Best Black Women's Erotica 2 (6 page)

On the surface they were total opposites. Kevin, with his clean-cut looks and button-down shirts, was much more practical than Char. He truly couldn't understand why anyone would choose a profession that didn't promise a fat bank account. Char, by contrast, admitted that she sometimes went weeks without balancing her checkbook. Normally a revelation like that would have made Kevin write a woman off as an airhead and sent him scrambling to the other end of the party looking for the bar. But there was something about Char Westin. Something in the tone of her voice, something in the way she could break down the political dynamics of Arab-and African-American relations in Detroit—a city that had a large population of both groups—that told him she was far from being an airhead. And besides, the girl had a high, tight ass that could seriously fill out a pair of jeans, and intense eyes that hinted at secrets that would only be revealed in private. So he stayed and he talked to her.

Kevin had taken Char out for the first time just about a month ago. They had gone to a reggae club—not something that Kevin would normally have opted to do. He was more of a jazz man himself. But she had insisted, and Kevin had not had a chance to check out much of Detroit, so it wasn't as if he had a list of spots to hit.
What the hell,
he thought when she suggested that they go.

The club was thick with the scent of reefer, a smell he had never particularly cared for. But he quickly forgot his disdain once Char took off her ski jacket. She was wearing a pair of tight black pants that just covered the upper curve of her
ass. There was a rhinestone navel ring peeking out from her belly button. It was the dead of winter but she was wearing a black tank top. Char handed her jacket to the coat check attendant, then turned toward Kevin. He quickly averted his eyes away from the direction of her lower extremities. It was too late, though. She had seen him. “Oh, you'll see in a minute why I dressed like this. It's very warm in there,” she said unapologetically. She smiled, waited for him to check his coat, then grabbed his hand and led him into the club.

Char had been right. Even for a southern boy it was uncomfortably warm in the club. Red and green lights illuminated the cramped dance floor. Kevin, with his pressed corduroys and hairless face, felt slightly out of place in a club full of dreadlocks and low-slung, baggy jeans. Young women with braids, locks, and afros were in back-bending positions, winding against their partners, riding their pelvises, seemingly holding on for dear life.

“So, what do you think?” Char asked him. She touched his arm and positioned her body right in front of him. Even in the dark he was aware of her eyes staring into his, hinting at those secrets that he was dying to hear, touch, taste.

“It's cool,” he said, smiling.

She took his hand and began a slow wind to the music's rhythm. Kevin tried to mimic her moves, but he had never been much of a dancer. She moved her hands down toward his hips and attempted to loosen up his wind. Kevin laughed t his own stiffness—both the one in his hips and the other one growing in another part of his body. He tried to follow her lead, but he only managed more movement from his legs. Nothing from his hips.

“It starts here,” Char explained, placing a hand over his heart, “and travels down here”—now she was moving her ring-adorned finger down the center of his torso—“and explodes right here,” she finished, gripping both hands around
his hips again.

“I'm tryin', I'm tryin',” he insisted.

They danced through one more song before Kevin suggested that they hit the bar for a drink. “Red Stripe,” he ordered.

“I'll have a shot of Cuervo on the rocks with a lime.”

Char took a sip from her drink. “So tell me, Kevin Ashby, how do you like Detroit so far?”

“To tell you the truth, I'm not feelin' it too much.”

“I know what you mean. This can be a hard city if you don't know people. I grew up here, and coming back and reconnecting with folks has been a major adjustment.”

“Well, I've been traveling for my job so much that I really haven't had a chance to make the effort. But how exactly does a brotha connect with folks around here?”

“Well, you've already made one important connection,” Char said, looking him dead in his eyes and taking another sip from her drink.

She was using those intense eyes to flirt with him. They were power and she knew it. They were a challenge, saying,
Can you step up?
He damn sure could. He stared back, placed his hand on her knee, and moved toward her face. “And that would be you, I take it?” He added a devilish smile for emphasis.

