Phillip recognized an open invitation in the eyes meeting his. “I’ve never had any complaints.”
“If that’s the case, then you’re hired,” Seneca whispered.
His hands went to her shoulders, pulling her to his chest. “Can you afford me, baby?”
Seneca exhaled an audible breath. Sexually sparring with Phillip was new for her, something she hadn’t experienced with her first lover. But then, she had to remind herself that Phillip Kingston wasn’t a boy but a man.
“What if I can’t?” she asked, purring like a cat.
“Then we’ll have to come up with something that’s amenable to both of us.”
“Do you have any suggestions?”
Phillip’s impassive expression successfully concealed the satisfaction coursing throughout his body. He finally had Seneca Houston where he’d wanted her since coming face-to-face with her for the first time. When he’d glanced across the living room in Booth Gordon’s condo and saw the woman who seemingly had floated in with a garment draped over her slender body that revealed as much as it concealed, he knew he had to have her; he wanted Seneca like he’d wanted to join the NBA, like he wanted to become a doctor.
He’d approached her, the slogan of his favorite tattoo, “Now Is The Time,” echoing in his head. Phillip had hoped to catch her unawares, but she’d turned the tables because she knew who he was. She hadn’t gushed, gone mushy or thrown herself at him like so many other women did once they were cognizant of his carefully scripted superstar status. However, Seneca Houston had flipped the script, leaving him to do the chasing.
“I’m mulling over a few, but there is one we can do right now,” he said after a pregnant pause.
Seneca’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“I shared your bed last night, so I’m inviting you to share my bathtub.”
“Okay,” she agreed, flippantly.
The look of shock freezing Phillip’s features was priceless. “Really?”
“How many models have you dated?”
He blinked once. “You’re the first one.”
She gave him a look that parents, whenever exasperated, usually reserved for their children. “One thing models aren’t and that’s modest. Taking off my clothes for you isn’t any different from my posing nude for an artist.”
Phillip gritted his teeth in frustration. It was as if Seneca was testing his very manhood. He swallowed the expletive poised on the tip of his tongue. “Go get what you need from your suite, and I’ll fill the bathtub.” He’d wanted to tell her that athletes also weren’t reticent about taking off their clothes. All she had to do was visit a locker room before or after a game to know that.
“Are you angry with me, Phillip?”
His eyebrows flickered. “Why would you ask me that?”
Reaching up, Seneca ran a fingertip over his right eyebrow. “This eyebrow lifts just a fraction whenever you’re upset about something.”
He caught her wrist. “Do you really think you know me that well?” Seneca tried pulling away, but he increased his grip.
“No, I don’t know you that well,” she countered. “But what I do know is that you have a nasty habit of grabbing me.”
Phillip dropped her hand. “I’m sorry, baby. I’d never hurt you.”
Going on tiptoe, Seneca pressed a kiss to his throat. “I know you wouldn’t. But you probably aren’t aware of your own strength.”
Cupping the back of her head in his hand, Philip buried his face in her hair. “You’re right. Anytime I go Neanderthal on you, please stop me.”
He always meditated before every game in order to turn on the switch in his head when he’d become a fierce and aggressive competitor. At six-six, he was shorter than many of the other players, but he made up for the difference with tenacity and excellent hand-eye control. His stats included leading the league in the highest number of three-point totals two years running.
Seneca nodded, smiling. “I will.” She kissed his chin. “I’ll see you in a little bit.”
Phillip watched her walk, her hips swaying sensually, as if she were on a runway. A knowing smile softened his features. Yes, he mused. Seneca Houston fit perfectly into his plans for his future. However, he had to tread carefully or he would lose her. Although he liked her spirited personality, her mouthing off at him was bothersome.
When he’d first joined the NBA he’d overheard some black players say they didn’t date black women because they always had attitude. In other words, they didn’t know their place, that when given the opportunity they tended to emasculate a man. Phillip had thought it was an excuse for them to date or marry women outside of their race.
It hadn’t happened with him, therefore, he considered himself luckier than the others. It wasn’t that Seneca had an attitude but that she was as derisive as she was beautiful. What she didn’t know was that he had the perfect remedy to counter her acerbic tongue, and it was between his legs.
Seneca stripped off her clothes, leaving them in a large wicker basket that doubled as a hamper in her en suite bathroom. She hadn’t spent a night in the hotel but knew she could very easily get used to living there. The thought that Phillip could get anything he wanted with a single telephone call astounded her. During the ride back to the hotel he’d disclosed that he’d ordered dinner in his suite for later that evening, and she would have the option of dressing up. When she’d tried to get him to divulge what they were celebrating he’d remained tight-lipped, which led her to believe the dinner was going to be more than room service bringing a cart with covered dishes.
She lingered in the bathroom long enough to remove the elastic band from her hair and comb it with a wide-tooth comb before she brushed her teeth. Returning to her bedroom, she picked up a blood-red kimono off the foot of the bed and slipped it on. Walking on bare feet, she went through the door connecting the suites and into Phillip’s bathroom.
Leaning against the door frame, Seneca smiled at the man lounging in the tub; the swirling water from the Jacuzzi lapped against his chest. “Waiting long?” she asked, her sultry voice lowering an octave.
