Smooth Operator (13 page)

“She left a few minutes before you,” Payton said without flinching.

“What did she want?” He paused. “Wait a minute, what do you mean, a few minutes before me?”

“Because you’re leaving,” Payton said, staring off into the distance. “Get your shit. New York was a bust and I’ve had enough.”

“Payton—”

“Don’t say good-bye.” She waved him off. “Just let me hear your car leaving the garage.” She closed her eyes, and lay back. “I’ll call you when I’m in the mood.”

D
ominique sat with her heart racing in her chest and the seat’s leather cushion sticking to her ass. She’d been sitting at Cocktails, a rooftop bar and lounge in downtown Los Angeles, for over an hour; nursing the heartache that sat between her breasts with shots of tequila chased with glasses of pinot grigio. The same ache that had convinced her that maybe Payton had a point.

So she went home, changed into a pair of hourglass fitting spandex pants, a cleavage-clinging corset, and spiked heels, and came here, hoping to clear her mind.

But nothing worked and the longer Dominique sat the more she thought about calling her driver to take her home; after all, her mind told her that this was pointless.

Dominique’s eyes roamed the club and she spotted a tall and strapping brother, the color of midnight, with distinguished African tribal features, and a coal black goatee. He took a seat across from her at the bar and gave Dominique a soft wink. Though she tried to fight it she couldn’t help but return his gesture with a smile. Dominique could tell that he was waiting for another clue that it would be okay for him to approach her, but she didn’t give him one; instead, she diverted her eyes and looked away.

She placed her clutch beneath her arm and stood to leave.

“You would actually leave before I was able to buy you a drink?” Dominique turned toward the voice and it was the same man she’d noticed earlier, the only difference between now and then was that he was even prettier standing this close.

Dominique blushed and he continued, “At least one drink and then you leave.” He looked her over and his eyes clearly told her that he thought she was beautiful.

His deep voice made her nipples hard. “Sure.” She smiled. “Why not?” She sat back down. “I’ll have a glass of pinot grigio.”

Dominique watched him walk to the bar and wondered what it would be like to fuck someone besides Quinton and disregard her marriage. Would it feel sweet and nice, or wicked and high? Would she regret doing it? Would she enjoy the one-night stand hittin’ her G-spot … or would she run out of the room, too consumed by guilt and confusion.

“Mind if I sit here?” he said as he placed her glass of wine and a frosty bottle of Heineken on the table, and pointed to the empty chair.

“Not at all.” She smiled.

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

She blushed. “Dominique.”

“Sexy name,” he said smoothly as they locked gazes, his voice deeper than any base drum. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy screaming that later.”

“Later?” Dominique looked taken aback.

“Oh my mistake,” he said, “I guess I assumed that we would be together later.”

The motherfucker was bold … sexy as hell … but bold as shit. “And your name is?” Dominique’s nipples felt like rocks.

“Mandingo.” He laughed and she imagined that he was telling the truth. “Nah,” he continued, “it’s Terrance.”

Dominique looked him over, her eyes stopping at the imprint of the wedding band on his left index finger. She wondered if she should ask the obvious but then she quickly decided
that she needed this moment to throw caution to the wind, to not be so goddamn careful, to for once not give a fuck … or to give a fuck to a man who wasn’t her husband. She could feel her panties become moist as she tried desperately to keep a steady tone. His heated breath caused her pussy to pump twice, as he brushed his soft hand over hers. “Where’s he at?” he pointed to her wedding band.

Dominique hesitated. “Who?”

“Your husband.”

“Oh … umm, home … well, he’s working.”

“And you came here alone?”

“You ask an awful lot of questions.” She chuckled nervously.

“How else am I going to find out what I want to know?”

She blushed. “You have an East Coast accent. Where are you from?”

“New York, but I’m at a business convention.” He stroked her hair behind her ear.

“Really?” Dominique said, intrigued. “What kind of business?” she asked, catching sneak peeks of his chest hair through his slightly open Polo shirt.

“Investigative. What do you do?”

Dominique hesitated. “I used to sell real estate,” she said excitedly.

“You should get back into it.”