“But of course. There are things I could show you.”

“What things?”

“Some things are better experienced than told.” With that Char threw back the rest of her tequila, stepped up from the bar, and dragged him off toward the dance floor.

They were sweaty and about seven sheets to the wind apiece by the time they left the club. Kevin's hips were decidedly looser, and he had nearly mastered a slow wind.

“Not bad for a buttoned-up corporate boy,” Char joked as she slid into the passenger side of his SUV.

“Are you implying that I'm a little stiff?” Kevin countered,
mocking a tone of disbelief.

“Me? Never.”

Kevin laughed, turned the ignition key, and began angling the car out of the club's makeshift parking lot. “I had a nice time tonight. Next time, I'll have to take you to check out some jazz, so you can get a sense of how I flow.”

“Actually, I've got a pretty decent jazz collection myself. Maybe you can come by and check it out.”

“I'd love to do that one evening.”

“How 'bout
this
evening?”

And there it was: the offer that had gotten him as close to some local pussy as he'd gotten since moving to Detroit. “Yeah, that sounds cool.” Kevin accepted before she had a chance to change her mind.

Her apartment was awash in earth tones, and a large bank of windows looked out over downtown and the river. Char put a CD into the stereo, lit a few candles, and turned off the lights.

“Ah, George Benson's ‘White Rabbit,'” remarked Kevin as the first notes of Alan Rubin's horn sounded, followed by Benson's Spanish-inflected guitar picking.

“Very good.” She joined him on the window seat and spent a few minutes pointing out some nearby attractions: the casino, the GM building, Eastern Market. They could spy people moving around in the twin tower apartment building directly across the way. The thought of being watched by others brought a rise to Kevin's pants. He wanted to lay Char down and fuck her right there on the window seat, in plain view of several hundred other residents. He moved in and kissed her on her lips. Softly first. Barely a graze. Then he placed his hand on her face and firmly pulled her toward him. The kiss was building now. He was exploring the fullness of her lips; the warm, slow groove of her tongue; its soft underside. Now his hands were underneath her tank top, and
he could feel hers skimming the area just below his navel and above his quickly stiffening dick. Char unzipped his pants and slid her hand inside his boxer shorts. She moved her fingers through his pre-cum and began softly rimming the tip of his engorged cock.

Kevin buried his head into the nape of Char's neck. He could smell the faint residue of her perfume. She smelled of vanilla and amber. His tongue licked her neck and he could taste the salt left on her body from their evening of dancing. He badly wanted to fuck her, and he knew she wanted him too, but something stopped him. Tamara. Kevin was leaving the next morning to visit her in Atlanta, and he was finally going to break things off with her. Tell her that he thought they should date other people. It was going to be hard enough, and he didn't need the guilt of fucking another woman on his mind.

He pulled back and looked into Char's eyes. He could see her secrets ready to spill forth, and he strongly wanted to become acquainted with them. He wanted to know the sound of her voice when she came and the scream rose from deep within her groin. He wanted to feel the tightening and contracting of her pussy around his dick. He wanted to know the slickness of her when she rode him. But he wanted to know it without reservations.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he lied. “It's just that I have to get up really early in the morning to catch a flight and if we start this I won't want to leave.”

“Oh, I understand.”

She smiled and pulled her hands out of his pants. She clasped her fingers around his, dropped her head, and let out a frustrated but resigned laugh. Kevin joined her. When they finished laughing, he lifted her chin with his hand. “But I'd like to give you a little something to think about while I'm
traveling,” he said. With that, he lay her down on the window seat, shimmied off her pants, and spread her legs.
There's no reason why we both need to be frustrated,
he thought as he softly parted the lips of her pussy. He slid his index finger and thumb along the length of her cunt, then gently massaged the lips. His thumb began a rhythmic ride over her clit, while the middle finger of his other hand found its way inside her vagina. Char's breathing was becoming more audible now, and she inhaled at a quicker pace. She arched her back, then turned her head to look out the window. Kevin looked too. He could see people over in the other apartments. Some were moving around, others were sitting, but he couldn't tell if anyone actually saw them.

