Whos Loving You (3 page)

T
he only thing better than having sex was getting paid to have sex. I lived for the next orgasm. Cuming, squirting, and sucking dick was my natural high. Masturbation was a satisfactory last resort. I was born that way. Sexy. Sexual. Overachiever. I had shown my cleavage the minute I grew big, beautiful, perky breasts, had worn the shortest shorts I could find to show off my boo-tee-licious ass, which made me popular with all the guys, and had experimented with make-up until I found the products that were a perfect blend for me.

A few months after I started stripping for Trevor Williams, all the men wanted a stroke of my Red Velvet pussy. Trevor had propositioned me, offering me a special relationship with unique benefits. Our agreement was I kept him and his clients happy, and he made certain I got compensated with movie auditions, clothes, jewelry, and some cash.

“Velvet, image is everything,” Trevor had said. “If you look like money, people treat you like royalty. If you look poor, people ignore you. I’m going to make sure you have the best opportunities to become a star. Remember good pussy ain’t never broke. You’re a complete package.”

No, I wasn’t a complete package. No one was. But I did have big dreams and high hopes. After I graduated from high school, my mother paid for me to attend a one-year hands-on program at the New York Film Academy. At one of the workshops, I met an agent based out of Los Angeles who said I had tremendous potential. I felt good saying, “Call my agent.”

I visualized myself on the big screen one day. Not as a porn star. I was destined to become a famous movie star. All of my sexual free-lancing would help me get my big break, meet the right producer, and become huge in Hollywood. I wanted celebrity neighbors, limo drivers, and I wanted never to have to show ID again, because everyone would instantly recognize my face and they’d know my name. Trevor had promised to help me if I helped him.

On a day like today, I couldn’t say no to Trevor, so I begged my mother to keep my son for a day while I accompanied my boss from Atlanta to D.C. on a business trip. Our two-hour direct flight arrived at Dulles Airport at about eight in the morning. It took almost another two hours to get our luggage and for the driver to get us to our hotel on Connecticut Avenue. The lobby was huge, with an elegant circular bar centered underneath the largest chandelier I’d seen.

“Have a seat while I check us in,” Trevor said to me, handing the receptionist his credit card.

Browsing the lobby, I peeked over my sunglasses and into the gift-shop window. On every trip, after I got paid, I bought something for my mother for watching my son. Usually nothing over a hundred dollars. I usually got her a nice scarf or a black figurine to add to her collection.

Trevor walked by me, dialing his phone. Motioning for me to follow him, he handed me my room key while speaking into his Bluetooth. “Yeah, Grant. How far is your office from Dupont Circle? Meet me at my hotel for a cup of coffee. Twenty minutes.” He repeated the time, then said, “Perfect.”

“So what does this one look like?” I asked.

“You’ll see in a few minutes. I need you to take extra special care of my man. I have a lot of money riding on this deal.”

“So he’s already said yes?”

“Velvet, if Grant had already signed the papers, you wouldn’t be here.”

“I thought I was his congratulatory present. You sure you want me to do this before you get a commitment?” I asked him. I was going to have fun regardless, but I knew pussy didn’t persuade every man. In fact, my fucking this Grant guy might dissuade him from becoming Trevor’s partner.

“Give him the Red Velvet special,” Trevor insisted. “Be ready in thirty minutes. I don’t want to keep my man waiting.”

I held out my hand for my money. If this deal fell apart, Velvet was getting paid. Whatever other perks I’d get would be lagniappe.

Trevor handed me five one-hundred-dollar bills while the bellman unlocked my door and handed me back my key. I followed the bellman, watching him place my suitcase on the luggage rack. Then he took the other bag inside Trevor’s room next door.

Locking the door to my room, I unlocked the connecting door between the two rooms, so Trevor could eavesdrop on his client. Trevor opened his side, peeked his head inside my room, and said, “Hurry.”

“You can’t rush good pussy,” I said, picking up the phone. “Yes, I’d like a bottle of champagne, a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, fresh red grapes, and plain yogurt.”

“We’ll have your order up in thirty minutes, Mrs. Trevor,” said a room-service attendant.

