Between the Sheets (9781476775807) (17 page)

“Fuck nah,” I murmur staring at the screen. “You gonna have to give me a lil' more if you tryna get my shit rocked.”

She runs her hands over her tits, pulls at her nipples, then slowly turns, giving me a slow-motion view of her entire body. When her voluptuous, round ass comes into view, I lick my lips. She has a heart-shaped tattoo on her right ass cheek. “Goddamn, this freak gotta fatty.”

“Who has a
fatty
?” Marika says, walking into the kitchen, wearing nothing but her robe. “Good morning.” She plucks a strawberry from off the tray on the isle counter.

I glance from the laptop over to Marika as she saunters over to me. The belt of her robe is tied loosely around her waist, allowing her robe to slip open. Before leaning in and kissing her on the lips, I cup a hand over my mouth and huff into my palm, then breathe in.

Although brushing my teeth was one of the first things I'd done when I rolled out of bed at five this morning, I still like my breath fresh when I'm tryna get some tongue. A kiss on the lips is one thing. Tonguing my wife down is another. And my breath has to be right.

It is.

I lick my lips, then pull Marika into me, covering her mouth with mine, slipping my tongue in. The sugary-sweet taste of the strawberry she'd bitten into lingers in her mouth.

“Good morning,” I finally respond, pulling back from her. I cup her ass, then smack it playfully.

She moans. “Mmm. What a way to start the day. A wet kiss from a sexy, naked man served with breakfast. It smells delicious.” She grabs my dick. “I'm starved.”

I grin. “Yeah, I bet you are. Keep grabbing my dick like that and you're gonna end up with it in ya mouth.”

She laughs. “I'll keep that in mind.” I eye her as she takes a seat. “So, what—or should I say, whose
fatty
—had you so engrossed on the computer before I walked in?”

I point to the laptop screen. Tell her about the email.

She grins, reaching for the pitcher of cranberry juice on the table, pouring some in a crystal tumbler. “So Miss Anonymous did email you. Nice. Let's see what she looks like?”

“Well, we still don't know what her face looks like, but here's what she sent.”

Marika stares at the screen. A slow smile creeps over her lips. “Ooh, she has the nerve to have a nice body.”

“True indeed,” I say, scooping eggs out onto her plate. “You want one or two sausage?” She doesn't respond. “Babe?”

“Huh?” I repeat myself. “One, please. Thanks.”

I laugh. “Yo, let me find out she got you all caught up.”

“I will say this, she's definitely tempting.”

“True,” I say, walking her plate over to her.

“Thanks. Everything looks good.” She bows her head and says grace, then slides a forkful of eggs into her mouth. “Mmm, these eggs are delicious.”

I join her at the table, sitting in a chair next to her. She chews and swallows, pointing at the laptop.

“So, what do you plan on doing with her?”

I smirk. “Uh. What would
you
like me to do with her?”

She tilts her head. “Would you fuck her?”

I grin. “Would you?”

She shrugs. “Under different circumstances, maybe. Depends on what her face looked like. And whether or not we clicked. You know it's always about the mental and physical connection.”

I nod knowingly. The “different circumstances” being if Miss Anonymous was someone we met at a private event instead of her being some horny radio listener tryna get a good fuck.

“Oh, by the way,” I say, reaching for my napkin and wiping my mouth, “before I forget. I got an email from Arianna. There's an album release party for Laila Evans next Tuesday.”

“Ooh, I love her music,” Marika says, taking a sip of her juice. With the highly anticipated release of her sophomore album, Laila Evans is R&B's hottest chick next to Beyoncé right now. A cross between Amel Larrieux and Rihanna, the five-foot-eight bombshell beauty has the whole industry turned upside down with her fiery talent and exquisite beauty. “Where's the party being hosted?”

I tell her at Club Amnesia over on 29th Street. That the doors open at ten and close at four a.m. “We can slide through real quick, make an appearance, then bounce before the party goes into full swing.”

Her brow furrows. “Please don't tell me this is open to the public. If so, I'll pass.”

Although Marika loves to mix and mingle, she's not really big on industry parties. And she typically doesn't attend them unless it's an artist she really digs or if I press her enough to go, which I usually don't.