He stuck two more fingers inside Char and she began to ride him fiercely now. He could hear her screams moving up from that deep place. They were guttural and wild. He could feel her juices on his fingers. Her body began to rack with spasm after spasm. “Oh, fuck!” she screamed right as the final wave hit her.

When it was over, Char tightened her thighs around his hands and buried her very satisfied face into the crook of her arm. A second later, when her breathing had returned to normal, she sat up, took his face into her hands, and softly kissed him on the lips.

“That was incredible,” she said. “Very generous. I can't wait to return the favor.”

Kevin stood up, and Char shimmied back into her pants. He grabbed his coat off the couch, gave her a final kiss, and promised to call her when he got back from Atlanta. He had to jack off that night just to get to sleep. He drifted off inhaling the mingled scent of both their bodies on his hand.

Even after Kevin showered and dressed the next morning, the smell of Char stayed with him. He was certain that once he reached Atlanta Tamara would hug him, take one whiff of
his skin, and know instinctively what he had come to tell her: that they both needed to move on, that he had already begun the journey. But if Tamara knew she did not let on, so the weekend had been one big exercise in denial for Kevin. For two days he laughed at all the right moments, stared longingly into Tamara's eyes when they made love, and played the committed boyfriend while they were together with mutual friends. He willfully beat back any surfacing feelings of guilt whenever he thought about how he planned to break the news to Tamara just before she took him to the airport on Sunday.
No need to ruin the weekend,
he kept telling himself.

She cried when he told her it was over, and Kevin said “no” when she asked if he had met another woman. “I'm simply not prepared to change my life the way you need me to,” he said before kissing her cheek and brushing a tear-soaked strand of hair from her eye. His answer was not exactly a lie. Kevin had made up his mind to end things long before he met Char. But he had thought of her often, too often, even while making love to Tamara.

He called Char the Wednesday after he returned from Atlanta. The message on her home machine said she'd be out of town for a week on assignment. Between her story deadlines and his business travel they had been playing telephone tag and taking rain checks for nearly a month now, neither of their schedules jibing with the others. Kevin had given up hope that they would ever hook up, but now her name had shown up on his caller ID. He dialed his voicemail and paged through the messages until he reached hers.

“Hello, You, this is Char. We seem to be having the damndest time catching up with each other, but I thought I'd call on the off chance that you are going to be around this weekend. Maybe we can get together and I can repay that favor I owe you. Give me a call if you'd like to.”

Kevin hung up the receiver and smiled. He looked around
the room and nodded his head in approval of the way his house had come together. It was finally beginning to feel like home. All it needed was an official christening. He walked into the kitchen, pulled two bottles of champagne from the wine rack, and stuck them into the refrigerator to chill. He picked up the phone and dialed Char's number.

“Hello?” a voice answered.

“Char?”

“Yes?”

“This is Kevin. How would you like to help christen my house?”

 

 

 

 

Z thought she would never survive the noise. She'd traveled thousands of miles from home to get to the West, to America, to New York City, and absorbing the crisp, piquant language was not a problem. She'd been well warned of the cold, and while it was worse than she could have imagined, she'd at least felt prepared. Even the immensity of so many different kinds of faces flying super-speed all around her wasn't as unsettling as the unremitting brightness—and the noise.

The first words she said to her aunt, T, after the greetings, hugs and kisses, exchange of news, were:
These people, they must be very afraid of the dark.
Her aunt laughed; her young American cousins shook their heads, not getting the joke. After sitting for hours with immigration, they carted her trunk and bags, heavy with gifts, to the car. She was quiet for most of the ride into Brooklyn, jaw dropped as she tried to take everything in.