Best Black Women's Erotica (19 page)

His housekeeper, Lourdes, appeared in the blur of her ivory-colored uniform, taking the plate of fruit in a rushed, fluid motion. Reid leveled a severe gaze at Lourdes. “How the hell did these get in here?” Reid asked, his voice so low Martine almost couldn't hear.

“I don't know, sir.
Lo siento mucho.”

“Martine almost ate one.”

“I'm so sorry, sir. I am.” Lourdes met Martine's eyes for a fleeting moment with a smile that was both a greeting and an apology, and then she hurried away.

Without a word, Martine waited for an explanation, but there was none. His gaze preoccupied, Reid let his hand find the small of her back as he led her east, toward the stairway.

“I think is time I give you a proper welcome,
oui?”
he said in a sing-song voice, a perfect imitation of his grandmother. He nudged her hip with his erection.

Martine liked the sound of that, but she was still bothered by his sudden mood shift. Reid's mother had cleaned houses herself, and Martine had never seen him snap at his staff. “You OK?”

Reid finally looked at her, and half his mouth drew upward into an unfinished smile. “Yeah, sorry. Things are on the crazy side right now. Lourdes is taking a leave after today. Maya is just too much for her to handle.” He sounded tired.

Try as she might, Martine could not ignore the unfamiliar name. “Maya…?”

“You'll meet
her
in a bit,” Reid said, his smile reaching a sweet perfection.

My God, Martine thought with alarm, this man is actually in love. Or he thinks he is. The two feelings, Martine knew, were wholly interchangeable. Her stomach felt stony, but she forced out a trite, breezy response: “Gee, Reid, why is it that the women in your life never get along?”

Reid only chuckled, offering nothing. She knew better, but she prayed that Maya was only Reid's new Rottweiler. That would be nice, for a change.

But Martine forgot that thought, and everything else, once they reached the guest room and she felt Reid's warm, wide tongue tunnel its way into her ear. As he gently pulled off her blouse and then her bra, Reid lapped at Martine's skin, setting small brush fires on her neck, her nipples, her navel. His movements were so lavish they almost seemed studied, but with a rhythm that was pure instinct. His tongue felt as broad as the palm of his hand, and it seemed to wrap itself around her. Her nipples were already as hard as raw peas, nearly aching from arousal, and they thrilled under Reid's vigorous, eager licking. He flicked, circled, and then sucked at her with his mouth and tongue in concert, pressing his torso against the ridge between her legs. Martine felt a tide of pleasure traveling from her breasts to her swelling clitoris, which was already anticipating the arrival of Reid's tongue. Reid's fingers made teasing butterfly motions against her pubic hair, and Martine squirmed. “Please,” she whispered, already begging. “
Please
, Reid.”

Smiling, Reid obliged her.

Reid was the first man who had ever performed oral arts on her, back when they were still in school, and he'd had the gift long before he'd had much practice. Many men had pleasured her with their tongues since—and some of them with true originality—but it was only when Martine was with Reid again that her body knew it was back at home. Coaxed by his tongue, something inside of her unlocked.

A dart here. A dart there. Unexpected plunges into her vagina, then a quick, delicious exploration deep between her buttocks. Suddenly, to Martine, everything between her legs collapsed into moisture, wetness, and each of Reid's rapid-fire motions became indistinguishable from the last. She felt herself
quivering, vibrating. His tongue had taken her now. She was his instrument, and he had tuned her. He was making her sing.

Martine screamed so loudly that any passerby would have mistaken her cries for the last pleas of a woman certain to die.

The year
Judas
was released, soon after the film won all those Golden Globes and critics were slobbering all over Reid as if the Second Coming had arrived at last, he called her one night very late, in a hushed, reverent tone: “She's here.”

“Who?”

“The Thai woman. Didn't I tell you?”

He had purchased a woman in Thailand. She was a prostitute he'd met on vacation in Bangkok, and he'd literally
bought
her from her pimp for twenty thousand dollars. Absurdly, the way a new parent would show off his child, he e-mailed Martine pictures of the plain, boyish-looking woman. She couldn't be older than twenty. She spoke very little English, he'd written—mostly dirty words. He was deliriously happy.

That was the first time he had ever made her truly angry. “Isn't that slavery, Reid?”

“Don't be ridiculous. She's a rich woman now,” he said.

After that, he stopped calling Martine with news about the woman and the carnal talents she'd learned since her introduction to the pleasure business when she was fourteen. Soon after, when his prize had borne him two sons, it seemed she didn't want to be a whore anymore; she wanted to be a wife and mother. Reid admitted to Martine that his obedient little Thai woman had suddenly become liberated and had threatened to take his children back to Bangkok when he moved two of his girlfriends into the house. To appease her, Reid bought her and his sons a condo on South Beach, ten minutes away, and he set out in search of less mundane pursuits.