“Nah, nah. Invitation only, baby. You know better than that. It's real exclusive. I'll have you home and tucked in bed by midnight.”

Her eyes sparkle, as if she's already planning the night out in her head. “Oh, I'll be ready to get
tucked
in bed all right, but it won't be to sleep,” she says teasingly.

“So that's a yes? You're going?”

She nods. “I'd like nothing more than to be there. Laila can sing to me anytime.”

I grin. “Real talk, baby. She could get the dick if she wasn't on our label.”

Marika smirks, running a hand along her neck. “I'd have to taste her juices, first.”

My mouth waters. “Oh, no doubt, baby. She'd definitely have to sit on that sexy tongue of yours.” She slides her tongue over her lips, then flicks it up and down. My dick twitches. “Let me get some of that.”

I lean over and kiss her, parting my lips as she slides her tongue in. Chills slide down my spine as her slick tongue slides around mine. Her robe comes open at the belted waist, exposing her bare thighs, her naked pussy. Shit. I groan into her mouth, feeling my dick stretch. Marika's the only woman who knows how to fuck my head up with just a kiss.

I reach for her. Squeeze her right breast as my free hand eases between her legs.

Marika's eyes slide closed as my fingers skim her pussy, pushing her lips apart and making her gasp. She's already wet. Real wet. And hot.

A deep sigh escapes her. “Oooh, baby. Mmm…you're going to make me late.”

I groan. “Fuck 'em. They'll survive.”

“But….”

“Just a taste, baby,” I murmur into her neck. I nip at her ear.
“Juste un avant-goût.”
I repeat in French.

She moans. “You know it drives me crazy when you speak French in my ear.”

“I know, baby.
J'aime vous faire fou.”
I tell her I love making her crazy.

She moans again as I slip a thumb into her mouth. Let her suck it into her mouth like a thick clit. And right then, the shit makes me go weak with want.

Fuck.

She holds my hand in hers. Pulls my thumb out of her hot mouth and closes it around my index and middle fingers. She sucks them forcefully, causing my dick to throb as I finger-fuck her with my free hand. Her wet heat smothers my fingers, coats my hand.

I can't take much more of this teasing shit. I'm ready to put in some work.

Tongue, first. Dick, second.

My dick bows upward, bouncing and pulsing. I stand up and scoop Marika up in my arms, sweeping the dishes off the table with an arm, making room to lay her on her back. Glasses and plates, eggs and sausages hit the floor.

“Wait, baby,” she says breathlessly. “What are you doing?”

“I want you in…my mouth…on my tongue. All of you.”

I push her legs back. My fingers spread her open. Then my face disappears. I lick and lave and kiss her folds. Smear my lips into her juices. Then bury my tongue deep inside of her.

“Ooh, yes…yes, baby! Eat my pussy! Oh, God, yesss…”

Marika has me going crazy with need.

The crazy need to taste her sweet cunt, to tongue her, to lick her, to suck her in.

And then…

I'm gonna slide this dick in her and coat her pussy walls with my nut.

Marika

Six-thirty p.m., I'm whisking through the glass doors of Tamarind Tribeca—a trendy Indian restaurant on Hudson Street, to have dinner with Jasmine. She'd called earlier today to say she was in the city. And wanted to meet for dinner and drinks.

The moment I walk in, I spot her sitting at the bar talking to a tall, delicious, dark-skinned man, with a smooth shaven face and bald head, donned in a black suit. Jasmine sees me and waves a hand in the air, sliding off the barstool. The gentleman smiles and welcomes me as she wraps her arms around me, kissing me lightly on the cheek. “Hey, girl.”

“Hey,” I say, hugging her back. “I see you found your way to the bar.”

She laughs. “And if I were single”—she nods her head in the direction of the maître d'—“I'd find my way into the arms of that fine specimen of a man.”

I glance over my shoulder, eyeing him on the sly. “Girl, he
is
fine.”

He looks over at us, and smiles.

Her mouth curves in a familiar smile. Then she looks back over at him. “Yes he is. And Nigerian.” She wriggles her eyebrows up and down.