Phillip, stretching his arms along the ledge of the tub, nodded. The motion accentuated the corded muscles in his long arms. “Yes,” he confirmed verbally. “I’ve been waiting all of my life for someone like you.”
Seneca opened her mouth to tell him that he was being overdramatic, that he’d probably seen too many romantic-themed movies, but she wasn’t able to get the words out. It was as if her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth.
“Same here,” she whispered, not knowing where the admission had come from.
Had she lost her mind? What spell, she mused, had Phillip Kingston cast over her, that she’d agreed to stay with him in his hotel suite like a kept woman? She was Seneca Ileana Houston, soon-to-be Butterfly, and she’d permitted herself to succumb to the good looks and superstar status of a man adored by the sports world and women from coast to coast.
She’d been one of those who’d opened a copy of Essence magazine to find Phillip Kingston staring out from the glossy page and had experienced a rush of moisture flowing between her legs. It was the first and only time she’d found herself enthralled with the face and body of a man who’d become eye candy for millions of women. She never would’ve imagined meeting the man, or agreeing to share a bathtub with him.
With wide eyes, she stared as Phillip pushed to his feet, water streaming off his magnificent body. Her gaze went to the thick length of flesh hanging between muscled thighs. “Come on in, baby. The water’s perfect.”
Seneca shook her head. If Phillip hadn’t stood up she would’ve gotten into the tub with him. But just seeing how well he was endowed frightened her. He didn’t have an erection, but he was huge! There was no way he could fit inside her.
“No, Phillip,” she whispered.
He beckoned to her. “It’s all right. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do.”
She took several
steps. “It’s not you.”
“Who is it?”
Seneca forced a smile she didn’t feel. “It’s me, Phillip. It’s been almost two years since I’ve slept with a man, and to say I’m horny is an understatement. I’ve told myself that I don’t want or need a man, but I know that’s a lie. The truth is I need one in the worst way. I never thought I would ever resort to masturbating, but I do it just to get some relief.”
Phillip whispered a silent prayer of thanks. Seneca was so pumped and primed he could almost smell sex coming off her in waves. He beckoned again. “Come get in.”
Moving as if she were being pulled by an invisible wire, she approached the tub and untied the sash to the kimono, letting it fall to the floor. A modicum of bravado returned when she heard the soft whoosh of breath from Phillip. He extended his hand and she took it like a trusting child. His free arm went around her waist and he hoisted her into the tub.
Never had Seneca been more aware of the differences in their bodies as she was now. Pressed to his length, she felt the raw power in Phillip’s arms and hands as they moved up to her neck. His fingers circled her neck. A smile flitted across her face when his lips parted seconds before his head lowered and he slanted his mouth over hers.
Breathing the raw essence of his masculinity, she opened her mouth to his rapacious tongue. She went still when the tip of his tongue touched her palate before she collapsed against his chest.
Phillip felt Seneca go pliant in his arms. She was his, his for the taking. At that point he knew he could do anything to her that he wanted to do. But he didn’t, only because of her sexual inexperience. Although she’d admitted to sleeping with one man, he still thought of her as a virgin. What, he mused, could she have learned from an insensitive and no doubt bumbling adolescent boy?
His first sexual encounter was at sixteen, when an older and very experienced woman offered to “make him feel good.” She did, and then the tables were turned when he was the one who’d made her feel good. She was an incredible teacher and he a willing and apt student. Phillip continued to sleep with her until he left for college, and whenever he returned for school breaks he sought her out. It ended when she left L.A. to marry a man who lived in Florida. Her send-off gift was to keep him in bed for three days. When he was finally able to escape, his penis, despite his wearing a condom, felt as if it had been put through a meat grinder.
The one thing his sexual mentor had taught him, and he never forgot, was to make certain a woman was satisfied before he was. Phillip found meditating helped him to focus—spiritually and physically. However, upon awakening to discover that he’d had a wet dream had left him baffled and uneasy, because he feared losing control with Seneca.
“Come on, baby, let’s sit down,” he urged, as much for his benefit as hers.
Seneca held on to Phillip as if he were her lifeline when he eased her into the warm, swirling water to sit between his legs. “Aaagh! That feels wonderful.”
Phillip emitted a low moan. The water felt good, his hands splayed over Seneca’s flat belly felt good, and his semierect penis bobbing up and down against her hips felt very, very good.
“Are you okay?” Seneca asked.
He moaned again. “I’ve never been better.”
Turning her head, she stared out the window above the marble ledge with a vase of fresh flowers and candles in varying heights and shapes. Phillip had slid back the privacy screen. The sky was awash with streaks of blue and orange as the sun sunk lower in the horizon.
“If I lived here I’d turn off the light, light candles and sit in the tub to watch the sun set.” Her voice was pregnant with longing.
Phillip traced the outline of her ear with his tongue. “That can be arranged.”
She closed her eyes. “What are you saying?”
“Move in with me.”
Seneca’s eyes opened, shifting slightly to stare over her shoulder at Phillip. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
His expression was unreadable. “No, I’m not. You can have your own suite.”