They should train hotel staff not to make assumptions. I had no desire to be Trevor’s wife. “There’s nothing to cook. Have it here in five minutes, or keep it,” I said, hanging up the phone. I couldn’t wait to become a celebrity and have someone else order for me.

Waiting for room service, I debated whether to wear my leopard-print bustier and black boy shorts or my red outfit. “It’s too early for leopard,” I said, walking to the door. “That was quick. Thanks,” I said, adding the attendant’s tip to Trevor’s bill.

Quickly, I smashed the red grapes, mixed them into the yogurt, then stood in the kitchen smoothing the mixture all over my body. I let it dry for ten minutes, then headed to the bathroom. I enjoyed a hot, steamy shower. I stuck my finger deep inside my pussy, making sure she was extra clean; then I rinsed with cold water to tighten my skin. While my body was still dripping wet, I saturated my skin with almond oil, lightly toweled off, then slipped into my red silk lounging halter and my stripper pants with the breakaway sides. Sitting in front of the vanity mirror, I applied fresh eyeliner, eye shadow, and my special glossy, red, velvet lipstick.

I heard a tap on the door. I smiled. “He’s here,” I sang. I slipped on my red, furry high heels. I knew it was Trevor’s guest.
Lord, let this one look good. My pussy is percolating. It’s too early in the morning to fuck an ugly trick.
I took a deep breath, then opened the door. “Ah yes,” I said. A tall, handsome man stood in the hallway outside my door.
Thank you, Jesus!
I wanted to snatch his ass inside, throw him on the floor, and ride him righteous.

“Excuse me, but I must have the wrong room,” he said, smiling at my breasts, then my lips.

“Are you Grant? Trevor’s partner?”

“Yes, I am. But, uh—”

I flashed a sexy smile. “Come on in here. Trevor had to go out for a moment. He’ll be back,” I lied.

“I don’t have a lot of time. I’m on my way to my office. Tell him to call me later. Our meeting isn’t until tomorrow.”

Later my ass. Hell to the motherfuckin’ no.
This man was unbelievably fine, and he wasn’t going nowhere. My eyes lingered on his too-big-to-hide dick, making my mouth water. I wasn’t fucking him for Trevor; I was going to ride that dick Red Velvet style for myself.

Gently grabbing his arm, I politely ushered him inside. “Have a seat on the sofa. Make yourself comfortable. Here’s the remote,” I said, smiling at him as I handed him a magazine. Clipping on my Bluetooth, I pretended to call Trevor.

“Trevor, Mr. Hill is here. He said he has to go to his office,” I said, leaning over the sofa, pretending to reach for the
Black Enterprise
magazine. Intentionally, I put my breasts in his face. “Trevor is on the phone with his broker,” I lied, sitting really close to Grant. “He said for me to make you comfortable until he gets here.”

Tap. Tap.

Grant looked toward the door. “Oh, good. He’s here.”

Who was that? I hoped Trevor hadn’t reconsidered what I’d said earlier about him getting the deal first. I hurried to the door. My heels clicked against the bottom of my feet. I peeped through the peephole. Who was she? I cracked the door open about an inch. “Can I help you?” I asked.

“Oh, sorry. I was looking for Trevor. Is he here?” the woman asked.

She needed to get her room right. Poking my hand outside the door, I pointed next door, then locked my door.

“Who was it?” Grant asked, looking over his shoulder. “I thought I heard her ask for Trevor.”

“She was lost. Would you like a mimosa, a glass of orange juice, or champagne?”

“No, thanks. Maybe I should wait downstairs,” he said as he headed for the door.

Only if he could get past me first. Untying my halter, I removed it and placed his hands on my firm tits. “It’s okay. I work at Stilettos for Trevor, and from what I’m told, I’m going to be working for you, too.”

Leading Grant back to the sofa, I sat sideways, facing him.

“So Trevor sent you, huh?”

Kneeling before his dick and unzipping his pants, I answered, “Sure did.” Grant wasn’t giving it to me, so I had to take his dick. Easing out the most beautiful dick I’d seen in my life, I gave him a mini dick massage, then placed my juicy lips over his bulging head.

Grant’s thick, long, smooth dick throbbed in my mouth. “Stand up for a minute,” I said, squeezing his ass. I leaned my head back, then made him fuck me good in my mouth.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he moaned as precum oozed down my throat.

