Holiday Fantasy

by Adrianne Byrd

  My angel moans and squirms, and I have to hook my arms around her hips to lock her in place. I go in again, smacking and sucking as I make my way to her core. Her moans soon become orgasmic cries, and her legs tremble around my face, until at long last one drawn out cry fills the bedroom.

  I kiss my way back up my angel’s belly, chest and neck. I love the way her face glows in the moonlight and the way her breasts heave as though she’s completed a marathon. After I reach for another condom, I hold it out to her. “Do you want to do the honors?”

  I expect her to hesitate again, but she surprises me by reaching for it. But the feel of her fingers gliding down my erection is almost enough to do me in. When she lies back down, I hover above her hot, wet pussy for just a moment, waiting…

  She finally croaks the magic word. “Please.”

  I smile, and without further ado I enter and sink all the way down until our bodies meet. I watch her, mesmerized by the ecstasy rippling across her face. I did that for her. She deserves it.

  “Look at me, angel.”

  When she does, I begin to move inside her.

  “You feel so damn good,” I confess, straining to remain in control.

  “So do you,” she replies, holding my gaze and rocking her hips in sync with my own.

  We start off slow, but in no time a hungry desperation grips hold of me, and soon our bodies are bumping faster and harder. The dizzying friction soon has me struggling for breath and spiraling out of control until a hot rush of pleasure juts from me like a geyser and I roar up at the ceiling.

  Coco

  I don’t want to leave—but I have to.

  I hate to admit it, but I can’t think straight with Patrick looking at me, touching me and sexing me so good I can hardly breathe, let alone walk. I know I’ve been standing in this shower nearly thirty minutes and the water has long since turned ice-cold, but at the moment it’s the only place I can string two thoughts together.

  One thing is clear: I’m going to have to leave the district attorney’s office. I can’t imagine trying to carry on like business as usual after last night.

  I just can’t.

  Flashes of us in the car and, good Lord, my behavior in the man’s front yard—practically in front of his neighbor—send tidal waves of shame crashing in me.

  I sigh and try to keep my teeth from chattering, but I’m still unwilling to leave the shower’s solitude.

  “Hey, are you all right in there?” Patrick’s concerned voice penetrates the door and drowns out the water’s steady flow.

  “Uh, yeah. I’ll be out in a minute.” My words tremble through the space between us, and I realize a part of me wants him to come in and check on me—even join me in the icy waterfall—and the other part wants him to just go away.

  I’m losing it.

  As I stare out the shower’s glass partition, I see the door crack open and his dusty blond hair standing at attention. When his striking eyes settle on me, I swear the water begins to heat up again.

  “I’m making breakfast,” he informs me with a smile.

  At long last, I shut off the water and open the shower door. “It’s lunchtime,” I say, reaching for a towel.

  He doesn’t reply to this; he’s too busy staring. His look caresses every inch of me and drives me absolutely crazy. “Stop that,” I snap harder than I’d intended and stomp past him out the door. “Where in the hell are my clothes?”

  Patrick doesn’t say anything.

  “I said one night, and the night is over.” I search the bed, the furniture and the floor. Nothing. “First thing Monday, I’m turning in my resignation,” I throw at him, hoping to finally elicit a response.

  He still says nothing.

  “What the hell did you do with my clothes?” I shout, whirling on him.

  He glances up, and my eyes follows his to the ceiling fan. And there, like some cheap burlesque act, my gold dress is spinning around the room. I’m outraged, but at the same time it’s incredibly funny. I glance back at Patrick, and the moment our eyes meet, the tension dissolves into laughter.

  Undoubtedly feeling as if the coast is clear, Patrick approaches me with a confidence I should find disturbing. However, when his arms slide around my waist, it’s hard not to notice my body melting into him.

  “Merry Christmas, Courtney.”

  “Merry Christmas, Patrick.”

  We kiss. God help me. What’s happening to me? This entire situation doesn’t have a right angle in it, and yet I don’t want to leave him.