“What about your parents?” she asked.
“I’ll put them up in another suite. Besides, they don’t come to New York that often.”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m comfortable living where I am.”
“You wouldn’t have to worry about paying rent.”
Shifting until she was facing Phillip, Seneca straddled him, her arms going around his neck. “Do you invite every woman you sleep with to live with you?”
Staring at her under lowered lids, Phillip smiled at the woman who’d become in his estimation the epitome of perfection. “No.”
“Then why me, Phillip?”
He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. “I haven’t slept with you. Sharing a bed doesn’t count,” he said when she opened her mouth to refute him.
“All right,” Seneca conceded, “let me rephrase my question. You’ve just met me, in fact know nothing more about me than what I’ve told you, yet you want me to live with you.”
Phillip mentally shifted gears. He had to hook up with Seneca Houston before she became the supermodel Booth had promised to make her into. And knowing Booth Gordon as well as he did, there was little doubt the reincarnated Svengali/Rasputin clone would make Butterfly one of the most sought-out high-fashion models in the world.
“It would work well if we’re going to be a couple.”
“What about Electra?”
“What about her, Seneca?” he asked, answering her question with another one.
“I’m committed to half the rent.”
“I’ll pay her for you.”
Again, Seneca felt a flicker of apprehension course through her. She couldn’t wrap her head around someone like Phillip Kingston pursuing her like a large cat stalking prey. She had barely walked into Booth’s condo when he’d approached her. Men who looked like Phillip and earned millions a year usually didn’t do the chasing but were chased by women plotting and scheming to get them into bed with them, regardless whether their ulterior motive was sex, marriage or a baby—of which she wanted none. No, she corrected—she didn’t want sex as much as she needed it. “Can you slow it down a little, Phillip?” she asked. “Let’s give ourselves the summer to see if we’re able to get along with each other. It’s one thing to play to the camera and another once we go home and close the door.”
The tense lines in Phillip’s face relaxed. He knew he was coming on strong, but he’d hoped Seneca would jump at his offer. She would have her own suite, and he would leave it to her discretion whether she wanted to sleep with him. What he’d wanted to do was to make her unavailable for other men.
“Do you want to set a date?”
“How about Labor Day?”
He smiled. “That sounds reasonable. By that time I’ll have to report for preseason practice.”
Seneca pressed her breasts to his muscled chest. “I think we’ll get along well if you don’t put too much pressure on me.”
Phillip’s smile grew wider. He splayed his hands over her back, pulling her closer. “I know you’ll stop me if I do.”
Burying her face between his neck and shoulder, Seneca closed her eyes. “You can count on that.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a very personal question?”
“No. What is it?”
“How did you get that Charlie Chaplin mustache on your beaver patch?”
She eased back, her gaze meeting and fusing with an amused one that sent a rush of heat across her face. Her mouth opened and closed several times. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that!”
His eyebrows lifted. “I did ask your permission.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice.
Seneca swallowed back her embarrassment. “I had it threaded.”
Lines deepened around Phillip’s eyes when he laughed. “You have your pussy threaded?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I have my pubic area threaded. Whenever I model lingerie or swimwear I can’t have any super
fluous body hair. The first time I tried waxing I ended up with a reaction. And shaving leaves little bumps, so I went the threading route.”
Phillip’s fingers grazed her mound. “I think it’s cute. Scoot down so I can massage your legs.”
He’d told her he wanted to massage her legs when it was another part of her body he wanted to touch. Seneca had asked that he slow down his pursuit of her, and he would. She wasn’t going anywhere and neither was he. His one consolation was her revelation that her sexual urges were strong enough for her to resort to masturbating.
Now all he had to do was wait, wait for her to come to him to take care of her sexual needs. One of his favorite Seal songs was “Waiting for You.” He hadn’t realized the significance of the lyrics until he met Seneca Houston.
Chapter Eleven
Seneca woke Saturday morning disoriented. She wasn’t in her bed, she wore a T-shirt instead of pajamas or a nightgown, and it wasn’t until she sat up to see the drawn drapes that was she aware of her surroundings. She wasn’t in her own bedroom in the Upper West Side brownstone but in Phillip’s hotel suite. Closing her eyes, she remembered drinking the second glass of wine but didn’t remember going to bed.
Dinner the night before had been nothing short of perfection. Phillip had ordered room service, and the chef had prepared the dishes while they’d looked on; a waiter stood at the ready to take care of all their dining needs. He had refilled their water goblets and wineglasses and picked up and set down each course with expert precision. Once the chef and waiter left, she and Phillip lay on the chaise, staring out the window talking and listening to music. After a while, the effects of the wine won out and she fell asleep.
Throwing off the sheet, she walked on unsteady legs to the bathroom. Despite spending time in the Jacuzzi and Phillip’s massage, the muscles in her calves were still somewhat tight.
Seneca brushed her teeth, followed by rinsing her mouth with a peppermint mouthwash, then stepped into the shower stall. The shower had become the magic cure. She felt almost normal. Damp curls hung around her face as she pulled on a set of underwear and a pair of lounging pants with an oversize T-shirt.
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