trees,” I whisper, paraphrasing the Neruda poem before taking one nipple in my mouth and laving it with my tongue. Like a flower waiting for spring, she blossoms. She blooms like sweet fruit ripening between my lips. I pull away, but her hands urge me back to her breast, pleasure tightening her pretty features.
I ghost my lips over the other neglected nipple. Where at first I was sweet, now I’m all teeth and rough suction, stretching my mouth, wide and hungry, over the other breast. Where I laved the other nipple, this one I lash with my tongue. Her nails sink into my shoulders and she fills the room with whimpers. I release her nipple, satisfied by the vivid red marks slashing the delicate skin. Breath fights to free itself from her lungs, laboring past her lips, heaving her breasts. I gently turn her around by the hip to face the bed and almost bite my fist at the sight of her.
Thong.
Teeny, tiny thong. Ass out.
I coax her panties
down her legs, inch by torturous inch. When she’s a naked, lithe stretch of lines and curves, I reach around to cup her breasts, tugging on those nipples until they peek between my fingers. Bristol’s breathing grows more ragged and she presses her back into my chest, circling her ass into my crotch.
I really wanted that blow job, but I’m not sure there will be time for that tonight. One hand stays right where it is, toying with her nipple as the other hand dips between her legs.
“Can you open for me?” I dust kisses across the elegant slope of her shoulders. She widens her stance no more than an inch, but I’ll take a mile. I press the flat of my hand between her legs and the thick, wet lips of her pussy press into my palm. I vary the cadence of strokes over her clit until she’s pumping into my hand, her hips chasing every thrust and her cries dying in her throat before they hit the air.
“Oh, God, Grip.” Her voice verges on a sob. Even when she vices around my fingers, I don’t let up the passionate pace between her thighs.
“That’s it, baby.” I drop to my knees, dragging my tongue down the smooth center of her back and over her ass. I clip the sweet flesh of each cheek between my teeth, relishing her startled gasp. Slowly, I press my hand to her back, bending her at the waist until she bows on the bed, on her knees. I scoot her forward, tilting her chest down and her ass in the air. With a rear view of her spread wide for me, I swipe my tongue down the inside of her thighs, drinking from the silky skin, wet with her juices.
“I’m getting drunk on you,” I mutter.
“Grip.” My name shatters on her lips, but it’s not enough. I want her unintelligible. I suckle her clit and slip two fingers in, smiling against her pussy when she pants into the duvet. I stand and strip then run my cock up and down her divide, soaking in her wetness as she presses back into me, offering me more.
“You have to fuck me now.” Her plea is breathless and urgent. She looks over her shoulder, her eyes glassy. “Please, right now.”
Her eyes beg me. Her pussy weeps for me. The complete surrender in every line of her body undoes me, the last strands of control snapping and popping as they give. The wild, loose parts of me grab her hips and flip her onto her back. I push her legs wide until her knees almost touch her shoulders and run my finger over the hot, wet pleat of flesh between her thighs. Her eyes flutter closed.
“Open your eyes, Bristol,” I say huskily. “Look at me when I fuck you.”
When she looks at me, her hair like a dark river twisting behind her on my bed, my damn knees feel weak. That’s what Bristol does to me with one look. That’s how weak she renders me without even trying. Her eyes are the color of moonlight and her love glows like stars. My whole universe is right here, and I don’t want to leave her and go to New York when the time comes.
Restless arousal shudders through her while she waits, while I stare. I shake off worry and uncertainty, dropping to my knees on the bed and lifting her by the hips. The sound of her breath hitching when I push in, when I invade that sacred space, tightens my balls. She’s a tight, slippery tunnel, and after one stroke, I lose my mind. Body overtakes brain, a coup of instinct usurping reason. I push her knee farther back so I can go deeper. I twist our fingers together, pressed into the pillow by her head. I’m vaguely aware of Bristol moaning, of her tightening around me, of her coming again, the evidence of her pleasure spilling all over me, and then it’s building in me, drawing my balls tight, flexing the muscles of my abs.
My love erupts. It blows.
I’m a geyser, a constant flow until the unrelenting rhythm of my body slows into something gentler, something tender. We press together, and beneath me she is crushed silk. My hot flesh and hers are slickened with the rigor of our passion, the sweat that bathes our skin. I don’t know if it’s mine or if it’s hers, but this moment, this perfect glass-blown moment where our bodies unite and our souls intersect, this moment belongs to us.
3
Bristol
I’ve survived a storm.
That’s how I feel every time Grip makes love to me, like a hurricane swept through and instead of taking shelter, I stood in the eye of it, the powerful wind whipping over me. I begged it to lift me. I let it love me. And this, the moments after, when the city lights shine through Grip’s wide windows and play over our naked, sweat-slicked bodies, when Grip’s fingers trace my back, playing over the vertebrae like keys on a piano, this is the quiet after the storm.