  And maybe I won’t.

  Birdie

  I’m giggling like a sixteen-year-old after the prom and loving it. I actually bagged a bag boy. I don’t want to psychoanalyze my behavior to death. Why did I do what I did, shouldn’t I feel guilty and am I going to do it again? Well, I can answer that last part: hell yes!

  Not only did I have the best sex of my life last night, I had some more this morning. And this afternoon. If I do keep this young pup around, I might have to send Victor into early retirement.

  I glance over at him. He’s like a double-chocolate cheesecake to a diabetic. I have no business wanting him.

  “You know, I have to leave,” I say, crawling over him on the floor to find my clothes. “Kenneth is going to swing the boys by the house at six.”

  Joel groans and catches hold of my leg. “But I don’t want to let you go.” He pulls himself up and actually kisses my butt.

  I giggle at his silly antics but close my eyes with a groan when he slides a finger into my sopping-wet kitty. At this rate, I’m going to be late.

  “Joel, I have to go,” I say, rocking back against his large hand. To my delight, he slides in another finger.

  “Okay, angel.” He kisses my back. “We can go in a minute.”

  I know how his minutes are—they turn into long half hours. When I hear the rip of yet another condom package, I wonder where in the hell all this energy I have is coming from. When he enters me from behind, I cry out in sheer pleasure. Then he pumps into me and his hands reach around to squeeze my breasts.

  “Oh, hot damn,” he croaks, pounding away. “Tell me when I’m going to see you again, angel.”

  Hell, I may never leave.

  “I want to see you again tonight,” he says.

  I want to see him, too. The kids are only going to be there for an hour or two before going back to their father’s.

  “Angel?” His lips return to plant soft kisses across my back, while his hips remain on autopilot. “Can I see you again tonight?”

  “Y-yes,” I finally say, damning the consequences and then exploding from the inside out.

  Joel’s roar quickly follows, and I can feel the strength of his release and am awed by it. Once I catch my breath and Joel finishes bathing me with kisses, I climb from the floor and rush for a quick shower.

  It’s five forty-five.

  I’ll never make it home by six.

  In the car, Joel can’t keep his hands off me, and I playfully scold him right up until he gets pulled over for weaving on the road.

  By the time he pulls up to the end of my driveway, it’s six-thirty and Kenneth is pacing by his car. He stops in his tracks and glares at us.

  “The kids must be inside.” I exhale and glance over at Joel. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours?”

  “You got it, angel.”

  He leans forward and I meet him halfway for a kiss. Mmm…double-chocolate cheesecake. I inch closer and pray I don’t go into a diabetic coma. Finally I turn toward the door.

  Joel stops me. “Wait.”

  Before I can question him, he climbs out of the car and rushes to the passenger door and opens it.

  “I’m young but a gentleman.” He winks.

  I blush as he takes my hand and helps me out of the car. I can actually feel Kenneth’s heated gaze burn a hole through me. And just in case my kids are watching, Joel delivers a chaste kiss against my cheek. “Two hours,” he whispers. “And you can leave the panties at home.
”

  I giggle and head up toward the house…feeling like a Christmas angel.

  Kimora

  Competition is healthy.

  Although, Elijah and I always take it to a ridiculous level. Neither one of us wants to be the first to say “I need a break” or “I need a moment to catch my breath.” Now this would be funny if I wasn’t so damn exhausted.

  I have small bruise marks on my wrists, rug burns on my knees and a rash of hickies from my neck to my hips. I’ve never been more pleased in all my life.

  I’m still smiling when I loll my head to the side and catch Elijah staring at me. He has that faraway look in his eyes again and it makes me nervous.

  “I love you,” he says.

  My heart squeezes, but I manage to reply, “I love you, too.”

  His stare intensifies. “I mean, I’m in love with you.”

  Though the statement is meant to deepen this moment of intimacy, in actuality it saddens me. “You’re in love with someone else, too,” I remind him.