His was the sweetest vanilla-cream cum I’d ever tasted in my life. I wanted him to shoot a heavy load in my mouth for breakfast, but I had to feel him inside me before he released the big one.

He unbuckled his pants. I pulled them down to his ankles, helping him undress while sucking his head and massaging his nuts. Everything about this man was to die for.

Slowly, I eased his dick out of my mouth, holding him with my hand. “Don’t move,” I said, picking up my purse and pulling out a Magnum XL. Putting the condom on the tip of my tongue, I sucked the tip, kissed his dick, and rolled the latex down his shaft, all the way to his nuts.

“Now, that’s quite impressive,” he said.

I slid my pants over my ass, then said, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” I raised my right leg and rested it in his left hand, then lifted my left leg and rested it in his right hand.

His strong arms then hugged my waist. Locking my ankles behind his back, I rolled my sweet pussy Red Velvet style up and all the way down his dick, making sure he felt my ass squeeze his nuts on the way up and my pussy tighten around his dick all the way down. He held me tight about my waist until he lowered himself to the sofa and sat me on top of him.

“What the hell. I’m in it now,” he said. “Ride this dick, baby.”

“Uh,” I moaned. “Uh, uh, uh, uh, uhhh. Hell, yes.” Exhaling, I started singing to him. “Cum for me, Daddy.”

I was grinding my big, sweet behind so hard, my booty damn near disappeared inside his ass. My middle finger circled my clit. His face tightened, his eyes closed, and his mouth opened. “Oh yeah, Daddy,” I cried and went for it. Passionately, I pressed my mouth against his and kissed him Red Velvet style, inserting my tongue in his mouth, softly sucking his tongue, then easing my tongue back into his mouth. I kissed him the same way he came inside of me—nice and slow.

“Aw, fuck. Who are you again?” he asked, holding my wet ass in the palms of his hands.

Seductively, I winked, then whispered in his ear, “I’m Red Velvet, but you can call me Honey.”

G
azing out the kitchen patio window, I decided that today seemed like yesterday. But it wasn’t. I realized another day had gone by and there were a few differences. Today I removed a bag of diced potatoes from the freezer, selected a package of chicken apple sausages, and placed a loaf of wheat bread next to the toaster. A dozen brown eggs—a standard breakfast item—were in a large, clear bowl next to the salt and pepper.

I wondered what ingredients of life created the greatest love of all. I felt unjustifiably abandoned and ostracized by Grant. This shit wasn’t right. One day my life seemed perfect; I’d finally met a decent man that I actually enjoyed spending time with. Wasn’t it out of love that the Creator took a rib from a man and gave it to a woman? Well, right about now I could rip through Grant’s abs, snatch out one of his ribs, and beat him over the head with it.

Relentless, I texted him again:
Hi, baby. I miss you.

I tried analyzing the anger that had suddenly brought me to tears again this morning. I jabbed my index fingers into my temples to suppress the painful throbbing that was exacerbating my frustrations. “I’m ready,” I whispered, placing the chicken apple sausages in the skillet before spreading the potatoes on a cookie sheet and placing them in the oven. “I’m ready to settle down.”

Could Grant invest so much time into our relationship, then say, “I love you,” and not mean it? “Nah, I don’t think so. He still loves me. He just needs a little more time to come to that realization,” I said aloud. Closing my eyes, I sniffed the long-stemmed white roses centered on my island. The scent reminded me of Grant’s favorite Sean John cologne, Unforgivable.

I placed the cooked sausages in a Pyrex dish, then covered them with the glass lid.

Was true love solidified by sex, material possessions, or unconditional acceptance by the beholder? Did love beget happiness? When and how did I fall in love? Out of love? How could love or the lack thereof fester into a hate so volatile the burning sensation could emotionally cremate human beings with suicidal or homicidal thoughts? And how could a deranged person be resuscitated within seconds by one compassionate kiss on the lips? I longed for Grant to kiss my neck, right behind my ear, hold me in his strong arms, and slide his big, thick chocolate dick deep inside my wet, creamy pussy.

I turned off the oven, leaving the potatoes inside.