“I pulled your hair.” Grip’s voice comes quiet, still slightly hoarse. I screamed his name. He shouted mine. Our throats are raw from passion. My scalp still prickles from his forceful tugs of my hair. It’s not quite pain, and in the moment, it felt good enough to make it worth it.
Grip works his fingers through the hair spilling onto his pillow until he reaches my scalp to soothe and massage.
“Did it hurt?” He leaves an offering of kisses between my shoulder blades.
“No.” I lean back into his affection. “You know I love a rough fuck.”
He chuckles at my neck, his warm breath caressing the sensitive skin.
“Just making sure.”
He goes quiet again. We both do, for several long moments, where the only sound in the room is our breathing, and I swear I can hear his heartbeat . . . or maybe it’s mine. Maybe they’re the same, one not beating until the other does.
“I love sleeping you with you.” I don’t say it to fill the quiet—we don’t need that. I just want him to know.
“Me, too. Every night. Every morning.” I hear him swallow, feel his fingers go still in my hair. “Bris, there’s something we need to talk about.”
Finally.
“I know.” I roll onto my back and turn my head to catch whatever the city lights and the moon can show me on his face.
“You know?” He searches my eyes the way I’m searching his. “What do you know?”
“Not what you need to talk to me about.” I pull the sheet up from my waist and tuck it under my arm. It’s not cold at all, but as our bodies cool, I shiver. “I could just tell something was bothering you today in the parking lot.”
He nods, inching close enough to drop a kiss between my eyebrows, then in the hair at my temple.
“Do you remember me talking about a book I read while I was on tour called Virus?”
“Are you kidding?” A smile turns up the corners of my mouth. “You read it like three times and said it changed your life. It’s about criminal justice reform, right? Dr. Hammond?”
“Right.” Even in the dim light, I see that Grip is pleased. “You remembered.”
“Of course. I’m sorry I haven’t read it yet. It’s on my Kindle, I’ve just been so busy lately. I’ll get to it.”
“Hey.” A frown pinches his brows the tiniest bit. “You don’t have to read it because I did. I don’t want you trying to be something you’re not. Who you already are is exactly who I need you to be.”
“I know.” But it still feels good to hear it. Grip remains the good guy his mother raised to be a great man, the one who never forgets where he came from, but he’s evolving. Maybe there’s this little corner of my heart afraid I’ll somehow get left behind, and his words go a long way to assure me I won’t.
“Good.” He looks at me for an extra few seconds, like he’s checking to make sure I believe him. “Anyway, Dr. Hammond is a guest professor at NYU this semester.”
I sit straight up in bed, grinning down at him lying on his side, propped on his elbow with his head resting in his hand.
“Grip, that’s amazing.”
“Yeah.” He grins back at me, his eyes carrying answering excitement. “It’s pretty dope. Reading his book opened my eyes and shifted my priorities in a lot of ways. It provoked me to not only do more, but to figure out what I want to do.”
“So, with you enrolled online, how does that work?” I ask. “I mean, do you like audit the class by video? Or teleconference?”
Grip’s smile falls away and he licks his lips, dropping his eyes to the shee
ts between us.
“It’s not set up like that.” He looks back at me, emotions wrestling in his eyes. “I think I’ll have to move to New York for the semester.”
Air rushes past my lips. How did that not occur to me? It makes sense that he would move to New York. I know Grip’s ambitions go far beyond the stage, beyond music. He wants to have an impact, and the more involved he becomes, the more he requires of himself.
“Wow.” Even knowing that, the thought of him living in New York for months shipwrecks me. For a moment I’m flotsam, inwardly adrift, flailing. I’m really excited for him, but I know my voice is dull when I speak.
“You should do that.” I nod, convincing myself as much as him. “I think that’s awesome.”
“The class is three days a week.” Even though I’m staring at the anxious tangle of fingers in my lap, I know Grip’s eyes don’t leave my face. “But it’s Monday, Wednesday, Friday, so just the weekend between.”
Not much time to fly back and forth between coasts.
“I’ll come back to LA, of course,” Grip continues. “And you can visit me in New York. I figure we’ll see each other four, five times a month or so, sometimes more.”
I’m a punctured tire, all the air hissing from me. The excitement I felt, I can’t sustain at the prospect of so little time with him for the next several months.
“Hey, I know it’s not great.” Grip props his chin in my lap and wraps a wide palm around my hip, warming me through the sheet. “I don’t have to go. Maybe I should reconsider and—”
“No.” I shake myself out of self-pity and lean down to frame his strong jaw and high cheekbones, the face of a king, between my hands. “It’s right. It’s good. You need to do this, and I want it for you. We’ll figure it out.”
Grip tucks his head into my waist, kissing my stomach through the sheet and running his hand over the bare skin of my back.
“I know things are crazy at Prodigy right now, and that means more responsibility,” he says. “Rhyson’s trusting you with so much. It’s everything you’ve worked for, and I’m happy for you.”