  Just like that, the light in his eyes dims. “You know we’re getting a div—”

  “Don’t,” I say, determined not to tumble into the dark abyss of regrets. But I fall anyway. “Untie me.”

  Elijah hesitates, probably regretting his words, but then finally unties me. I rub at my sore wrists and then untie the scarves binding my legs.

  “Look, Kimora. Let’s just forget I said that and go back to—”

  “What? Go back to lying to ourselves?” The mood is irrevocably ruined, and I can’t believe that I’m about to start crying.

  “Look,” Elijah starts in again, his agitation evident in his body language. “Sometimes I think that we’re just playing this all wrong. We should be together. We’re so much alike.”

  “That’s right!” I shake my head and wipe at a tear before it dares to make a fool out of me. “We are alike. You’re a playa and so am I! I love my life. I love my freedom. The last thing I need is someone like you rolling through, trying to change the program.”

  I know what you’re thinking, and to tell you the truth I don’t know why I’m reacting so strongly. I know his situation—I always have. And up until a few minutes ago, I was cool with it. But now I realize I’m in love with him, too, and that’s just not acceptable.

  “Someone like me?” He laughs as though he can’t believe I went there. “Damn, girl. I just said I loved you, not that I wanted to marry you!”

  “But you’re thinking it.” I snatch up my dress, though without a bra I know my breasts are visible through the thin material.

  He freezes for a long moment and then asks in a whisper that I have to strain to hear, “Would that be so bad?”

  “You think I’m in some kind of hurry to be treated the same way you treat the current Mrs. Thomas? You got to be out of your damn mind.”

  He flinches as though I’ve struck him.

  More tears surface. I wipe madly at them and then grab my purse and shoes before I stomp over to the door.

  “C’mon, baby. Don’t leave. It’s Christmas.”

  He reaches for my arm, but I snatch it away. “I gotta go.” I open the door and then stop. Turning, I march back over to the tripod and eject the tape. “I’ll send you a copy.”

  “Kimora!”

  I move past him.

  “Kimora!”

  I bolt out the door, blinded by a fresh wave of tears. “Damn it! He just had to tell me he was in love with me. Idiot!” I rush to the elevator bay and jab the down button. In the distance I hear a door slam, and my heart leaps in fear.

  “Kimora! We need to talk!” I turn and see Elijah walking down the hall in the hotel robe.

  Danger, Kimora Evans. Danger!

  I jab the button again, and mercifully the elevator arrives. I quickly jump inside and Elijah’s walk becomes a run.

  “Kimora!”

  I push the close-door button and then sigh in relief when the doors close just seconds before he reaches them. See what love does to you, girls? It makes you incredibly messy…and incredibly weak.

  By the time the elevator arrives at the lobby, I’ve finger-combed my unruly hair and managed to get my shoes on. Unfortunately, at best, I look like an expensive hooker when I traipse out of the elevator with no underwear beneath a white dress.

  All the men’s eyes zoom toward me as I head out of the building. I hear a few women ask their men, “What in the hell are you looking at?” and even see a few of them get hit upside the head for staring.

  It’s a cheap high and an ego booster.

  As luck would have it, a taxi driver is just finishing a drop-off and he nearly falls all over himself to offer me a ride.

  “Thank you.” I kindly pat the older gentleman on the cheek and climb inside and then give him my address as he settles behind the wheel. As I turn to give the hotel one last look, I do a double take at the sight of Elijah racing through the lobby still in his robe.

  “Kimora!”

  I laugh as the driver pulls off. I can’t help it. It’s funny.

  “I trust you had a good Christmas,” the driver says as a conversation starter.

  Before I answer, I review my incredible party: Coco and her boss are finally doing the nasty; Birdie has hooked up with a hottie and hopefully gotten her groove back; and, of course, my incredible heavy-duty sex-a-thon. “It was pretty good,” I admit with a smile. But New Year’s is coming up, and of course there’s Valentine’s Day. “So many holidays—so many parties.”