She chuckled. “Yeah sure, in between chasing my cheating-ass husband and four-year-old twins, I don’t have time—” Dominique stopped midsentence. Already she’d been running her mouth too goddamn much. She looked into his eyes and for whatever reason she felt like her reveal hadn’t turned him off. “So, there you have it,” she said, pissed more with herself than with his inquisitiveness.

“Will this be your first affair?”

“What?” Dominique said, clearly caught off guard.

“Tonight, when I take you back to my hotel room with me, will it be your first affair. I swear, I would love to be your first.”

Dominique took a moment and then she said quietly, “Yes.”

“Well,” he grabbed her hand, “you’re overdue.”

This was crazy; it was bad enough that she’d told too much of her business but now she was sitting here with a fine-ass stranger who’d just given her an open invitation to fuck. Her eyes roamed his body. She knew that she wanted him … she just didn’t know if she needed to accept his invite. Being heartbroken didn’t equal ho … or did it, at least for one night?

“Dominique,” he took her hand, “throw caution on its ass.” He kissed her palm; the tip of his tongue pressed against her skin. She wondered if he would lay it against her clit the same way if he were licking it.

Her pussy trembled. “I think I better get going.” She stood to leave. “Thanks for the evening.” She tucked her clutch beneath her arm. She walked a short distance away and turned around. “Aren’t you supposed to be leading the way?”

Terrance smiled and he nodded his head. “After you, madam.”

It was a one-night stand, no question about it. Dominique was fine with accepting their time together for what it was, because for right now her yearning to be touched outweighed regret. From the time they entered the doorway of his hotel suite, they were kissing, undressing, and tossing their clothes all over the room.

Dominique didn’t want to give herself time to think, because too many thoughts would force her to question what she was really doing here and why she wasn’t at home mothering her children and trying her hand at getting things back on track with her husband. Yet if she thought about that, really thought about
that, then she would be pulling her hard nipple from between Terrance’s lips, getting her things, and leaving. But that’s not what she wanted to do. She wanted to fuck Terrance, bang the hell out of him, ride his dick, suck it, and cum all over it. And she wanted to pretend that Quinton was watching Terrance sink his thick and fat inches into her mouth, as Dominique slid to her knees.

Dominique imagined that if Quinton could see her licking the sticky head of Terrance’s smoke-black dick and sucking each and every crevice of the fat mushroom tip, he would flip.

Terrance swerved his shaft against her mouth, as she moved her tongue like a hissing snake trying to catch its prey. Dominique loved the way he smacked her in the lips with his dick, forcing her to beg for more. “Come on, baby, let me suck it.” She gripped it tightly between her cheeks. The heaviness of his member weighed sweetly on her tongue as his pelvis contracted and he laced her mouth with salty drippings.

Dominique looked into his eyes and swallowed, wildly licking the residue from her lips. Terrance lifted her onto the bed, parted her legs and went directly to sucking her clit. He nibbled just a bit; enough to make her pussy drip.

Dominique panted and within a few minutes her nut was butter between his lips. She raked her nails down the center of Terrance’s back as she watched the way his black skin curled over her honey-glazed voluptuous body. The feeling he gave her was lovely and the thought of Quinton finding out where she was, forcing his way into this room, and witnessing what she was doing, made her cum more and harder than she ever had before in her life.

Terrance whipped Dominique around in the wheelbarrow position and fucked her from the back. Dominique loved the way his hips whipped her ass, as she screamed and called his name, “Terraaaaaaance!”

“What?” he held her ankles together. “You needed this dick.
Pussy all tight and shit. What? That ma’fucker ain’t hittin’ it? Well, don’t worry, I’ma knock it down for him.” He pounded into her ass.

Dominique heard what he’d said but the fact that she was cumming all over again made her mind spin and “Shhh …” was all she could manage to have fall from her lips, as blood rushed to her head.

He thrusted her with a hard hip, and Dominique could feel her pelvis tightening, as he pulled her onto her back and they fucked until the sun came up.

When Dominique arrived home, she prayed like hell that Quinton was there and for once they would argue about where she’d been all night. Her heels clicked loudly as she walked into their bedroom, where he opened his eyes and stared at her. “This how we droppin’ it?” he asked her. Meeting her at the door.

