From the Streets to the Sheets (4 page)

Monique squealed with glee as Pluto nodded in agreement, then she dove under the covers and put his sticky dick in her mouth and started sucking him off like a pro. She was too excited to be bothered by the rancid smell coming off of his body or the shit stains she saw on his side of the sheets. Fuck all that. She had a plan coming together in her head right now, a foolproof way that was guaranteed to work.

And if it was the last thing Monique did, she was gonna get Juicy-Mo Stanfield.

She was gonna pay that bitch back.

AIN’T NUTHIN’ SWEET

Plea$ure

Last Week . . .

I watched her ass dance in the air, jiggling from one side to the other as she straddled him doggy-style, hovering her nakedness above Whisky’s. Candlelight glowed on the moist droplets of sweat coating their bodies, making their skin glisten in its light. The scene was beautiful; dark chocolate arms gripping creamy caramel, legs candy-caning swirls of brownness in a sexual intertwine of readiness. With juicy lips, she switched up and traveled south, sporadically kissing and licking down the deep groove between his abs. Whisky threw back his head in anticipation, bucked his groin, and closed his eyes. Every
move they made suggested they were going to get their shit on and poppin’ tonight.

“Here, baby?” I heard her ask, zooming in on his thick pole before nibbling on its head.

“Ooh, damn! Yeah. Right there. Swallow it,” he replied, gripping the back of her head as it bobbed up and down, lips greedily taking his entire dick into her mouth.

She sucked, slurped, gurgled as she deep-throated him. Ass seesawing in tune with her head, she bounced to a beat that couldn’t be heard, but it was definitely there. A rhythm that said she and Whisky had jigged together before; their moves were effortless, practiced. Too knowing to be new.

Her cheeks nodded again, teasing me while I hid in the shadows.
I gripped my tool as hard as I could when she slid her titties north, lining up her midsection with his, preparing to swallow Whisky’s dick with her pussy.

But she wasn’t the only one prepared. I raged, watching her reach between her legs, spread her lips with two dainty fingers, then cap the tip of Whisky’s hardness with her moistness. Before she could slide down his pole gunshots clapped through the silence, shattering the quiet, the custom headboard and their sense of safety as I slipped all the way into the room with my tool aimed.

“Suck it again, bitch! And you bet’ not turn around!” I yelled to her now stiff and quivering back. “Now!” I cocked the burner, hearing the cling of a bullet move into the chamber.

She bawled as she backtracked. Her café au lait breasts dragged down Whisky’s chest, then stomach, before she reached her final destination: a flaccid piece of meat that no longer saluted or wanted her mouth.

Whisky reached for the lamp on the nightstand, yelling, “What the hell?”

“Not a fuckin’ move, Whisky!” I threatened, waving the burner from him to her. “You want me to splatter yo bitch? Huh?”

Grabbing her waist, he tried to push her off him.

“Uh-unh,” I said, walking closer to them. “You enjoyed her doggy-style. Now it’s my turn to get a taste.”

With her back to me, she begged. Pleaded. Prayed for someone to save her when I stuck the barrel of my gun in her asshole, then rammed it as far up as I could.

“Ya better suck like you ain’t never sucked before. Matter of fact, tea bag him!”

Whimpering, the chick pulled Whisky’s soft penis in her hands.
Lifting it skyward, she rested her head between his thighs, cocked open her mouth, and dunked his nuts in and out of it.

“Slurp, bitch. Ya betta moan like you love it.”

“Come—” Whisky began.

“Oh, don’t worry. I am. Y’all got yours off, I’m gonna get mine off too,” I said, letting loose three shots in her ass, literally blowing her back out.

This Week . . .

A bunch of pretty mu’fuckas walked by vying for attention as I threw back a double shot of Courvoisier and chased it, upping the game two bills. 12 o’clock, the niggah I’d held down while he’d rocked a baker’s dozen in the bing before springing on an appeal, sat opposite me. He nodded and called my play, slapping a couple hundred on top of the stack. Reading the other gamblers, my eyes stopped on Lil’ Lee. I knew there was going to be trouble. He was a diesel, blue-black brutha who snuck up on people like nighttime. Down ten Gs, he gripped the edge of the other side of the table while his lower lip twitched—a sure sign that he was frustrated, ready to explode. There was an excess of pussy buzzing around and too much money on the green felt for him to get down. Weak-ass niggahs like him were always distracted by fat asses and the possibility of riding them. That’s one of the reasons I’d gotten in on the game. No way was I going to walk away with less than I came in with. Especially in my own spot: Sweets Treats, an all-night bakery that served up confections in the front and offered every kind of sweet a person could imagine in the back. Drugs, liquid, down-low hoes, and gambling, with a little money-laundering added in for extra flavor.