  Who knows, maybe by then Elijah and I will have kissed and made up. If not, there’s plenty of fish in the sea.

  ’ROUND MIDNIGHT

  Donna Hill

  Chapter 1

  The control room was tight, like a pair of fifty-percent-off shoes you bought only because of the deal, even though you knew they’d be too small. The same cloud of air hung in the same place every day, building in size and strength with every exhale of onion, sour garlic, curry, and Tic Tac breath. WKQR FM had to be the tiniest radio station in America, Summer thought, not that she had any to compare it with, but anything smaller was impossible to imagine.

  Employees hustled in and out, turning sideways to get past each other to avoid becoming wedged between flesh and furniture. Most of the crew, the engineers, DJs and production staff stayed in faded jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers. Summer preferred casual but professional attire when she went on the air. Even though her audience couldn’t see her, it made her feel better to know that she looked good.

  She opened the door to the studio and stepped inside. She took a quick sniff. Danny D must’ve had curried chicken for dinner again. Danny was the celebrated host of Caribbean Beat—four hours of nonstop reggae. She popped a Tic Tac in her mouth.

  “’Ow ya be feelin’ der, doc?” Danny asked in his Jamerican patented dialect, leaving off all the “hs” in his words.

  “Not bad.” When she first arrived at the station nearly a year earlier, it had taken her months to decipher what it was he was trying to say to her. To this day, sometimes she still had to just play along, having long ago grown tired of asking, “What?”

  A reggae remake of Babyface’s mega-hit “Whip Appeal” pulsed through the speakers. Hmmm. Nonstop reggae. You just gotta love it, she thought. Or hate it. She hung up her Donna Karan leather jacket on the hook behind the door, and did a quick finger-wave to Leslie, her engineer, who was seated on the other side of the glass partition. Leslie had a job in the industry usually reserved for men. But then again, there had been many a time that looking at Leslie made you just say, “Hmmm.”

  Danny spoke into the mic, when he received his cue from Leslie to give Summer’s intro. “Comin’ at ya in about five with words for de ’eart and music for de soul is just ’Round Midnight wit Dr. Summer Lane. So stick around. Dis is Danny D signing off.”

  He removed his headset as an old Bob Marley classic wailed in the background. He eased out of the swivel seat and scooted behind Summer so she could slide into his place.

>   “’Ave a good show, Doc,” he said, moving toward the exit, his high-topped red, black, and green knit hat wobbling back and forth over a mound of dreadlocked hair.

  “Thanks.” Summer settled back and looked over the playlist of music that would provide her background for the evening and wondered who’d call her during the midnight hours.

  It had been nearly a year since she’d come to WKQR and she’d heard just about everything you could think of—from “How do I keep my man from whorin’ around?” to “What can I do about this rash?”

  She doled out plenty of commonsense advice, laced with humor and topped with R & B. She had a song to go with “whatever ails ya.” As a result her ratings were soaring through the roof. Her top-rated talk show had gone from two nights per week to five and the owner was begging her to sign a three-year contract. She wasn’t too sure about that, though. Working at the station was fine for the time being, but with her thirty-fifth birthday coming around the home stretch, and with a relationship of her own nonexistent, she wanted something more—and the pickings at WKQR were slim to none. Unfortunately the strange hours she worked kept her out of the social circle, and she slept during the day when the rest of the world was turning. Her biological clock was ticking.

  When she’d given up her private practice, on the heels of a potential scandal and in the hopes of writing her “relationship” book, she quickly realized she needed an income until she made her first million-dollar deal. That was two years ago, and the few pages she had managed to crank out were beginning to look a bit yellowed around the edges.

  How she landed her job at WKQR FM was purely by accident. She’d run into Carl Sloane, one of her old psychology professors from George Washington University, while she was window shopping one day in Georgetown. He’d started telling her about this radio job he’d just turned down but thought she’d be perfect for it.