One of his new girlfriends, he said, had been born without legs. She threw temper tantrums if he didn't have sex with her three times a day, and the sex was amazing. He spoke in great detail about the benefits of the flexibility allowed by her missing limbs, but she had stopped listening by then, trying to blot out the image in her mind of Reid's muscled arms lifting a legless woman's torso up and down the length of his beautiful cock.
Her
beautiful cock.

No wonder the Thai woman moved the children out, Martine thought.

She learned to stop asking questions.

The table was draped in a white tablecloth beneath the orange glow of lawn torches at the bank where Reid's yard met the intercoastal waterway. Martine and Reid had been alone at the table for ten minutes, sharing a bottle of a sweet South African Riesling, when Maya appeared.

Martine had often read about people described as
elfin,
but she'd never met anyone who so literally fit the description until Maya slipped into her seat. She was not even five feet tall and must have had the bones of a sparrow to look so delicate. She wore tight-fitting jeans and a black nylon T-shirt that clung to her nearly nonexistent breasts. But she was too feminine, too lithe in both form and movement, to be called
boyish,
not like the Thai woman, Panida, had been. Especially now, with a smile on lips glowing with a deep, natural rose. Her skin was either deeply tanned or naturally honey-colored.

The woman was not beautiful, but she was certainly appealing, so Martine wondered what her imperfection was—unless, of course, Reid had finally found someone who attracted him on a basis higher than novelty. Reid clasped Martine's hand, stroking in a slow circle with his thumb, probably to help put her at ease.

“Did you enjoy the strawberries?” the woman asked Reid, ignoring Martine's presence at the table. Martine picked up a trace of an accent she couldn't identify.

Martine could see only Reid's profile, but his jaw was so rigid that it looked like a stone carving. He must be staring at this woman with a level of rage she had never seen in Reid. This pleased her, until she remembered the symbiotic relationship between fury and love.

“What are the rules, Maya?”

“I was just being nice, that's all. I missed you.”

“Bullshit. What are the rules?”

“I swear, Reid, I just wanted to—”

“Oh, really?” Reid said. He moved a hidden hand from beneath the table, and Martine saw that he was holding the bowl of strawberries, like a misplaced movie prop. Two strawberries jumped from the plate when he dropped it to the table. “Why don't you have one, then?” Reid asked, his grin steel. “Please. Help yourself.”

Maya's jaw shifted as though she were chewing gum, her smile gone. “I hate to ruin my appetite after what's-her-face went through so much trouble to get those crabs. Maybe later.”

“You better remember the rules. Is that clear? Or next time, you
will
eat one.”

Martine could feel heat rising inside Reid's palm; his anger radiated through his skin. Martine felt an impulse to pull her hand away, but she didn't. She sat in the line of the poisonous energy being stoked between Reid and this woman, as though it pierced through her. It left Martine a paralyzed, mute observer. And wholly invisible.

Maya had stabbed her salad with her fork. “All right already. I didn't do anything to the goddamn berries.”

“Promise?” Reid asked her.

“Promise,” she said.

With that, not breaking his gaze toward Maya, Reid fumbled for one of the plump strawberries and tossed it into his mouth. He began to chew.

Maya grinned. “You're a brave little SOB, too.”

“That's what you love about me, my witch.”

Jesus, what the hell was going on between these two? Martine shrank against the back of her chair. The interaction between Reid and Maya had shifted from anger to something very different, to a heavily charged magnetism that made her curse herself for coming out to Reid's to be a part of his freak show. A part of her was horrified.

Then, of course, there was the part of her that was thoroughly intrigued.

Martine felt movement in the bed, and it woke her up. Until now, she had assumed that Reid had fallen asleep too. She checked the clock on the nightstand, a ticking rosewood antique with glowing hands, and saw that two hours had passed since they'd come back to her room after dinner. She'd forgotten how calculated Reid could be, lulling her to sleep in his arms, then easing himself on to his next order of business. He was never finished, never ready to rest. He always had something else, or someone else, to attend to.

“Stay,” she said.

He kissed her forehead, then stood up and wiggled into his boxers. “See you in the morning. Sleep as late as you want,” he said.

“Jesus.” She didn't hide her annoyance.

He paused, as if to ask her what was wrong. But since he already knew, the only thing left was an explanation. “Maya expects me.”

Lucidity began to creep back into Martine's brain, now that the combined amnesia of lovemaking and the disorientation
of sleep were wearing off. “Who
is
that woman? Tell me her story. I know you're dying to, since she's got you so whipped you can't even spend the night.”

There was no light from the hallway, just moonlight from the window, so Martine could only see Reid's silhouette. He didn't answer, but she imagined he was smiling.