“Hurry up, yo. We ain’t got all day,” Runner, my brother and right hand, who’d outrun the police more times than any of us could count, rushed me.

I swept his tall ass with an icy glare, saw he was slipping. He had his dough in front of him where everybody could see. “Shut the hell up. Five men gotta roll before you even touch the dice.”

“Yo! Who the fuck you talkin’ to?”

I snatched the money out of his hand. “Why not just buy you some ass, that’s why you holdin’ your paper up, right?” I winked. “Hoping one of these sack chasers bow down to it?” I asked, knowing that taking his stack had gotten his undivided attention. Kicking him under the table, I tapped my foot twice. Our signal that he should pay attention to the man in the two o’clock position—the one who stood two places over from 12 o’clock—Lil’ Lee. He was too jumpy, eyeing the money on the table like a child tempted by candy.

Runner gave me a slight nod of approval. I tossed his stack to Lil’ Lee and aimed my burner at him under the table in one swoop. If he wanted to play underhanded, we could both get grimy. “My fault. Pass that to 12.”

“
Word?
” 12 o’clock asked, taking the money from Lil’ Lee and laughing in his grill. He shook his head, pocketed Runner’s dough. “American’s Express, baby,” he said, coding the nickname he’d given his gun because in our part of America the streets demanded you have at least one. “Nevva leave the crib wit’out it. Call it!” He sat back and crossed the lumberjack arms he’d choked out plenty of bruthas with.

Shaking the clickers, I threw in my last shot, and came up on the come-up.

Lil’ Lee smacked the table. “Aw, hell nah! Them dice’s loaded.”

“What the fuck you tryin’ to say, niggah?” I barked. I wasn’t in the mood for his shit. Not tonight. Just hours ago, I’d been less than five seconds away from catching a body after I’d caught my
main
piece with someone else. If it weren’t for a busy intersection and swarms of witnesses, my burner’s chamber would’ve been smoking and the coroner’s dinner would’ve been interrupted. Again. “If it’s any lead in these dice, you put it in’em. They yours, right, bitch-ass?”

“You the only bitch at the table, Sweets,” he shot back, looking around. “Last time I checked.”

The table quieted, and the other players turned to stone. Everybody knew there were two things I didn’t allow anyone to play with. My money. And calling me outta my name. “Bitch,” in particular, just got under my skin.

12 o’clock leaned forward with a Desert Eagle in his hand, turned it on Lil’ Lee. Runner grinned and opened his jacket, revealed he had enough steel on him to start a mill. The other players cleared. Even Lil’ Lee’s phony cronies, who only rolled when his paper was thick, bounced.

Lil’ Lee held up his hands. “Come on now, Sweets. You don’t really want this. Do you?”

I swept my arm across the table, raked the money into my bag. “Damn right, I do.” I strutted over to him, kissed him on the cheek and slapped his ass. “What, baby? You were going to sneak-thief us, or just take the money?”

Lil’ Lee’s stutter ran from his mouth to the south. He quaked in his boots. “N-nah. Y-you know me betta than that. I ain’t no cr-crab-ass niggah. What I look like h-holdin’ up a wo-woman, Sweets?”

“Thought I was a bitch.” I dug my long, French-manicured nails into his firmness, gripped his ass. “Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with sticking a
bitch
for her paper, right?”

Lil’ Lee threw me a sideways glance; pleading masked the scowl I knew was hidden underneath. He’d kill me quicker than I could make two cents if he could. Fuck me even faster. And I was hella paid, churning out paper faster than the U.S. Mint.

“Say ya sorry,” I whispered, moving my grip from his ass to his jaw. “Make nice, niggah.”

Lil’ Lee hung his head. His rep used to precede him around the way. He’d been a tough sonuvabitch who’d taken no slack, stacked his chips as high as his bitches. Dime-store pimp, player, triple-momma baby maker, he’d made himself a millionaire before his twenty-first birthday. But now he’d have to ice my cake—if he wanted to live past the stroke of midnight.

With a nod of my head, 12 o’clock laced him up—dragged him into the back office—patted him down, shook him for all his weapons.

“Sit’im down, 12,” I instructed.

He sat Lil’ Lee down on one of my hot-pink chaises, then took his position, blocking the office door. He cocked his burner, made sure one was in the chamber.

Lil’ Lee nervously looked from 12 to me. Confusion furrowed his brow before he bitched up. “Can’t we talk about this, Sweets? Y’know I ain’t mean no disrespect, Ma. All kinda shit is said when niggah’s gamblin’. It was game.”