I grin, knowing all too well her deep attraction to African men. All through high school and college all she dated were men from Africa. Her three serious boyfriends were Nigerian, Kenyan, and Sudanese, respectively. Yet, she married Stevie, who is handsome nonetheless, but far from African.

“Ooh, straight from the Motherland,” I tease.

“Yes, Lord.” She shakes her head and waves a hand, causing her jet-black, shiny bob to swing. “I'd love to see him in a loincloth.”

“Ladies, your table is ready,” the attractive hostess interrupts, walking up to us holding a set of menus. She escorts us to a table upstairs.

We take our seats, and within seconds, a server appears and asks us for our cocktail selection. We both order mango cosmopolitans, then eye him as he walks off to place our drink orders.

“So, how are the twins making out since we last spoke?”

She rolls her eyes, giving me a dismissive wave, sending her diamond and gold bangles jingling. “Girl, please. Don't even get me started. Amina is two seconds from being shipped off to a boarding school in the Swiss Alps somewhere. And unless I find a chastity belt to lock her in, Amira is mostly like going to end up being shipped to a convent once she's healed and her stitches are removed.”

I chuckle, but I'm silently relieved that Marcel and I don't have any children. Not that we haven't talked about it. But we're both so career-driven and so into each other that having children hasn't made the top of our “to-do” list, especially not since the two miscarriages four years ago. And after watching Jasmine get dragged through the wringer by her daughters, living vicariously through her woes of motherhood has definitely made the idea of having kids less and less appealing.

“Hopefully they'll see the light. And things will get better.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh. “When? Before or after they run me ragged?”

I reach over and grab her hand, giving her a gentle squeeze and a sympathetic look. “I feel your pain.”

“Thanks. Okay, enough about my drama,” she says as the waiter returns. He sets down our water, and drinks, then gives his spiel on tonight's specials. We listen to him rattle off a list of delectable dishes, before I tell him we'll need a few moments to decide.

Grabbing one of the menus, Jasmine looks it over. “Mmm. Everything looks delicious. I can't decide between the Tamarind scallops or the Lobster Masala.”

“Girl, they're both delicious,” I say, flipping through a menu as well. “You can't go wrong with either dish.”

Tamarind's is one of my favorite Indian restaurants in the city. I'd been looking forward to tonight's meal all day while enjoying the company of my soror and best friend.

“Are you ready to order”—Jasmine nods at the approaching waiter—“I'm starving.” She licks her lips, lifting her glass and taking a sip from her drink.

He leans in and attentively takes our orders. Jasmine orders the scallop dish with a side of lemon rice. And I order the spinach and garlic rice along with the spinach patties with intentions of sharing some with Marcel when I get home.

The waiter takes our menus, then saunters off. I toss my linen napkin over my lap, then lean forward, resting my forearms on the crowded table. “So how's Stevie?”

She drolly rolls her big doe-like eyes and sips from her cosmo. “Compulsively obsessed with work, always looking to make his next million.”

I smile knowingly. For as long as I've known Stevie he's always been a go-getter. Driven. Even though he was born into a well-to-do family, he's always prided himself on making his own way, which is why he opted to not work in his family's billion-dollar hair care business.

“But no matter how much he works, he always makes time for the three most important women in his life,” she adds. There's a hint of admiration and lots of love in the way she says this. And I can't help but think of Marcel and his love for me. “I wouldn't trade him in for nothing in the world.”

“We both married great men,” I agree, taking a sip of my drink.

The waiter returns with our dishes, setting our plates down in front of us, then checking to see if we need anything else. My stomach rumbles. And I think I hear Jasmine's rumbling as well. Neither of us wait for the waiter to walk off before we're quickly saying grace, then digging in.

“So let me ask you something,” Jasmine says, between chews of scallops. “If Marcel ever cheated on you, what would you do?”

I blink, caught off guard by the random question. I chew the portion of food in my mouth, then swallow. “Well, I'm not sure how to answer that,” I say, setting my fork down on my plate and raising my brows. “I mean. There's no reason for him to ever have to cheat on me. I'm open enough to allow him a free pass to screw whomever he wants with some rules, of course.”