“Droppin’ what?” She attempted to pass him and he blocked her path.

“Why are you smelling like hotel soap?” He squinted his nose.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She fought like hell not to smile. She turned her back to him and as she attempted to pass him again he wrapped his arm around her neck and slammed her violently into the wall. “What the fuck you call yourself doin’, Dominique, huh?”

She started to explain it to him in vivid detail, but the wave of fear that came over her wouldn’t allow her to say much more in between her tears than, “I was out thinking and—”

He gripped her neck. “I haven’t kicked your ass in a long time, but I will! Don’t fuckin’ play with me. You understand, you ain’t been here all night and all of a sudden you walk in here smelling of hotel soap.”

“Quinton—”

He gripped her chin roughly and spat, “Don’t take your ass nowhere else without asking me, you understand? Because the next time I’ma whup yo’ ass,” he mushed her in the forehead, “and I mean that.”

Her tears rolled over his fist.

“This is exactly why I don’t touch your fat ass, because you are always doing some stupid shit.” He released his grip on her chin. She could tell that this was about much more than her being out all night. He’d been pissed about whatever had happened to him last night and roughing her up was the easiest way to get it off his chest. “And don’t ask me for no fuckin’ money—”

“You know I need money for the boys this week, Quinton, and—”

“You should’ve thought about that on your way in here.” He turned away and she noticed that he still wore the same clothes he had on yesterday. Now she knew for sure this had nothing to do with where she’d been.

“Where are you going?” she called behind him as he walked out of the room.

“I’m going out to think.” She heard his car keys jingling in his hand and a few moments later the front door slammed.

L
yfe sank deep into the cushions beneath him and pulled the soft blanket up to his chin. He couldn’t help but smile as the scent of sausages, eggs, pancakes, and fresh-brewed coffee floated under his nose, and that’s when it hit him: he wasn’t in his hotel suite. Lyfe opened his eyes one at a time, and scanned his surroundings, from the massive black bookcase, filled with children’s books and pictures of a little boy, to the black artwork that lined the cream-colored walls. There was no view of the New York City skyline, no wake-up call, and room service wasn’t knocking on the door.

Instead, it was a view of a school, and a few people chilling on the block. The phone was there but it wasn’t ringing; he was in a home, a real home, not a cold mansion on the cliffside of Holmby Hills, California. Not a five-star hotel suite, but a home where someone lived, loved, and had memories. And the food he smelled was home-cooked, something he hadn’t had since he was sixteen and his brother failed at the attempt.

Lyfe pushed the cover back and sat up on the couch. He looked at his shirt, which lay on the side of the chair, and decided against putting it on right away. He slid his bare feet down the short hallway toward the kitchen and on his way he spotted a little boy’s bedroom filled with toys and Spider-Man decorations everywhere: the walls, the bed, the curtains, the rug on the
floor. He peeked in Arri’s bedroom: a highboy, queen-size bed with a white leather, seven-foot-tall headboard, and all white linens—from the bed skirt to the comforter to the half-dozen pillows that decorated it. There was a leopard chaise and drapes hung to the floor and a petite chandelier hung from the ceiling.

Once Lyfe reached the kitchen, he stood in the doorway and leaned against the frame. He looked Arri over; she was now dressed in a mid-thigh, purple tie-dye dress that wrapped around her breasts like a tube top, and her cleavage poured out as if she had on a corset.

“Good morning.” She smiled and handed Lyfe a cup of coffee with no sugar and a splash of cream.

“Good morning.” He nodded, looking her over and accepting the coffee. “Guess I don’t need to ask if you still respect me in the morning.” He sipped his coffee.

“Guess not.” Arri smiled as her eyes traced from the tattoo of a green-eyed panther on his left peck to the one that covered his right shoulder and stopped midway on his triceps.

“I’ma go and grab my gym bag out the truck,” Lyfe said, calling for Arri’s attention.

“Oh, okay.” She blinked, returning her eyes to his face.

A few minutes later Lyfe returned and Arri motioned for him to sit at the table.

“So tell me,”—he smiled as she sat a full plate of sausages, eggs, and strawberry-topped pancakes on his plate—“who has a thing for Spider-Man?” he asked her as he began to eat.