“Still is, baby,” flowed out of my mouth as I licked my lips. I was going to have some fun with Lil’ Lee. As dirty as I knew he’d wanted to do me at the craps table, I couldn’t help but notice that he was a pretty mu’fucka. His blue-blackness, beating tunes like an African drum, made my pussy throb. With just one look I knew his ancestors hadn’t been as violated as mine, and that shit turned me on. He was a Mandingo brutha if I’d ever saw one.

Leaning against my desk, I spread my legs, let my skirt ride up my thighs, expose just enough of my amber flesh to tempt him. Lil’ Lee fidgeted. Gave me a look that said if 12 o’clock wasn’t in the room he’d try to push up. But 12 was there, and no one moved inside of my groove unless I said so. Except one man. Whisky.

“Come get you a taste of Sweets,” I beckoned, pointed to my moist spot, then slid out of slick fabric, kicking my thong his way. Looking at 12, I smiled. He was going to get off just as much as I was. Spread-eagling my thighs, I propped my feet up on either side of me, gripped my knees so close they kissed my shoulders and made my lower body resemble an M.

Lil’ Lee looked from my exposed poonany to 12, then back again. 12 nodded his okay.

“Serious?” He needed confirmation. Most of them did, having never been in a situation like the one I’d put them in.

“As a murder charge,” purred from my mouth.

Lil’ Lee stood, gripping his dick through his jeans. Licking his lips, he swaggered my way like he had no problem performing in front of another man. Opening his pants, he released his hardness, and I saw why the brutha was so confident. Baby was so blessed he made my lower lips smile.

Positioning his body so his flesh touched mine, his dick bounced against my navel. The thickness made me shudder, and its warmth caused my clit to blush. I wanted to feel him inside me. But I couldn’t. He was here to pay, not play.

Face-to-face, his breathing was sporadic, lustful, and intoxicating. Inhaling me like perfume, there wasn’t a doubt that he wanted me as badly as I craved him.

I looked at him, nodding. “Want some?”

Lil’ Lee bit down on his lower lip with the answer in his eyes.

My toned legs lifted me until his face met my moist spot. Spreading its thickness open for him, he flicked his tongue against my clit, then he took it into his mouth and suckled it like a newborn. Heat pooled between my legs, reminding me of the game. This was my show, not his.

Raising myself to my full height, I spread my legs as wide as I could, then lowered myself back onto my elbows, and pointed at my snatch.

Lil’ Lee paused.

“Ass,” I demanded. “Lick it.”

Silence for a moment.

“What?!”
His response was laced with shock. “Ya know a brutha don’t get down—”

Clearing my throat, I gave my cue.

A round clicked as 12 cocked his burner again, spitting the previous bullet housed in the chamber to the floor. A reminder—a warning—for Lil’ Lee.

Less than a second passed before Lee’s large hands were all over me, spreading me like melted chocolate. Nervously he looked at 12, then me. Flicking my tongue at him, I winked.

“Lick your way to forgiveness.”

Lil’ Lee was a liar. He was a pro. Gripping, he cupped my ass and lifted it in the air until it met his mouth. With a long tongue, he parted my cheeks, then dug in like it was a holiday feast, burying his face between the firm softness. He ate the bottom like most men eat pussy. Savoring it, he sucked, dipped in and out of it, lingered on the spot that made me jump and buck, all while playing with my clit. He was a nasty nucka, and I was two heartbeats away from letting him push in my bush.

Panting, I pushed him off me. He had to go. I couldn’t be in charge of
anything
if I was succumbing to his wicked tongue.

Before Lil’ Lee could tuck his bobbing hardness into his pants, 12 snatched him up and deposited him on the other side of the door. Turning the lock, he signaled Runner on the walkie-talkie to put his ass out. Brutally.

I sat up, heat still throbbing. “Enjoy the show?”

“Not as much as you did. You was gonna break him off. I could tell,” he said, walking toward me.

“Now why would I do something like that?”

He stuck his long, thick finger deep inside me, swirled it around, then took it out and licked it. “I can’t tell . . .” he replied, dropping his pants and boxers, revealing the biggest dick I’d ever laid eyes on, “. . . not when I got all this here.”

My heart dropped to my knees at the sight of him. As many times as I’d seen him naked, I still couldn’t get used to his size.

“Fill it, 12. Give this fat, juicy poonany sumthin’ to hold on to,” I whispered in his ear, wrapping my legs around him as he carried me from the desk to a chaise.

“Homeboy got it ready and wet for me, Sweets?” he asked, positioning my ass on the cushion and putting my legs on his shoulders.