Struggling to maintain my sanity, I picked up a champagne bottle, pressed the opening against my mouth, leaned my head back, then took a huge gulp. I filled a flute to the rim with champagne, sipped, picked up my phone, then somberly made my way to my bedroom. My girls could scramble, fry, poach, or boil their own eggs this morning. I needed time alone to let go of the pain that was killing me slowly with the nonstop dialogue racing in my head.

“Breakfast is ready,” I shouted from the foyer and up the stairs before quietly closing my bedroom door. Turning on the flat-screen television mounted on the wall across from my bed, I reclined on the white suede chaise beside the sliding glass door leading to my patio, forcing back my tears.

“Dammit, Lace! Not again today,” I scolded myself.

My head rested against the back of the chaise. I closed my eyes. I was no longer that teenage girl with blossoming breasts that my mother envied or the innocent virgin adolescent that my father disowned. I was a thirty-year-old woman who’d only had one person tell me, “I love you.” I was a woman who couldn’t bring her only sister back from her grave or win back the heart of the only man she’d ever loved.

Sitting up, I texted Grant again.
I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Please speak to me. I need you.

Tossing my iPhone onto the floor, I curled my fingers into fists, then knelt beside my chaise, crying profusely into the cushion. “Out of the billions of people in the world, why can’t I find one somebody to love me? My God, is that too much to ask for? Is it? Huh? You’ve given me pain, misery, disappointment, abusive husbands, dysfunctional parents, and you can’t give me one, not one, somebody who truly loves me? Why?”

Sniffling, I stood in front of the freestanding mirror, staring at my tattered reflection through my sad green eyes. My purple lace boxer panties barely covered my ass. My hair was gathered into an uncombed ponytail. My breasts sat high and firm. My nipples hardened. Goose bumps invaded my pale skin. Despite the way I appeared at the moment, I knew I was gorgeous. Maybe this time my good looks had gotten me into a situation that my heart couldn’t get me out of.

“Stop taking Grant’s rejection personally,” I said aloud, trying to convince myself. “I am good enough for him. Our breakup isn’t about me.”

I had never had a positive role model in my life, and my inability to trust men had carved permanent scars into my psyche, leaving me fucked up…in the head. I’d done the unspeakable. A voice whispered in my ear, “Hush, you’re a good woman.”

Clinging to the hope that we’d get back together, I wanted Grant to love me, yet somehow a part of me felt unworthy of his love. Of any man’s love. If Grant could see me from the inside out, he’d know my truth. I was afraid to become completely vulnerable. What if I told him the whole truth and he turned me in to the police?

Swallowing the tears that had spilled into my half-filled flute of champagne, I decided I was much better off when I wasn’t in love. My feelings for men were strongly guarded, and the self-centered men I’d encountered were purely sex objects. When I met Grant, I was focused on the grand opening of my counseling agency, eager and ready to provide resources to help as many women as I could get out of abusive situations. If I didn’t pull it together before I walked through the doors of Sweeter Than Honey, I’d be my first and last client.

My finger circling the rim of my flute, I said aloud, “I’ve got to stop pitying myself.” But I couldn’t let go of the pain. I didn’t know how to let go of the hurt inside of me.

Unexpectedly, this breathtakingly handsome man had stepped out of my blind spot and into my spotlight, and instinctively, I’d known he was different from the rest. Within a few hours of having met Grant, I’d learned he was intelligent, wealthy, and an excellent kisser and lover. More important, he had a gentle soul that connected to my pulse.

Once upon a time, he’d cared about me. Wasn’t that love? I hadn’t thrown caution to the wind. I’d thrown my heart in his hands when he’d said, “I want you to meet my mother.”

Fuck Grant Hill. His ego wasn’t more fragile than mine. How could he ignore my voice mails and text messages? Did two wrongs make him right? Wrong or right, my heart ached. A flat line of disappointment stretched the corners of my mouth toward my ears.

Three decades of living on this planet called Earth and I had nothing and no one that I cherished, not even myself. The glass for me wasn’t always half full. In fact, for most of my life, my glass had been dry until I suppressed my emotions and took charge of fulfilling my material needs. Having money to the tune of fifty million dollars didn’t make me happy, but it sure as hell enhanced my lifestyle.